Article,Summary
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     CULTURAL EXCHANGE     BY KEITH LAUMER     It was a simple student exchange—but     Retief gave them more of     an education than they expected!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-featheredberet from the clothes tree. I'm off now, Retief, he said. I hopeyou'll manage the administrative routine during my absence without anyunfortunate incidents.     That seems a modest enough hope, Retief said. I'll try to live up toit.     I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division, Magnansaid testily. When I first came here, the Manpower UtilizationDirectorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. Ifancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question thewisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for twoweeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function.     In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple ofweeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressureto bear.     I assume you jest, Retief, Magnan said sadly. I should expect evenyou to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program maybe the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into morecultivated channels.     I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land, Retief said,glancing at the Memo for Record. That's a sizable sublimation.     Magnan nodded. The Bogans have launched no less than four militarycampaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums ofthe Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking thatprecedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy.     Breaking and entering, Retief said. You may have something there.But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrialworld of the poor but honest variety.     Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,Magnan said. Our function is merely to bring them together. Seethat you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This willbe an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomaticrestraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree.     A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. What is it, Miss Furkle?     That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again. On the small deskscreen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval.     This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,Magnan said. Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: hereat Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you.     If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit, Retief said.     Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle'sbutton.     Send the bucolic person in.  A tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousersof heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket,stepped into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused atsight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and heldout his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, faceto face. The newcomer's jaw muscles knotted. Then he winced.     Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair.     That's nice knuckle work, mister, the stranger said, massaging hishand. First time anybody ever did that to me. My fault though. Istarted it, I guess. He grinned and sat down.     What can I do for you? Retief said.     You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they wereall ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I'm Hank Arapoulous. I'm a farmer.What I wanted to see you about was— He shifted in his chair. Well,out on Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is justabout ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don'tknow if you're familiar with the Bacchus vines we grow...?     No, Retief said. Have a cigar? He pushed a box across the desk.Arapoulous took one. Bacchus vines are an unusual crop, he said,puffing the cigar alight. Only mature every twelve years. In between,the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own.We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms.Apples the size of a melon—and sweet—     Sounds very pleasant, Retief said. Where does the Libraries andEducation Division come in?     Arapoulous leaned forward. We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folkscan't spend all their time hybridizing plants. We've turned all theland area we've got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizableforest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr.Retief.     It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what—     Call me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of 'em. Ouryear's about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentricorbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostlypainting and sculpture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold.Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it's the season forwoodworkers. Our furniture—     I've seen some of your furniture, Retief said. Beautiful work.     Arapoulous nodded. All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soiland those sulphates give the woods some color, I'll tell you. Thencomes the Monsoon. Rain—it comes down in sheets. But the sun's gettingcloser. Shines all the time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine?That's the music-writing season. Then summer. Summer's hot. We stayinside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. Lots of beachon Lovenbroy; we're mostly islands. That's the drama and symphony time.The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. You havethe music and the surf and the bonfires and stars—we're close to thecenter of a globular cluster, you know....     You say it's time now for the wine crop?     That's right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just theordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn'ttake long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting newplaces ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend alot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But thisyear's different. This is Wine Year.  Arapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. Our winecrop is our big money crop, he said. We make enough to keep us going.But this year....     The crop isn't panning out?     Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm onlytwenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem'snot the crop.     Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for theCommercial—     Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines eversettled for anything else!     It sounds like I've been missing something, said Retief. I'll haveto try them some time.     Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. Notime like the present, he said.     Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, bothdusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire.     Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous, he said.     This isn't      drinking     . It's just wine. Arapoulous pulled the wireretainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in theair. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me. He winked.     Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. Cometo think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaintnative customs.     Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deeprust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He lookedat Arapoulous thoughtfully.     Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crustedport.     Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief, Arapoulous said. He took amouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. It's Bacchuswine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy. He pushed the secondbottle toward Retief. The custom back home is to alternate red wineand black.  Retief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork,caught it as it popped up.     Bad luck if you miss the cork, Arapoulous said, nodding. Youprobably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few yearsback?     Can't say that I did, Hank. Retief poured the black wine into twofresh glasses. Here's to the harvest.     We've got plenty of minerals on Lovenbroy, Arapoulous said,swallowing wine. But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em.We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed aforce. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals thanwe did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise.But it took a year, and we lost a lot of men.     That's too bad, Retief said. I'd say this one tastes more like roastbeef and popcorn over a Riesling base.     It put us in a bad spot, Arapoulous went on. We had to borrowmoney from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to startexporting art work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same whenyou're doing it for strangers.     Say, this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy, Retiefsaid. What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose?     Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. Butwe need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you canturn over to machinery—and anyway we wouldn't if we could. Vintageseason is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in.First, there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyardscovering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardenshere and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deepgrass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wineto the pickers. There's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets onwho can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright,and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty offruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking'sdone by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizesfor the best crews.     Then the wine-making. We still tramp out the vintage. That's mostlyfor the young folks but anybody's welcome. That's when things start toget loosened up. Matter of fact, pretty near half our young-uns areborn after a vintage. All bets are off then. It keeps a fellow on histoes though. Ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layerof grape juice?  Never did, Retief said. You say most of the children are born aftera vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time—     Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning.     I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight, Retiefsaid.     Forty-two, Terry years, Arapoulous said. But this year it looks bad.We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a bigvintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Thennext vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage—     You hocked the vineyards?     Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time.     On the whole, Retief said, I think I prefer the black. But the redis hard to beat....     What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loanto see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'drepay it in sculpture, painting, furniture—     Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for travelingside-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groacinose-flute players—     Can they pick grapes?     Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this overwith the Labor Office?     Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronicsspecialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thoughtI was trying to buy slaves.     The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen.     You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes, she said. Thenafterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet.     Thanks. Retief finished his glass, stood. I have to run, Hank, hesaid. Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottleshere. Cultural exhibits, you know.      II     As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleagueacross the table.     Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.What are they getting?     Whaffle blinked. You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, overat MUDDLE, he said. Properly speaking, equipment grants are thesole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans andExchanges. He pursed his lips. However, I suppose there's no harm intelling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment.     Drill rigs, that sort of thing?     Strip mining gear. Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,blinked at it. Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLEinterested in MEDDLE's activities?     Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped upearlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards overon—     That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir, Whaffle cut in. I have sufficientproblems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business.     Speaking of tractors, another man put in, we over at the SpecialCommittee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'General Economies have been trying for months to get a request formining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE—     SCROUNGE was late on the scene, Whaffle said. First come, firstserved. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen. He strodeoff, briefcase under his arm.     That's the trouble with peaceful worlds, the SCROUNGE committeemansaid. Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is outto pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assistpeace-loving d'Land—comes to naught. He shook his head.     What kind of university do they have on d'Land? asked Retief. We'resending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite aninstitution.     University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college.     Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College?     Two thousand students? Hah! Two      hundred     students would overtax thefacilities of the college.     I wonder if the Bogans know that?     The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwisetrade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand studentsindeed! He snorted and walked away.  Retief stopped by the office to pick up a short cape, then rode theelevator to the roof of the 230-story Corps HQ building and hailed acab to the port. The Bogan students had arrived early. Retief saw themlined up on the ramp waiting to go through customs. It would be halfan hour before they were cleared through. He turned into the bar andordered a beer.     A tall young fellow on the next stool raised his glass.     Happy days, he said.     And nights to match.     You said it. He gulped half his beer. My name's Karsh. Mr. Karsh.Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a drag, sitting around this placewaiting....     You meeting somebody?     Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect—Never mind. Have one onme.     Thanks. You a Scoutmaster?     I'll tell you what I am. I'm a cradle-robber. You know— he turnedto Retief—not one of those kids is over eighteen. He hiccupped.Students, you know. Never saw a student with a beard, did you?     Lots of times. You're meeting the students, are you?     The young fellow blinked at Retief. Oh, you know about it, huh?     I represent MUDDLE.     Karsh finished his beer, ordered another. I came on ahead. Sort ofan advance guard for the kids. I trained 'em myself. Treated it likea game, but they can handle a CSU. Don't know how they'll act underpressure. If I had my old platoon—     He looked at his beer glass, pushed it back. Had enough, he said. Solong, friend. Or are you coming along?     Retief nodded. Might as well.  At the exit to the Customs enclosure, Retief watched as the first ofthe Bogan students came through, caught sight of Karsh and snapped toattention, his chest out.     Drop that, mister, Karsh snapped. Is that any way for a student toact?     The youth, a round-faced lad with broad shoulders, grinned.     Heck, no, he said. Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go totown? We fellas were thinking—     You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids! I mean ... no! Nowline up!     We have quarters ready for the students, Retief said. If you'd liketo bring them around to the west side, I have a couple of copters laidon.     Thanks, said Karsh. They'll stay here until take-off time. Can'thave the little dears wandering around loose. Might get ideas aboutgoing over the hill. He hiccupped. I mean they might play hookey.     We've scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That's a longwait. MUDDLE's arranged theater tickets and a dinner.     Sorry, Karsh said. As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off. Hehiccupped again. Can't travel without our baggage, y'know.     Suit yourself, Retief said. Where's the baggage now?     Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter.     Maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here.     Sure, Karsh said. That's a good idea. Why don't you join us? Karshwinked. And bring a few beers.     Not this time, Retief said. He watched the students, still emergingfrom Customs. They seem to be all boys, he commented. No femalestudents?     Maybe later, Karsh said. You know, after we see how the first bunchis received.     Back at the MUDDLE office, Retief buzzed Miss Furkle.     Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are boundfor?     Why, the University at d'Land, of course.     Would that be the Technical College?     Miss Furkle's mouth puckered. I'm sure I've never pried into thesedetails.     Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle? Retiefsaid. Personally, I'm curious as to just what it is these students aretravelling so far to study—at Corps expense.     Mr. Magnan never—     For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leavesme with the question of two thousand young male students headed fora world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligationto Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage onLovenbroy.     Well! Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom!     About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question, Retief said. Butnever mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractorswill Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program?     Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business, Miss Furkle said. Mr. Magnanalways—     I'm sure he did. Let me know about the tractors as soon as you can.  Miss Furkle sniffed and disappeared from the screen. Retief left theoffice, descended forty-one stories, followed a corridor to the CorpsLibrary. In the stacks he thumbed through catalogues, pored overindices.     Can I help you? someone chirped. A tiny librarian stood at his elbow.     Thank you, ma'am, Retief said. I'm looking for information on amining rig. A Bolo model WV tractor.     You won't find it in the industrial section, the librarian said.Come along. Retief followed her along the stacks to a well-litsection lettered ARMAMENTS. She took a tape from the shelf, pluggedit into the viewer, flipped through and stopped at a squat armoredvehicle.     That's the model WV, she said. It's what is known as a continentalsiege unit. It carries four men, with a half-megaton/second firepower.     There must be an error somewhere, Retief said. The Bolo model I wantis a tractor. Model WV M-1—       Oh, the modification was the addition of a bulldozer blade fordemolition work. That must be what confused you.     Probably—among other things. Thank you.     Miss Furkle was waiting at the office. I have the information youwanted, she said. I've had it for over ten minutes. I was under theimpression you needed it urgently, and I went to great lengths—     Sure, Retief said. Shoot. How many tractors?     Five hundred.     Are you sure?     Miss Furkle's chins quivered. Well! If you feel I'm incompetent—     Just questioning the possibility of a mistake, Miss Furkle. Fivehundred tractors is a lot of equipment.     Was there anything further? Miss Furkle inquired frigidly.     I sincerely hope not, Retief said.      III     Leaning back in Magnan's padded chair with power swivel andhip-u-matic concontour, Retief leafed through a folder labelled CERP7-602-Ba; CROANIE (general). He paused at a page headed Industry.     Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles ofBacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into each andsipped the black wine meditatively.     It would be a pity, he reflected, if anything should interfere with theproduction of such vintages....     Half an hour later he laid the folder aside, keyed the phone and putthrough a call to the Croanie Legation. He asked for the CommercialAttache.     Retief here, Corps HQ, he said airily. About the MEDDLE shipment,the tractors. I'm wondering if there's been a slip up. My records showwe're shipping five hundred units....     That's correct. Five hundred.     Retief waited.     Ah ... are you there, Retief?     I'm still here. And I'm still wondering about the five hundredtractors.     It's perfectly in order. I thought it was all settled. Mr. Whaffle—     One unit would require a good-sized plant to handle its output,Retief said. Now Croanie subsists on her fisheries. She has perhapshalf a dozen pint-sized processing plants. Maybe, in a bind, theycould handle the ore ten WV's could scrape up ... if Croanie had anyore. It doesn't. By the way, isn't a WV a poor choice as a miningoutfit? I should think—     See here, Retief! Why all this interest in a few surplus tractors?And in any event, what business is it of yours how we plan to use theequipment? That's an internal affair of my government. Mr. Whaffle—     I'm not Mr. Whaffle. What are you going to do with the other fourhundred and ninety tractors?     I understood the grant was to be with no strings attached!     I know it's bad manners to ask questions. It's an old diplomatictradition that any time you can get anybody to accept anything as agift, you've scored points in the game. But if Croanie has some schemecooking—  Nothing like that, Retief. It's a mere business transaction.     What kind of business do you do with a Bolo WV? With or without ablade attached, it's what's known as a continental siege unit.     Great Heavens, Retief! Don't jump to conclusions! Would you have usbranded as warmongers? Frankly—is this a closed line?     Certainly. You may speak freely.     The tractors are for transshipment. We've gotten ourselves into adifficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise. This is an accommodationto a group with which we have rather strong business ties.     I understand you hold a mortgage on the best land on Lovenbroy,Retief said. Any connection?     Why ... ah ... no. Of course not, ha ha.     Who gets the tractors eventually?     Retief, this is unwarranted interference!     Who gets them?     They happen to be going to Lovenbroy. But I scarcely see—     And who's the friend you're helping out with an unauthorizedtransshipment of grant material?     Why ... ah ... I've been working with a Mr. Gulver, a Boganrepresentative.     And when will they be shipped?     Why, they went out a week ago. They'll be half way there by now. Butlook here, Retief, this isn't what you're thinking!     How do you know what I'm thinking? I don't know myself. Retief rangoff, buzzed the secretary.     Miss Furkle, I'd like to be notified immediately of any newapplications that might come in from the Bogan Consulate for placementof students.     Well, it happens, by coincidence, that I have an application here now.Mr. Gulver of the Consulate brought it in.     Is Mr. Gulver in the office? I'd like to see him.     I'll ask him if he has time.     Great. Thanks. It was half a minute before a thick-necked red-facedman in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned suit, a drabshirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered expression.  What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  The secretary placed the papers on the desk. Arapoulous caught her eyeand grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room.     What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash, Arapoulousobserved. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from timeto time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous.     How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank? Retief inquired.     Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful.     A hundred would help, he said. A thousand would be better. Cheers.     What would you say to two thousand?     Two thousand? Retief, you're not fooling?     I hope not. He picked up the phone, called the Port Authority, askedfor the dispatch clerk.     Hello, Jim. Say, I have a favor to ask of you. You know thatcontingent of Bogan students. They're traveling aboard the two CDTtransports. I'm interested in the baggage that goes with the students.Has it arrived yet? Okay, I'll wait.     Jim came back to the phone. Yeah, Retief, it's here. Just arrived.But there's a funny thing. It's not consigned to d'Land. It's ticketedclear through to Lovenbroy.     Listen, Jim, Retief said. I want you to go over to the warehouse andtake a look at that baggage for me.     Retief waited while the dispatch clerk carried out the errand. Thelevel in the two bottles had gone down an inch when Jim returned tothe phone.     Hey, I took a look at that baggage, Retief. Something funny going on.Guns. 2mm needlers, Mark XII hand blasters, power pistols—     It's okay, Jim. Nothing to worry about. Just a mix-up. Now, Jim,I'm going to ask you to do something more for me. I'm covering for afriend. It seems he slipped up. I wouldn't want word to get out, youunderstand. I'll send along a written change order in the morning thatwill cover you officially. Meanwhile, here's what I want you to do....     Retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to Arapoulous.     As soon as I get off a couple of TWX's, I think we'd better get downto the port, Hank. I think I'd like to see the students off personally.      IV     Karsh met Retief as he entered the Departures enclosure at the port.     What's going on here? he demanded. There's some funny business withmy baggage consignment. They won't let me see it! I've got a feelingit's not being loaded.     You'd better hurry, Mr. Karsh, Retief said. You're scheduled toblast off in less than an hour. Are the students all loaded?     Yes, blast you! What about my baggage? Those vessels aren't movingwithout it!     No need to get so upset about a few toothbrushes, is there, Mr.Karsh? Retief said blandly. Still, if you're worried— He turned toArapoulous.     Hank, why don't you walk Mr. Karsh over to the warehouse and ...ah ... take care of him?     I know just how to handle it, Arapoulous said.     The dispatch clerk came up to Retief. I caught the tractor equipment,he said. Funny kind of mistake, but it's okay now. They're beingoff-loaded at d'Land. I talked to the traffic controller there. He saidthey weren't looking for any students.     The labels got switched, Jim. The students go where the baggage wasconsigned. Too bad about the mistake, but the Armaments Office willhave a man along in a little while to dispose of the guns. Keep an eyeout for the luggage. No telling where it's gotten to.     Here! a hoarse voice yelled. Retief turned. A disheveled figure in atight hat was crossing the enclosure, arms waving.     Hi there, Mr. Gulver, Retief called. How's Boge's business comingalong?     Piracy! Gulver blurted as he came up to Retief, puffing hard. You'vegot a hand in this, I don't doubt! Where's that Magnan fellow?     What seems to be the problem? Retief said.     Hold those transports! I've just been notified that the baggageshipment has been impounded. I'll remind you, that shipment enjoysdiplomatic free entry!     Who told you it was impounded?     Never mind! I have my sources!     Two tall men buttoned into gray tunics came up. Are you Mr. Retief ofCDT? one said.     That's right.     What about my baggage! Gulver cut in. And I'm warning you, if thoseships lift without—     These gentlemen are from the Armaments Control Commission, Retiefsaid. Would you like to come along and claim your baggage, Mr. Gulver?     From where? I— Gulver turned two shades redder about the ears.Armaments?     The only shipment I've held up seems to be somebody's arsenal, Retiefsaid. Now if you claim this is your baggage....     Why, impossible, Gulver said in a strained voice. Armaments?Ridiculous. There's been an error....  At the baggage warehouse Gulver looked glumly at the opened cases ofguns. No, of course not, he said dully. Not my baggage. Not mybaggage at all.     Arapoulous appeared, supporting the stumbling figure of Mr. Karsh.     What—what's this? Gulver spluttered. Karsh? What's happened?     He had a little fall. He'll be okay, Arapoulous said.     You'd better help him to the ship, Retief said. It's ready to lift.We wouldn't want him to miss it.     Leave him to me! Gulver snapped, his eyes slashing at Karsh. I'llsee he's dealt with.     I couldn't think of it, Retief said. He's a guest of the Corps, youknow. We'll see him safely aboard.     Gulver turned, signaled frantically. Three heavy-set men in identicaldrab suits detached themselves from the wall, crossed to the group.     Take this man, Gulver snapped, indicating Karsh, who looked at himdazedly, reached up to rub his head.     We take our hospitality seriously, Retief said. We'll see him aboardthe vessel.     Gulver opened his mouth.     I know you feel bad about finding guns instead of school books inyour luggage, Retief said, looking Gulver in the eye. You'll be busystraightening out the details of the mix-up. You'll want to avoidfurther complications.     Ah. Ulp. Yes, Gulver said. He appeared unhappy.     Arapoulous went on to the passenger conveyor, turned to wave.     Your man—he's going too? Gulver blurted.     He's not our man, properly speaking, Retief said. He lives onLovenbroy.     Lovenbroy? Gulver choked. But ... the ... I....     I know you said the students were bound for d'Land, Retief said. ButI guess that was just another aspect of the general confusion. Thecourse plugged into the navigators was to Lovenbroy. You'll be glad toknow they're still headed there—even without the baggage.     Perhaps, Gulver said grimly, perhaps they'll manage without it.     By the way, Retief said. There was another funny mix-up. Therewere some tractors—for industrial use, you'll recall. I believe youco-operated with Croanie in arranging the grant through MEDDLE. Theywere erroneously consigned to Lovenbroy, a purely agricultural world. Isaved you some embarrassment, I trust, Mr. Gulver, by arranging to havethem off-loaded at d'Land.     D'Land! You've put the CSU's in the hands of Boge's bitterest enemies!     But they're only tractors, Mr. Gulver. Peaceful devices. Isn't thatcorrect?     That's ... correct. Gulver sagged. Then he snapped erect. Hold theships! he yelled. I'm canceling the student exchange—     His voice was drowned by the rumble as the first of the monstertransports rose from the launch pit, followed a moment later by thesecond, Retief watched them out of sight, then turned to Gulver.     They're off, he said. Let's hope they get a liberal education.      V     Retief lay on his back in deep grass by a stream, eating grapes. A tallfigure appeared on the knoll above him and waved.     Retief! Hank Arapoulous bounded down the slope and embraced Retief,slapping him on the back. I heard you were here—and I've got newsfor you. You won the final day's picking competition. Over two hundredbushels! That's a record!     Let's get on over to the garden. Sounds like the celebration's aboutto start.     In the flower-crowded park among the stripped vines, Retief andArapoulous made their way to a laden table under the lanterns. A tallgirl dressed in loose white, and with long golden hair, came up toArapoulous.     Delinda, this is Retief—today's winner. And he's also the fellow thatgot those workers for us.     Delinda smiled at Retief. I've heard about you, Mr. Retief. Weweren't sure about the boys at first. Two thousand Bogans, and allconfused about their baggage that went astray. But they seemed to likethe picking. She smiled again.     That's not all. Our gals liked the boys, Hank said. Even Bogansaren't so bad, minus their irons. A lot of 'em will be staying on. Buthow come you didn't tell me you were coming, Retief? I'd have laid onsome kind of big welcome.     I liked the welcome I got. And I didn't have much notice. Mr. Magnanwas a little upset when he got back. It seems I exceeded my authority.     Arapoulous laughed. I had a feeling you were wheeling pretty free,Retief. I hope you didn't get into any trouble over it.     No trouble, Retief said. A few people were a little unhappy withme. It seems I'm not ready for important assignments at Departmentallevel. I was shipped off here to the boondocks to get a little moreexperience.     Delinda, look after Retief, said Arapoulous. I'll see you later.I've got to see to the wine judging. He disappeared in the crowd.     Congratulations on winning the day, said Delinda. I noticed you atwork. You were wonderful. I'm glad you're going to have the prize.     Thanks. I noticed you too, flitting around in that white nightie ofyours. But why weren't you picking grapes with the rest of us?     I had a special assignment.     Too bad. You should have had a chance at the prize.     Delinda took Retief's hand. I wouldn't have anyway, she said. I'mthe prize.   ","Second Secretary Magnan will be away from the Manpower Utilization Directorate, Division of Libraries and Education (MUDDLE) for two weeks, leaving Retief in charge. Magnan reminds Retief that his role is to act as a rubber stamp, continuing Magnan’s actions. Magnan points out that Retief should appreciate that Bogan is participating in the Exchange Program. Its participation might be a step toward sublimating their aggression into more cultivated channels. The Bogans are sending two thousand students to d’Land as exchange students, and Magnan thinks this might end their aggression and bring them into the cultural life of the Galaxy. Retief wonders aloud what the students will study in such a poor, industrial land. Magnan points out that this is none of Retief’s concern and that his role is simply to facilitate bringing the two groups together. When Miss Furkle, the secretary, buzzes Magnan that the bucolic person from Lovenbroy is there again, Magnan pushes the meeting off onto Retief.The person from Lovenbroy is named Hank Arapoulous. He is a farmer and tells Retief that the Bacchus vines that they use to make their wine mature every twelve years and that this year is a harvest year, but they are short on workers to harvest the grapes. They have a shortage of workers for the harvest due to their conflict over strip mining and the loss of several of their young men in the battles to prevent it. Also, Lovenbroy had to borrow money from Croanie, and the loan was due. The wine crop will put them in the clear if they can harvest it. The biggest concern is what Croanie will do with the land if they can’t pay the loan; Lovenbroy has offered half its grape acreage as security for the loan it received. Hank asks Retief for a loan, but Retief tells him that MEDDLE’s role is only for transportation. Hank says he also checked with the Labor Office, but it only offered to set them up with machinery. Retief attends a council meeting and learns that Croanie will receive a shipment of strip mining equipment. A spokesman for the Special Committee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations’ General Economies (SCROUNGE) indicates he has been trying to get mining equipment for d’Land. He tells Retief that Boge is a troublemaker, so all the agencies in the Corps are trying to appease her. Upon further discussion, Retief learns that d’Land doesn’t have a university for the exchange students to attend, just a technical college that would be overwhelmed to receive 200, much less 2,000, students. Retief also learns that all the exchange students are males, and their “luggage” is full of weapons. He diverts their luggage and sends the exchange students to Lovenbroy, where they help harvest the grapes. Retief is also sent to Lovenbroy for exceeding his authority. Hank tells Retief that he has won the prize for the picking competition. The prize is a girl named Delinda."
"Who are the Bogans, and what happens to their plan? </s>     CULTURAL EXCHANGE     BY KEITH LAUMER     It was a simple student exchange—but     Retief gave them more of     an education than they expected!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-featheredberet from the clothes tree. I'm off now, Retief, he said. I hopeyou'll manage the administrative routine during my absence without anyunfortunate incidents.     That seems a modest enough hope, Retief said. I'll try to live up toit.     I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division, Magnansaid testily. When I first came here, the Manpower UtilizationDirectorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. Ifancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question thewisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for twoweeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function.     In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple ofweeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressureto bear.     I assume you jest, Retief, Magnan said sadly. I should expect evenyou to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program maybe the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into morecultivated channels.     I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land, Retief said,glancing at the Memo for Record. That's a sizable sublimation.     Magnan nodded. The Bogans have launched no less than four militarycampaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums ofthe Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking thatprecedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy.     Breaking and entering, Retief said. You may have something there.But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrialworld of the poor but honest variety.     Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,Magnan said. Our function is merely to bring them together. Seethat you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This willbe an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomaticrestraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree.     A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. What is it, Miss Furkle?     That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again. On the small deskscreen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval.     This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,Magnan said. Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: hereat Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you.     If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit, Retief said.     Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle'sbutton.     Send the bucolic person in.  A tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousersof heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket,stepped into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused atsight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and heldout his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, faceto face. The newcomer's jaw muscles knotted. Then he winced.     Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair.     That's nice knuckle work, mister, the stranger said, massaging hishand. First time anybody ever did that to me. My fault though. Istarted it, I guess. He grinned and sat down.     What can I do for you? Retief said.     You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they wereall ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I'm Hank Arapoulous. I'm a farmer.What I wanted to see you about was— He shifted in his chair. Well,out on Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is justabout ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don'tknow if you're familiar with the Bacchus vines we grow...?     No, Retief said. Have a cigar? He pushed a box across the desk.Arapoulous took one. Bacchus vines are an unusual crop, he said,puffing the cigar alight. Only mature every twelve years. In between,the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own.We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms.Apples the size of a melon—and sweet—     Sounds very pleasant, Retief said. Where does the Libraries andEducation Division come in?     Arapoulous leaned forward. We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folkscan't spend all their time hybridizing plants. We've turned all theland area we've got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizableforest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr.Retief.     It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what—     Call me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of 'em. Ouryear's about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentricorbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostlypainting and sculpture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold.Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it's the season forwoodworkers. Our furniture—     I've seen some of your furniture, Retief said. Beautiful work.     Arapoulous nodded. All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soiland those sulphates give the woods some color, I'll tell you. Thencomes the Monsoon. Rain—it comes down in sheets. But the sun's gettingcloser. Shines all the time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine?That's the music-writing season. Then summer. Summer's hot. We stayinside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. Lots of beachon Lovenbroy; we're mostly islands. That's the drama and symphony time.The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. You havethe music and the surf and the bonfires and stars—we're close to thecenter of a globular cluster, you know....     You say it's time now for the wine crop?     That's right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just theordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn'ttake long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting newplaces ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend alot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But thisyear's different. This is Wine Year.  Arapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. Our winecrop is our big money crop, he said. We make enough to keep us going.But this year....     The crop isn't panning out?     Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm onlytwenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem'snot the crop.     Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for theCommercial—     Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines eversettled for anything else!     It sounds like I've been missing something, said Retief. I'll haveto try them some time.     Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. Notime like the present, he said.     Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, bothdusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire.     Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous, he said.     This isn't      drinking     . It's just wine. Arapoulous pulled the wireretainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in theair. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me. He winked.     Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. Cometo think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaintnative customs.     Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deeprust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He lookedat Arapoulous thoughtfully.     Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crustedport.     Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief, Arapoulous said. He took amouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. It's Bacchuswine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy. He pushed the secondbottle toward Retief. The custom back home is to alternate red wineand black.  Retief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork,caught it as it popped up.     Bad luck if you miss the cork, Arapoulous said, nodding. Youprobably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few yearsback?     Can't say that I did, Hank. Retief poured the black wine into twofresh glasses. Here's to the harvest.     We've got plenty of minerals on Lovenbroy, Arapoulous said,swallowing wine. But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em.We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed aforce. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals thanwe did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise.But it took a year, and we lost a lot of men.     That's too bad, Retief said. I'd say this one tastes more like roastbeef and popcorn over a Riesling base.     It put us in a bad spot, Arapoulous went on. We had to borrowmoney from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to startexporting art work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same whenyou're doing it for strangers.     Say, this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy, Retiefsaid. What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose?     Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. Butwe need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you canturn over to machinery—and anyway we wouldn't if we could. Vintageseason is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in.First, there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyardscovering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardenshere and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deepgrass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wineto the pickers. There's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets onwho can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright,and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty offruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking'sdone by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizesfor the best crews.     Then the wine-making. We still tramp out the vintage. That's mostlyfor the young folks but anybody's welcome. That's when things start toget loosened up. Matter of fact, pretty near half our young-uns areborn after a vintage. All bets are off then. It keeps a fellow on histoes though. Ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layerof grape juice?  Never did, Retief said. You say most of the children are born aftera vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time—     Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning.     I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight, Retiefsaid.     Forty-two, Terry years, Arapoulous said. But this year it looks bad.We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a bigvintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Thennext vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage—     You hocked the vineyards?     Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time.     On the whole, Retief said, I think I prefer the black. But the redis hard to beat....     What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loanto see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'drepay it in sculpture, painting, furniture—     Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for travelingside-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groacinose-flute players—     Can they pick grapes?     Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this overwith the Labor Office?     Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronicsspecialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thoughtI was trying to buy slaves.     The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen.     You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes, she said. Thenafterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet.     Thanks. Retief finished his glass, stood. I have to run, Hank, hesaid. Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottleshere. Cultural exhibits, you know.      II     As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleagueacross the table.     Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.What are they getting?     Whaffle blinked. You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, overat MUDDLE, he said. Properly speaking, equipment grants are thesole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans andExchanges. He pursed his lips. However, I suppose there's no harm intelling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment.     Drill rigs, that sort of thing?     Strip mining gear. Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,blinked at it. Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLEinterested in MEDDLE's activities?     Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped upearlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards overon—     That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir, Whaffle cut in. I have sufficientproblems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business.     Speaking of tractors, another man put in, we over at the SpecialCommittee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'General Economies have been trying for months to get a request formining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE—     SCROUNGE was late on the scene, Whaffle said. First come, firstserved. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen. He strodeoff, briefcase under his arm.     That's the trouble with peaceful worlds, the SCROUNGE committeemansaid. Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is outto pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assistpeace-loving d'Land—comes to naught. He shook his head.     What kind of university do they have on d'Land? asked Retief. We'resending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite aninstitution.     University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college.     Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College?     Two thousand students? Hah! Two      hundred     students would overtax thefacilities of the college.     I wonder if the Bogans know that?     The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwisetrade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand studentsindeed! He snorted and walked away.  Retief stopped by the office to pick up a short cape, then rode theelevator to the roof of the 230-story Corps HQ building and hailed acab to the port. The Bogan students had arrived early. Retief saw themlined up on the ramp waiting to go through customs. It would be halfan hour before they were cleared through. He turned into the bar andordered a beer.     A tall young fellow on the next stool raised his glass.     Happy days, he said.     And nights to match.     You said it. He gulped half his beer. My name's Karsh. Mr. Karsh.Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a drag, sitting around this placewaiting....     You meeting somebody?     Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect—Never mind. Have one onme.     Thanks. You a Scoutmaster?     I'll tell you what I am. I'm a cradle-robber. You know— he turnedto Retief—not one of those kids is over eighteen. He hiccupped.Students, you know. Never saw a student with a beard, did you?     Lots of times. You're meeting the students, are you?     The young fellow blinked at Retief. Oh, you know about it, huh?     I represent MUDDLE.     Karsh finished his beer, ordered another. I came on ahead. Sort ofan advance guard for the kids. I trained 'em myself. Treated it likea game, but they can handle a CSU. Don't know how they'll act underpressure. If I had my old platoon—     He looked at his beer glass, pushed it back. Had enough, he said. Solong, friend. Or are you coming along?     Retief nodded. Might as well.  At the exit to the Customs enclosure, Retief watched as the first ofthe Bogan students came through, caught sight of Karsh and snapped toattention, his chest out.     Drop that, mister, Karsh snapped. Is that any way for a student toact?     The youth, a round-faced lad with broad shoulders, grinned.     Heck, no, he said. Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go totown? We fellas were thinking—     You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids! I mean ... no! Nowline up!     We have quarters ready for the students, Retief said. If you'd liketo bring them around to the west side, I have a couple of copters laidon.     Thanks, said Karsh. They'll stay here until take-off time. Can'thave the little dears wandering around loose. Might get ideas aboutgoing over the hill. He hiccupped. I mean they might play hookey.     We've scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That's a longwait. MUDDLE's arranged theater tickets and a dinner.     Sorry, Karsh said. As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off. Hehiccupped again. Can't travel without our baggage, y'know.     Suit yourself, Retief said. Where's the baggage now?     Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter.     Maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here.     Sure, Karsh said. That's a good idea. Why don't you join us? Karshwinked. And bring a few beers.     Not this time, Retief said. He watched the students, still emergingfrom Customs. They seem to be all boys, he commented. No femalestudents?     Maybe later, Karsh said. You know, after we see how the first bunchis received.     Back at the MUDDLE office, Retief buzzed Miss Furkle.     Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are boundfor?     Why, the University at d'Land, of course.     Would that be the Technical College?     Miss Furkle's mouth puckered. I'm sure I've never pried into thesedetails.     Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle? Retiefsaid. Personally, I'm curious as to just what it is these students aretravelling so far to study—at Corps expense.     Mr. Magnan never—     For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leavesme with the question of two thousand young male students headed fora world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligationto Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage onLovenbroy.     Well! Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom!     About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question, Retief said. Butnever mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractorswill Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program?     Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business, Miss Furkle said. Mr. Magnanalways—     I'm sure he did. Let me know about the tractors as soon as you can.  Miss Furkle sniffed and disappeared from the screen. Retief left theoffice, descended forty-one stories, followed a corridor to the CorpsLibrary. In the stacks he thumbed through catalogues, pored overindices.     Can I help you? someone chirped. A tiny librarian stood at his elbow.     Thank you, ma'am, Retief said. I'm looking for information on amining rig. A Bolo model WV tractor.     You won't find it in the industrial section, the librarian said.Come along. Retief followed her along the stacks to a well-litsection lettered ARMAMENTS. She took a tape from the shelf, pluggedit into the viewer, flipped through and stopped at a squat armoredvehicle.     That's the model WV, she said. It's what is known as a continentalsiege unit. It carries four men, with a half-megaton/second firepower.     There must be an error somewhere, Retief said. The Bolo model I wantis a tractor. Model WV M-1—       Oh, the modification was the addition of a bulldozer blade fordemolition work. That must be what confused you.     Probably—among other things. Thank you.     Miss Furkle was waiting at the office. I have the information youwanted, she said. I've had it for over ten minutes. I was under theimpression you needed it urgently, and I went to great lengths—     Sure, Retief said. Shoot. How many tractors?     Five hundred.     Are you sure?     Miss Furkle's chins quivered. Well! If you feel I'm incompetent—     Just questioning the possibility of a mistake, Miss Furkle. Fivehundred tractors is a lot of equipment.     Was there anything further? Miss Furkle inquired frigidly.     I sincerely hope not, Retief said.      III     Leaning back in Magnan's padded chair with power swivel andhip-u-matic concontour, Retief leafed through a folder labelled CERP7-602-Ba; CROANIE (general). He paused at a page headed Industry.     Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles ofBacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into each andsipped the black wine meditatively.     It would be a pity, he reflected, if anything should interfere with theproduction of such vintages....     Half an hour later he laid the folder aside, keyed the phone and putthrough a call to the Croanie Legation. He asked for the CommercialAttache.     Retief here, Corps HQ, he said airily. About the MEDDLE shipment,the tractors. I'm wondering if there's been a slip up. My records showwe're shipping five hundred units....     That's correct. Five hundred.     Retief waited.     Ah ... are you there, Retief?     I'm still here. And I'm still wondering about the five hundredtractors.     It's perfectly in order. I thought it was all settled. Mr. Whaffle—     One unit would require a good-sized plant to handle its output,Retief said. Now Croanie subsists on her fisheries. She has perhapshalf a dozen pint-sized processing plants. Maybe, in a bind, theycould handle the ore ten WV's could scrape up ... if Croanie had anyore. It doesn't. By the way, isn't a WV a poor choice as a miningoutfit? I should think—     See here, Retief! Why all this interest in a few surplus tractors?And in any event, what business is it of yours how we plan to use theequipment? That's an internal affair of my government. Mr. Whaffle—     I'm not Mr. Whaffle. What are you going to do with the other fourhundred and ninety tractors?     I understood the grant was to be with no strings attached!     I know it's bad manners to ask questions. It's an old diplomatictradition that any time you can get anybody to accept anything as agift, you've scored points in the game. But if Croanie has some schemecooking—  Nothing like that, Retief. It's a mere business transaction.     What kind of business do you do with a Bolo WV? With or without ablade attached, it's what's known as a continental siege unit.     Great Heavens, Retief! Don't jump to conclusions! Would you have usbranded as warmongers? Frankly—is this a closed line?     Certainly. You may speak freely.     The tractors are for transshipment. We've gotten ourselves into adifficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise. This is an accommodationto a group with which we have rather strong business ties.     I understand you hold a mortgage on the best land on Lovenbroy,Retief said. Any connection?     Why ... ah ... no. Of course not, ha ha.     Who gets the tractors eventually?     Retief, this is unwarranted interference!     Who gets them?     They happen to be going to Lovenbroy. But I scarcely see—     And who's the friend you're helping out with an unauthorizedtransshipment of grant material?     Why ... ah ... I've been working with a Mr. Gulver, a Boganrepresentative.     And when will they be shipped?     Why, they went out a week ago. They'll be half way there by now. Butlook here, Retief, this isn't what you're thinking!     How do you know what I'm thinking? I don't know myself. Retief rangoff, buzzed the secretary.     Miss Furkle, I'd like to be notified immediately of any newapplications that might come in from the Bogan Consulate for placementof students.     Well, it happens, by coincidence, that I have an application here now.Mr. Gulver of the Consulate brought it in.     Is Mr. Gulver in the office? I'd like to see him.     I'll ask him if he has time.     Great. Thanks. It was half a minute before a thick-necked red-facedman in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned suit, a drabshirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered expression.  What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  The secretary placed the papers on the desk. Arapoulous caught her eyeand grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room.     What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash, Arapoulousobserved. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from timeto time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous.     How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank? Retief inquired.     Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful.     A hundred would help, he said. A thousand would be better. Cheers.     What would you say to two thousand?     Two thousand? Retief, you're not fooling?     I hope not. He picked up the phone, called the Port Authority, askedfor the dispatch clerk.     Hello, Jim. Say, I have a favor to ask of you. You know thatcontingent of Bogan students. They're traveling aboard the two CDTtransports. I'm interested in the baggage that goes with the students.Has it arrived yet? Okay, I'll wait.     Jim came back to the phone. Yeah, Retief, it's here. Just arrived.But there's a funny thing. It's not consigned to d'Land. It's ticketedclear through to Lovenbroy.     Listen, Jim, Retief said. I want you to go over to the warehouse andtake a look at that baggage for me.     Retief waited while the dispatch clerk carried out the errand. Thelevel in the two bottles had gone down an inch when Jim returned tothe phone.     Hey, I took a look at that baggage, Retief. Something funny going on.Guns. 2mm needlers, Mark XII hand blasters, power pistols—     It's okay, Jim. Nothing to worry about. Just a mix-up. Now, Jim,I'm going to ask you to do something more for me. I'm covering for afriend. It seems he slipped up. I wouldn't want word to get out, youunderstand. I'll send along a written change order in the morning thatwill cover you officially. Meanwhile, here's what I want you to do....     Retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to Arapoulous.     As soon as I get off a couple of TWX's, I think we'd better get downto the port, Hank. I think I'd like to see the students off personally.      IV     Karsh met Retief as he entered the Departures enclosure at the port.     What's going on here? he demanded. There's some funny business withmy baggage consignment. They won't let me see it! I've got a feelingit's not being loaded.     You'd better hurry, Mr. Karsh, Retief said. You're scheduled toblast off in less than an hour. Are the students all loaded?     Yes, blast you! What about my baggage? Those vessels aren't movingwithout it!     No need to get so upset about a few toothbrushes, is there, Mr.Karsh? Retief said blandly. Still, if you're worried— He turned toArapoulous.     Hank, why don't you walk Mr. Karsh over to the warehouse and ...ah ... take care of him?     I know just how to handle it, Arapoulous said.     The dispatch clerk came up to Retief. I caught the tractor equipment,he said. Funny kind of mistake, but it's okay now. They're beingoff-loaded at d'Land. I talked to the traffic controller there. He saidthey weren't looking for any students.     The labels got switched, Jim. The students go where the baggage wasconsigned. Too bad about the mistake, but the Armaments Office willhave a man along in a little while to dispose of the guns. Keep an eyeout for the luggage. No telling where it's gotten to.     Here! a hoarse voice yelled. Retief turned. A disheveled figure in atight hat was crossing the enclosure, arms waving.     Hi there, Mr. Gulver, Retief called. How's Boge's business comingalong?     Piracy! Gulver blurted as he came up to Retief, puffing hard. You'vegot a hand in this, I don't doubt! Where's that Magnan fellow?     What seems to be the problem? Retief said.     Hold those transports! I've just been notified that the baggageshipment has been impounded. I'll remind you, that shipment enjoysdiplomatic free entry!     Who told you it was impounded?     Never mind! I have my sources!     Two tall men buttoned into gray tunics came up. Are you Mr. Retief ofCDT? one said.     That's right.     What about my baggage! Gulver cut in. And I'm warning you, if thoseships lift without—     These gentlemen are from the Armaments Control Commission, Retiefsaid. Would you like to come along and claim your baggage, Mr. Gulver?     From where? I— Gulver turned two shades redder about the ears.Armaments?     The only shipment I've held up seems to be somebody's arsenal, Retiefsaid. Now if you claim this is your baggage....     Why, impossible, Gulver said in a strained voice. Armaments?Ridiculous. There's been an error....  At the baggage warehouse Gulver looked glumly at the opened cases ofguns. No, of course not, he said dully. Not my baggage. Not mybaggage at all.     Arapoulous appeared, supporting the stumbling figure of Mr. Karsh.     What—what's this? Gulver spluttered. Karsh? What's happened?     He had a little fall. He'll be okay, Arapoulous said.     You'd better help him to the ship, Retief said. It's ready to lift.We wouldn't want him to miss it.     Leave him to me! Gulver snapped, his eyes slashing at Karsh. I'llsee he's dealt with.     I couldn't think of it, Retief said. He's a guest of the Corps, youknow. We'll see him safely aboard.     Gulver turned, signaled frantically. Three heavy-set men in identicaldrab suits detached themselves from the wall, crossed to the group.     Take this man, Gulver snapped, indicating Karsh, who looked at himdazedly, reached up to rub his head.     We take our hospitality seriously, Retief said. We'll see him aboardthe vessel.     Gulver opened his mouth.     I know you feel bad about finding guns instead of school books inyour luggage, Retief said, looking Gulver in the eye. You'll be busystraightening out the details of the mix-up. You'll want to avoidfurther complications.     Ah. Ulp. Yes, Gulver said. He appeared unhappy.     Arapoulous went on to the passenger conveyor, turned to wave.     Your man—he's going too? Gulver blurted.     He's not our man, properly speaking, Retief said. He lives onLovenbroy.     Lovenbroy? Gulver choked. But ... the ... I....     I know you said the students were bound for d'Land, Retief said. ButI guess that was just another aspect of the general confusion. Thecourse plugged into the navigators was to Lovenbroy. You'll be glad toknow they're still headed there—even without the baggage.     Perhaps, Gulver said grimly, perhaps they'll manage without it.     By the way, Retief said. There was another funny mix-up. Therewere some tractors—for industrial use, you'll recall. I believe youco-operated with Croanie in arranging the grant through MEDDLE. Theywere erroneously consigned to Lovenbroy, a purely agricultural world. Isaved you some embarrassment, I trust, Mr. Gulver, by arranging to havethem off-loaded at d'Land.     D'Land! You've put the CSU's in the hands of Boge's bitterest enemies!     But they're only tractors, Mr. Gulver. Peaceful devices. Isn't thatcorrect?     That's ... correct. Gulver sagged. Then he snapped erect. Hold theships! he yelled. I'm canceling the student exchange—     His voice was drowned by the rumble as the first of the monstertransports rose from the launch pit, followed a moment later by thesecond, Retief watched them out of sight, then turned to Gulver.     They're off, he said. Let's hope they get a liberal education.      V     Retief lay on his back in deep grass by a stream, eating grapes. A tallfigure appeared on the knoll above him and waved.     Retief! Hank Arapoulous bounded down the slope and embraced Retief,slapping him on the back. I heard you were here—and I've got newsfor you. You won the final day's picking competition. Over two hundredbushels! That's a record!     Let's get on over to the garden. Sounds like the celebration's aboutto start.     In the flower-crowded park among the stripped vines, Retief andArapoulous made their way to a laden table under the lanterns. A tallgirl dressed in loose white, and with long golden hair, came up toArapoulous.     Delinda, this is Retief—today's winner. And he's also the fellow thatgot those workers for us.     Delinda smiled at Retief. I've heard about you, Mr. Retief. Weweren't sure about the boys at first. Two thousand Bogans, and allconfused about their baggage that went astray. But they seemed to likethe picking. She smiled again.     That's not all. Our gals liked the boys, Hank said. Even Bogansaren't so bad, minus their irons. A lot of 'em will be staying on. Buthow come you didn't tell me you were coming, Retief? I'd have laid onsome kind of big welcome.     I liked the welcome I got. And I didn't have much notice. Mr. Magnanwas a little upset when he got back. It seems I exceeded my authority.     Arapoulous laughed. I had a feeling you were wheeling pretty free,Retief. I hope you didn't get into any trouble over it.     No trouble, Retief said. A few people were a little unhappy withme. It seems I'm not ready for important assignments at Departmentallevel. I was shipped off here to the boondocks to get a little moreexperience.     Delinda, look after Retief, said Arapoulous. I'll see you later.I've got to see to the wine judging. He disappeared in the crowd.     Congratulations on winning the day, said Delinda. I noticed you atwork. You were wonderful. I'm glad you're going to have the prize.     Thanks. I noticed you too, flitting around in that white nightie ofyours. But why weren't you picking grapes with the rest of us?     I had a special assignment.     Too bad. You should have had a chance at the prize.     Delinda took Retief's hand. I wouldn't have anyway, she said. I'mthe prize.   ","The Bogans are people who have a history of aggression within the Nicodemean Cluster. In the last twenty years, they have launched four military campaigns against other Galaxy members; because of this, they are known as the Hoodlums of the Nicodemean Cluster. They have agreed to send 2,000 of their students to participate in the Exchange Program in d’Land that the Manpower Utilization Directorate, Division of Libraries and Education is facilitating. This agreement is a curiosity to Retief because d’Land is a poor, industrial society, so he wonders what the Bogans will study there. His superior, Second Secretary Magnan, tells him that is none of his business and to be sure not to antagonize the Bogan representative. According to the Special Committee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Underdeveloped Nations’ General Economies (SCROUNGE) committeeman, every agency in the Corps is trying to appease Boge since Boge is a well-known troublemaker. He also informs Retief that d’Land has no universities, just an under-endowed technical college that could not handle 200, much less 2,000, exchange students. He also tells Retief that most of d’Land’s problems result from an unwise trade agreement that it made with Boge. Retief meets Karsh, a Scoutmaster who trained the Bogan students; he made it like a game but says they know how to handle a CSU. As the Bogan students come through Customs and see Mr. Karsh, they snap to attention. Mr. Karsh refuses to let the students leave the airport. Retief notices that all the exchange students are males, and Karsh tells him they wanted to see how the first group of students was received before sending any females. Retief realizes that Bogan students are headed to a place that has no classrooms for the students. In the meantime, the tractors are being sent to Croanie, a world under obligation to Boge, and Croanie holds the mortgage to the best vineyards in Lovenbroy. Retief looks up the tractors that are being sent to Croanie and discovers they are armored vehicles with a half-megaton per second firepower. Retief learns that these continental siege units are ultimately being sent to Lovenbroy, which is rich in minerals, on behalf of Boge. Retief also learns that Boge has an application to send another 2,000 students to Croanie and is considering sending 2,000 more to Featherweight. Retief learns that Boge tried to take over Lovenbroy several years earlier and would have succeeded if not for bad luck. Retief calls a friend who works in transport and learns that the Bogan students’ luggage is all being sent to Lovenbroy, and when he looked in the luggage, it was all weapons. Retief diverts the luggage and sends the students on to Lovenbroy to help with the grape harvest for the vineyards. He impounds the luggage full of weapons."
"Who is Hank Arapoulous, and what does he do in the story? </s>     CULTURAL EXCHANGE     BY KEITH LAUMER     It was a simple student exchange—but     Retief gave them more of     an education than they expected!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-featheredberet from the clothes tree. I'm off now, Retief, he said. I hopeyou'll manage the administrative routine during my absence without anyunfortunate incidents.     That seems a modest enough hope, Retief said. I'll try to live up toit.     I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division, Magnansaid testily. When I first came here, the Manpower UtilizationDirectorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. Ifancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question thewisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for twoweeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function.     In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple ofweeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressureto bear.     I assume you jest, Retief, Magnan said sadly. I should expect evenyou to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program maybe the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into morecultivated channels.     I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land, Retief said,glancing at the Memo for Record. That's a sizable sublimation.     Magnan nodded. The Bogans have launched no less than four militarycampaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums ofthe Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking thatprecedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy.     Breaking and entering, Retief said. You may have something there.But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrialworld of the poor but honest variety.     Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,Magnan said. Our function is merely to bring them together. Seethat you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This willbe an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomaticrestraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree.     A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. What is it, Miss Furkle?     That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again. On the small deskscreen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval.     This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,Magnan said. Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: hereat Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you.     If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit, Retief said.     Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle'sbutton.     Send the bucolic person in.  A tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousersof heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket,stepped into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused atsight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and heldout his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, faceto face. The newcomer's jaw muscles knotted. Then he winced.     Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair.     That's nice knuckle work, mister, the stranger said, massaging hishand. First time anybody ever did that to me. My fault though. Istarted it, I guess. He grinned and sat down.     What can I do for you? Retief said.     You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they wereall ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I'm Hank Arapoulous. I'm a farmer.What I wanted to see you about was— He shifted in his chair. Well,out on Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is justabout ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don'tknow if you're familiar with the Bacchus vines we grow...?     No, Retief said. Have a cigar? He pushed a box across the desk.Arapoulous took one. Bacchus vines are an unusual crop, he said,puffing the cigar alight. Only mature every twelve years. In between,the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own.We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms.Apples the size of a melon—and sweet—     Sounds very pleasant, Retief said. Where does the Libraries andEducation Division come in?     Arapoulous leaned forward. We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folkscan't spend all their time hybridizing plants. We've turned all theland area we've got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizableforest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr.Retief.     It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what—     Call me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of 'em. Ouryear's about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentricorbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostlypainting and sculpture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold.Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it's the season forwoodworkers. Our furniture—     I've seen some of your furniture, Retief said. Beautiful work.     Arapoulous nodded. All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soiland those sulphates give the woods some color, I'll tell you. Thencomes the Monsoon. Rain—it comes down in sheets. But the sun's gettingcloser. Shines all the time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine?That's the music-writing season. Then summer. Summer's hot. We stayinside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. Lots of beachon Lovenbroy; we're mostly islands. That's the drama and symphony time.The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. You havethe music and the surf and the bonfires and stars—we're close to thecenter of a globular cluster, you know....     You say it's time now for the wine crop?     That's right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just theordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn'ttake long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting newplaces ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend alot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But thisyear's different. This is Wine Year.  Arapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. Our winecrop is our big money crop, he said. We make enough to keep us going.But this year....     The crop isn't panning out?     Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm onlytwenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem'snot the crop.     Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for theCommercial—     Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines eversettled for anything else!     It sounds like I've been missing something, said Retief. I'll haveto try them some time.     Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. Notime like the present, he said.     Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, bothdusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire.     Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous, he said.     This isn't      drinking     . It's just wine. Arapoulous pulled the wireretainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in theair. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me. He winked.     Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. Cometo think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaintnative customs.     Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deeprust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He lookedat Arapoulous thoughtfully.     Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crustedport.     Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief, Arapoulous said. He took amouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. It's Bacchuswine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy. He pushed the secondbottle toward Retief. The custom back home is to alternate red wineand black.  Retief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork,caught it as it popped up.     Bad luck if you miss the cork, Arapoulous said, nodding. Youprobably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few yearsback?     Can't say that I did, Hank. Retief poured the black wine into twofresh glasses. Here's to the harvest.     We've got plenty of minerals on Lovenbroy, Arapoulous said,swallowing wine. But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em.We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed aforce. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals thanwe did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise.But it took a year, and we lost a lot of men.     That's too bad, Retief said. I'd say this one tastes more like roastbeef and popcorn over a Riesling base.     It put us in a bad spot, Arapoulous went on. We had to borrowmoney from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to startexporting art work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same whenyou're doing it for strangers.     Say, this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy, Retiefsaid. What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose?     Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. Butwe need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you canturn over to machinery—and anyway we wouldn't if we could. Vintageseason is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in.First, there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyardscovering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardenshere and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deepgrass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wineto the pickers. There's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets onwho can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright,and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty offruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking'sdone by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizesfor the best crews.     Then the wine-making. We still tramp out the vintage. That's mostlyfor the young folks but anybody's welcome. That's when things start toget loosened up. Matter of fact, pretty near half our young-uns areborn after a vintage. All bets are off then. It keeps a fellow on histoes though. Ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layerof grape juice?  Never did, Retief said. You say most of the children are born aftera vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time—     Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning.     I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight, Retiefsaid.     Forty-two, Terry years, Arapoulous said. But this year it looks bad.We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a bigvintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Thennext vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage—     You hocked the vineyards?     Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time.     On the whole, Retief said, I think I prefer the black. But the redis hard to beat....     What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loanto see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'drepay it in sculpture, painting, furniture—     Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for travelingside-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groacinose-flute players—     Can they pick grapes?     Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this overwith the Labor Office?     Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronicsspecialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thoughtI was trying to buy slaves.     The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen.     You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes, she said. Thenafterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet.     Thanks. Retief finished his glass, stood. I have to run, Hank, hesaid. Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottleshere. Cultural exhibits, you know.      II     As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleagueacross the table.     Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.What are they getting?     Whaffle blinked. You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, overat MUDDLE, he said. Properly speaking, equipment grants are thesole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans andExchanges. He pursed his lips. However, I suppose there's no harm intelling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment.     Drill rigs, that sort of thing?     Strip mining gear. Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,blinked at it. Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLEinterested in MEDDLE's activities?     Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped upearlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards overon—     That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir, Whaffle cut in. I have sufficientproblems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business.     Speaking of tractors, another man put in, we over at the SpecialCommittee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'General Economies have been trying for months to get a request formining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE—     SCROUNGE was late on the scene, Whaffle said. First come, firstserved. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen. He strodeoff, briefcase under his arm.     That's the trouble with peaceful worlds, the SCROUNGE committeemansaid. Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is outto pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assistpeace-loving d'Land—comes to naught. He shook his head.     What kind of university do they have on d'Land? asked Retief. We'resending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite aninstitution.     University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college.     Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College?     Two thousand students? Hah! Two      hundred     students would overtax thefacilities of the college.     I wonder if the Bogans know that?     The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwisetrade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand studentsindeed! He snorted and walked away.  Retief stopped by the office to pick up a short cape, then rode theelevator to the roof of the 230-story Corps HQ building and hailed acab to the port. The Bogan students had arrived early. Retief saw themlined up on the ramp waiting to go through customs. It would be halfan hour before they were cleared through. He turned into the bar andordered a beer.     A tall young fellow on the next stool raised his glass.     Happy days, he said.     And nights to match.     You said it. He gulped half his beer. My name's Karsh. Mr. Karsh.Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a drag, sitting around this placewaiting....     You meeting somebody?     Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect—Never mind. Have one onme.     Thanks. You a Scoutmaster?     I'll tell you what I am. I'm a cradle-robber. You know— he turnedto Retief—not one of those kids is over eighteen. He hiccupped.Students, you know. Never saw a student with a beard, did you?     Lots of times. You're meeting the students, are you?     The young fellow blinked at Retief. Oh, you know about it, huh?     I represent MUDDLE.     Karsh finished his beer, ordered another. I came on ahead. Sort ofan advance guard for the kids. I trained 'em myself. Treated it likea game, but they can handle a CSU. Don't know how they'll act underpressure. If I had my old platoon—     He looked at his beer glass, pushed it back. Had enough, he said. Solong, friend. Or are you coming along?     Retief nodded. Might as well.  At the exit to the Customs enclosure, Retief watched as the first ofthe Bogan students came through, caught sight of Karsh and snapped toattention, his chest out.     Drop that, mister, Karsh snapped. Is that any way for a student toact?     The youth, a round-faced lad with broad shoulders, grinned.     Heck, no, he said. Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go totown? We fellas were thinking—     You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids! I mean ... no! Nowline up!     We have quarters ready for the students, Retief said. If you'd liketo bring them around to the west side, I have a couple of copters laidon.     Thanks, said Karsh. They'll stay here until take-off time. Can'thave the little dears wandering around loose. Might get ideas aboutgoing over the hill. He hiccupped. I mean they might play hookey.     We've scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That's a longwait. MUDDLE's arranged theater tickets and a dinner.     Sorry, Karsh said. As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off. Hehiccupped again. Can't travel without our baggage, y'know.     Suit yourself, Retief said. Where's the baggage now?     Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter.     Maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here.     Sure, Karsh said. That's a good idea. Why don't you join us? Karshwinked. And bring a few beers.     Not this time, Retief said. He watched the students, still emergingfrom Customs. They seem to be all boys, he commented. No femalestudents?     Maybe later, Karsh said. You know, after we see how the first bunchis received.     Back at the MUDDLE office, Retief buzzed Miss Furkle.     Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are boundfor?     Why, the University at d'Land, of course.     Would that be the Technical College?     Miss Furkle's mouth puckered. I'm sure I've never pried into thesedetails.     Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle? Retiefsaid. Personally, I'm curious as to just what it is these students aretravelling so far to study—at Corps expense.     Mr. Magnan never—     For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leavesme with the question of two thousand young male students headed fora world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligationto Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage onLovenbroy.     Well! Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom!     About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question, Retief said. Butnever mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractorswill Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program?     Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business, Miss Furkle said. Mr. Magnanalways—     I'm sure he did. Let me know about the tractors as soon as you can.  Miss Furkle sniffed and disappeared from the screen. Retief left theoffice, descended forty-one stories, followed a corridor to the CorpsLibrary. In the stacks he thumbed through catalogues, pored overindices.     Can I help you? someone chirped. A tiny librarian stood at his elbow.     Thank you, ma'am, Retief said. I'm looking for information on amining rig. A Bolo model WV tractor.     You won't find it in the industrial section, the librarian said.Come along. Retief followed her along the stacks to a well-litsection lettered ARMAMENTS. She took a tape from the shelf, pluggedit into the viewer, flipped through and stopped at a squat armoredvehicle.     That's the model WV, she said. It's what is known as a continentalsiege unit. It carries four men, with a half-megaton/second firepower.     There must be an error somewhere, Retief said. The Bolo model I wantis a tractor. Model WV M-1—       Oh, the modification was the addition of a bulldozer blade fordemolition work. That must be what confused you.     Probably—among other things. Thank you.     Miss Furkle was waiting at the office. I have the information youwanted, she said. I've had it for over ten minutes. I was under theimpression you needed it urgently, and I went to great lengths—     Sure, Retief said. Shoot. How many tractors?     Five hundred.     Are you sure?     Miss Furkle's chins quivered. Well! If you feel I'm incompetent—     Just questioning the possibility of a mistake, Miss Furkle. Fivehundred tractors is a lot of equipment.     Was there anything further? Miss Furkle inquired frigidly.     I sincerely hope not, Retief said.      III     Leaning back in Magnan's padded chair with power swivel andhip-u-matic concontour, Retief leafed through a folder labelled CERP7-602-Ba; CROANIE (general). He paused at a page headed Industry.     Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles ofBacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into each andsipped the black wine meditatively.     It would be a pity, he reflected, if anything should interfere with theproduction of such vintages....     Half an hour later he laid the folder aside, keyed the phone and putthrough a call to the Croanie Legation. He asked for the CommercialAttache.     Retief here, Corps HQ, he said airily. About the MEDDLE shipment,the tractors. I'm wondering if there's been a slip up. My records showwe're shipping five hundred units....     That's correct. Five hundred.     Retief waited.     Ah ... are you there, Retief?     I'm still here. And I'm still wondering about the five hundredtractors.     It's perfectly in order. I thought it was all settled. Mr. Whaffle—     One unit would require a good-sized plant to handle its output,Retief said. Now Croanie subsists on her fisheries. She has perhapshalf a dozen pint-sized processing plants. Maybe, in a bind, theycould handle the ore ten WV's could scrape up ... if Croanie had anyore. It doesn't. By the way, isn't a WV a poor choice as a miningoutfit? I should think—     See here, Retief! Why all this interest in a few surplus tractors?And in any event, what business is it of yours how we plan to use theequipment? That's an internal affair of my government. Mr. Whaffle—     I'm not Mr. Whaffle. What are you going to do with the other fourhundred and ninety tractors?     I understood the grant was to be with no strings attached!     I know it's bad manners to ask questions. It's an old diplomatictradition that any time you can get anybody to accept anything as agift, you've scored points in the game. But if Croanie has some schemecooking—  Nothing like that, Retief. It's a mere business transaction.     What kind of business do you do with a Bolo WV? With or without ablade attached, it's what's known as a continental siege unit.     Great Heavens, Retief! Don't jump to conclusions! Would you have usbranded as warmongers? Frankly—is this a closed line?     Certainly. You may speak freely.     The tractors are for transshipment. We've gotten ourselves into adifficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise. This is an accommodationto a group with which we have rather strong business ties.     I understand you hold a mortgage on the best land on Lovenbroy,Retief said. Any connection?     Why ... ah ... no. Of course not, ha ha.     Who gets the tractors eventually?     Retief, this is unwarranted interference!     Who gets them?     They happen to be going to Lovenbroy. But I scarcely see—     And who's the friend you're helping out with an unauthorizedtransshipment of grant material?     Why ... ah ... I've been working with a Mr. Gulver, a Boganrepresentative.     And when will they be shipped?     Why, they went out a week ago. They'll be half way there by now. Butlook here, Retief, this isn't what you're thinking!     How do you know what I'm thinking? I don't know myself. Retief rangoff, buzzed the secretary.     Miss Furkle, I'd like to be notified immediately of any newapplications that might come in from the Bogan Consulate for placementof students.     Well, it happens, by coincidence, that I have an application here now.Mr. Gulver of the Consulate brought it in.     Is Mr. Gulver in the office? I'd like to see him.     I'll ask him if he has time.     Great. Thanks. It was half a minute before a thick-necked red-facedman in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned suit, a drabshirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered expression.  What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  The secretary placed the papers on the desk. Arapoulous caught her eyeand grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room.     What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash, Arapoulousobserved. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from timeto time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous.     How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank? Retief inquired.     Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful.     A hundred would help, he said. A thousand would be better. Cheers.     What would you say to two thousand?     Two thousand? Retief, you're not fooling?     I hope not. He picked up the phone, called the Port Authority, askedfor the dispatch clerk.     Hello, Jim. Say, I have a favor to ask of you. You know thatcontingent of Bogan students. They're traveling aboard the two CDTtransports. I'm interested in the baggage that goes with the students.Has it arrived yet? Okay, I'll wait.     Jim came back to the phone. Yeah, Retief, it's here. Just arrived.But there's a funny thing. It's not consigned to d'Land. It's ticketedclear through to Lovenbroy.     Listen, Jim, Retief said. I want you to go over to the warehouse andtake a look at that baggage for me.     Retief waited while the dispatch clerk carried out the errand. Thelevel in the two bottles had gone down an inch when Jim returned tothe phone.     Hey, I took a look at that baggage, Retief. Something funny going on.Guns. 2mm needlers, Mark XII hand blasters, power pistols—     It's okay, Jim. Nothing to worry about. Just a mix-up. Now, Jim,I'm going to ask you to do something more for me. I'm covering for afriend. It seems he slipped up. I wouldn't want word to get out, youunderstand. I'll send along a written change order in the morning thatwill cover you officially. Meanwhile, here's what I want you to do....     Retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to Arapoulous.     As soon as I get off a couple of TWX's, I think we'd better get downto the port, Hank. I think I'd like to see the students off personally.      IV     Karsh met Retief as he entered the Departures enclosure at the port.     What's going on here? he demanded. There's some funny business withmy baggage consignment. They won't let me see it! I've got a feelingit's not being loaded.     You'd better hurry, Mr. Karsh, Retief said. You're scheduled toblast off in less than an hour. Are the students all loaded?     Yes, blast you! What about my baggage? Those vessels aren't movingwithout it!     No need to get so upset about a few toothbrushes, is there, Mr.Karsh? Retief said blandly. Still, if you're worried— He turned toArapoulous.     Hank, why don't you walk Mr. Karsh over to the warehouse and ...ah ... take care of him?     I know just how to handle it, Arapoulous said.     The dispatch clerk came up to Retief. I caught the tractor equipment,he said. Funny kind of mistake, but it's okay now. They're beingoff-loaded at d'Land. I talked to the traffic controller there. He saidthey weren't looking for any students.     The labels got switched, Jim. The students go where the baggage wasconsigned. Too bad about the mistake, but the Armaments Office willhave a man along in a little while to dispose of the guns. Keep an eyeout for the luggage. No telling where it's gotten to.     Here! a hoarse voice yelled. Retief turned. A disheveled figure in atight hat was crossing the enclosure, arms waving.     Hi there, Mr. Gulver, Retief called. How's Boge's business comingalong?     Piracy! Gulver blurted as he came up to Retief, puffing hard. You'vegot a hand in this, I don't doubt! Where's that Magnan fellow?     What seems to be the problem? Retief said.     Hold those transports! I've just been notified that the baggageshipment has been impounded. I'll remind you, that shipment enjoysdiplomatic free entry!     Who told you it was impounded?     Never mind! I have my sources!     Two tall men buttoned into gray tunics came up. Are you Mr. Retief ofCDT? one said.     That's right.     What about my baggage! Gulver cut in. And I'm warning you, if thoseships lift without—     These gentlemen are from the Armaments Control Commission, Retiefsaid. Would you like to come along and claim your baggage, Mr. Gulver?     From where? I— Gulver turned two shades redder about the ears.Armaments?     The only shipment I've held up seems to be somebody's arsenal, Retiefsaid. Now if you claim this is your baggage....     Why, impossible, Gulver said in a strained voice. Armaments?Ridiculous. There's been an error....  At the baggage warehouse Gulver looked glumly at the opened cases ofguns. No, of course not, he said dully. Not my baggage. Not mybaggage at all.     Arapoulous appeared, supporting the stumbling figure of Mr. Karsh.     What—what's this? Gulver spluttered. Karsh? What's happened?     He had a little fall. He'll be okay, Arapoulous said.     You'd better help him to the ship, Retief said. It's ready to lift.We wouldn't want him to miss it.     Leave him to me! Gulver snapped, his eyes slashing at Karsh. I'llsee he's dealt with.     I couldn't think of it, Retief said. He's a guest of the Corps, youknow. We'll see him safely aboard.     Gulver turned, signaled frantically. Three heavy-set men in identicaldrab suits detached themselves from the wall, crossed to the group.     Take this man, Gulver snapped, indicating Karsh, who looked at himdazedly, reached up to rub his head.     We take our hospitality seriously, Retief said. We'll see him aboardthe vessel.     Gulver opened his mouth.     I know you feel bad about finding guns instead of school books inyour luggage, Retief said, looking Gulver in the eye. You'll be busystraightening out the details of the mix-up. You'll want to avoidfurther complications.     Ah. Ulp. Yes, Gulver said. He appeared unhappy.     Arapoulous went on to the passenger conveyor, turned to wave.     Your man—he's going too? Gulver blurted.     He's not our man, properly speaking, Retief said. He lives onLovenbroy.     Lovenbroy? Gulver choked. But ... the ... I....     I know you said the students were bound for d'Land, Retief said. ButI guess that was just another aspect of the general confusion. Thecourse plugged into the navigators was to Lovenbroy. You'll be glad toknow they're still headed there—even without the baggage.     Perhaps, Gulver said grimly, perhaps they'll manage without it.     By the way, Retief said. There was another funny mix-up. Therewere some tractors—for industrial use, you'll recall. I believe youco-operated with Croanie in arranging the grant through MEDDLE. Theywere erroneously consigned to Lovenbroy, a purely agricultural world. Isaved you some embarrassment, I trust, Mr. Gulver, by arranging to havethem off-loaded at d'Land.     D'Land! You've put the CSU's in the hands of Boge's bitterest enemies!     But they're only tractors, Mr. Gulver. Peaceful devices. Isn't thatcorrect?     That's ... correct. Gulver sagged. Then he snapped erect. Hold theships! he yelled. I'm canceling the student exchange—     His voice was drowned by the rumble as the first of the monstertransports rose from the launch pit, followed a moment later by thesecond, Retief watched them out of sight, then turned to Gulver.     They're off, he said. Let's hope they get a liberal education.      V     Retief lay on his back in deep grass by a stream, eating grapes. A tallfigure appeared on the knoll above him and waved.     Retief! Hank Arapoulous bounded down the slope and embraced Retief,slapping him on the back. I heard you were here—and I've got newsfor you. You won the final day's picking competition. Over two hundredbushels! That's a record!     Let's get on over to the garden. Sounds like the celebration's aboutto start.     In the flower-crowded park among the stripped vines, Retief andArapoulous made their way to a laden table under the lanterns. A tallgirl dressed in loose white, and with long golden hair, came up toArapoulous.     Delinda, this is Retief—today's winner. And he's also the fellow thatgot those workers for us.     Delinda smiled at Retief. I've heard about you, Mr. Retief. Weweren't sure about the boys at first. Two thousand Bogans, and allconfused about their baggage that went astray. But they seemed to likethe picking. She smiled again.     That's not all. Our gals liked the boys, Hank said. Even Bogansaren't so bad, minus their irons. A lot of 'em will be staying on. Buthow come you didn't tell me you were coming, Retief? I'd have laid onsome kind of big welcome.     I liked the welcome I got. And I didn't have much notice. Mr. Magnanwas a little upset when he got back. It seems I exceeded my authority.     Arapoulous laughed. I had a feeling you were wheeling pretty free,Retief. I hope you didn't get into any trouble over it.     No trouble, Retief said. A few people were a little unhappy withme. It seems I'm not ready for important assignments at Departmentallevel. I was shipped off here to the boondocks to get a little moreexperience.     Delinda, look after Retief, said Arapoulous. I'll see you later.I've got to see to the wine judging. He disappeared in the crowd.     Congratulations on winning the day, said Delinda. I noticed you atwork. You were wonderful. I'm glad you're going to have the prize.     Thanks. I noticed you too, flitting around in that white nightie ofyours. But why weren't you picking grapes with the rest of us?     I had a special assignment.     Too bad. You should have had a chance at the prize.     Delinda took Retief's hand. I wouldn't have anyway, she said. I'mthe prize.   ","Hank Arapoulousis is first described as a “bucolic person from Lovenbroy.” He is a farmer, tall with bronze skin and gray hair, who comes to MUDDLE’s office to discuss the harvest problems in Lovenbroy. They grow Bacchus vines, which only mature once every twelve years. This year is a harvest year, but they don’t have enough people to harvest the grapes. Arapoulousis explains to Retief that a few years ago, Boge landed a force on Lovenbroy to try to mine their minerals by strip-mining. Lovenbroy fought back for a year but lost a lot of its men. This created financial problems, so Lovenbroy borrowed money from Croanie, mortgaging its crops. The loan is due, and the wine crop will cover the loan amount, but they don’t have enough people to harvest the grapes. He is worried that if they don’t have a great harvest, Croanie will come in and start mining. Also, if they default on the loan, Croanie will hold half of the grape acreage that they used to secure the loan. Arapoulousis has also asked for help from the Labor Office, but they only offered to send them machinery, and machines cannot harvest the grapes. He returns to see Retief the following day to find out if Retief has discovered a way to help. When Mr. Karsh makes a scene about the missing luggage for the exchange students, Retief has Arapoulousis take Karsh away and “take care of him.” When they return, Karsh is stumbling and needs support to stand up. Arapoulousis explains that Karsh fell. Retief sends the exchange students to Lovenbroy with Arapoulousis to help with the harvest. As the harvest is winding down, Arapoulousis tells Retief that Retief has won the award for the picking competition. Arapoulousis is also the person who judges the wine contest."
"What is Lovenbroy, and why is it important? </s>     CULTURAL EXCHANGE     BY KEITH LAUMER     It was a simple student exchange—but     Retief gave them more of     an education than they expected!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-featheredberet from the clothes tree. I'm off now, Retief, he said. I hopeyou'll manage the administrative routine during my absence without anyunfortunate incidents.     That seems a modest enough hope, Retief said. I'll try to live up toit.     I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division, Magnansaid testily. When I first came here, the Manpower UtilizationDirectorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. Ifancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question thewisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for twoweeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function.     In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple ofweeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressureto bear.     I assume you jest, Retief, Magnan said sadly. I should expect evenyou to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program maybe the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into morecultivated channels.     I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land, Retief said,glancing at the Memo for Record. That's a sizable sublimation.     Magnan nodded. The Bogans have launched no less than four militarycampaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums ofthe Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking thatprecedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy.     Breaking and entering, Retief said. You may have something there.But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrialworld of the poor but honest variety.     Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,Magnan said. Our function is merely to bring them together. Seethat you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This willbe an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomaticrestraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree.     A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. What is it, Miss Furkle?     That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again. On the small deskscreen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval.     This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,Magnan said. Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: hereat Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you.     If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit, Retief said.     Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle'sbutton.     Send the bucolic person in.  A tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousersof heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket,stepped into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused atsight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and heldout his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, faceto face. The newcomer's jaw muscles knotted. Then he winced.     Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair.     That's nice knuckle work, mister, the stranger said, massaging hishand. First time anybody ever did that to me. My fault though. Istarted it, I guess. He grinned and sat down.     What can I do for you? Retief said.     You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they wereall ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I'm Hank Arapoulous. I'm a farmer.What I wanted to see you about was— He shifted in his chair. Well,out on Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is justabout ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don'tknow if you're familiar with the Bacchus vines we grow...?     No, Retief said. Have a cigar? He pushed a box across the desk.Arapoulous took one. Bacchus vines are an unusual crop, he said,puffing the cigar alight. Only mature every twelve years. In between,the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own.We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms.Apples the size of a melon—and sweet—     Sounds very pleasant, Retief said. Where does the Libraries andEducation Division come in?     Arapoulous leaned forward. We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folkscan't spend all their time hybridizing plants. We've turned all theland area we've got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizableforest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr.Retief.     It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what—     Call me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of 'em. Ouryear's about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentricorbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostlypainting and sculpture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold.Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it's the season forwoodworkers. Our furniture—     I've seen some of your furniture, Retief said. Beautiful work.     Arapoulous nodded. All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soiland those sulphates give the woods some color, I'll tell you. Thencomes the Monsoon. Rain—it comes down in sheets. But the sun's gettingcloser. Shines all the time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine?That's the music-writing season. Then summer. Summer's hot. We stayinside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. Lots of beachon Lovenbroy; we're mostly islands. That's the drama and symphony time.The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. You havethe music and the surf and the bonfires and stars—we're close to thecenter of a globular cluster, you know....     You say it's time now for the wine crop?     That's right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just theordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn'ttake long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting newplaces ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend alot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But thisyear's different. This is Wine Year.  Arapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. Our winecrop is our big money crop, he said. We make enough to keep us going.But this year....     The crop isn't panning out?     Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm onlytwenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem'snot the crop.     Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for theCommercial—     Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines eversettled for anything else!     It sounds like I've been missing something, said Retief. I'll haveto try them some time.     Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. Notime like the present, he said.     Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, bothdusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire.     Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous, he said.     This isn't      drinking     . It's just wine. Arapoulous pulled the wireretainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in theair. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me. He winked.     Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. Cometo think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaintnative customs.     Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deeprust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He lookedat Arapoulous thoughtfully.     Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crustedport.     Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief, Arapoulous said. He took amouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. It's Bacchuswine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy. He pushed the secondbottle toward Retief. The custom back home is to alternate red wineand black.  Retief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork,caught it as it popped up.     Bad luck if you miss the cork, Arapoulous said, nodding. Youprobably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few yearsback?     Can't say that I did, Hank. Retief poured the black wine into twofresh glasses. Here's to the harvest.     We've got plenty of minerals on Lovenbroy, Arapoulous said,swallowing wine. But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em.We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed aforce. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals thanwe did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise.But it took a year, and we lost a lot of men.     That's too bad, Retief said. I'd say this one tastes more like roastbeef and popcorn over a Riesling base.     It put us in a bad spot, Arapoulous went on. We had to borrowmoney from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to startexporting art work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same whenyou're doing it for strangers.     Say, this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy, Retiefsaid. What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose?     Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. Butwe need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you canturn over to machinery—and anyway we wouldn't if we could. Vintageseason is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in.First, there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyardscovering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardenshere and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deepgrass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wineto the pickers. There's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets onwho can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright,and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty offruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking'sdone by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizesfor the best crews.     Then the wine-making. We still tramp out the vintage. That's mostlyfor the young folks but anybody's welcome. That's when things start toget loosened up. Matter of fact, pretty near half our young-uns areborn after a vintage. All bets are off then. It keeps a fellow on histoes though. Ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layerof grape juice?  Never did, Retief said. You say most of the children are born aftera vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time—     Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning.     I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight, Retiefsaid.     Forty-two, Terry years, Arapoulous said. But this year it looks bad.We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a bigvintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Thennext vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage—     You hocked the vineyards?     Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time.     On the whole, Retief said, I think I prefer the black. But the redis hard to beat....     What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loanto see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'drepay it in sculpture, painting, furniture—     Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for travelingside-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groacinose-flute players—     Can they pick grapes?     Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this overwith the Labor Office?     Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronicsspecialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thoughtI was trying to buy slaves.     The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen.     You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes, she said. Thenafterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet.     Thanks. Retief finished his glass, stood. I have to run, Hank, hesaid. Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottleshere. Cultural exhibits, you know.      II     As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleagueacross the table.     Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.What are they getting?     Whaffle blinked. You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, overat MUDDLE, he said. Properly speaking, equipment grants are thesole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans andExchanges. He pursed his lips. However, I suppose there's no harm intelling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment.     Drill rigs, that sort of thing?     Strip mining gear. Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,blinked at it. Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLEinterested in MEDDLE's activities?     Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped upearlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards overon—     That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir, Whaffle cut in. I have sufficientproblems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business.     Speaking of tractors, another man put in, we over at the SpecialCommittee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'General Economies have been trying for months to get a request formining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE—     SCROUNGE was late on the scene, Whaffle said. First come, firstserved. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen. He strodeoff, briefcase under his arm.     That's the trouble with peaceful worlds, the SCROUNGE committeemansaid. Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is outto pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assistpeace-loving d'Land—comes to naught. He shook his head.     What kind of university do they have on d'Land? asked Retief. We'resending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite aninstitution.     University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college.     Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College?     Two thousand students? Hah! Two      hundred     students would overtax thefacilities of the college.     I wonder if the Bogans know that?     The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwisetrade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand studentsindeed! He snorted and walked away.  Retief stopped by the office to pick up a short cape, then rode theelevator to the roof of the 230-story Corps HQ building and hailed acab to the port. The Bogan students had arrived early. Retief saw themlined up on the ramp waiting to go through customs. It would be halfan hour before they were cleared through. He turned into the bar andordered a beer.     A tall young fellow on the next stool raised his glass.     Happy days, he said.     And nights to match.     You said it. He gulped half his beer. My name's Karsh. Mr. Karsh.Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a drag, sitting around this placewaiting....     You meeting somebody?     Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect—Never mind. Have one onme.     Thanks. You a Scoutmaster?     I'll tell you what I am. I'm a cradle-robber. You know— he turnedto Retief—not one of those kids is over eighteen. He hiccupped.Students, you know. Never saw a student with a beard, did you?     Lots of times. You're meeting the students, are you?     The young fellow blinked at Retief. Oh, you know about it, huh?     I represent MUDDLE.     Karsh finished his beer, ordered another. I came on ahead. Sort ofan advance guard for the kids. I trained 'em myself. Treated it likea game, but they can handle a CSU. Don't know how they'll act underpressure. If I had my old platoon—     He looked at his beer glass, pushed it back. Had enough, he said. Solong, friend. Or are you coming along?     Retief nodded. Might as well.  At the exit to the Customs enclosure, Retief watched as the first ofthe Bogan students came through, caught sight of Karsh and snapped toattention, his chest out.     Drop that, mister, Karsh snapped. Is that any way for a student toact?     The youth, a round-faced lad with broad shoulders, grinned.     Heck, no, he said. Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go totown? We fellas were thinking—     You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids! I mean ... no! Nowline up!     We have quarters ready for the students, Retief said. If you'd liketo bring them around to the west side, I have a couple of copters laidon.     Thanks, said Karsh. They'll stay here until take-off time. Can'thave the little dears wandering around loose. Might get ideas aboutgoing over the hill. He hiccupped. I mean they might play hookey.     We've scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That's a longwait. MUDDLE's arranged theater tickets and a dinner.     Sorry, Karsh said. As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off. Hehiccupped again. Can't travel without our baggage, y'know.     Suit yourself, Retief said. Where's the baggage now?     Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter.     Maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here.     Sure, Karsh said. That's a good idea. Why don't you join us? Karshwinked. And bring a few beers.     Not this time, Retief said. He watched the students, still emergingfrom Customs. They seem to be all boys, he commented. No femalestudents?     Maybe later, Karsh said. You know, after we see how the first bunchis received.     Back at the MUDDLE office, Retief buzzed Miss Furkle.     Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are boundfor?     Why, the University at d'Land, of course.     Would that be the Technical College?     Miss Furkle's mouth puckered. I'm sure I've never pried into thesedetails.     Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle? Retiefsaid. Personally, I'm curious as to just what it is these students aretravelling so far to study—at Corps expense.     Mr. Magnan never—     For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leavesme with the question of two thousand young male students headed fora world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligationto Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage onLovenbroy.     Well! Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom!     About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question, Retief said. Butnever mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractorswill Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program?     Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business, Miss Furkle said. Mr. Magnanalways—     I'm sure he did. Let me know about the tractors as soon as you can.  Miss Furkle sniffed and disappeared from the screen. Retief left theoffice, descended forty-one stories, followed a corridor to the CorpsLibrary. In the stacks he thumbed through catalogues, pored overindices.     Can I help you? someone chirped. A tiny librarian stood at his elbow.     Thank you, ma'am, Retief said. I'm looking for information on amining rig. A Bolo model WV tractor.     You won't find it in the industrial section, the librarian said.Come along. Retief followed her along the stacks to a well-litsection lettered ARMAMENTS. She took a tape from the shelf, pluggedit into the viewer, flipped through and stopped at a squat armoredvehicle.     That's the model WV, she said. It's what is known as a continentalsiege unit. It carries four men, with a half-megaton/second firepower.     There must be an error somewhere, Retief said. The Bolo model I wantis a tractor. Model WV M-1—       Oh, the modification was the addition of a bulldozer blade fordemolition work. That must be what confused you.     Probably—among other things. Thank you.     Miss Furkle was waiting at the office. I have the information youwanted, she said. I've had it for over ten minutes. I was under theimpression you needed it urgently, and I went to great lengths—     Sure, Retief said. Shoot. How many tractors?     Five hundred.     Are you sure?     Miss Furkle's chins quivered. Well! If you feel I'm incompetent—     Just questioning the possibility of a mistake, Miss Furkle. Fivehundred tractors is a lot of equipment.     Was there anything further? Miss Furkle inquired frigidly.     I sincerely hope not, Retief said.      III     Leaning back in Magnan's padded chair with power swivel andhip-u-matic concontour, Retief leafed through a folder labelled CERP7-602-Ba; CROANIE (general). He paused at a page headed Industry.     Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles ofBacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into each andsipped the black wine meditatively.     It would be a pity, he reflected, if anything should interfere with theproduction of such vintages....     Half an hour later he laid the folder aside, keyed the phone and putthrough a call to the Croanie Legation. He asked for the CommercialAttache.     Retief here, Corps HQ, he said airily. About the MEDDLE shipment,the tractors. I'm wondering if there's been a slip up. My records showwe're shipping five hundred units....     That's correct. Five hundred.     Retief waited.     Ah ... are you there, Retief?     I'm still here. And I'm still wondering about the five hundredtractors.     It's perfectly in order. I thought it was all settled. Mr. Whaffle—     One unit would require a good-sized plant to handle its output,Retief said. Now Croanie subsists on her fisheries. She has perhapshalf a dozen pint-sized processing plants. Maybe, in a bind, theycould handle the ore ten WV's could scrape up ... if Croanie had anyore. It doesn't. By the way, isn't a WV a poor choice as a miningoutfit? I should think—     See here, Retief! Why all this interest in a few surplus tractors?And in any event, what business is it of yours how we plan to use theequipment? That's an internal affair of my government. Mr. Whaffle—     I'm not Mr. Whaffle. What are you going to do with the other fourhundred and ninety tractors?     I understood the grant was to be with no strings attached!     I know it's bad manners to ask questions. It's an old diplomatictradition that any time you can get anybody to accept anything as agift, you've scored points in the game. But if Croanie has some schemecooking—  Nothing like that, Retief. It's a mere business transaction.     What kind of business do you do with a Bolo WV? With or without ablade attached, it's what's known as a continental siege unit.     Great Heavens, Retief! Don't jump to conclusions! Would you have usbranded as warmongers? Frankly—is this a closed line?     Certainly. You may speak freely.     The tractors are for transshipment. We've gotten ourselves into adifficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise. This is an accommodationto a group with which we have rather strong business ties.     I understand you hold a mortgage on the best land on Lovenbroy,Retief said. Any connection?     Why ... ah ... no. Of course not, ha ha.     Who gets the tractors eventually?     Retief, this is unwarranted interference!     Who gets them?     They happen to be going to Lovenbroy. But I scarcely see—     And who's the friend you're helping out with an unauthorizedtransshipment of grant material?     Why ... ah ... I've been working with a Mr. Gulver, a Boganrepresentative.     And when will they be shipped?     Why, they went out a week ago. They'll be half way there by now. Butlook here, Retief, this isn't what you're thinking!     How do you know what I'm thinking? I don't know myself. Retief rangoff, buzzed the secretary.     Miss Furkle, I'd like to be notified immediately of any newapplications that might come in from the Bogan Consulate for placementof students.     Well, it happens, by coincidence, that I have an application here now.Mr. Gulver of the Consulate brought it in.     Is Mr. Gulver in the office? I'd like to see him.     I'll ask him if he has time.     Great. Thanks. It was half a minute before a thick-necked red-facedman in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned suit, a drabshirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered expression.  What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  The secretary placed the papers on the desk. Arapoulous caught her eyeand grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room.     What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash, Arapoulousobserved. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from timeto time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous.     How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank? Retief inquired.     Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful.     A hundred would help, he said. A thousand would be better. Cheers.     What would you say to two thousand?     Two thousand? Retief, you're not fooling?     I hope not. He picked up the phone, called the Port Authority, askedfor the dispatch clerk.     Hello, Jim. Say, I have a favor to ask of you. You know thatcontingent of Bogan students. They're traveling aboard the two CDTtransports. I'm interested in the baggage that goes with the students.Has it arrived yet? Okay, I'll wait.     Jim came back to the phone. Yeah, Retief, it's here. Just arrived.But there's a funny thing. It's not consigned to d'Land. It's ticketedclear through to Lovenbroy.     Listen, Jim, Retief said. I want you to go over to the warehouse andtake a look at that baggage for me.     Retief waited while the dispatch clerk carried out the errand. Thelevel in the two bottles had gone down an inch when Jim returned tothe phone.     Hey, I took a look at that baggage, Retief. Something funny going on.Guns. 2mm needlers, Mark XII hand blasters, power pistols—     It's okay, Jim. Nothing to worry about. Just a mix-up. Now, Jim,I'm going to ask you to do something more for me. I'm covering for afriend. It seems he slipped up. I wouldn't want word to get out, youunderstand. I'll send along a written change order in the morning thatwill cover you officially. Meanwhile, here's what I want you to do....     Retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to Arapoulous.     As soon as I get off a couple of TWX's, I think we'd better get downto the port, Hank. I think I'd like to see the students off personally.      IV     Karsh met Retief as he entered the Departures enclosure at the port.     What's going on here? he demanded. There's some funny business withmy baggage consignment. They won't let me see it! I've got a feelingit's not being loaded.     You'd better hurry, Mr. Karsh, Retief said. You're scheduled toblast off in less than an hour. Are the students all loaded?     Yes, blast you! What about my baggage? Those vessels aren't movingwithout it!     No need to get so upset about a few toothbrushes, is there, Mr.Karsh? Retief said blandly. Still, if you're worried— He turned toArapoulous.     Hank, why don't you walk Mr. Karsh over to the warehouse and ...ah ... take care of him?     I know just how to handle it, Arapoulous said.     The dispatch clerk came up to Retief. I caught the tractor equipment,he said. Funny kind of mistake, but it's okay now. They're beingoff-loaded at d'Land. I talked to the traffic controller there. He saidthey weren't looking for any students.     The labels got switched, Jim. The students go where the baggage wasconsigned. Too bad about the mistake, but the Armaments Office willhave a man along in a little while to dispose of the guns. Keep an eyeout for the luggage. No telling where it's gotten to.     Here! a hoarse voice yelled. Retief turned. A disheveled figure in atight hat was crossing the enclosure, arms waving.     Hi there, Mr. Gulver, Retief called. How's Boge's business comingalong?     Piracy! Gulver blurted as he came up to Retief, puffing hard. You'vegot a hand in this, I don't doubt! Where's that Magnan fellow?     What seems to be the problem? Retief said.     Hold those transports! I've just been notified that the baggageshipment has been impounded. I'll remind you, that shipment enjoysdiplomatic free entry!     Who told you it was impounded?     Never mind! I have my sources!     Two tall men buttoned into gray tunics came up. Are you Mr. Retief ofCDT? one said.     That's right.     What about my baggage! Gulver cut in. And I'm warning you, if thoseships lift without—     These gentlemen are from the Armaments Control Commission, Retiefsaid. Would you like to come along and claim your baggage, Mr. Gulver?     From where? I— Gulver turned two shades redder about the ears.Armaments?     The only shipment I've held up seems to be somebody's arsenal, Retiefsaid. Now if you claim this is your baggage....     Why, impossible, Gulver said in a strained voice. Armaments?Ridiculous. There's been an error....  At the baggage warehouse Gulver looked glumly at the opened cases ofguns. No, of course not, he said dully. Not my baggage. Not mybaggage at all.     Arapoulous appeared, supporting the stumbling figure of Mr. Karsh.     What—what's this? Gulver spluttered. Karsh? What's happened?     He had a little fall. He'll be okay, Arapoulous said.     You'd better help him to the ship, Retief said. It's ready to lift.We wouldn't want him to miss it.     Leave him to me! Gulver snapped, his eyes slashing at Karsh. I'llsee he's dealt with.     I couldn't think of it, Retief said. He's a guest of the Corps, youknow. We'll see him safely aboard.     Gulver turned, signaled frantically. Three heavy-set men in identicaldrab suits detached themselves from the wall, crossed to the group.     Take this man, Gulver snapped, indicating Karsh, who looked at himdazedly, reached up to rub his head.     We take our hospitality seriously, Retief said. We'll see him aboardthe vessel.     Gulver opened his mouth.     I know you feel bad about finding guns instead of school books inyour luggage, Retief said, looking Gulver in the eye. You'll be busystraightening out the details of the mix-up. You'll want to avoidfurther complications.     Ah. Ulp. Yes, Gulver said. He appeared unhappy.     Arapoulous went on to the passenger conveyor, turned to wave.     Your man—he's going too? Gulver blurted.     He's not our man, properly speaking, Retief said. He lives onLovenbroy.     Lovenbroy? Gulver choked. But ... the ... I....     I know you said the students were bound for d'Land, Retief said. ButI guess that was just another aspect of the general confusion. Thecourse plugged into the navigators was to Lovenbroy. You'll be glad toknow they're still headed there—even without the baggage.     Perhaps, Gulver said grimly, perhaps they'll manage without it.     By the way, Retief said. There was another funny mix-up. Therewere some tractors—for industrial use, you'll recall. I believe youco-operated with Croanie in arranging the grant through MEDDLE. Theywere erroneously consigned to Lovenbroy, a purely agricultural world. Isaved you some embarrassment, I trust, Mr. Gulver, by arranging to havethem off-loaded at d'Land.     D'Land! You've put the CSU's in the hands of Boge's bitterest enemies!     But they're only tractors, Mr. Gulver. Peaceful devices. Isn't thatcorrect?     That's ... correct. Gulver sagged. Then he snapped erect. Hold theships! he yelled. I'm canceling the student exchange—     His voice was drowned by the rumble as the first of the monstertransports rose from the launch pit, followed a moment later by thesecond, Retief watched them out of sight, then turned to Gulver.     They're off, he said. Let's hope they get a liberal education.      V     Retief lay on his back in deep grass by a stream, eating grapes. A tallfigure appeared on the knoll above him and waved.     Retief! Hank Arapoulous bounded down the slope and embraced Retief,slapping him on the back. I heard you were here—and I've got newsfor you. You won the final day's picking competition. Over two hundredbushels! That's a record!     Let's get on over to the garden. Sounds like the celebration's aboutto start.     In the flower-crowded park among the stripped vines, Retief andArapoulous made their way to a laden table under the lanterns. A tallgirl dressed in loose white, and with long golden hair, came up toArapoulous.     Delinda, this is Retief—today's winner. And he's also the fellow thatgot those workers for us.     Delinda smiled at Retief. I've heard about you, Mr. Retief. Weweren't sure about the boys at first. Two thousand Bogans, and allconfused about their baggage that went astray. But they seemed to likethe picking. She smiled again.     That's not all. Our gals liked the boys, Hank said. Even Bogansaren't so bad, minus their irons. A lot of 'em will be staying on. Buthow come you didn't tell me you were coming, Retief? I'd have laid onsome kind of big welcome.     I liked the welcome I got. And I didn't have much notice. Mr. Magnanwas a little upset when he got back. It seems I exceeded my authority.     Arapoulous laughed. I had a feeling you were wheeling pretty free,Retief. I hope you didn't get into any trouble over it.     No trouble, Retief said. A few people were a little unhappy withme. It seems I'm not ready for important assignments at Departmentallevel. I was shipped off here to the boondocks to get a little moreexperience.     Delinda, look after Retief, said Arapoulous. I'll see you later.I've got to see to the wine judging. He disappeared in the crowd.     Congratulations on winning the day, said Delinda. I noticed you atwork. You were wonderful. I'm glad you're going to have the prize.     Thanks. I noticed you too, flitting around in that white nightie ofyours. But why weren't you picking grapes with the rest of us?     I had a special assignment.     Too bad. You should have had a chance at the prize.     Delinda took Retief's hand. I wouldn't have anyway, she said. I'mthe prize.   ","Lovenbroy is one of the members of the Nicodemean Cluster and part of the cultural life of the Galaxy. Lovenbroy is known for its exquisite wines produced from the Bacchus vines, which only mature once every twelve years. Lovenbroy is important for the Galaxy culture because, during the time when it is not raising and harvesting grapes and other crops, it makes important cultural contributions. They have created parks and farms and left sizable forests for hunting. They offer skiing, bob-sledding, and ice skating in the spring while it is still cold. They also create fine furniture, sculpture, and art. During the summer, they offer beach parties, drama, and symphonies. The land is full of minerals, which led Boge to land a force to strip-mine some of the resources. Lovenbroy fought back, but it took a year, and it lost many men. This has left Lovenbroy short-handed for this year’s grape harvest. It also took a financial toll on Lovenbroy, and it had to borrow money from Croanie, mortgage its crops, and export its artwork. The loan is due during the harvest year, and without enough men to pick the grapes, Croanie will come in and take over half the vineyard land and mine it. Croanie is under obligation to Boge, and Boge is behind the scheme of sending “exchange students” supposedly to d’Land but really to Lovenbroy to take its minerals. "
"What is Croanie, and why is it important in the story? </s>     CULTURAL EXCHANGE     BY KEITH LAUMER     It was a simple student exchange—but     Retief gave them more of     an education than they expected!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Second Secretary Magnan took his green-lined cape and orange-featheredberet from the clothes tree. I'm off now, Retief, he said. I hopeyou'll manage the administrative routine during my absence without anyunfortunate incidents.     That seems a modest enough hope, Retief said. I'll try to live up toit.     I don't appreciate frivolity with reference to this Division, Magnansaid testily. When I first came here, the Manpower UtilizationDirectorate, Division of Libraries and Education was a shambles. Ifancy I've made MUDDLE what it is today. Frankly, I question thewisdom of placing you in charge of such a sensitive desk, even for twoweeks. But remember. Yours is purely a rubber-stamp function.     In that case, let's leave it to Miss Furkle. I'll take a couple ofweeks off myself. With her poundage, she could bring plenty of pressureto bear.     I assume you jest, Retief, Magnan said sadly. I should expect evenyou to appreciate that Bogan participation in the Exchange Program maybe the first step toward sublimation of their aggressions into morecultivated channels.     I see they're sending two thousand students to d'Land, Retief said,glancing at the Memo for Record. That's a sizable sublimation.     Magnan nodded. The Bogans have launched no less than four militarycampaigns in the last two decades. They're known as the Hoodlums ofthe Nicodemean Cluster. Now, perhaps, we shall see them breaking thatprecedent and entering into the cultural life of the Galaxy.     Breaking and entering, Retief said. You may have something there.But I'm wondering what they'll study on d'Land. That's an industrialworld of the poor but honest variety.     Academic details are the affair of the students and their professors,Magnan said. Our function is merely to bring them together. Seethat you don't antagonize the Bogan representative. This willbe an excellent opportunity for you to practice your diplomaticrestraint—not your strong point, I'm sure you'll agree.     A buzzer sounded. Retief punched a button. What is it, Miss Furkle?     That—bucolic person from Lovenbroy is here again. On the small deskscreen, Miss Furkle's meaty features were compressed in disapproval.     This fellow's a confounded pest. I'll leave him to you, Retief,Magnan said. Tell him something. Get rid of him. And remember: hereat Corps HQ, all eyes are upon you.     If I'd thought of that, I'd have worn my other suit, Retief said.     Magnan snorted and passed from view. Retief punched Miss Furkle'sbutton.     Send the bucolic person in.  A tall broad man with bronze skin and gray hair, wearing tight trousersof heavy cloth, a loose shirt open at the neck and a short jacket,stepped into the room. He had a bundle under his arm. He paused atsight of Retief, looked him over momentarily, then advanced and heldout his hand. Retief took it. For a moment the two big men stood, faceto face. The newcomer's jaw muscles knotted. Then he winced.     Retief dropped his hand and motioned to a chair.     That's nice knuckle work, mister, the stranger said, massaging hishand. First time anybody ever did that to me. My fault though. Istarted it, I guess. He grinned and sat down.     What can I do for you? Retief said.     You work for this Culture bunch, do you? Funny. I thought they wereall ribbon-counter boys. Never mind. I'm Hank Arapoulous. I'm a farmer.What I wanted to see you about was— He shifted in his chair. Well,out on Lovenbroy we've got a serious problem. The wine crop is justabout ready. We start picking in another two, three months. Now I don'tknow if you're familiar with the Bacchus vines we grow...?     No, Retief said. Have a cigar? He pushed a box across the desk.Arapoulous took one. Bacchus vines are an unusual crop, he said,puffing the cigar alight. Only mature every twelve years. In between,the vines don't need a lot of attention, so our time's mostly our own.We like to farm, though. Spend a lot of time developing new forms.Apples the size of a melon—and sweet—     Sounds very pleasant, Retief said. Where does the Libraries andEducation Division come in?     Arapoulous leaned forward. We go in pretty heavy for the arts. Folkscan't spend all their time hybridizing plants. We've turned all theland area we've got into parks and farms. Course, we left some sizableforest areas for hunting and such. Lovenbroy's a nice place, Mr.Retief.     It sounds like it, Mr. Arapoulous. Just what—     Call me Hank. We've got long seasons back home. Five of 'em. Ouryear's about eighteen Terry months. Cold as hell in winter; eccentricorbit, you know. Blue-black sky, stars visible all day. We do mostlypainting and sculpture in the winter. Then Spring; still plenty cold.Lots of skiing, bob-sledding, ice skating; and it's the season forwoodworkers. Our furniture—     I've seen some of your furniture, Retief said. Beautiful work.     Arapoulous nodded. All local timbers too. Lots of metals in our soiland those sulphates give the woods some color, I'll tell you. Thencomes the Monsoon. Rain—it comes down in sheets. But the sun's gettingcloser. Shines all the time. Ever seen it pouring rain in the sunshine?That's the music-writing season. Then summer. Summer's hot. We stayinside in the daytime and have beach parties all night. Lots of beachon Lovenbroy; we're mostly islands. That's the drama and symphony time.The theatres are set up on the sand, or anchored off-shore. You havethe music and the surf and the bonfires and stars—we're close to thecenter of a globular cluster, you know....     You say it's time now for the wine crop?     That's right. Autumn's our harvest season. Most years we have just theordinary crops. Fruit, grain, that kind of thing; getting it in doesn'ttake long. We spend most of the time on architecture, getting newplaces ready for the winter or remodeling the older ones. We spend alot of time in our houses. We like to have them comfortable. But thisyear's different. This is Wine Year.  Arapoulous puffed on his cigar, looked worriedly at Retief. Our winecrop is our big money crop, he said. We make enough to keep us going.But this year....     The crop isn't panning out?     Oh, the crop's fine. One of the best I can remember. Course, I'm onlytwenty-eight; I can't remember but two other harvests. The problem'snot the crop.     Have you lost your markets? That sounds like a matter for theCommercial—     Lost our markets? Mister, nobody that ever tasted our wines eversettled for anything else!     It sounds like I've been missing something, said Retief. I'll haveto try them some time.     Arapoulous put his bundle on the desk, pulled off the wrappings. Notime like the present, he said.     Retief looked at the two squat bottles, one green, one amber, bothdusty, with faded labels, and blackened corks secured by wire.     Drinking on duty is frowned on in the Corps, Mr. Arapoulous, he said.     This isn't      drinking     . It's just wine. Arapoulous pulled the wireretainer loose, thumbed the cork. It rose slowly, then popped in theair. Arapoulous caught it. Aromatic fumes wafted from the bottle.Besides, my feelings would be hurt if you didn't join me. He winked.     Retief took two thin-walled glasses from a table beside the desk. Cometo think of it, we also have to be careful about violating quaintnative customs.     Arapoulous filled the glasses. Retief picked one up, sniffed the deeprust-colored fluid, tasted it, then took a healthy swallow. He lookedat Arapoulous thoughtfully.     Hmmm. It tastes like salted pecans, with an undercurrent of crustedport.     Don't try to describe it, Mr. Retief, Arapoulous said. He took amouthful of wine, swished it around his teeth, swallowed. It's Bacchuswine, that's all. Nothing like it in the Galaxy. He pushed the secondbottle toward Retief. The custom back home is to alternate red wineand black.  Retief put aside his cigar, pulled the wires loose, nudged the cork,caught it as it popped up.     Bad luck if you miss the cork, Arapoulous said, nodding. Youprobably never heard about the trouble we had on Lovenbroy a few yearsback?     Can't say that I did, Hank. Retief poured the black wine into twofresh glasses. Here's to the harvest.     We've got plenty of minerals on Lovenbroy, Arapoulous said,swallowing wine. But we don't plan to wreck the landscape mining 'em.We like to farm. About ten years back some neighbors of ours landed aforce. They figured they knew better what to do with our minerals thanwe did. Wanted to strip-mine, smelt ore. We convinced 'em otherwise.But it took a year, and we lost a lot of men.     That's too bad, Retief said. I'd say this one tastes more like roastbeef and popcorn over a Riesling base.     It put us in a bad spot, Arapoulous went on. We had to borrowmoney from a world called Croanie. Mortgaged our crops. Had to startexporting art work too. Plenty of buyers, but it's not the same whenyou're doing it for strangers.     Say, this business of alternating drinks is the real McCoy, Retiefsaid. What's the problem? Croanie about to foreclose?     Well, the loan's due. The wine crop would put us in the clear. Butwe need harvest hands. Picking Bacchus grapes isn't a job you canturn over to machinery—and anyway we wouldn't if we could. Vintageseason is the high point of living on Lovenbroy. Everybody joins in.First, there's the picking in the fields. Miles and miles of vineyardscovering the mountain sides, and crowding the river banks, with gardenshere and there. Big vines, eight feet high, loaded with fruit, and deepgrass growing between. The wine-carriers keep on the run, bringing wineto the pickers. There's prizes for the biggest day's output, bets onwho can fill the most baskets in an hour.... The sun's high and bright,and it's just cool enough to give you plenty of energy. Come nightfall,the tables are set up in the garden plots, and the feast is laid on:roast turkeys, beef, hams, all kinds of fowl. Big salads. Plenty offruit. Fresh-baked bread ... and wine, plenty of wine. The cooking'sdone by a different crew each night in each garden, and there's prizesfor the best crews.     Then the wine-making. We still tramp out the vintage. That's mostlyfor the young folks but anybody's welcome. That's when things start toget loosened up. Matter of fact, pretty near half our young-uns areborn after a vintage. All bets are off then. It keeps a fellow on histoes though. Ever tried to hold onto a gal wearing nothing but a layerof grape juice?  Never did, Retief said. You say most of the children are born aftera vintage. That would make them only twelve years old by the time—     Oh, that's Lovenbroy years; they'd be eighteen, Terry reckoning.     I was thinking you looked a little mature for twenty-eight, Retiefsaid.     Forty-two, Terry years, Arapoulous said. But this year it looks bad.We've got a bumper crop—and we're short-handed. If we don't get a bigvintage, Croanie steps in. Lord knows what they'll do to the land. Thennext vintage time, with them holding half our grape acreage—     You hocked the vineyards?     Yep. Pretty dumb, huh? But we figured twelve years was a long time.     On the whole, Retief said, I think I prefer the black. But the redis hard to beat....     What we figured was, maybe you Culture boys could help us out. A loanto see us through the vintage, enough to hire extra hands. Then we'drepay it in sculpture, painting, furniture—     Sorry, Hank. All we do here is work out itineraries for travelingside-shows, that kind of thing. Now, if you needed a troop of Groacinose-flute players—     Can they pick grapes?     Nope. Anyway, they can't stand the daylight. Have you talked this overwith the Labor Office?     Sure did. They said they'd fix us up with all the electronicsspecialists and computer programmers we wanted—but no field hands.Said it was what they classified as menial drudgery; you'd have thoughtI was trying to buy slaves.     The buzzer sounded. Miss Furkle's features appeared on the desk screen.     You're due at the Intergroup Council in five minutes, she said. Thenafterwards, there are the Bogan students to meet.     Thanks. Retief finished his glass, stood. I have to run, Hank, hesaid. Let me think this over. Maybe I can come up with something.Check with me day after tomorrow. And you'd better leave the bottleshere. Cultural exhibits, you know.      II     As the council meeting broke up, Retief caught the eye of a colleagueacross the table.     Mr. Whaffle, you mentioned a shipment going to a place called Croanie.What are they getting?     Whaffle blinked. You're the fellow who's filling in for Magnan, overat MUDDLE, he said. Properly speaking, equipment grants are thesole concern of the Motorized Equipment Depot, Division of Loans andExchanges. He pursed his lips. However, I suppose there's no harm intelling you. They'll be receiving heavy mining equipment.     Drill rigs, that sort of thing?     Strip mining gear. Whaffle took a slip of paper from a breast pocket,blinked at it. Bolo Model WV/1 tractors, to be specific. Why is MUDDLEinterested in MEDDLE's activities?     Forgive my curiosity, Mr. Whaffle. It's just that Croanie cropped upearlier today. It seems she holds a mortgage on some vineyards overon—     That's not MEDDLE's affair, sir, Whaffle cut in. I have sufficientproblems as Chief of MEDDLE without probing into MUDDLE'S business.     Speaking of tractors, another man put in, we over at the SpecialCommittee for Rehabilitation and Overhaul of Under-developed Nations'General Economies have been trying for months to get a request formining equipment for d'Land through MEDDLE—     SCROUNGE was late on the scene, Whaffle said. First come, firstserved. That's our policy at MEDDLE. Good day, gentlemen. He strodeoff, briefcase under his arm.     That's the trouble with peaceful worlds, the SCROUNGE committeemansaid. Boge is a troublemaker, so every agency in the Corps is outto pacify her. While my chance to make a record—that is, assistpeace-loving d'Land—comes to naught. He shook his head.     What kind of university do they have on d'Land? asked Retief. We'resending them two thousand exchange students. It must be quite aninstitution.     University? D'Land has one under-endowed technical college.     Will all the exchange students be studying at the Technical College?     Two thousand students? Hah! Two      hundred     students would overtax thefacilities of the college.     I wonder if the Bogans know that?     The Bogans? Why, most of d'Land's difficulties are due to the unwisetrade agreement she entered into with Boge. Two thousand studentsindeed! He snorted and walked away.  Retief stopped by the office to pick up a short cape, then rode theelevator to the roof of the 230-story Corps HQ building and hailed acab to the port. The Bogan students had arrived early. Retief saw themlined up on the ramp waiting to go through customs. It would be halfan hour before they were cleared through. He turned into the bar andordered a beer.     A tall young fellow on the next stool raised his glass.     Happy days, he said.     And nights to match.     You said it. He gulped half his beer. My name's Karsh. Mr. Karsh.Yep, Mr. Karsh. Boy, this is a drag, sitting around this placewaiting....     You meeting somebody?     Yeah. Bunch of babies. Kids. How they expect—Never mind. Have one onme.     Thanks. You a Scoutmaster?     I'll tell you what I am. I'm a cradle-robber. You know— he turnedto Retief—not one of those kids is over eighteen. He hiccupped.Students, you know. Never saw a student with a beard, did you?     Lots of times. You're meeting the students, are you?     The young fellow blinked at Retief. Oh, you know about it, huh?     I represent MUDDLE.     Karsh finished his beer, ordered another. I came on ahead. Sort ofan advance guard for the kids. I trained 'em myself. Treated it likea game, but they can handle a CSU. Don't know how they'll act underpressure. If I had my old platoon—     He looked at his beer glass, pushed it back. Had enough, he said. Solong, friend. Or are you coming along?     Retief nodded. Might as well.  At the exit to the Customs enclosure, Retief watched as the first ofthe Bogan students came through, caught sight of Karsh and snapped toattention, his chest out.     Drop that, mister, Karsh snapped. Is that any way for a student toact?     The youth, a round-faced lad with broad shoulders, grinned.     Heck, no, he said. Say, uh, Mr. Karsh, are we gonna get to go totown? We fellas were thinking—     You were, hah? You act like a bunch of school kids! I mean ... no! Nowline up!     We have quarters ready for the students, Retief said. If you'd liketo bring them around to the west side, I have a couple of copters laidon.     Thanks, said Karsh. They'll stay here until take-off time. Can'thave the little dears wandering around loose. Might get ideas aboutgoing over the hill. He hiccupped. I mean they might play hookey.     We've scheduled your re-embarkation for noon tomorrow. That's a longwait. MUDDLE's arranged theater tickets and a dinner.     Sorry, Karsh said. As soon as the baggage gets here, we're off. Hehiccupped again. Can't travel without our baggage, y'know.     Suit yourself, Retief said. Where's the baggage now?     Coming in aboard a Croanie lighter.     Maybe you'd like to arrange for a meal for the students here.     Sure, Karsh said. That's a good idea. Why don't you join us? Karshwinked. And bring a few beers.     Not this time, Retief said. He watched the students, still emergingfrom Customs. They seem to be all boys, he commented. No femalestudents?     Maybe later, Karsh said. You know, after we see how the first bunchis received.     Back at the MUDDLE office, Retief buzzed Miss Furkle.     Do you know the name of the institution these Bogan students are boundfor?     Why, the University at d'Land, of course.     Would that be the Technical College?     Miss Furkle's mouth puckered. I'm sure I've never pried into thesedetails.     Where does doing your job stop and prying begin, Miss Furkle? Retiefsaid. Personally, I'm curious as to just what it is these students aretravelling so far to study—at Corps expense.     Mr. Magnan never—     For the present. Miss Furkle, Mr. Magnan is vacationing. That leavesme with the question of two thousand young male students headed fora world with no classrooms for them ... a world in need of tractors.But the tractors are on their way to Croanie, a world under obligationto Boge. And Croanie holds a mortgage on the best grape acreage onLovenbroy.     Well! Miss Furkle snapped, small eyes glaring under unplucked brows.I hope you're not questioning Mr. Magnan's wisdom!     About Mr. Magnan's wisdom there can be no question, Retief said. Butnever mind. I'd like you to look up an item for me. How many tractorswill Croanie be getting under the MEDDLE program?     Why, that's entirely MEDDLE business, Miss Furkle said. Mr. Magnanalways—     I'm sure he did. Let me know about the tractors as soon as you can.  Miss Furkle sniffed and disappeared from the screen. Retief left theoffice, descended forty-one stories, followed a corridor to the CorpsLibrary. In the stacks he thumbed through catalogues, pored overindices.     Can I help you? someone chirped. A tiny librarian stood at his elbow.     Thank you, ma'am, Retief said. I'm looking for information on amining rig. A Bolo model WV tractor.     You won't find it in the industrial section, the librarian said.Come along. Retief followed her along the stacks to a well-litsection lettered ARMAMENTS. She took a tape from the shelf, pluggedit into the viewer, flipped through and stopped at a squat armoredvehicle.     That's the model WV, she said. It's what is known as a continentalsiege unit. It carries four men, with a half-megaton/second firepower.     There must be an error somewhere, Retief said. The Bolo model I wantis a tractor. Model WV M-1—       Oh, the modification was the addition of a bulldozer blade fordemolition work. That must be what confused you.     Probably—among other things. Thank you.     Miss Furkle was waiting at the office. I have the information youwanted, she said. I've had it for over ten minutes. I was under theimpression you needed it urgently, and I went to great lengths—     Sure, Retief said. Shoot. How many tractors?     Five hundred.     Are you sure?     Miss Furkle's chins quivered. Well! If you feel I'm incompetent—     Just questioning the possibility of a mistake, Miss Furkle. Fivehundred tractors is a lot of equipment.     Was there anything further? Miss Furkle inquired frigidly.     I sincerely hope not, Retief said.      III     Leaning back in Magnan's padded chair with power swivel andhip-u-matic concontour, Retief leafed through a folder labelled CERP7-602-Ba; CROANIE (general). He paused at a page headed Industry.     Still reading, he opened the desk drawer, took out the two bottles ofBacchus wine and two glasses. He poured an inch of wine into each andsipped the black wine meditatively.     It would be a pity, he reflected, if anything should interfere with theproduction of such vintages....     Half an hour later he laid the folder aside, keyed the phone and putthrough a call to the Croanie Legation. He asked for the CommercialAttache.     Retief here, Corps HQ, he said airily. About the MEDDLE shipment,the tractors. I'm wondering if there's been a slip up. My records showwe're shipping five hundred units....     That's correct. Five hundred.     Retief waited.     Ah ... are you there, Retief?     I'm still here. And I'm still wondering about the five hundredtractors.     It's perfectly in order. I thought it was all settled. Mr. Whaffle—     One unit would require a good-sized plant to handle its output,Retief said. Now Croanie subsists on her fisheries. She has perhapshalf a dozen pint-sized processing plants. Maybe, in a bind, theycould handle the ore ten WV's could scrape up ... if Croanie had anyore. It doesn't. By the way, isn't a WV a poor choice as a miningoutfit? I should think—     See here, Retief! Why all this interest in a few surplus tractors?And in any event, what business is it of yours how we plan to use theequipment? That's an internal affair of my government. Mr. Whaffle—     I'm not Mr. Whaffle. What are you going to do with the other fourhundred and ninety tractors?     I understood the grant was to be with no strings attached!     I know it's bad manners to ask questions. It's an old diplomatictradition that any time you can get anybody to accept anything as agift, you've scored points in the game. But if Croanie has some schemecooking—  Nothing like that, Retief. It's a mere business transaction.     What kind of business do you do with a Bolo WV? With or without ablade attached, it's what's known as a continental siege unit.     Great Heavens, Retief! Don't jump to conclusions! Would you have usbranded as warmongers? Frankly—is this a closed line?     Certainly. You may speak freely.     The tractors are for transshipment. We've gotten ourselves into adifficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise. This is an accommodationto a group with which we have rather strong business ties.     I understand you hold a mortgage on the best land on Lovenbroy,Retief said. Any connection?     Why ... ah ... no. Of course not, ha ha.     Who gets the tractors eventually?     Retief, this is unwarranted interference!     Who gets them?     They happen to be going to Lovenbroy. But I scarcely see—     And who's the friend you're helping out with an unauthorizedtransshipment of grant material?     Why ... ah ... I've been working with a Mr. Gulver, a Boganrepresentative.     And when will they be shipped?     Why, they went out a week ago. They'll be half way there by now. Butlook here, Retief, this isn't what you're thinking!     How do you know what I'm thinking? I don't know myself. Retief rangoff, buzzed the secretary.     Miss Furkle, I'd like to be notified immediately of any newapplications that might come in from the Bogan Consulate for placementof students.     Well, it happens, by coincidence, that I have an application here now.Mr. Gulver of the Consulate brought it in.     Is Mr. Gulver in the office? I'd like to see him.     I'll ask him if he has time.     Great. Thanks. It was half a minute before a thick-necked red-facedman in a tight hat walked in. He wore an old-fashioned suit, a drabshirt, shiny shoes with round toes and an ill-tempered expression.  What is it you wish? he barked. I understood in my discussions withthe other ... ah ... civilian there'd be no further need for theseirritating conferences.     I've just learned you're placing more students abroad, Mr. Gulver. Howmany this time?     Two thousand.     And where will they be going?     Croanie. It's all in the application form I've handed in. Your job isto provide transportation.     Will there be any other students embarking this season?     Why ... perhaps. That's Boge's business. Gulver looked at Retief withpursed lips. As a matter of fact, we had in mind dispatching anothertwo thousand to Featherweight.     Another under-populated world—and in the same cluster, I believe,Retief said. Your people must be unusually interested in that regionof space.     If that's all you wanted to know, I'll be on my way. I have matters ofimportance to see to.     After Gulver left, Retief called Miss Furkle in. I'd like to have abreak-out of all the student movements that have been planned under thepresent program, he said. And see if you can get a summary of whatMEDDLE has been shipping lately.     Miss Furkle compressed her lips. If Mr. Magnan were here, I'm surehe wouldn't dream of interfering in the work of other departments.I ... overheard your conversation with the gentleman from the CroanieLegation—     The lists, Miss Furkle.     I'm not accustomed, Miss Furkle said, to intruding in mattersoutside our interest cluster.     That's worse than listening in on phone conversations, eh? But nevermind. I need the information, Miss Furkle.     Loyalty to my Chief—     Loyalty to your pay-check should send you scuttling for the materialI've asked for, Retief said. I'm taking full responsibility. Nowscat.     The buzzer sounded. Retief flipped a key. MUDDLE, Retief speaking....     Arapoulous's brown face appeared on the desk screen.     How-do, Retief. Okay if I come up?     Sure, Hank. I want to talk to you.     In the office, Arapoulous took a chair. Sorry if I'm rushing you,Retief, he said. But have you got anything for me?     Retief waved at the wine bottles. What do you know about Croanie?     Croanie? Not much of a place. Mostly ocean. All right if you likefish, I guess. We import our seafood from there. Nice prawns in monsoontime. Over a foot long.     You on good terms with them?     Sure, I guess so. Course, they're pretty thick with Boge.     So?     Didn't I tell you? Boge was the bunch that tried to take us over herea dozen years back. They'd've made it too, if they hadn't had a lot ofbad luck. Their armor went in the drink, and without armor they're easygame.     Miss Furkle buzzed. I have your lists, she said shortly.     Bring them in, please.  The secretary placed the papers on the desk. Arapoulous caught her eyeand grinned. She sniffed and marched from the room.     What that gal needs is a slippery time in the grape mash, Arapoulousobserved. Retief thumbed through the papers, pausing to read from timeto time. He finished and looked at Arapoulous.     How many men do you need for the harvest, Hank? Retief inquired.     Arapoulous sniffed his wine glass and looked thoughtful.     A hundred would help, he said. A thousand would be better. Cheers.     What would you say to two thousand?     Two thousand? Retief, you're not fooling?     I hope not. He picked up the phone, called the Port Authority, askedfor the dispatch clerk.     Hello, Jim. Say, I have a favor to ask of you. You know thatcontingent of Bogan students. They're traveling aboard the two CDTtransports. I'm interested in the baggage that goes with the students.Has it arrived yet? Okay, I'll wait.     Jim came back to the phone. Yeah, Retief, it's here. Just arrived.But there's a funny thing. It's not consigned to d'Land. It's ticketedclear through to Lovenbroy.     Listen, Jim, Retief said. I want you to go over to the warehouse andtake a look at that baggage for me.     Retief waited while the dispatch clerk carried out the errand. Thelevel in the two bottles had gone down an inch when Jim returned tothe phone.     Hey, I took a look at that baggage, Retief. Something funny going on.Guns. 2mm needlers, Mark XII hand blasters, power pistols—     It's okay, Jim. Nothing to worry about. Just a mix-up. Now, Jim,I'm going to ask you to do something more for me. I'm covering for afriend. It seems he slipped up. I wouldn't want word to get out, youunderstand. I'll send along a written change order in the morning thatwill cover you officially. Meanwhile, here's what I want you to do....     Retief gave instructions, then rang off and turned to Arapoulous.     As soon as I get off a couple of TWX's, I think we'd better get downto the port, Hank. I think I'd like to see the students off personally.      IV     Karsh met Retief as he entered the Departures enclosure at the port.     What's going on here? he demanded. There's some funny business withmy baggage consignment. They won't let me see it! I've got a feelingit's not being loaded.     You'd better hurry, Mr. Karsh, Retief said. You're scheduled toblast off in less than an hour. Are the students all loaded?     Yes, blast you! What about my baggage? Those vessels aren't movingwithout it!     No need to get so upset about a few toothbrushes, is there, Mr.Karsh? Retief said blandly. Still, if you're worried— He turned toArapoulous.     Hank, why don't you walk Mr. Karsh over to the warehouse and ...ah ... take care of him?     I know just how to handle it, Arapoulous said.     The dispatch clerk came up to Retief. I caught the tractor equipment,he said. Funny kind of mistake, but it's okay now. They're beingoff-loaded at d'Land. I talked to the traffic controller there. He saidthey weren't looking for any students.     The labels got switched, Jim. The students go where the baggage wasconsigned. Too bad about the mistake, but the Armaments Office willhave a man along in a little while to dispose of the guns. Keep an eyeout for the luggage. No telling where it's gotten to.     Here! a hoarse voice yelled. Retief turned. A disheveled figure in atight hat was crossing the enclosure, arms waving.     Hi there, Mr. Gulver, Retief called. How's Boge's business comingalong?     Piracy! Gulver blurted as he came up to Retief, puffing hard. You'vegot a hand in this, I don't doubt! Where's that Magnan fellow?     What seems to be the problem? Retief said.     Hold those transports! I've just been notified that the baggageshipment has been impounded. I'll remind you, that shipment enjoysdiplomatic free entry!     Who told you it was impounded?     Never mind! I have my sources!     Two tall men buttoned into gray tunics came up. Are you Mr. Retief ofCDT? one said.     That's right.     What about my baggage! Gulver cut in. And I'm warning you, if thoseships lift without—     These gentlemen are from the Armaments Control Commission, Retiefsaid. Would you like to come along and claim your baggage, Mr. Gulver?     From where? I— Gulver turned two shades redder about the ears.Armaments?     The only shipment I've held up seems to be somebody's arsenal, Retiefsaid. Now if you claim this is your baggage....     Why, impossible, Gulver said in a strained voice. Armaments?Ridiculous. There's been an error....  At the baggage warehouse Gulver looked glumly at the opened cases ofguns. No, of course not, he said dully. Not my baggage. Not mybaggage at all.     Arapoulous appeared, supporting the stumbling figure of Mr. Karsh.     What—what's this? Gulver spluttered. Karsh? What's happened?     He had a little fall. He'll be okay, Arapoulous said.     You'd better help him to the ship, Retief said. It's ready to lift.We wouldn't want him to miss it.     Leave him to me! Gulver snapped, his eyes slashing at Karsh. I'llsee he's dealt with.     I couldn't think of it, Retief said. He's a guest of the Corps, youknow. We'll see him safely aboard.     Gulver turned, signaled frantically. Three heavy-set men in identicaldrab suits detached themselves from the wall, crossed to the group.     Take this man, Gulver snapped, indicating Karsh, who looked at himdazedly, reached up to rub his head.     We take our hospitality seriously, Retief said. We'll see him aboardthe vessel.     Gulver opened his mouth.     I know you feel bad about finding guns instead of school books inyour luggage, Retief said, looking Gulver in the eye. You'll be busystraightening out the details of the mix-up. You'll want to avoidfurther complications.     Ah. Ulp. Yes, Gulver said. He appeared unhappy.     Arapoulous went on to the passenger conveyor, turned to wave.     Your man—he's going too? Gulver blurted.     He's not our man, properly speaking, Retief said. He lives onLovenbroy.     Lovenbroy? Gulver choked. But ... the ... I....     I know you said the students were bound for d'Land, Retief said. ButI guess that was just another aspect of the general confusion. Thecourse plugged into the navigators was to Lovenbroy. You'll be glad toknow they're still headed there—even without the baggage.     Perhaps, Gulver said grimly, perhaps they'll manage without it.     By the way, Retief said. There was another funny mix-up. Therewere some tractors—for industrial use, you'll recall. I believe youco-operated with Croanie in arranging the grant through MEDDLE. Theywere erroneously consigned to Lovenbroy, a purely agricultural world. Isaved you some embarrassment, I trust, Mr. Gulver, by arranging to havethem off-loaded at d'Land.     D'Land! You've put the CSU's in the hands of Boge's bitterest enemies!     But they're only tractors, Mr. Gulver. Peaceful devices. Isn't thatcorrect?     That's ... correct. Gulver sagged. Then he snapped erect. Hold theships! he yelled. I'm canceling the student exchange—     His voice was drowned by the rumble as the first of the monstertransports rose from the launch pit, followed a moment later by thesecond, Retief watched them out of sight, then turned to Gulver.     They're off, he said. Let's hope they get a liberal education.      V     Retief lay on his back in deep grass by a stream, eating grapes. A tallfigure appeared on the knoll above him and waved.     Retief! Hank Arapoulous bounded down the slope and embraced Retief,slapping him on the back. I heard you were here—and I've got newsfor you. You won the final day's picking competition. Over two hundredbushels! That's a record!     Let's get on over to the garden. Sounds like the celebration's aboutto start.     In the flower-crowded park among the stripped vines, Retief andArapoulous made their way to a laden table under the lanterns. A tallgirl dressed in loose white, and with long golden hair, came up toArapoulous.     Delinda, this is Retief—today's winner. And he's also the fellow thatgot those workers for us.     Delinda smiled at Retief. I've heard about you, Mr. Retief. Weweren't sure about the boys at first. Two thousand Bogans, and allconfused about their baggage that went astray. But they seemed to likethe picking. She smiled again.     That's not all. Our gals liked the boys, Hank said. Even Bogansaren't so bad, minus their irons. A lot of 'em will be staying on. Buthow come you didn't tell me you were coming, Retief? I'd have laid onsome kind of big welcome.     I liked the welcome I got. And I didn't have much notice. Mr. Magnanwas a little upset when he got back. It seems I exceeded my authority.     Arapoulous laughed. I had a feeling you were wheeling pretty free,Retief. I hope you didn't get into any trouble over it.     No trouble, Retief said. A few people were a little unhappy withme. It seems I'm not ready for important assignments at Departmentallevel. I was shipped off here to the boondocks to get a little moreexperience.     Delinda, look after Retief, said Arapoulous. I'll see you later.I've got to see to the wine judging. He disappeared in the crowd.     Congratulations on winning the day, said Delinda. I noticed you atwork. You were wonderful. I'm glad you're going to have the prize.     Thanks. I noticed you too, flitting around in that white nightie ofyours. But why weren't you picking grapes with the rest of us?     I had a special assignment.     Too bad. You should have had a chance at the prize.     Delinda took Retief's hand. I wouldn't have anyway, she said. I'mthe prize.   ","Croanie is a member of the Nicodemean Cluster of the Galaxy and is an associate of Boge, a member known to be a troublemaker. They tried to steal minerals from Lovenbroy earlier by attacking them. Croanie is under obligation to Boge. Croanie is the world that gave Lovenbroy a loan when it needed money to help tide it over until its next grape harvest. Croanie gave Lovenbroy a mortgage on its crops and holds a security interest in half of the grape acreage that it will acquire if Lovenbroy cannot meet the loan payment that is coming due. This is the reason that Hank Arapoulous goes to MEDDLE and asks for help obtaining workers to go to Lovenbroy and harvest the crop. It also turns out that Croanie is involved in Boge’s efforts to attack Lovenbroy and gain access to its minerals. Mr. Whaffle reveals to Retief that Croanie is set to receive a shipment of heavy mining equipment, but Croanie is best known for its oceans and fishing and has no ore. In addition, when the Bogan exchange students arrive without their luggage, Mr. Karsh says their luggage is coming from Croanie. When their luggage does arrive, it is full of weapons. The “tractors” that are being shipped to Croanie are really armored vehicles that are continental siege units that carry four men and have a half-megaton/second firepower. Mr. Whaffle reveals that the tractors are for transshipment and that Croanie is in a difficult situation, balance-of-payments-wise, with Boge. There is also an application for 2,000 more “exchange students” to be sent to Croanie."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     THE RECRUIT     BY BRYCE WALTON     It was dirty work, but it would     make him a man. And kids had a     right to grow up—some of them!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs.     The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgutand bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervouslypolite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailtythat he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all,marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out.     The old man said, He'll be okay. Let him alone.     But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time.     Hell, the old man said. Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waitingfor the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough.     Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly.     We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to rememberabout all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere togo, like they say. You read the books.     But he's unhappy.     Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? Whatdo we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed orwe'll be late.     Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposelessnoises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say.Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in thesame old ways. Then they begin all over again. A freak sideshow all theway to nowhere. Squareheads going around either unconscious or witheyes looking dead from the millennium in the office waiting to retireinto limbo.     How come he'd been stuck with parental images like that? Onething—when he was jockeying a rocket to Mars or maybe firing the pantsoff Asiatic reds in some steamy gone jungle paradise, he'd forget hispunkie origins in teeveeland.     But the old man was right on for once about the dangerous repressedimpulses. Wayne had heard about it often enough. Anyway there was nodoubt about it when every move he made was a restrained explosion.So he'd waited in his room, and it wasn't easy sweating it out alonewaiting for the breakout call from HQ.     Well, dear, if you say so, Mother said, with the old resigned sighthat must make the old man feel like Superman with a beerbelly.     They heard Wayne slouching loosely down the stairs and looked up.     Relax, Wayne said. You're not going anywhere tonight.     What, son? his old man said uneasily. Sure we are. We're going tothe movies.     He could feel them watching him, waiting; and yet still he didn'tanswer. Somewhere out in suburban grayness a dog barked, then wassilent.     Okay, go, Wayne said. If you wanta walk. I'm taking the familyboltbucket.     But we promised the Clemons, dear, his mother said.     Hell, Wayne said, grinning straight into the old man. I just got mydraft call.     He saw the old man's Adam's apple move. Oh, my dear boy, Mother criedout.     So gimme the keys, Wayne said. The old man handed the keys over. Hisunderstanding smile was strained, and fear flicked in his sagging eyes.     Do be careful, dear, his mother said. She ran toward him as helaughed and shut the door on her. He was still laughing as he whoomedthe Olds between the pale dead glow of houses and roared up the ramponto the Freeway. Ahead was the promising glitter of adventure-callingneon, and he looked up at the high skies of night and his eyes sailedthe glaring wonders of escape.  He burned off some rubber finding a slot in the park-lot. He strodeunder a sign reading      Public Youth Center No. 947     and walked casuallyto the reception desk, where a thin man with sergeant's stripes and apansy haircut looked out of a pile of paperwork.     Where you think you're going, my pretty lad?     Wayne grinned down. Higher I hope than a typewriter jockey.     Well, the sergeant said. How tough we are this evening. You have apass, killer?     Wayne Seton. Draft call.     Oh. The sergeant checked his name off a roster and nodded. He wroteon a slip of paper, handed the pass to Wayne. Go to the Armory andcheck out whatever your lusting little heart desires. Then report toCaptain Jack, room 307.     Thanks, sarge dear, Wayne said and took the elevator up to the Armory.     A tired fat corporal with a naked head blinked up at tall Wayne.Finally he said, So make up your mind, bud. Think you're the only kidbreaking out tonight?     Hold your teeth, pop, Wayne said, coolly and slowly lighting acigarette. I've decided.     The corporal's little eyes studied Wayne with malicious amusement.Take it from a vet, bud. Sooner you go the better. It's a big city andyou're starting late. You can get a cat, not a mouse, and some babesare clever hellcats in a dark alley.     You must be a genius, Wayne said. A corporal with no hair and stilla counterboy. I'm impressed. I'm all ears, Dad.     The corporal sighed wearily. You can get that balloon headventilated, bud, and good.     Wayne's mouth twitched. He leaned across the counter toward theshelves and racks of weapons. I'll remember that crack when I getmy commission. He blew smoke in the corporal's face. Bring me aSmith and Wesson .38, shoulder holster with spring-clip. And throw ina Skelly switchblade for kicks—the six-inch disguised job with thedouble springs.     The corporal waddled back with the revolver and the switchbladedisguised in a leather comb case. He checked them on a receipt ledger,while Wayne examined the weapons, broke open the revolver, twirled thecylinder and pushed cartridges into the waiting chamber. He slippedthe knife from the comb case, flicked open the blade and stared at itsgleam in the buttery light as his mouth went dry and the refractedincandescence of it trickled on his brain like melted ice, exciting andscary.     He removed his leather jacket. He slung the holster under his leftarmpit and tested the spring clip release several times, feeling theway the serrated butt dropped into his wet palm. He put his jacketback on and the switchblade case in his pocket. He walked toward theelevator and didn't look back as the corporal said, Good luck, tiger.     Captain Jack moved massively. The big stone-walled office, alive withstuffed lion and tiger and gunracks, seemed to grow smaller. CaptainJack crossed black-booted legs and whacked a cane at the floor. It hada head shaped like a grinning bear.     Wayne felt the assured smile die on his face. Something seemed toshrink him. If he didn't watch himself he'd begin feeling like a peaamong bowling balls.     Contemptuously amused little eyes glittered at Wayne from a shaggyhead. Shoulders hunched like stuffed sea-bags.     Wayne Seton, said Captain Jack as if he were discussing somethingin a bug collection. Well, well, you're really fired up aren't you?Really going out to eat 'em. Right, punk?     Yes, sir, Wayne said. He ran wet hands down the sides of his chinos.His legs seemed sheathed in lead as he bit inwardly at shrinking fearthe way a dog snaps at a wound. You big overblown son, he thought, I'llshow you but good who is a punk. They made a guy wait and sweat untilhe screamed. They kept a guy on the fire until desire leaped in him,ran and billowed and roared until his brain was filled with it. Butthat wasn't enough. If this muscle-bound creep was such a big boy,what was he doing holding down a desk?     Well, this is it, punk. You go the distance or start a butterflycollection.     The cane darted up. A blade snicked from the end and stopped an inchfrom Wayne's nose. He jerked up a shaky hand involuntarily and clampeda knuckle-ridged gag to his gasping mouth.     Captain Jack chuckled. All right, superboy. He handed Wayne hispasscard. Curfew's off, punk, for 6 hours. You got 6 hours to makeout.     Yes, sir.     Your beast is primed and waiting at the Four Aces Club on the WestSide. Know where that is, punk?     No, sir, but I'll find it fast.     Sure you will, punk, smiled Captain Jack. She'll be wearing yellowslacks and a red shirt. Black hair, a cute trick. She's with a heftypsycho who eats punks for breakfast. He's butchered five people.They're both on top of the Undesirable list, Seton. They got to go andthey're your key to the stars.     Yes, sir, Wayne said.     So run along and make out, punk, grinned Captain Jack.  A copcar stopped Wayne as he started over the bridge, out of brightrespectable neon into the murky westside slum over the river.     Wayne waved the pass card, signed by Captain Jack, under the cop'squivering nose. The cop shivered and stepped back and waved him on. TheOlds roared over the bridge as the night's rain blew away.     The air through the open window was chill and damp coming fromSlumville, but Wayne felt a cold that wasn't of the night or the wind.He turned off into a rat's warren of the inferiors. Lights turned pale,secretive and sparse, the uncared-for streets became rough with pittedpotholes, narrow and winding and humid with wet unpleasant smells.Wayne's fearful exhilaration increased as he cruised with bated breaththrough the dark mazes of streets and rickety tenements crawling withthe shadows of mysterious promise.     He found the alley, dark, a gloom-dripping tunnel. He drove cautiouslyinto it and rolled along, watching. His belly ached with expectancy ashe spotted the sick-looking dab of neon wanly sparkling.       FOUR ACES CLUB       He parked across the alley. He got out and stood in shadows, diggingthe sultry beat of a combo, the wild pulse of drums and spinning brassfiltering through windows painted black.     He breathed deep, started over, ducked back. A stewbum weaved out ofa bank of garbage cans, humming to himself, pulling at a rainsoakedshirt clinging to a pale stick body. He reminded Wayne of a slim grubbalanced on one end.     The stewbum stumbled. His bearded face in dim breaking moonlight hada dirty, greenish tinge as he sensed Wayne there. He turned in agrotesque uncoordinated jiggling and his eyes were wide with terror anddoom.     I gotta hide, kid. They're on me.     Wayne's chest rose and his hands curled.     The bum's fingers drew at the air like white talons.     Help me, kid.     He turned with a scratchy cry and retreated before the sudden blastof headlights from a Cad bulleting into the alley. The Cad rushedpast Wayne and he felt the engine-hot fumes against his legs. Tiressquealed. The Cad stopped and a teener in black jacket jumped out andcrouched as he began stalking the old rummy.     This is him! This is him all right, the teener yelled, and one handcame up swinging a baseball bat.     A head bobbed out of the Cad window and giggled.     The fumble-footed rummy tried to run and plopped on wet pavement. Theteener moved in, while a faint odor of burnt rubber hovered in the airas the Cad cruised in a slow follow-up.     Wayne's breath quickened as he watched, feeling somehow blank wonderat finding himself there, free and breaking out at last with no curfewand no law but his own. He felt as though he couldn't stop anything.Living seemed directionless, but he still would go with it regardless,until something dropped off or blew to hell like a hot light-bulb. Heheld his breath, waiting. His body was tensed and rigid as he moved inspirit with the hunting teener, an omniscient shadow with a huntinglicense and a ghetto jungle twenty miles deep.     The crawling stewbum screamed as the baseball bat whacked. The teenerlaughed. Wayne wanted to shout. He opened his mouth, but the yellclogged up somewhere, so that he remained soundless yet with his mouthstill open as he heard the payoff thuds where the useless wino curledup with stick arms over his rheumy face.     The teener laughed, tossed the bat away and began jumping up and downwith his hobnailed, mail-order air force boots. Then he ran into theCad. A hootch bottle soared out, made a brittle tink-tink of fallingglass.     Go, man!     The Cad wooshed by. It made a sort of hollow sucking noise as itbounced over the old man twice. Then the finlights diminished likebright wind-blown sparks.     Wayne walked over and sneered down at the human garbage lying inscummed rain pools. The smell of raw violence, the scent of blood, madehis heart thump like a trapped rubber ball in a cage.     He hurried into the Four Aces, drawn by an exhilarating vision ... andpursued by the hollow haunting fears of his own desires.  He walked through the wavering haze of smoke and liquored dizziness andstood until his eyes learned the dark. He spotted her red shirt andyellow legs over in the corner above a murky lighted table.     He walked toward her, watching her little subhuman pixie face lift.The eyes widened with exciting terror, turned even paler behind a redslash of sensuous mouth. Briefed and waiting, primed and eager forrunning, she recognized her pursuer at once. He sat at a table nearher, watching and grinning and seeing her squirm.     She sat in that slightly baffled, fearful and uncomprehending attitudeof being motionless, as though they were all actors performing in aweirdo drama being staged in that smoky thick-aired dive.     Wayne smiled with wry superiority at the redheaded psycho in a dirtyT-shirt, a big bruiser with a gorilla face. He was tussling his mouseheavy.     What's yours, teener? the slug-faced waiter asked.     Bring me a Crusher, buddyroo, Wayne said, and flashed his pass card.     Sure, teener.     Red nuzzled the mouse's neck and made drooly noises. Wayne watched andfed on the promising terror and helplessness of her hunted face. Shesat rigid, eyes fixed on Wayne like balls of frozen glass.     Red looked up and stared straight at Wayne with eyes like black buttonsimbedded in the waxlike skin of his face. Then he grinned all on oneside. One huge hand scratched across the wet table top like a furiouscat's.     Wayne returned the challenging move but felt a nervous twitch jerk athis lips. A numbness covered his brain like a film as he concentratedon staring down Red the psycho. But Red kept looking, his eyes brightbut dead. Then he began struggling it up again with the scared littlemouse.     The waiter sat the Crusher down. Wayne signed a chit; tonight he was inthe pay of the state.     What else, teener?     One thing. Fade.     Sure, teener, the waiter said, his breathy words dripping like syrup.     Wayne drank. Liquored heat dripped into his stomach. Fire tickled hisveins, became hot wire twisting in his head.     He drank again and forced out a shaky breath. The jazz beat thumpedfast and muted brass moaned. Drumpulse, stabbing trumpet raped theair. Tension mounted as Wayne watched her pale throat convulsing, thewhite eyelids fluttering. Red fingered at her legs and salivated at herthroat, glancing now and then at Wayne, baiting him good.     Okay, you creep, Wayne said.     He stood up and started through the haze. The psycho leaped and a tablecrashed. Wayne's .38 dropped from its spring-clip holster and the blastfilled the room. The psycho screamed and stumbled toward the doorholding something in. The mouse darted by, eluded Wayne's grasp and wasout the door.     Wayne went out after her in a laughing frenzy of release. He felt thecold strange breath of moist air on his sweating skin as he sprinteddown the alley into a wind full of blowing wet.     He ran laughing under the crazy starlight and glimpsed her now andthen, fading in and out of shadows, jumping, crawling, running with thelife-or-death animation of a wild deer.     Up and down alleys, a rat's maze. A rabbit run. Across vacant lots.Through shattered tenement ruins. Over a fence. There she was, falling,sliding down a brick shute.     He gained. He moved up. His labored breath pumped more fire. And herscream was a rejuvenation hypo in his blood.  She quivered above him on the stoop, panting, her eyes afire withterror.     You, baby, Wayne gasped. I gotcha.     She backed into darkness, up there against the sagging tenement wall,her arms out and poised like crippled wings. Wayne crept up. She gavea squeaking sob, turned, ran. Wayne leaped into gloom. Wood cracked.He clambered over rotten lumber. The doorway sagged and he hesitatedin the musty dark. A few feet away was the sound of loose tricklingplaster, a whimpering whine.     No use running, Wayne said. Go loose. Give, baby. Give now.     She scurried up sagging stairs. Wayne laughed and dug up after her,feeling his way through debris. Dim moonlight filtered through asagging stairway from a shattered skylight three floors up. The mouse'sshadow floated ahead.     He started up. The entire stair structure canted sickeningly. A railingripped and he nearly went with it back down to the first floor. Heheard a scream as rotten boards crumbled and dust exploded fromcracks. A rat ran past Wayne and fell into space. He burst into thethird-floor hallway and saw her half-falling through a door under thejagged skylight.     Wayne took his time. He knew how she felt waiting in there, listeningto his creeping, implacable footfalls.     Then he yelled and slammed open the door.     Dust and stench, filth so awful it made nothing of the dust. Inthe corner he saw something hardly to be called a bed. More likea nest. A dirty, lumpy pile of torn mattress, felt, excelsior,shredded newspapers and rags. It seemed to crawl a little under themoon-streaming skylight.     She crouched in the corner panting. He took his time moving in. Hesnickered as he flashed the switchblade and circled it like a serpent'stongue. He watched what was left of her nerves go to pieces like rottencloth.       Do it quick, hunter, she whispered. Please do it quick.     What's that, baby?     I'm tired running. Kill me first. Beat me after. They won't know thedifference.     I'm gonna bruise and beat you, he said.     Kill me first, she begged. I don't want— She began to cry. Shecried right up in his face, her wide eyes unblinking, and her mouthopen.     You got bad blood, baby, he snarled. He laughed but it didn't soundlike him and something was wrong with his belly. It was knotting up.     Bad, I know! So get it over with, please. Hurry, hurry.     She was small and white and quivering. She moaned but kept staring upat him.     He ripped off his rivet-studded belt and swung once, then groaned andshuffled away from her.     He kept backing toward the door. She crawled after him, begging andclutching with both arms as she wriggled forward on her knees.     Don't run. Please. Kill me! It'll be someone else if you don't. Oh,God, I'm so tired waiting and running!     I can't, he said, and sickness soured in his throat.     Please.     I can't, I can't!     He turned and ran blindly, half-fell down the cracking stairs.  Doctor Burns, head of the readjustment staff at the Youth Center,studied Wayne with abstract interest.     You enjoyed the hunt, Seton? You got your kicks?     Yes, sir.     But you couldn't execute them?     No, sir.     They're undesirables. Incurables. You know that, Seton?     Yes, sir.     The psycho you only wounded. He's a five-times murderer. And that girlkilled her father when she was twelve. You realize there's nothing canbe done for them? That they have to be executed?     I know.     Too bad, the doctor said. We all have aggressive impulses, primitiveneeds that must be expressed early, purged. There's murder in allof us, Seton. The impulse shouldn't be denied or suppressed, but      educated     . The state used to kill them. Isn't it better all around,Seton, for us to do it, as part of growing up? What was the matter,Seton?     I—felt sorry for her.     Is that all you can say about it?     Yes, sir.     The doctor pressed a buzzer. Two men in white coats entered.     You should have got it out of your system, Seton, but now it's stillin there. I can't turn you out and have it erupt later—and maybe shedclean innocent blood, can I?     No, sir, Wayne mumbled. He didn't look up. I'm sorry I punked out.     Give him the treatment, the doctor said wearily. And send him backto his mother.     Wayne nodded and they led him away. His mind screamed still to splitopen some prison of bone and lay bare and breathing wide. But therewas no way out for the trapped. Now he knew about the old man and hispoker-playing pals.     They had all punked out.     Like him.  ","The story opens on a discussion at home between a husband and wife being overheard by their sixteen-year-old son, Wayne. They are distraught over their son’s attitude and attribute it to his age and the buildup of repressed impulses. Wayne views is parents with contempt. He reveals that he has been called to be drafted and leaves them to go to the authorities taking the family automobile.Arriving at the Youth Center, Wayne navigates the bureaucracy of being drafted which involves registering and being issued with a firearm and a switchblade. He bristles against the military authority figures at the youth center, deriding their appearance and position. Wayne is cocky and confident even as he is warned about the dangers of his mission. Wayne is assigned a mission that involves killing a known murderer and his girl. He has six hours of autonomy where he is privileged to operate outside of the normal rule of law.Wayne makes his way to a rougher neighborhood and witnesses another teenager hunt down and brutally murder a vagrant with a baseball bat. Wayne enters the bar which contains his target. He locates and engages them, shooting the man and chasing the woman out of the bar into a crumbling apartment building. When he eventually corners her, she begs him to kill her quickly. Wayne however is overcome with a physical aversion to the violence he was intending to commit.Wayne is later being evaluated back at the Youth Center. It is revealed that society engages teenagers to execute criminals as a preferred outlet for their aggressive impulses. Those that go through with an execution are initiated into the military. Wayne mournfully contemplates that “punking out” in failing to execute his targets relegates him to a shameful, nondescript life much like that of his own father."
"Describe the setting of the story </s>     THE RECRUIT     BY BRYCE WALTON     It was dirty work, but it would     make him a man. And kids had a     right to grow up—some of them!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs.     The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgutand bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervouslypolite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailtythat he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all,marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out.     The old man said, He'll be okay. Let him alone.     But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time.     Hell, the old man said. Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waitingfor the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough.     Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly.     We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to rememberabout all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere togo, like they say. You read the books.     But he's unhappy.     Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? Whatdo we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed orwe'll be late.     Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposelessnoises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say.Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in thesame old ways. Then they begin all over again. A freak sideshow all theway to nowhere. Squareheads going around either unconscious or witheyes looking dead from the millennium in the office waiting to retireinto limbo.     How come he'd been stuck with parental images like that? Onething—when he was jockeying a rocket to Mars or maybe firing the pantsoff Asiatic reds in some steamy gone jungle paradise, he'd forget hispunkie origins in teeveeland.     But the old man was right on for once about the dangerous repressedimpulses. Wayne had heard about it often enough. Anyway there was nodoubt about it when every move he made was a restrained explosion.So he'd waited in his room, and it wasn't easy sweating it out alonewaiting for the breakout call from HQ.     Well, dear, if you say so, Mother said, with the old resigned sighthat must make the old man feel like Superman with a beerbelly.     They heard Wayne slouching loosely down the stairs and looked up.     Relax, Wayne said. You're not going anywhere tonight.     What, son? his old man said uneasily. Sure we are. We're going tothe movies.     He could feel them watching him, waiting; and yet still he didn'tanswer. Somewhere out in suburban grayness a dog barked, then wassilent.     Okay, go, Wayne said. If you wanta walk. I'm taking the familyboltbucket.     But we promised the Clemons, dear, his mother said.     Hell, Wayne said, grinning straight into the old man. I just got mydraft call.     He saw the old man's Adam's apple move. Oh, my dear boy, Mother criedout.     So gimme the keys, Wayne said. The old man handed the keys over. Hisunderstanding smile was strained, and fear flicked in his sagging eyes.     Do be careful, dear, his mother said. She ran toward him as helaughed and shut the door on her. He was still laughing as he whoomedthe Olds between the pale dead glow of houses and roared up the ramponto the Freeway. Ahead was the promising glitter of adventure-callingneon, and he looked up at the high skies of night and his eyes sailedthe glaring wonders of escape.  He burned off some rubber finding a slot in the park-lot. He strodeunder a sign reading      Public Youth Center No. 947     and walked casuallyto the reception desk, where a thin man with sergeant's stripes and apansy haircut looked out of a pile of paperwork.     Where you think you're going, my pretty lad?     Wayne grinned down. Higher I hope than a typewriter jockey.     Well, the sergeant said. How tough we are this evening. You have apass, killer?     Wayne Seton. Draft call.     Oh. The sergeant checked his name off a roster and nodded. He wroteon a slip of paper, handed the pass to Wayne. Go to the Armory andcheck out whatever your lusting little heart desires. Then report toCaptain Jack, room 307.     Thanks, sarge dear, Wayne said and took the elevator up to the Armory.     A tired fat corporal with a naked head blinked up at tall Wayne.Finally he said, So make up your mind, bud. Think you're the only kidbreaking out tonight?     Hold your teeth, pop, Wayne said, coolly and slowly lighting acigarette. I've decided.     The corporal's little eyes studied Wayne with malicious amusement.Take it from a vet, bud. Sooner you go the better. It's a big city andyou're starting late. You can get a cat, not a mouse, and some babesare clever hellcats in a dark alley.     You must be a genius, Wayne said. A corporal with no hair and stilla counterboy. I'm impressed. I'm all ears, Dad.     The corporal sighed wearily. You can get that balloon headventilated, bud, and good.     Wayne's mouth twitched. He leaned across the counter toward theshelves and racks of weapons. I'll remember that crack when I getmy commission. He blew smoke in the corporal's face. Bring me aSmith and Wesson .38, shoulder holster with spring-clip. And throw ina Skelly switchblade for kicks—the six-inch disguised job with thedouble springs.     The corporal waddled back with the revolver and the switchbladedisguised in a leather comb case. He checked them on a receipt ledger,while Wayne examined the weapons, broke open the revolver, twirled thecylinder and pushed cartridges into the waiting chamber. He slippedthe knife from the comb case, flicked open the blade and stared at itsgleam in the buttery light as his mouth went dry and the refractedincandescence of it trickled on his brain like melted ice, exciting andscary.     He removed his leather jacket. He slung the holster under his leftarmpit and tested the spring clip release several times, feeling theway the serrated butt dropped into his wet palm. He put his jacketback on and the switchblade case in his pocket. He walked toward theelevator and didn't look back as the corporal said, Good luck, tiger.     Captain Jack moved massively. The big stone-walled office, alive withstuffed lion and tiger and gunracks, seemed to grow smaller. CaptainJack crossed black-booted legs and whacked a cane at the floor. It hada head shaped like a grinning bear.     Wayne felt the assured smile die on his face. Something seemed toshrink him. If he didn't watch himself he'd begin feeling like a peaamong bowling balls.     Contemptuously amused little eyes glittered at Wayne from a shaggyhead. Shoulders hunched like stuffed sea-bags.     Wayne Seton, said Captain Jack as if he were discussing somethingin a bug collection. Well, well, you're really fired up aren't you?Really going out to eat 'em. Right, punk?     Yes, sir, Wayne said. He ran wet hands down the sides of his chinos.His legs seemed sheathed in lead as he bit inwardly at shrinking fearthe way a dog snaps at a wound. You big overblown son, he thought, I'llshow you but good who is a punk. They made a guy wait and sweat untilhe screamed. They kept a guy on the fire until desire leaped in him,ran and billowed and roared until his brain was filled with it. Butthat wasn't enough. If this muscle-bound creep was such a big boy,what was he doing holding down a desk?     Well, this is it, punk. You go the distance or start a butterflycollection.     The cane darted up. A blade snicked from the end and stopped an inchfrom Wayne's nose. He jerked up a shaky hand involuntarily and clampeda knuckle-ridged gag to his gasping mouth.     Captain Jack chuckled. All right, superboy. He handed Wayne hispasscard. Curfew's off, punk, for 6 hours. You got 6 hours to makeout.     Yes, sir.     Your beast is primed and waiting at the Four Aces Club on the WestSide. Know where that is, punk?     No, sir, but I'll find it fast.     Sure you will, punk, smiled Captain Jack. She'll be wearing yellowslacks and a red shirt. Black hair, a cute trick. She's with a heftypsycho who eats punks for breakfast. He's butchered five people.They're both on top of the Undesirable list, Seton. They got to go andthey're your key to the stars.     Yes, sir, Wayne said.     So run along and make out, punk, grinned Captain Jack.  A copcar stopped Wayne as he started over the bridge, out of brightrespectable neon into the murky westside slum over the river.     Wayne waved the pass card, signed by Captain Jack, under the cop'squivering nose. The cop shivered and stepped back and waved him on. TheOlds roared over the bridge as the night's rain blew away.     The air through the open window was chill and damp coming fromSlumville, but Wayne felt a cold that wasn't of the night or the wind.He turned off into a rat's warren of the inferiors. Lights turned pale,secretive and sparse, the uncared-for streets became rough with pittedpotholes, narrow and winding and humid with wet unpleasant smells.Wayne's fearful exhilaration increased as he cruised with bated breaththrough the dark mazes of streets and rickety tenements crawling withthe shadows of mysterious promise.     He found the alley, dark, a gloom-dripping tunnel. He drove cautiouslyinto it and rolled along, watching. His belly ached with expectancy ashe spotted the sick-looking dab of neon wanly sparkling.       FOUR ACES CLUB       He parked across the alley. He got out and stood in shadows, diggingthe sultry beat of a combo, the wild pulse of drums and spinning brassfiltering through windows painted black.     He breathed deep, started over, ducked back. A stewbum weaved out ofa bank of garbage cans, humming to himself, pulling at a rainsoakedshirt clinging to a pale stick body. He reminded Wayne of a slim grubbalanced on one end.     The stewbum stumbled. His bearded face in dim breaking moonlight hada dirty, greenish tinge as he sensed Wayne there. He turned in agrotesque uncoordinated jiggling and his eyes were wide with terror anddoom.     I gotta hide, kid. They're on me.     Wayne's chest rose and his hands curled.     The bum's fingers drew at the air like white talons.     Help me, kid.     He turned with a scratchy cry and retreated before the sudden blastof headlights from a Cad bulleting into the alley. The Cad rushedpast Wayne and he felt the engine-hot fumes against his legs. Tiressquealed. The Cad stopped and a teener in black jacket jumped out andcrouched as he began stalking the old rummy.     This is him! This is him all right, the teener yelled, and one handcame up swinging a baseball bat.     A head bobbed out of the Cad window and giggled.     The fumble-footed rummy tried to run and plopped on wet pavement. Theteener moved in, while a faint odor of burnt rubber hovered in the airas the Cad cruised in a slow follow-up.     Wayne's breath quickened as he watched, feeling somehow blank wonderat finding himself there, free and breaking out at last with no curfewand no law but his own. He felt as though he couldn't stop anything.Living seemed directionless, but he still would go with it regardless,until something dropped off or blew to hell like a hot light-bulb. Heheld his breath, waiting. His body was tensed and rigid as he moved inspirit with the hunting teener, an omniscient shadow with a huntinglicense and a ghetto jungle twenty miles deep.     The crawling stewbum screamed as the baseball bat whacked. The teenerlaughed. Wayne wanted to shout. He opened his mouth, but the yellclogged up somewhere, so that he remained soundless yet with his mouthstill open as he heard the payoff thuds where the useless wino curledup with stick arms over his rheumy face.     The teener laughed, tossed the bat away and began jumping up and downwith his hobnailed, mail-order air force boots. Then he ran into theCad. A hootch bottle soared out, made a brittle tink-tink of fallingglass.     Go, man!     The Cad wooshed by. It made a sort of hollow sucking noise as itbounced over the old man twice. Then the finlights diminished likebright wind-blown sparks.     Wayne walked over and sneered down at the human garbage lying inscummed rain pools. The smell of raw violence, the scent of blood, madehis heart thump like a trapped rubber ball in a cage.     He hurried into the Four Aces, drawn by an exhilarating vision ... andpursued by the hollow haunting fears of his own desires.  He walked through the wavering haze of smoke and liquored dizziness andstood until his eyes learned the dark. He spotted her red shirt andyellow legs over in the corner above a murky lighted table.     He walked toward her, watching her little subhuman pixie face lift.The eyes widened with exciting terror, turned even paler behind a redslash of sensuous mouth. Briefed and waiting, primed and eager forrunning, she recognized her pursuer at once. He sat at a table nearher, watching and grinning and seeing her squirm.     She sat in that slightly baffled, fearful and uncomprehending attitudeof being motionless, as though they were all actors performing in aweirdo drama being staged in that smoky thick-aired dive.     Wayne smiled with wry superiority at the redheaded psycho in a dirtyT-shirt, a big bruiser with a gorilla face. He was tussling his mouseheavy.     What's yours, teener? the slug-faced waiter asked.     Bring me a Crusher, buddyroo, Wayne said, and flashed his pass card.     Sure, teener.     Red nuzzled the mouse's neck and made drooly noises. Wayne watched andfed on the promising terror and helplessness of her hunted face. Shesat rigid, eyes fixed on Wayne like balls of frozen glass.     Red looked up and stared straight at Wayne with eyes like black buttonsimbedded in the waxlike skin of his face. Then he grinned all on oneside. One huge hand scratched across the wet table top like a furiouscat's.     Wayne returned the challenging move but felt a nervous twitch jerk athis lips. A numbness covered his brain like a film as he concentratedon staring down Red the psycho. But Red kept looking, his eyes brightbut dead. Then he began struggling it up again with the scared littlemouse.     The waiter sat the Crusher down. Wayne signed a chit; tonight he was inthe pay of the state.     What else, teener?     One thing. Fade.     Sure, teener, the waiter said, his breathy words dripping like syrup.     Wayne drank. Liquored heat dripped into his stomach. Fire tickled hisveins, became hot wire twisting in his head.     He drank again and forced out a shaky breath. The jazz beat thumpedfast and muted brass moaned. Drumpulse, stabbing trumpet raped theair. Tension mounted as Wayne watched her pale throat convulsing, thewhite eyelids fluttering. Red fingered at her legs and salivated at herthroat, glancing now and then at Wayne, baiting him good.     Okay, you creep, Wayne said.     He stood up and started through the haze. The psycho leaped and a tablecrashed. Wayne's .38 dropped from its spring-clip holster and the blastfilled the room. The psycho screamed and stumbled toward the doorholding something in. The mouse darted by, eluded Wayne's grasp and wasout the door.     Wayne went out after her in a laughing frenzy of release. He felt thecold strange breath of moist air on his sweating skin as he sprinteddown the alley into a wind full of blowing wet.     He ran laughing under the crazy starlight and glimpsed her now andthen, fading in and out of shadows, jumping, crawling, running with thelife-or-death animation of a wild deer.     Up and down alleys, a rat's maze. A rabbit run. Across vacant lots.Through shattered tenement ruins. Over a fence. There she was, falling,sliding down a brick shute.     He gained. He moved up. His labored breath pumped more fire. And herscream was a rejuvenation hypo in his blood.  She quivered above him on the stoop, panting, her eyes afire withterror.     You, baby, Wayne gasped. I gotcha.     She backed into darkness, up there against the sagging tenement wall,her arms out and poised like crippled wings. Wayne crept up. She gavea squeaking sob, turned, ran. Wayne leaped into gloom. Wood cracked.He clambered over rotten lumber. The doorway sagged and he hesitatedin the musty dark. A few feet away was the sound of loose tricklingplaster, a whimpering whine.     No use running, Wayne said. Go loose. Give, baby. Give now.     She scurried up sagging stairs. Wayne laughed and dug up after her,feeling his way through debris. Dim moonlight filtered through asagging stairway from a shattered skylight three floors up. The mouse'sshadow floated ahead.     He started up. The entire stair structure canted sickeningly. A railingripped and he nearly went with it back down to the first floor. Heheard a scream as rotten boards crumbled and dust exploded fromcracks. A rat ran past Wayne and fell into space. He burst into thethird-floor hallway and saw her half-falling through a door under thejagged skylight.     Wayne took his time. He knew how she felt waiting in there, listeningto his creeping, implacable footfalls.     Then he yelled and slammed open the door.     Dust and stench, filth so awful it made nothing of the dust. Inthe corner he saw something hardly to be called a bed. More likea nest. A dirty, lumpy pile of torn mattress, felt, excelsior,shredded newspapers and rags. It seemed to crawl a little under themoon-streaming skylight.     She crouched in the corner panting. He took his time moving in. Hesnickered as he flashed the switchblade and circled it like a serpent'stongue. He watched what was left of her nerves go to pieces like rottencloth.       Do it quick, hunter, she whispered. Please do it quick.     What's that, baby?     I'm tired running. Kill me first. Beat me after. They won't know thedifference.     I'm gonna bruise and beat you, he said.     Kill me first, she begged. I don't want— She began to cry. Shecried right up in his face, her wide eyes unblinking, and her mouthopen.     You got bad blood, baby, he snarled. He laughed but it didn't soundlike him and something was wrong with his belly. It was knotting up.     Bad, I know! So get it over with, please. Hurry, hurry.     She was small and white and quivering. She moaned but kept staring upat him.     He ripped off his rivet-studded belt and swung once, then groaned andshuffled away from her.     He kept backing toward the door. She crawled after him, begging andclutching with both arms as she wriggled forward on her knees.     Don't run. Please. Kill me! It'll be someone else if you don't. Oh,God, I'm so tired waiting and running!     I can't, he said, and sickness soured in his throat.     Please.     I can't, I can't!     He turned and ran blindly, half-fell down the cracking stairs.  Doctor Burns, head of the readjustment staff at the Youth Center,studied Wayne with abstract interest.     You enjoyed the hunt, Seton? You got your kicks?     Yes, sir.     But you couldn't execute them?     No, sir.     They're undesirables. Incurables. You know that, Seton?     Yes, sir.     The psycho you only wounded. He's a five-times murderer. And that girlkilled her father when she was twelve. You realize there's nothing canbe done for them? That they have to be executed?     I know.     Too bad, the doctor said. We all have aggressive impulses, primitiveneeds that must be expressed early, purged. There's murder in allof us, Seton. The impulse shouldn't be denied or suppressed, but      educated     . The state used to kill them. Isn't it better all around,Seton, for us to do it, as part of growing up? What was the matter,Seton?     I—felt sorry for her.     Is that all you can say about it?     Yes, sir.     The doctor pressed a buzzer. Two men in white coats entered.     You should have got it out of your system, Seton, but now it's stillin there. I can't turn you out and have it erupt later—and maybe shedclean innocent blood, can I?     No, sir, Wayne mumbled. He didn't look up. I'm sorry I punked out.     Give him the treatment, the doctor said wearily. And send him backto his mother.     Wayne nodded and they led him away. His mind screamed still to splitopen some prison of bone and lay bare and breathing wide. But therewas no way out for the trapped. Now he knew about the old man and hispoker-playing pals.     They had all punked out.     Like him.  ","The story is set in an urban environment in an unspecified time in the future. The story begins in a conventional domestic setting but quickly transitions to a Youth Center and then gritty underbelly of the city. The Youth Center is bureaucratic and clinical with Wayne making his way from registration to the Armory to his assignment. Later he returns to this center for psychological treatment. The inner-city area is known as Slumville and is filled with crumbling infrastructure and violent dealings. It is described as dark and mazelike with semi-abandoned buildings that are on the verge of collapse. The Four Aces Club where the main conflict of the story takes place is a seedy bar in Slumville where undesirables congregate. Smoky and filled with jazzy music, the club becomes a scene of tension and violence as Wayne confronts his targets there."
"How is slang used in the story? </s>     THE RECRUIT     BY BRYCE WALTON     It was dirty work, but it would     make him a man. And kids had a     right to grow up—some of them!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs.     The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgutand bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervouslypolite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailtythat he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all,marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out.     The old man said, He'll be okay. Let him alone.     But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time.     Hell, the old man said. Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waitingfor the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough.     Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly.     We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to rememberabout all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere togo, like they say. You read the books.     But he's unhappy.     Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? Whatdo we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed orwe'll be late.     Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposelessnoises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say.Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in thesame old ways. Then they begin all over again. A freak sideshow all theway to nowhere. Squareheads going around either unconscious or witheyes looking dead from the millennium in the office waiting to retireinto limbo.     How come he'd been stuck with parental images like that? Onething—when he was jockeying a rocket to Mars or maybe firing the pantsoff Asiatic reds in some steamy gone jungle paradise, he'd forget hispunkie origins in teeveeland.     But the old man was right on for once about the dangerous repressedimpulses. Wayne had heard about it often enough. Anyway there was nodoubt about it when every move he made was a restrained explosion.So he'd waited in his room, and it wasn't easy sweating it out alonewaiting for the breakout call from HQ.     Well, dear, if you say so, Mother said, with the old resigned sighthat must make the old man feel like Superman with a beerbelly.     They heard Wayne slouching loosely down the stairs and looked up.     Relax, Wayne said. You're not going anywhere tonight.     What, son? his old man said uneasily. Sure we are. We're going tothe movies.     He could feel them watching him, waiting; and yet still he didn'tanswer. Somewhere out in suburban grayness a dog barked, then wassilent.     Okay, go, Wayne said. If you wanta walk. I'm taking the familyboltbucket.     But we promised the Clemons, dear, his mother said.     Hell, Wayne said, grinning straight into the old man. I just got mydraft call.     He saw the old man's Adam's apple move. Oh, my dear boy, Mother criedout.     So gimme the keys, Wayne said. The old man handed the keys over. Hisunderstanding smile was strained, and fear flicked in his sagging eyes.     Do be careful, dear, his mother said. She ran toward him as helaughed and shut the door on her. He was still laughing as he whoomedthe Olds between the pale dead glow of houses and roared up the ramponto the Freeway. Ahead was the promising glitter of adventure-callingneon, and he looked up at the high skies of night and his eyes sailedthe glaring wonders of escape.  He burned off some rubber finding a slot in the park-lot. He strodeunder a sign reading      Public Youth Center No. 947     and walked casuallyto the reception desk, where a thin man with sergeant's stripes and apansy haircut looked out of a pile of paperwork.     Where you think you're going, my pretty lad?     Wayne grinned down. Higher I hope than a typewriter jockey.     Well, the sergeant said. How tough we are this evening. You have apass, killer?     Wayne Seton. Draft call.     Oh. The sergeant checked his name off a roster and nodded. He wroteon a slip of paper, handed the pass to Wayne. Go to the Armory andcheck out whatever your lusting little heart desires. Then report toCaptain Jack, room 307.     Thanks, sarge dear, Wayne said and took the elevator up to the Armory.     A tired fat corporal with a naked head blinked up at tall Wayne.Finally he said, So make up your mind, bud. Think you're the only kidbreaking out tonight?     Hold your teeth, pop, Wayne said, coolly and slowly lighting acigarette. I've decided.     The corporal's little eyes studied Wayne with malicious amusement.Take it from a vet, bud. Sooner you go the better. It's a big city andyou're starting late. You can get a cat, not a mouse, and some babesare clever hellcats in a dark alley.     You must be a genius, Wayne said. A corporal with no hair and stilla counterboy. I'm impressed. I'm all ears, Dad.     The corporal sighed wearily. You can get that balloon headventilated, bud, and good.     Wayne's mouth twitched. He leaned across the counter toward theshelves and racks of weapons. I'll remember that crack when I getmy commission. He blew smoke in the corporal's face. Bring me aSmith and Wesson .38, shoulder holster with spring-clip. And throw ina Skelly switchblade for kicks—the six-inch disguised job with thedouble springs.     The corporal waddled back with the revolver and the switchbladedisguised in a leather comb case. He checked them on a receipt ledger,while Wayne examined the weapons, broke open the revolver, twirled thecylinder and pushed cartridges into the waiting chamber. He slippedthe knife from the comb case, flicked open the blade and stared at itsgleam in the buttery light as his mouth went dry and the refractedincandescence of it trickled on his brain like melted ice, exciting andscary.     He removed his leather jacket. He slung the holster under his leftarmpit and tested the spring clip release several times, feeling theway the serrated butt dropped into his wet palm. He put his jacketback on and the switchblade case in his pocket. He walked toward theelevator and didn't look back as the corporal said, Good luck, tiger.     Captain Jack moved massively. The big stone-walled office, alive withstuffed lion and tiger and gunracks, seemed to grow smaller. CaptainJack crossed black-booted legs and whacked a cane at the floor. It hada head shaped like a grinning bear.     Wayne felt the assured smile die on his face. Something seemed toshrink him. If he didn't watch himself he'd begin feeling like a peaamong bowling balls.     Contemptuously amused little eyes glittered at Wayne from a shaggyhead. Shoulders hunched like stuffed sea-bags.     Wayne Seton, said Captain Jack as if he were discussing somethingin a bug collection. Well, well, you're really fired up aren't you?Really going out to eat 'em. Right, punk?     Yes, sir, Wayne said. He ran wet hands down the sides of his chinos.His legs seemed sheathed in lead as he bit inwardly at shrinking fearthe way a dog snaps at a wound. You big overblown son, he thought, I'llshow you but good who is a punk. They made a guy wait and sweat untilhe screamed. They kept a guy on the fire until desire leaped in him,ran and billowed and roared until his brain was filled with it. Butthat wasn't enough. If this muscle-bound creep was such a big boy,what was he doing holding down a desk?     Well, this is it, punk. You go the distance or start a butterflycollection.     The cane darted up. A blade snicked from the end and stopped an inchfrom Wayne's nose. He jerked up a shaky hand involuntarily and clampeda knuckle-ridged gag to his gasping mouth.     Captain Jack chuckled. All right, superboy. He handed Wayne hispasscard. Curfew's off, punk, for 6 hours. You got 6 hours to makeout.     Yes, sir.     Your beast is primed and waiting at the Four Aces Club on the WestSide. Know where that is, punk?     No, sir, but I'll find it fast.     Sure you will, punk, smiled Captain Jack. She'll be wearing yellowslacks and a red shirt. Black hair, a cute trick. She's with a heftypsycho who eats punks for breakfast. He's butchered five people.They're both on top of the Undesirable list, Seton. They got to go andthey're your key to the stars.     Yes, sir, Wayne said.     So run along and make out, punk, grinned Captain Jack.  A copcar stopped Wayne as he started over the bridge, out of brightrespectable neon into the murky westside slum over the river.     Wayne waved the pass card, signed by Captain Jack, under the cop'squivering nose. The cop shivered and stepped back and waved him on. TheOlds roared over the bridge as the night's rain blew away.     The air through the open window was chill and damp coming fromSlumville, but Wayne felt a cold that wasn't of the night or the wind.He turned off into a rat's warren of the inferiors. Lights turned pale,secretive and sparse, the uncared-for streets became rough with pittedpotholes, narrow and winding and humid with wet unpleasant smells.Wayne's fearful exhilaration increased as he cruised with bated breaththrough the dark mazes of streets and rickety tenements crawling withthe shadows of mysterious promise.     He found the alley, dark, a gloom-dripping tunnel. He drove cautiouslyinto it and rolled along, watching. His belly ached with expectancy ashe spotted the sick-looking dab of neon wanly sparkling.       FOUR ACES CLUB       He parked across the alley. He got out and stood in shadows, diggingthe sultry beat of a combo, the wild pulse of drums and spinning brassfiltering through windows painted black.     He breathed deep, started over, ducked back. A stewbum weaved out ofa bank of garbage cans, humming to himself, pulling at a rainsoakedshirt clinging to a pale stick body. He reminded Wayne of a slim grubbalanced on one end.     The stewbum stumbled. His bearded face in dim breaking moonlight hada dirty, greenish tinge as he sensed Wayne there. He turned in agrotesque uncoordinated jiggling and his eyes were wide with terror anddoom.     I gotta hide, kid. They're on me.     Wayne's chest rose and his hands curled.     The bum's fingers drew at the air like white talons.     Help me, kid.     He turned with a scratchy cry and retreated before the sudden blastof headlights from a Cad bulleting into the alley. The Cad rushedpast Wayne and he felt the engine-hot fumes against his legs. Tiressquealed. The Cad stopped and a teener in black jacket jumped out andcrouched as he began stalking the old rummy.     This is him! This is him all right, the teener yelled, and one handcame up swinging a baseball bat.     A head bobbed out of the Cad window and giggled.     The fumble-footed rummy tried to run and plopped on wet pavement. Theteener moved in, while a faint odor of burnt rubber hovered in the airas the Cad cruised in a slow follow-up.     Wayne's breath quickened as he watched, feeling somehow blank wonderat finding himself there, free and breaking out at last with no curfewand no law but his own. He felt as though he couldn't stop anything.Living seemed directionless, but he still would go with it regardless,until something dropped off or blew to hell like a hot light-bulb. Heheld his breath, waiting. His body was tensed and rigid as he moved inspirit with the hunting teener, an omniscient shadow with a huntinglicense and a ghetto jungle twenty miles deep.     The crawling stewbum screamed as the baseball bat whacked. The teenerlaughed. Wayne wanted to shout. He opened his mouth, but the yellclogged up somewhere, so that he remained soundless yet with his mouthstill open as he heard the payoff thuds where the useless wino curledup with stick arms over his rheumy face.     The teener laughed, tossed the bat away and began jumping up and downwith his hobnailed, mail-order air force boots. Then he ran into theCad. A hootch bottle soared out, made a brittle tink-tink of fallingglass.     Go, man!     The Cad wooshed by. It made a sort of hollow sucking noise as itbounced over the old man twice. Then the finlights diminished likebright wind-blown sparks.     Wayne walked over and sneered down at the human garbage lying inscummed rain pools. The smell of raw violence, the scent of blood, madehis heart thump like a trapped rubber ball in a cage.     He hurried into the Four Aces, drawn by an exhilarating vision ... andpursued by the hollow haunting fears of his own desires.  He walked through the wavering haze of smoke and liquored dizziness andstood until his eyes learned the dark. He spotted her red shirt andyellow legs over in the corner above a murky lighted table.     He walked toward her, watching her little subhuman pixie face lift.The eyes widened with exciting terror, turned even paler behind a redslash of sensuous mouth. Briefed and waiting, primed and eager forrunning, she recognized her pursuer at once. He sat at a table nearher, watching and grinning and seeing her squirm.     She sat in that slightly baffled, fearful and uncomprehending attitudeof being motionless, as though they were all actors performing in aweirdo drama being staged in that smoky thick-aired dive.     Wayne smiled with wry superiority at the redheaded psycho in a dirtyT-shirt, a big bruiser with a gorilla face. He was tussling his mouseheavy.     What's yours, teener? the slug-faced waiter asked.     Bring me a Crusher, buddyroo, Wayne said, and flashed his pass card.     Sure, teener.     Red nuzzled the mouse's neck and made drooly noises. Wayne watched andfed on the promising terror and helplessness of her hunted face. Shesat rigid, eyes fixed on Wayne like balls of frozen glass.     Red looked up and stared straight at Wayne with eyes like black buttonsimbedded in the waxlike skin of his face. Then he grinned all on oneside. One huge hand scratched across the wet table top like a furiouscat's.     Wayne returned the challenging move but felt a nervous twitch jerk athis lips. A numbness covered his brain like a film as he concentratedon staring down Red the psycho. But Red kept looking, his eyes brightbut dead. Then he began struggling it up again with the scared littlemouse.     The waiter sat the Crusher down. Wayne signed a chit; tonight he was inthe pay of the state.     What else, teener?     One thing. Fade.     Sure, teener, the waiter said, his breathy words dripping like syrup.     Wayne drank. Liquored heat dripped into his stomach. Fire tickled hisveins, became hot wire twisting in his head.     He drank again and forced out a shaky breath. The jazz beat thumpedfast and muted brass moaned. Drumpulse, stabbing trumpet raped theair. Tension mounted as Wayne watched her pale throat convulsing, thewhite eyelids fluttering. Red fingered at her legs and salivated at herthroat, glancing now and then at Wayne, baiting him good.     Okay, you creep, Wayne said.     He stood up and started through the haze. The psycho leaped and a tablecrashed. Wayne's .38 dropped from its spring-clip holster and the blastfilled the room. The psycho screamed and stumbled toward the doorholding something in. The mouse darted by, eluded Wayne's grasp and wasout the door.     Wayne went out after her in a laughing frenzy of release. He felt thecold strange breath of moist air on his sweating skin as he sprinteddown the alley into a wind full of blowing wet.     He ran laughing under the crazy starlight and glimpsed her now andthen, fading in and out of shadows, jumping, crawling, running with thelife-or-death animation of a wild deer.     Up and down alleys, a rat's maze. A rabbit run. Across vacant lots.Through shattered tenement ruins. Over a fence. There she was, falling,sliding down a brick shute.     He gained. He moved up. His labored breath pumped more fire. And herscream was a rejuvenation hypo in his blood.  She quivered above him on the stoop, panting, her eyes afire withterror.     You, baby, Wayne gasped. I gotcha.     She backed into darkness, up there against the sagging tenement wall,her arms out and poised like crippled wings. Wayne crept up. She gavea squeaking sob, turned, ran. Wayne leaped into gloom. Wood cracked.He clambered over rotten lumber. The doorway sagged and he hesitatedin the musty dark. A few feet away was the sound of loose tricklingplaster, a whimpering whine.     No use running, Wayne said. Go loose. Give, baby. Give now.     She scurried up sagging stairs. Wayne laughed and dug up after her,feeling his way through debris. Dim moonlight filtered through asagging stairway from a shattered skylight three floors up. The mouse'sshadow floated ahead.     He started up. The entire stair structure canted sickeningly. A railingripped and he nearly went with it back down to the first floor. Heheard a scream as rotten boards crumbled and dust exploded fromcracks. A rat ran past Wayne and fell into space. He burst into thethird-floor hallway and saw her half-falling through a door under thejagged skylight.     Wayne took his time. He knew how she felt waiting in there, listeningto his creeping, implacable footfalls.     Then he yelled and slammed open the door.     Dust and stench, filth so awful it made nothing of the dust. Inthe corner he saw something hardly to be called a bed. More likea nest. A dirty, lumpy pile of torn mattress, felt, excelsior,shredded newspapers and rags. It seemed to crawl a little under themoon-streaming skylight.     She crouched in the corner panting. He took his time moving in. Hesnickered as he flashed the switchblade and circled it like a serpent'stongue. He watched what was left of her nerves go to pieces like rottencloth.       Do it quick, hunter, she whispered. Please do it quick.     What's that, baby?     I'm tired running. Kill me first. Beat me after. They won't know thedifference.     I'm gonna bruise and beat you, he said.     Kill me first, she begged. I don't want— She began to cry. Shecried right up in his face, her wide eyes unblinking, and her mouthopen.     You got bad blood, baby, he snarled. He laughed but it didn't soundlike him and something was wrong with his belly. It was knotting up.     Bad, I know! So get it over with, please. Hurry, hurry.     She was small and white and quivering. She moaned but kept staring upat him.     He ripped off his rivet-studded belt and swung once, then groaned andshuffled away from her.     He kept backing toward the door. She crawled after him, begging andclutching with both arms as she wriggled forward on her knees.     Don't run. Please. Kill me! It'll be someone else if you don't. Oh,God, I'm so tired waiting and running!     I can't, he said, and sickness soured in his throat.     Please.     I can't, I can't!     He turned and ran blindly, half-fell down the cracking stairs.  Doctor Burns, head of the readjustment staff at the Youth Center,studied Wayne with abstract interest.     You enjoyed the hunt, Seton? You got your kicks?     Yes, sir.     But you couldn't execute them?     No, sir.     They're undesirables. Incurables. You know that, Seton?     Yes, sir.     The psycho you only wounded. He's a five-times murderer. And that girlkilled her father when she was twelve. You realize there's nothing canbe done for them? That they have to be executed?     I know.     Too bad, the doctor said. We all have aggressive impulses, primitiveneeds that must be expressed early, purged. There's murder in allof us, Seton. The impulse shouldn't be denied or suppressed, but      educated     . The state used to kill them. Isn't it better all around,Seton, for us to do it, as part of growing up? What was the matter,Seton?     I—felt sorry for her.     Is that all you can say about it?     Yes, sir.     The doctor pressed a buzzer. Two men in white coats entered.     You should have got it out of your system, Seton, but now it's stillin there. I can't turn you out and have it erupt later—and maybe shedclean innocent blood, can I?     No, sir, Wayne mumbled. He didn't look up. I'm sorry I punked out.     Give him the treatment, the doctor said wearily. And send him backto his mother.     Wayne nodded and they led him away. His mind screamed still to splitopen some prison of bone and lay bare and breathing wide. But therewas no way out for the trapped. Now he knew about the old man and hispoker-playing pals.     They had all punked out.     Like him.  ","Distinctive teenage or “teener” vernacular language is used extensively throughout the story. Wayne uses slang to communicate his dismissiveness of those in authority. People who live commonplace lives are “squareheads” and “punks”. Some typical proper nouns are shortened “Olds” for Oldsmobile, “Cad” for Cadillac. The effect is to cement the story in a future where language has evolved from its current state with teens communicating in a way that distinguishes them from other more conventional member of society. Wayne’s interaction with the waiter is emblematic of this effect. By saying, “Bring me a Crusher,” and then “Fade,” it is signaled to the reader that Wayne views himself as a member of a select group with its own cant."
"How does Wayne interact with the story’s other characters? </s>     THE RECRUIT     BY BRYCE WALTON     It was dirty work, but it would     make him a man. And kids had a     right to grow up—some of them!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs.     The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgutand bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervouslypolite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailtythat he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all,marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out.     The old man said, He'll be okay. Let him alone.     But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time.     Hell, the old man said. Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waitingfor the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough.     Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly.     We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to rememberabout all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere togo, like they say. You read the books.     But he's unhappy.     Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? Whatdo we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed orwe'll be late.     Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposelessnoises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say.Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in thesame old ways. Then they begin all over again. A freak sideshow all theway to nowhere. Squareheads going around either unconscious or witheyes looking dead from the millennium in the office waiting to retireinto limbo.     How come he'd been stuck with parental images like that? Onething—when he was jockeying a rocket to Mars or maybe firing the pantsoff Asiatic reds in some steamy gone jungle paradise, he'd forget hispunkie origins in teeveeland.     But the old man was right on for once about the dangerous repressedimpulses. Wayne had heard about it often enough. Anyway there was nodoubt about it when every move he made was a restrained explosion.So he'd waited in his room, and it wasn't easy sweating it out alonewaiting for the breakout call from HQ.     Well, dear, if you say so, Mother said, with the old resigned sighthat must make the old man feel like Superman with a beerbelly.     They heard Wayne slouching loosely down the stairs and looked up.     Relax, Wayne said. You're not going anywhere tonight.     What, son? his old man said uneasily. Sure we are. We're going tothe movies.     He could feel them watching him, waiting; and yet still he didn'tanswer. Somewhere out in suburban grayness a dog barked, then wassilent.     Okay, go, Wayne said. If you wanta walk. I'm taking the familyboltbucket.     But we promised the Clemons, dear, his mother said.     Hell, Wayne said, grinning straight into the old man. I just got mydraft call.     He saw the old man's Adam's apple move. Oh, my dear boy, Mother criedout.     So gimme the keys, Wayne said. The old man handed the keys over. Hisunderstanding smile was strained, and fear flicked in his sagging eyes.     Do be careful, dear, his mother said. She ran toward him as helaughed and shut the door on her. He was still laughing as he whoomedthe Olds between the pale dead glow of houses and roared up the ramponto the Freeway. Ahead was the promising glitter of adventure-callingneon, and he looked up at the high skies of night and his eyes sailedthe glaring wonders of escape.  He burned off some rubber finding a slot in the park-lot. He strodeunder a sign reading      Public Youth Center No. 947     and walked casuallyto the reception desk, where a thin man with sergeant's stripes and apansy haircut looked out of a pile of paperwork.     Where you think you're going, my pretty lad?     Wayne grinned down. Higher I hope than a typewriter jockey.     Well, the sergeant said. How tough we are this evening. You have apass, killer?     Wayne Seton. Draft call.     Oh. The sergeant checked his name off a roster and nodded. He wroteon a slip of paper, handed the pass to Wayne. Go to the Armory andcheck out whatever your lusting little heart desires. Then report toCaptain Jack, room 307.     Thanks, sarge dear, Wayne said and took the elevator up to the Armory.     A tired fat corporal with a naked head blinked up at tall Wayne.Finally he said, So make up your mind, bud. Think you're the only kidbreaking out tonight?     Hold your teeth, pop, Wayne said, coolly and slowly lighting acigarette. I've decided.     The corporal's little eyes studied Wayne with malicious amusement.Take it from a vet, bud. Sooner you go the better. It's a big city andyou're starting late. You can get a cat, not a mouse, and some babesare clever hellcats in a dark alley.     You must be a genius, Wayne said. A corporal with no hair and stilla counterboy. I'm impressed. I'm all ears, Dad.     The corporal sighed wearily. You can get that balloon headventilated, bud, and good.     Wayne's mouth twitched. He leaned across the counter toward theshelves and racks of weapons. I'll remember that crack when I getmy commission. He blew smoke in the corporal's face. Bring me aSmith and Wesson .38, shoulder holster with spring-clip. And throw ina Skelly switchblade for kicks—the six-inch disguised job with thedouble springs.     The corporal waddled back with the revolver and the switchbladedisguised in a leather comb case. He checked them on a receipt ledger,while Wayne examined the weapons, broke open the revolver, twirled thecylinder and pushed cartridges into the waiting chamber. He slippedthe knife from the comb case, flicked open the blade and stared at itsgleam in the buttery light as his mouth went dry and the refractedincandescence of it trickled on his brain like melted ice, exciting andscary.     He removed his leather jacket. He slung the holster under his leftarmpit and tested the spring clip release several times, feeling theway the serrated butt dropped into his wet palm. He put his jacketback on and the switchblade case in his pocket. He walked toward theelevator and didn't look back as the corporal said, Good luck, tiger.     Captain Jack moved massively. The big stone-walled office, alive withstuffed lion and tiger and gunracks, seemed to grow smaller. CaptainJack crossed black-booted legs and whacked a cane at the floor. It hada head shaped like a grinning bear.     Wayne felt the assured smile die on his face. Something seemed toshrink him. If he didn't watch himself he'd begin feeling like a peaamong bowling balls.     Contemptuously amused little eyes glittered at Wayne from a shaggyhead. Shoulders hunched like stuffed sea-bags.     Wayne Seton, said Captain Jack as if he were discussing somethingin a bug collection. Well, well, you're really fired up aren't you?Really going out to eat 'em. Right, punk?     Yes, sir, Wayne said. He ran wet hands down the sides of his chinos.His legs seemed sheathed in lead as he bit inwardly at shrinking fearthe way a dog snaps at a wound. You big overblown son, he thought, I'llshow you but good who is a punk. They made a guy wait and sweat untilhe screamed. They kept a guy on the fire until desire leaped in him,ran and billowed and roared until his brain was filled with it. Butthat wasn't enough. If this muscle-bound creep was such a big boy,what was he doing holding down a desk?     Well, this is it, punk. You go the distance or start a butterflycollection.     The cane darted up. A blade snicked from the end and stopped an inchfrom Wayne's nose. He jerked up a shaky hand involuntarily and clampeda knuckle-ridged gag to his gasping mouth.     Captain Jack chuckled. All right, superboy. He handed Wayne hispasscard. Curfew's off, punk, for 6 hours. You got 6 hours to makeout.     Yes, sir.     Your beast is primed and waiting at the Four Aces Club on the WestSide. Know where that is, punk?     No, sir, but I'll find it fast.     Sure you will, punk, smiled Captain Jack. She'll be wearing yellowslacks and a red shirt. Black hair, a cute trick. She's with a heftypsycho who eats punks for breakfast. He's butchered five people.They're both on top of the Undesirable list, Seton. They got to go andthey're your key to the stars.     Yes, sir, Wayne said.     So run along and make out, punk, grinned Captain Jack.  A copcar stopped Wayne as he started over the bridge, out of brightrespectable neon into the murky westside slum over the river.     Wayne waved the pass card, signed by Captain Jack, under the cop'squivering nose. The cop shivered and stepped back and waved him on. TheOlds roared over the bridge as the night's rain blew away.     The air through the open window was chill and damp coming fromSlumville, but Wayne felt a cold that wasn't of the night or the wind.He turned off into a rat's warren of the inferiors. Lights turned pale,secretive and sparse, the uncared-for streets became rough with pittedpotholes, narrow and winding and humid with wet unpleasant smells.Wayne's fearful exhilaration increased as he cruised with bated breaththrough the dark mazes of streets and rickety tenements crawling withthe shadows of mysterious promise.     He found the alley, dark, a gloom-dripping tunnel. He drove cautiouslyinto it and rolled along, watching. His belly ached with expectancy ashe spotted the sick-looking dab of neon wanly sparkling.       FOUR ACES CLUB       He parked across the alley. He got out and stood in shadows, diggingthe sultry beat of a combo, the wild pulse of drums and spinning brassfiltering through windows painted black.     He breathed deep, started over, ducked back. A stewbum weaved out ofa bank of garbage cans, humming to himself, pulling at a rainsoakedshirt clinging to a pale stick body. He reminded Wayne of a slim grubbalanced on one end.     The stewbum stumbled. His bearded face in dim breaking moonlight hada dirty, greenish tinge as he sensed Wayne there. He turned in agrotesque uncoordinated jiggling and his eyes were wide with terror anddoom.     I gotta hide, kid. They're on me.     Wayne's chest rose and his hands curled.     The bum's fingers drew at the air like white talons.     Help me, kid.     He turned with a scratchy cry and retreated before the sudden blastof headlights from a Cad bulleting into the alley. The Cad rushedpast Wayne and he felt the engine-hot fumes against his legs. Tiressquealed. The Cad stopped and a teener in black jacket jumped out andcrouched as he began stalking the old rummy.     This is him! This is him all right, the teener yelled, and one handcame up swinging a baseball bat.     A head bobbed out of the Cad window and giggled.     The fumble-footed rummy tried to run and plopped on wet pavement. Theteener moved in, while a faint odor of burnt rubber hovered in the airas the Cad cruised in a slow follow-up.     Wayne's breath quickened as he watched, feeling somehow blank wonderat finding himself there, free and breaking out at last with no curfewand no law but his own. He felt as though he couldn't stop anything.Living seemed directionless, but he still would go with it regardless,until something dropped off or blew to hell like a hot light-bulb. Heheld his breath, waiting. His body was tensed and rigid as he moved inspirit with the hunting teener, an omniscient shadow with a huntinglicense and a ghetto jungle twenty miles deep.     The crawling stewbum screamed as the baseball bat whacked. The teenerlaughed. Wayne wanted to shout. He opened his mouth, but the yellclogged up somewhere, so that he remained soundless yet with his mouthstill open as he heard the payoff thuds where the useless wino curledup with stick arms over his rheumy face.     The teener laughed, tossed the bat away and began jumping up and downwith his hobnailed, mail-order air force boots. Then he ran into theCad. A hootch bottle soared out, made a brittle tink-tink of fallingglass.     Go, man!     The Cad wooshed by. It made a sort of hollow sucking noise as itbounced over the old man twice. Then the finlights diminished likebright wind-blown sparks.     Wayne walked over and sneered down at the human garbage lying inscummed rain pools. The smell of raw violence, the scent of blood, madehis heart thump like a trapped rubber ball in a cage.     He hurried into the Four Aces, drawn by an exhilarating vision ... andpursued by the hollow haunting fears of his own desires.  He walked through the wavering haze of smoke and liquored dizziness andstood until his eyes learned the dark. He spotted her red shirt andyellow legs over in the corner above a murky lighted table.     He walked toward her, watching her little subhuman pixie face lift.The eyes widened with exciting terror, turned even paler behind a redslash of sensuous mouth. Briefed and waiting, primed and eager forrunning, she recognized her pursuer at once. He sat at a table nearher, watching and grinning and seeing her squirm.     She sat in that slightly baffled, fearful and uncomprehending attitudeof being motionless, as though they were all actors performing in aweirdo drama being staged in that smoky thick-aired dive.     Wayne smiled with wry superiority at the redheaded psycho in a dirtyT-shirt, a big bruiser with a gorilla face. He was tussling his mouseheavy.     What's yours, teener? the slug-faced waiter asked.     Bring me a Crusher, buddyroo, Wayne said, and flashed his pass card.     Sure, teener.     Red nuzzled the mouse's neck and made drooly noises. Wayne watched andfed on the promising terror and helplessness of her hunted face. Shesat rigid, eyes fixed on Wayne like balls of frozen glass.     Red looked up and stared straight at Wayne with eyes like black buttonsimbedded in the waxlike skin of his face. Then he grinned all on oneside. One huge hand scratched across the wet table top like a furiouscat's.     Wayne returned the challenging move but felt a nervous twitch jerk athis lips. A numbness covered his brain like a film as he concentratedon staring down Red the psycho. But Red kept looking, his eyes brightbut dead. Then he began struggling it up again with the scared littlemouse.     The waiter sat the Crusher down. Wayne signed a chit; tonight he was inthe pay of the state.     What else, teener?     One thing. Fade.     Sure, teener, the waiter said, his breathy words dripping like syrup.     Wayne drank. Liquored heat dripped into his stomach. Fire tickled hisveins, became hot wire twisting in his head.     He drank again and forced out a shaky breath. The jazz beat thumpedfast and muted brass moaned. Drumpulse, stabbing trumpet raped theair. Tension mounted as Wayne watched her pale throat convulsing, thewhite eyelids fluttering. Red fingered at her legs and salivated at herthroat, glancing now and then at Wayne, baiting him good.     Okay, you creep, Wayne said.     He stood up and started through the haze. The psycho leaped and a tablecrashed. Wayne's .38 dropped from its spring-clip holster and the blastfilled the room. The psycho screamed and stumbled toward the doorholding something in. The mouse darted by, eluded Wayne's grasp and wasout the door.     Wayne went out after her in a laughing frenzy of release. He felt thecold strange breath of moist air on his sweating skin as he sprinteddown the alley into a wind full of blowing wet.     He ran laughing under the crazy starlight and glimpsed her now andthen, fading in and out of shadows, jumping, crawling, running with thelife-or-death animation of a wild deer.     Up and down alleys, a rat's maze. A rabbit run. Across vacant lots.Through shattered tenement ruins. Over a fence. There she was, falling,sliding down a brick shute.     He gained. He moved up. His labored breath pumped more fire. And herscream was a rejuvenation hypo in his blood.  She quivered above him on the stoop, panting, her eyes afire withterror.     You, baby, Wayne gasped. I gotcha.     She backed into darkness, up there against the sagging tenement wall,her arms out and poised like crippled wings. Wayne crept up. She gavea squeaking sob, turned, ran. Wayne leaped into gloom. Wood cracked.He clambered over rotten lumber. The doorway sagged and he hesitatedin the musty dark. A few feet away was the sound of loose tricklingplaster, a whimpering whine.     No use running, Wayne said. Go loose. Give, baby. Give now.     She scurried up sagging stairs. Wayne laughed and dug up after her,feeling his way through debris. Dim moonlight filtered through asagging stairway from a shattered skylight three floors up. The mouse'sshadow floated ahead.     He started up. The entire stair structure canted sickeningly. A railingripped and he nearly went with it back down to the first floor. Heheard a scream as rotten boards crumbled and dust exploded fromcracks. A rat ran past Wayne and fell into space. He burst into thethird-floor hallway and saw her half-falling through a door under thejagged skylight.     Wayne took his time. He knew how she felt waiting in there, listeningto his creeping, implacable footfalls.     Then he yelled and slammed open the door.     Dust and stench, filth so awful it made nothing of the dust. Inthe corner he saw something hardly to be called a bed. More likea nest. A dirty, lumpy pile of torn mattress, felt, excelsior,shredded newspapers and rags. It seemed to crawl a little under themoon-streaming skylight.     She crouched in the corner panting. He took his time moving in. Hesnickered as he flashed the switchblade and circled it like a serpent'stongue. He watched what was left of her nerves go to pieces like rottencloth.       Do it quick, hunter, she whispered. Please do it quick.     What's that, baby?     I'm tired running. Kill me first. Beat me after. They won't know thedifference.     I'm gonna bruise and beat you, he said.     Kill me first, she begged. I don't want— She began to cry. Shecried right up in his face, her wide eyes unblinking, and her mouthopen.     You got bad blood, baby, he snarled. He laughed but it didn't soundlike him and something was wrong with his belly. It was knotting up.     Bad, I know! So get it over with, please. Hurry, hurry.     She was small and white and quivering. She moaned but kept staring upat him.     He ripped off his rivet-studded belt and swung once, then groaned andshuffled away from her.     He kept backing toward the door. She crawled after him, begging andclutching with both arms as she wriggled forward on her knees.     Don't run. Please. Kill me! It'll be someone else if you don't. Oh,God, I'm so tired waiting and running!     I can't, he said, and sickness soured in his throat.     Please.     I can't, I can't!     He turned and ran blindly, half-fell down the cracking stairs.  Doctor Burns, head of the readjustment staff at the Youth Center,studied Wayne with abstract interest.     You enjoyed the hunt, Seton? You got your kicks?     Yes, sir.     But you couldn't execute them?     No, sir.     They're undesirables. Incurables. You know that, Seton?     Yes, sir.     The psycho you only wounded. He's a five-times murderer. And that girlkilled her father when she was twelve. You realize there's nothing canbe done for them? That they have to be executed?     I know.     Too bad, the doctor said. We all have aggressive impulses, primitiveneeds that must be expressed early, purged. There's murder in allof us, Seton. The impulse shouldn't be denied or suppressed, but      educated     . The state used to kill them. Isn't it better all around,Seton, for us to do it, as part of growing up? What was the matter,Seton?     I—felt sorry for her.     Is that all you can say about it?     Yes, sir.     The doctor pressed a buzzer. Two men in white coats entered.     You should have got it out of your system, Seton, but now it's stillin there. I can't turn you out and have it erupt later—and maybe shedclean innocent blood, can I?     No, sir, Wayne mumbled. He didn't look up. I'm sorry I punked out.     Give him the treatment, the doctor said wearily. And send him backto his mother.     Wayne nodded and they led him away. His mind screamed still to splitopen some prison of bone and lay bare and breathing wide. But therewas no way out for the trapped. Now he knew about the old man and hispoker-playing pals.     They had all punked out.     Like him.  ","Wayne is a cocky, arrogant sixteen-year-old defined by his lack of respect for authority. His main goal in life is to be drafted into the military and lead an adventuring life.His unnamed parents care for their son but are nonplussed by his attitude and general demeanor of rebelliousness. They seem to live commonplace lives with domestic trips to the movie theatre or a neighborhood poker game. Wayne views this type of life as detestable. His interaction with his parents is crude and condescending.The military officials that Wayne meets in the Youth Center also elicit Wayne’s contempt. He views their desk jobs as an analog to his parents’ “punkie” existence. To Wayne, the only admirable way of life is one of high adventure. He disrespects most of the desk workers, but the commanding officer, Captain Jack, deflates his self-assurance.Wayne is keenly intent on hunting his targets. He stares them down tensely before violently engaging them. female target, nicknamed the “mouse”, is revealed to be a woman without hope. She’s tired of running and just wants to be put out of her misery. Surprisingly, at the moment of truth, Wayne cannot bring himself to execute the woman in cold blood, in his own words, “punking out”. He admits to the doctor analyzing him after his assignment that he felt sorry for her.     "
"How does this society seek to deal with violence? </s>     THE RECRUIT     BY BRYCE WALTON     It was dirty work, but it would     make him a man. And kids had a     right to grow up—some of them!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Wayne, unseen, sneered down from the head of the stairs.     The old man with his thick neck, thick cigar, evening highball, potgutand bald head without a brain in it. His slim mother with nervouslypolite smiles and voice fluttering, assuring the old man by her frailtythat he was big in the world. They were squareheads one and all,marking moron time in a gray dream. Man, was he glad to break out.     The old man said, He'll be okay. Let him alone.     But he won't eat. Just lies there all the time.     Hell, the old man said. Sixteen's a bad time. School over, waitingfor the draft and all. He's in between. It's rough.     Mother clasped her forearms and shook her head once slowly.     We got to let him go, Eva. It's a dangerous time. You got to rememberabout all these dangerous repressed impulses piling up with nowhere togo, like they say. You read the books.     But he's unhappy.     Are we specialists? That's the Youth Board's headache, ain't it? Whatdo we know about adolescent trauma and like that? Now get dressed orwe'll be late.     Wayne watched the ritual, grinning. He listened to their purposelessnoises, their blabbing and yakking as if they had something to say.Blab-blab about the same old bones, and end up chewing them in thesame old ways. Then they begin all over again. A freak sideshow all theway to nowhere. Squareheads going around either unconscious or witheyes looking dead from the millennium in the office waiting to retireinto limbo.     How come he'd been stuck with parental images like that? Onething—when he was jockeying a rocket to Mars or maybe firing the pantsoff Asiatic reds in some steamy gone jungle paradise, he'd forget hispunkie origins in teeveeland.     But the old man was right on for once about the dangerous repressedimpulses. Wayne had heard about it often enough. Anyway there was nodoubt about it when every move he made was a restrained explosion.So he'd waited in his room, and it wasn't easy sweating it out alonewaiting for the breakout call from HQ.     Well, dear, if you say so, Mother said, with the old resigned sighthat must make the old man feel like Superman with a beerbelly.     They heard Wayne slouching loosely down the stairs and looked up.     Relax, Wayne said. You're not going anywhere tonight.     What, son? his old man said uneasily. Sure we are. We're going tothe movies.     He could feel them watching him, waiting; and yet still he didn'tanswer. Somewhere out in suburban grayness a dog barked, then wassilent.     Okay, go, Wayne said. If you wanta walk. I'm taking the familyboltbucket.     But we promised the Clemons, dear, his mother said.     Hell, Wayne said, grinning straight into the old man. I just got mydraft call.     He saw the old man's Adam's apple move. Oh, my dear boy, Mother criedout.     So gimme the keys, Wayne said. The old man handed the keys over. Hisunderstanding smile was strained, and fear flicked in his sagging eyes.     Do be careful, dear, his mother said. She ran toward him as helaughed and shut the door on her. He was still laughing as he whoomedthe Olds between the pale dead glow of houses and roared up the ramponto the Freeway. Ahead was the promising glitter of adventure-callingneon, and he looked up at the high skies of night and his eyes sailedthe glaring wonders of escape.  He burned off some rubber finding a slot in the park-lot. He strodeunder a sign reading      Public Youth Center No. 947     and walked casuallyto the reception desk, where a thin man with sergeant's stripes and apansy haircut looked out of a pile of paperwork.     Where you think you're going, my pretty lad?     Wayne grinned down. Higher I hope than a typewriter jockey.     Well, the sergeant said. How tough we are this evening. You have apass, killer?     Wayne Seton. Draft call.     Oh. The sergeant checked his name off a roster and nodded. He wroteon a slip of paper, handed the pass to Wayne. Go to the Armory andcheck out whatever your lusting little heart desires. Then report toCaptain Jack, room 307.     Thanks, sarge dear, Wayne said and took the elevator up to the Armory.     A tired fat corporal with a naked head blinked up at tall Wayne.Finally he said, So make up your mind, bud. Think you're the only kidbreaking out tonight?     Hold your teeth, pop, Wayne said, coolly and slowly lighting acigarette. I've decided.     The corporal's little eyes studied Wayne with malicious amusement.Take it from a vet, bud. Sooner you go the better. It's a big city andyou're starting late. You can get a cat, not a mouse, and some babesare clever hellcats in a dark alley.     You must be a genius, Wayne said. A corporal with no hair and stilla counterboy. I'm impressed. I'm all ears, Dad.     The corporal sighed wearily. You can get that balloon headventilated, bud, and good.     Wayne's mouth twitched. He leaned across the counter toward theshelves and racks of weapons. I'll remember that crack when I getmy commission. He blew smoke in the corporal's face. Bring me aSmith and Wesson .38, shoulder holster with spring-clip. And throw ina Skelly switchblade for kicks—the six-inch disguised job with thedouble springs.     The corporal waddled back with the revolver and the switchbladedisguised in a leather comb case. He checked them on a receipt ledger,while Wayne examined the weapons, broke open the revolver, twirled thecylinder and pushed cartridges into the waiting chamber. He slippedthe knife from the comb case, flicked open the blade and stared at itsgleam in the buttery light as his mouth went dry and the refractedincandescence of it trickled on his brain like melted ice, exciting andscary.     He removed his leather jacket. He slung the holster under his leftarmpit and tested the spring clip release several times, feeling theway the serrated butt dropped into his wet palm. He put his jacketback on and the switchblade case in his pocket. He walked toward theelevator and didn't look back as the corporal said, Good luck, tiger.     Captain Jack moved massively. The big stone-walled office, alive withstuffed lion and tiger and gunracks, seemed to grow smaller. CaptainJack crossed black-booted legs and whacked a cane at the floor. It hada head shaped like a grinning bear.     Wayne felt the assured smile die on his face. Something seemed toshrink him. If he didn't watch himself he'd begin feeling like a peaamong bowling balls.     Contemptuously amused little eyes glittered at Wayne from a shaggyhead. Shoulders hunched like stuffed sea-bags.     Wayne Seton, said Captain Jack as if he were discussing somethingin a bug collection. Well, well, you're really fired up aren't you?Really going out to eat 'em. Right, punk?     Yes, sir, Wayne said. He ran wet hands down the sides of his chinos.His legs seemed sheathed in lead as he bit inwardly at shrinking fearthe way a dog snaps at a wound. You big overblown son, he thought, I'llshow you but good who is a punk. They made a guy wait and sweat untilhe screamed. They kept a guy on the fire until desire leaped in him,ran and billowed and roared until his brain was filled with it. Butthat wasn't enough. If this muscle-bound creep was such a big boy,what was he doing holding down a desk?     Well, this is it, punk. You go the distance or start a butterflycollection.     The cane darted up. A blade snicked from the end and stopped an inchfrom Wayne's nose. He jerked up a shaky hand involuntarily and clampeda knuckle-ridged gag to his gasping mouth.     Captain Jack chuckled. All right, superboy. He handed Wayne hispasscard. Curfew's off, punk, for 6 hours. You got 6 hours to makeout.     Yes, sir.     Your beast is primed and waiting at the Four Aces Club on the WestSide. Know where that is, punk?     No, sir, but I'll find it fast.     Sure you will, punk, smiled Captain Jack. She'll be wearing yellowslacks and a red shirt. Black hair, a cute trick. She's with a heftypsycho who eats punks for breakfast. He's butchered five people.They're both on top of the Undesirable list, Seton. They got to go andthey're your key to the stars.     Yes, sir, Wayne said.     So run along and make out, punk, grinned Captain Jack.  A copcar stopped Wayne as he started over the bridge, out of brightrespectable neon into the murky westside slum over the river.     Wayne waved the pass card, signed by Captain Jack, under the cop'squivering nose. The cop shivered and stepped back and waved him on. TheOlds roared over the bridge as the night's rain blew away.     The air through the open window was chill and damp coming fromSlumville, but Wayne felt a cold that wasn't of the night or the wind.He turned off into a rat's warren of the inferiors. Lights turned pale,secretive and sparse, the uncared-for streets became rough with pittedpotholes, narrow and winding and humid with wet unpleasant smells.Wayne's fearful exhilaration increased as he cruised with bated breaththrough the dark mazes of streets and rickety tenements crawling withthe shadows of mysterious promise.     He found the alley, dark, a gloom-dripping tunnel. He drove cautiouslyinto it and rolled along, watching. His belly ached with expectancy ashe spotted the sick-looking dab of neon wanly sparkling.       FOUR ACES CLUB       He parked across the alley. He got out and stood in shadows, diggingthe sultry beat of a combo, the wild pulse of drums and spinning brassfiltering through windows painted black.     He breathed deep, started over, ducked back. A stewbum weaved out ofa bank of garbage cans, humming to himself, pulling at a rainsoakedshirt clinging to a pale stick body. He reminded Wayne of a slim grubbalanced on one end.     The stewbum stumbled. His bearded face in dim breaking moonlight hada dirty, greenish tinge as he sensed Wayne there. He turned in agrotesque uncoordinated jiggling and his eyes were wide with terror anddoom.     I gotta hide, kid. They're on me.     Wayne's chest rose and his hands curled.     The bum's fingers drew at the air like white talons.     Help me, kid.     He turned with a scratchy cry and retreated before the sudden blastof headlights from a Cad bulleting into the alley. The Cad rushedpast Wayne and he felt the engine-hot fumes against his legs. Tiressquealed. The Cad stopped and a teener in black jacket jumped out andcrouched as he began stalking the old rummy.     This is him! This is him all right, the teener yelled, and one handcame up swinging a baseball bat.     A head bobbed out of the Cad window and giggled.     The fumble-footed rummy tried to run and plopped on wet pavement. Theteener moved in, while a faint odor of burnt rubber hovered in the airas the Cad cruised in a slow follow-up.     Wayne's breath quickened as he watched, feeling somehow blank wonderat finding himself there, free and breaking out at last with no curfewand no law but his own. He felt as though he couldn't stop anything.Living seemed directionless, but he still would go with it regardless,until something dropped off or blew to hell like a hot light-bulb. Heheld his breath, waiting. His body was tensed and rigid as he moved inspirit with the hunting teener, an omniscient shadow with a huntinglicense and a ghetto jungle twenty miles deep.     The crawling stewbum screamed as the baseball bat whacked. The teenerlaughed. Wayne wanted to shout. He opened his mouth, but the yellclogged up somewhere, so that he remained soundless yet with his mouthstill open as he heard the payoff thuds where the useless wino curledup with stick arms over his rheumy face.     The teener laughed, tossed the bat away and began jumping up and downwith his hobnailed, mail-order air force boots. Then he ran into theCad. A hootch bottle soared out, made a brittle tink-tink of fallingglass.     Go, man!     The Cad wooshed by. It made a sort of hollow sucking noise as itbounced over the old man twice. Then the finlights diminished likebright wind-blown sparks.     Wayne walked over and sneered down at the human garbage lying inscummed rain pools. The smell of raw violence, the scent of blood, madehis heart thump like a trapped rubber ball in a cage.     He hurried into the Four Aces, drawn by an exhilarating vision ... andpursued by the hollow haunting fears of his own desires.  He walked through the wavering haze of smoke and liquored dizziness andstood until his eyes learned the dark. He spotted her red shirt andyellow legs over in the corner above a murky lighted table.     He walked toward her, watching her little subhuman pixie face lift.The eyes widened with exciting terror, turned even paler behind a redslash of sensuous mouth. Briefed and waiting, primed and eager forrunning, she recognized her pursuer at once. He sat at a table nearher, watching and grinning and seeing her squirm.     She sat in that slightly baffled, fearful and uncomprehending attitudeof being motionless, as though they were all actors performing in aweirdo drama being staged in that smoky thick-aired dive.     Wayne smiled with wry superiority at the redheaded psycho in a dirtyT-shirt, a big bruiser with a gorilla face. He was tussling his mouseheavy.     What's yours, teener? the slug-faced waiter asked.     Bring me a Crusher, buddyroo, Wayne said, and flashed his pass card.     Sure, teener.     Red nuzzled the mouse's neck and made drooly noises. Wayne watched andfed on the promising terror and helplessness of her hunted face. Shesat rigid, eyes fixed on Wayne like balls of frozen glass.     Red looked up and stared straight at Wayne with eyes like black buttonsimbedded in the waxlike skin of his face. Then he grinned all on oneside. One huge hand scratched across the wet table top like a furiouscat's.     Wayne returned the challenging move but felt a nervous twitch jerk athis lips. A numbness covered his brain like a film as he concentratedon staring down Red the psycho. But Red kept looking, his eyes brightbut dead. Then he began struggling it up again with the scared littlemouse.     The waiter sat the Crusher down. Wayne signed a chit; tonight he was inthe pay of the state.     What else, teener?     One thing. Fade.     Sure, teener, the waiter said, his breathy words dripping like syrup.     Wayne drank. Liquored heat dripped into his stomach. Fire tickled hisveins, became hot wire twisting in his head.     He drank again and forced out a shaky breath. The jazz beat thumpedfast and muted brass moaned. Drumpulse, stabbing trumpet raped theair. Tension mounted as Wayne watched her pale throat convulsing, thewhite eyelids fluttering. Red fingered at her legs and salivated at herthroat, glancing now and then at Wayne, baiting him good.     Okay, you creep, Wayne said.     He stood up and started through the haze. The psycho leaped and a tablecrashed. Wayne's .38 dropped from its spring-clip holster and the blastfilled the room. The psycho screamed and stumbled toward the doorholding something in. The mouse darted by, eluded Wayne's grasp and wasout the door.     Wayne went out after her in a laughing frenzy of release. He felt thecold strange breath of moist air on his sweating skin as he sprinteddown the alley into a wind full of blowing wet.     He ran laughing under the crazy starlight and glimpsed her now andthen, fading in and out of shadows, jumping, crawling, running with thelife-or-death animation of a wild deer.     Up and down alleys, a rat's maze. A rabbit run. Across vacant lots.Through shattered tenement ruins. Over a fence. There she was, falling,sliding down a brick shute.     He gained. He moved up. His labored breath pumped more fire. And herscream was a rejuvenation hypo in his blood.  She quivered above him on the stoop, panting, her eyes afire withterror.     You, baby, Wayne gasped. I gotcha.     She backed into darkness, up there against the sagging tenement wall,her arms out and poised like crippled wings. Wayne crept up. She gavea squeaking sob, turned, ran. Wayne leaped into gloom. Wood cracked.He clambered over rotten lumber. The doorway sagged and he hesitatedin the musty dark. A few feet away was the sound of loose tricklingplaster, a whimpering whine.     No use running, Wayne said. Go loose. Give, baby. Give now.     She scurried up sagging stairs. Wayne laughed and dug up after her,feeling his way through debris. Dim moonlight filtered through asagging stairway from a shattered skylight three floors up. The mouse'sshadow floated ahead.     He started up. The entire stair structure canted sickeningly. A railingripped and he nearly went with it back down to the first floor. Heheard a scream as rotten boards crumbled and dust exploded fromcracks. A rat ran past Wayne and fell into space. He burst into thethird-floor hallway and saw her half-falling through a door under thejagged skylight.     Wayne took his time. He knew how she felt waiting in there, listeningto his creeping, implacable footfalls.     Then he yelled and slammed open the door.     Dust and stench, filth so awful it made nothing of the dust. Inthe corner he saw something hardly to be called a bed. More likea nest. A dirty, lumpy pile of torn mattress, felt, excelsior,shredded newspapers and rags. It seemed to crawl a little under themoon-streaming skylight.     She crouched in the corner panting. He took his time moving in. Hesnickered as he flashed the switchblade and circled it like a serpent'stongue. He watched what was left of her nerves go to pieces like rottencloth.       Do it quick, hunter, she whispered. Please do it quick.     What's that, baby?     I'm tired running. Kill me first. Beat me after. They won't know thedifference.     I'm gonna bruise and beat you, he said.     Kill me first, she begged. I don't want— She began to cry. Shecried right up in his face, her wide eyes unblinking, and her mouthopen.     You got bad blood, baby, he snarled. He laughed but it didn't soundlike him and something was wrong with his belly. It was knotting up.     Bad, I know! So get it over with, please. Hurry, hurry.     She was small and white and quivering. She moaned but kept staring upat him.     He ripped off his rivet-studded belt and swung once, then groaned andshuffled away from her.     He kept backing toward the door. She crawled after him, begging andclutching with both arms as she wriggled forward on her knees.     Don't run. Please. Kill me! It'll be someone else if you don't. Oh,God, I'm so tired waiting and running!     I can't, he said, and sickness soured in his throat.     Please.     I can't, I can't!     He turned and ran blindly, half-fell down the cracking stairs.  Doctor Burns, head of the readjustment staff at the Youth Center,studied Wayne with abstract interest.     You enjoyed the hunt, Seton? You got your kicks?     Yes, sir.     But you couldn't execute them?     No, sir.     They're undesirables. Incurables. You know that, Seton?     Yes, sir.     The psycho you only wounded. He's a five-times murderer. And that girlkilled her father when she was twelve. You realize there's nothing canbe done for them? That they have to be executed?     I know.     Too bad, the doctor said. We all have aggressive impulses, primitiveneeds that must be expressed early, purged. There's murder in allof us, Seton. The impulse shouldn't be denied or suppressed, but      educated     . The state used to kill them. Isn't it better all around,Seton, for us to do it, as part of growing up? What was the matter,Seton?     I—felt sorry for her.     Is that all you can say about it?     Yes, sir.     The doctor pressed a buzzer. Two men in white coats entered.     You should have got it out of your system, Seton, but now it's stillin there. I can't turn you out and have it erupt later—and maybe shedclean innocent blood, can I?     No, sir, Wayne mumbled. He didn't look up. I'm sorry I punked out.     Give him the treatment, the doctor said wearily. And send him backto his mother.     Wayne nodded and they led him away. His mind screamed still to splitopen some prison of bone and lay bare and breathing wide. But therewas no way out for the trapped. Now he knew about the old man and hispoker-playing pals.     They had all punked out.     Like him.  ",The expository dialogue by Doctor Burns at the end of the story provides some insight into how this society views the tendency toward violence in its citizens and retributive criminal justice. The prevailing understanding is that adolescents (presumably adolescent men) are subjected to aggressive and violent impulses. The society seeks to provide these teens a preferred outlet for these impulses in the form of a violent act in service of the state. Typical this seems to be the execution of an undesirable member of society who is viewed as beyond redemption. This permitted brutality is thought to get it out of a teen’s system and prepare him for a life as a contributing member in the state’s military apparatus. The result of this situation is a dramatically violent society where untrained youths are recruited to act as vicious vigilantes who terrorize anyone labelled as undesirable. 
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     The Monster Maker     By RAY BRADBURY     Get Gunther, the official orders read. It     was to laugh! For Click and Irish were     marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only     weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Suddenly, it was there. There wasn't time to blink or speak or getscared. Click Hathaway's camera was loaded and he stood there listeningto it rack-spin film between his fingers, and he knew he was getting adamned sweet picture of everything that was happening.     The picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console,wrenching levers, jamming studs with freckled fists. And out in thedark of the fore-part there was space and a star-sprinkling and thismeteor coming like blazing fury.     Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal'sskin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked therear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round.     There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he waspicked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn'tlong in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on tohis camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that hadbeen of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out ofthe controls and keeping his words to himself until just now.     It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroidsrushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking atom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs.     Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was thenearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and youended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk ofmetal death. What a fade-out!     Irish! he heard himself say. Is this IT?     Is this      what     ? yelled Marnagan inside his helmet.     Is this where the Big Producer yells CUT!?     Marnagan fumed. I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'mready I'll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films!     They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand ofgravity; listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones.     The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end overand stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattledaround—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst,air and energy flung out.     Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinkingquick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reachfilm, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like      this     one! Hisbrain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of hiscamera.  Silence came and engulfed all the noise, ate it up and swallowed it.Hathaway shook his head, instinctively grabbed at the camera lockedto his mid-belt. There was nothing but stars, twisted wreckage, coldthat pierced through his vac-suit, and silence. He wriggled out of thewreckage into that silence.     He didn't know what he was doing until he found the camera in hisfingers as if it had grown there when he was born. He stood there,thinking Well, I'll at least have a few good scenes on film. I'll—     A hunk of metal teetered, fell with a crash. Marnagan elevated sevenfeet of bellowing manhood from the wreck.     Hold it! cracked Hathaway's high voice. Marnagan froze. The camerawhirred. Low angle shot; Interplanetary Patrolman emerges unscathedfrom asteroid crackup. Swell stuff. I'll get a raise for this!     From the toe of me boot! snarled Marnagan brusquely. Oxen shouldersflexed inside his vac-suit. I might've died in there, and you nursin'that film-contraption!     Hathaway felt funny inside, suddenly. I never thought of that.Marnagan die? I just took it for granted you'd come through. You alwayshave. Funny, but you don't think about dying. You try not to. Hathawaystared at his gloved hand, but the gloving was so thick and heavy hecouldn't tell if it was shaking. Muscles in his bony face went down,pale. Where are we?     A million miles from nobody.     They stood in the middle of a pocked, time-eroded meteor plain thatstretched off, dipping down into silent indigo and a rash of stars.Overhead, the sun poised; black and stars all around it, making it looksick.     If we walk in opposite directions, Click Hathaway, we'd be shakinghands the other side of this rock in two hours. Marnagan shook his mopof dusty red hair. And I promised the boys at Luna Base this time I'dcapture that Gunther lad!     His voice stopped and the silence spoke.     Hathaway felt his heart pumping slow, hot pumps of blood. I checkedmy oxygen, Irish. Sixty minutes of breathing left.     The silence punctuated that sentence, too. Upon the sharp meteoricrocks Hathaway saw the tangled insides of the radio, the food supplymashed and scattered. They were lucky to have escaped. Or      was     suffocation a better death...?      Sixty minutes.       They stood and looked at one another.     Damn that meteor! said Marnagan, hotly.     Hathaway got hold of an idea; remembering something. He said it out:Somebody tossed that meteor, Irish. I took a picture of it, lookedit right in the eye when it rolled at us, and it was poker-hot.Space-meteors are never hot and glowing. If it's proof you want, I'vegot it here, on film.     Marnagan winced his freckled square of face. It's not proof we neednow, Click. Oxygen. And then      food     . And then some way back to Earth.     Hathaway went on saying his thoughts: This is Gunther's work. He'shere somewhere, probably laughing his guts out at the job he did us.Oh, God, this would make great news-release stuff if we ever get backto Earth. I.P.'s Irish Marnagan, temporarily indisposed by a piratewhose dirty face has never been seen, Gunther by name, finally winsthrough to a triumphant finish. Photographed on the spot, in color, byyours truly, Click Hathaway. Cosmic Films, please notice.  They started walking, fast, over the pocked, rubbled plain toward abony ridge of metal. They kept their eyes wide and awake. There wasn'tmuch to see, but it was better than standing still, waiting.     Marnagan said, We're working on margin, and we got nothin' to sweatwith except your suspicions about this not being an accident. We gotfifty minutes to prove you're right. After that—right or wrong—you'llbe Cosmic Films prettiest unmoving, unbreathin' genius. But talk allyou like, Click. It's times like this when we all need words, anywords, on our tongues. You got your camera and your scoop. Talk aboutit. As for me— he twisted his glossy red face. Keeping alive is mehobby. And this sort of two-bit death I did not order.     Click nodded. Gunther knows how you'd hate dying this way, Irish.It's irony clean through. That's probably why he planned the meteor andthe crash this way.     Marnagan said nothing, but his thick lips went down at the corners, fardown, and the green eyes blazed.     They stopped, together.     Oops! Click said.     Hey! Marnagan blinked. Did you feel      that     ?     Hathaway's body felt feathery, light as a whisper, boneless andlimbless, suddenly. Irish! We lost weight, coming over that ridge!     They ran back. Let's try it again.     They tried it. They scowled at each other. The same thing happened.Gravity should not act this way, Click.     Are you telling me? It's man-made. Better than that—it's Gunther! Nowonder we fell so fast—we were dragged down by a super-gravity set-up!Gunther'd do anything to—did I say      anything     ?     Hathaway leaped backward in reaction. His eyes widened and his handcame up, jabbing. Over a hill-ridge swarmed a brew of unbelievablehorrors. Progeny from Frankenstein's ARK. Immense crimson beasts withnumerous legs and gnashing mandibles, brown-black creatures, sometubular and fat, others like thin white poisonous whips slashing alongin the air. Fangs caught starlight white on them.     Hathaway yelled and ran, Marnagan at his heels, lumbering. Sweat brokecold on his body. The immense things rolled, slithered and squirmedafter him. A blast of light. Marnagan, firing his proton-gun. Then, inClick's ears, the Irishman's incredulous bellow. The gun didn't hurtthe creatures at all.     Irish! Hathaway flung himself over the ridge, slid down an inclinetoward the mouth a small cave. This way, fella!     Hathaway made it first, Marnagan bellowing just behind him. They'retoo big; they can't get us in here! Click's voice gasped it out,as Marnagan squeezed his two-hundred-fifty pounds beside him.Instinctively, Hathaway added, Asteroid monsters! My camera! What ascene!     Damn your damn camera! yelled Marnagan. They might come in!     Use your gun.     They got impervious hides. No use. Gahh! And that was a pretty chase,eh, Click?     Yeah. Sure.      You     enjoyed it, every moment of it.     I did that. Irish grinned, showing white uneven teeth. Now, whatwill we be doing with these uninvited guests at our door?     Let me think—     Lots of time, little man. Forty more minutes of air, to be exact.  They sat, staring at the monsters for about a minute. Hathaway feltfunny about something; didn't know what. Something about these monstersand Gunther and—     Which one will you be having? asked Irish, casually. A red one or ablue one?     Hathaway laughed nervously. A pink one with yellow ruffles—Good God,now you've got      me     doing it. Joking in the face of death.     Me father taught me; keep laughing and you'll have Irish luck.     That didn't please the photographer. I'm an Anglo-Swede, he pointedout.     Marnagan shifted uneasily. Here, now. You're doing nothing butsitting, looking like a little boy locked in a bedroom closet, so takeme a profile shot of the beasties and myself.     Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly. What in hell's the use? Allthis swell film shot. Nobody'll ever see it.     Then, retorted Marnagan, we'll develop it for our own benefit; whilewaitin' for the U.S. Cavalry to come riding over the hill to ourrescue!     Hathaway snorted. U.S. Cavalry.     Marnagan raised his proton-gun dramatically. Snap me this pose, hesaid. I paid your salary to trot along, photographing, we hoped,my capture of Gunther, now the least you can do is record peacenegotiations betwixt me and these pixies.     Marnagan wasn't fooling anybody. Hathaway knew the superficial palaverfor nothing but a covering over the fast, furious thinking runningaround in that red-cropped skull. Hathaway played the palaver, too, buthis mind was whirring faster than his camera as he spun a picture ofMarnagan standing there with a useless gun pointed at the animals.     Montage. Marnagan sitting, chatting at the monsters. Marnagan smilingfor the camera. Marnagan in profile. Marnagan looking grim, withoutmuch effort, for the camera. And then, a closeup of the thrashing deathwall that holed them in. Click took them all, those shots, not sayinganything. Nobody fooled nobody with this act. Death was near and theyhad sweaty faces, dry mouths and frozen guts.     When Click finished filming, Irish sat down to save oxygen, and used itup arguing about Gunther. Click came back at him:     Gunther drew us down here, sure as Ceres! That gravity change we feltback on that ridge, Irish; that proves it. Gunther's short on men. So,what's he do; he builds an asteroid-base, and drags ships down. Spacewar isn't perfect yet, guns don't prime true in space, trajectoryis lousy over long distances. So what's the best weapon, whichdispenses with losing valuable, rare ships and a small bunch of men?Super-gravity and a couple of well-tossed meteors. Saves all around.It's a good front, this damned iron pebble. From it, Gunther strikesunseen; ships simply crash, that's all. A subtle hand, with all aces.     Marnagan rumbled. Where is the dirty son, then!     He didn't have to appear, Irish. He sent—them. Hathaway nodded atthe beasts. People crashing here die from air-lack, no food, or fromwounds caused at the crackup. If they survive all that—the animalstend to them. It all looks like Nature was responsible. See how subtlehis attack is? Looks like accidental death instead of murder, if thePatrol happens to land and finds us. No reason for undue investigation,then.     I don't see no Base around.  Click shrugged. Still doubt it? Okay. Look. He tapped his camera anda spool popped out onto his gloved palm. Holding it up, he strippedit out to its full twenty inch length, held it to the light while itdeveloped, smiling. It was one of his best inventions. Self-developingfilm. The first light struck film-surface, destroyed one chemical,leaving imprints; the second exposure simply hardened, secured theimpressions. Quick stuff.     Inserting the film-tongue into a micro-viewer in the camera's base,Click handed the whole thing over. Look.     Marnagan put the viewer up against the helmet glass, squinted. Ah,Click. Now, now. This is one lousy film you invented.     Huh?     It's a strange process'll develop my picture and ignore the asteroidmonsters complete.     What!     Hathaway grabbed the camera, gasped, squinted, and gasped again:Pictures in montage; Marnagan sitting down, chatting conversationallywith      nothing     ; Marnagan shooting his gun at      nothing     ; Marnaganpretending to be happy in front of      nothing     .     Then, closeup—of—NOTHING!     The monsters had failed to image the film. Marnagan was there, his hairlike a red banner, his freckled face with the blue eyes bright in it.Maybe—     Hathaway said it, loud: Irish! Irish! I think I see a way out of thismess! Here—     He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film,the beasts, and how the film couldn't be wrong. If the film said themonsters weren't there, they weren't there.     Yeah, said Marnagan. But step outside this cave—     If my theory is correct I'll do it, unafraid, said Click.     Marnagan scowled. You sure them beasts don't radiate ultra-violet orinfra-red or something that won't come out on film?     Nuts! Any color      we     see, the camera sees. We've been fooled.     Hey, where      you     going? Marnagan blocked Hathaway as the smaller mantried pushing past him.     Get out of the way, said Hathaway.     Marnagan put his big fists on his hips. If anyone is going anywhere,it'll be me does the going.     I can't let you do that, Irish.     Why not?     You'd be going on my say-so.     Ain't your say-so good enough for me?     Yes. Sure. Of course. I guess—     If you say them animals ain't there, that's all I need. Now, standaside, you film-developing flea, and let an Irishman settle theirbones. He took an unnecessary hitch in trousers that didn't existexcept under an inch of porous metal plate. Your express purpose onthis voyage, Hathaway, is taking films to be used by the Patrol laterfor teaching Junior Patrolmen how to act in tough spots. First-handeducation. Poke another spool of film in that contraption and give meprofile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into TheLion's Den.     Irish, I—     Shut up and load up.     Hathaway nervously loaded the film-slot, raised it.     Ready, Click?     I—I guess so, said Hathaway. And remember, think it hard, Irish.Think it hard. There aren't any animals—     Keep me in focus, lad.     All the way, Irish.     What do they say...? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera!     Marnagan held his gun out in front of him and still smiling took one,two, three, four steps out into the outside world. The monsters werewaiting for him at the fifth step. Marnagan kept walking.     Right out into the middle of them....  That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and themonsters!     Only now it was only Marnagan.     No more monsters.     Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. Hey, Click, lookat me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail andran away!     Ran, hell! cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed andanimated. They just plain vanished. They were only imaginativefigments!     And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, youcoward!     Smile when you say that, Irish.     Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears inyour sweet grey eyes?     Damn, swore the photographer, embarrassedly. Why don't they putwindow-wipers in these helmets?     I'll take it up with the Board, lad.     Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in onehunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are partof his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased backinto their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothingsuspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animalskill them.     Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill.     Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they couldhave frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. Ifthat isn't being dangerous—     The Irishman whistled.     But, we've got to      move     , Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen.In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source,Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters. Clickattached his camera to his mid-belt. Gunther probably thinks we'redead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates; they neverhad a chance to disbelieve them.     If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click—     Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident— Clickstopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head andfelt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steadyhimself, and swayed. I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours.This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick.     Marnagan's homely face grimaced in sympathy. Hold tight, Click. Theguy that invented these fish-bowls didn't provide for a sick stomach.     Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animalscame from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to comeback!     Come back? How?     They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if webelieve in them again, they'll return.     Marnagan didn't like it. Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—ifwe believe in 'em?     Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. Not if we believein them to a      certain point     . Psychologically they can both be seen andfelt. We only want to      see     them coming at us again.           Do     we, now?     With twenty minutes left, maybe less—     All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it?     Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. Just think—I will seethe monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them.Think it over and over.     Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. And—what if I forget to rememberall that? What if I get excited...?     Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking atIrish.     Marnagan cursed. All right, lad. Let's have at it!     The monsters returned.  A soundless deluge of them, pouring over the rubbled horizon, swarmingin malevolent anticipation about the two men.     This way, Irish. They come from this way! There's a focal point, asending station for these telepathic brutes. Come on!     Hathaway sludged into the pressing tide of color, mouths, contortedfaces, silvery fat bodies misting as he plowed through them.       Marnagan was making good progress ahead of Hathaway. But he stopped andraised his gun and made quick moves with it. Click! This one here!It's real! He fell back and something struck him down. His immenseframe slammed against rock, noiselessly.     Hathaway darted forward, flung his body over Marnagan's, covered thehelmet glass with his hands, shouting:     Marnagan! Get a grip, dammit! It's not real—don't let it force intoyour mind! It's not real, I tell you!     Click— Marnagan's face was a bitter, tortured movement behind glass.Click— He was fighting hard. I—I—sure now. Sure— He smiled.It—it's only a shanty fake!     Keep saying it, Irish. Keep it up.     Marnagan's thick lips opened. It's only a fake, he said. And then,irritated, Get the hell off me, Hathaway. Let me up to my feet!     Hathaway got up, shakily. The air in his helmet smelled stale, andlittle bubbles danced in his eyes. Irish,      you     forget the monsters.Let me handle them, I know how. They might fool you again, you mightforget.     Marnagan showed his teeth. Gah! Let a flea have all the fun? Andbesides, Click, I like to look at them. They're pretty.     The outpour of animals came from a low lying mound a mile farther on.Evidently the telepathic source lay there. They approached it warily.     We'll be taking our chances on guard, hissed Irish. I'll go ahead,draw their attention, maybe get captured. Then,      you     show up with      your     gun....     I haven't got one.     We'll chance it, then. You stick here until I see what's ahead. Theyprobably got scanners out. Let them see me—     And before Hathaway could object, Marnagan walked off. He walked aboutfive hundred yards, bent down, applied his fingers to something, heavedup, and there was a door opening in the rock.     His voice came back across the distance, into Click's earphones. Adoor, an air-lock, Click. A tunnel leading down inside!     Then, Marnagan dropped into the tunnel, disappearing. Click heard thethud of his feet hitting the metal flooring.     Click sucked in his breath, hard and fast.     All right, put 'em up! a new harsh voice cried over a differentradio. One of Gunther's guards.     Three shots sizzled out, and Marnagan bellowed.     The strange harsh voice said, That's better. Don't try and pick thatgun up now. Oh, so it's you. I thought Gunther had finished you off.How'd you get past the animals?     Click started running. He switched off his      sending     audio, kept his      receiving     on. Marnagan, weaponless.      One     guard. Click gasped. Thingswere getting dark. Had to have air. Air. Air. He ran and kept runningand listening to Marnagan's lying voice:     I tied them pink elephants of Gunther's in neat alphabetical bundlesand stacked them up to dry, ya louse! Marnagan said. But, damn you,they killed my partner before he had a chance!     The guard laughed.  The air-lock door was still wide open when Click reached it, his headswimming darkly, his lungs crammed with pain-fire and hell-rockets. Helet himself down in, quiet and soft. He didn't have a weapon. He didn'thave a weapon. Oh, damn, damn!     A tunnel curved, ending in light, and two men silhouetted in thatyellow glare. Marnagan, backed against a wall, his helmet cracked,air hissing slowly out of it, his face turning blue. And the guard, aproton gun extended stiffly before him, also in a vac-suit. The guardhad his profile toward Hathaway, his lips twisting: I think I'll letyou stand right there and die, he said quietly. That what Guntherwanted, anway. A nice sordid death.     Hathaway took three strides, his hands out in front of him.     Don't move! he snapped. I've got a weapon stronger than yours. Onetwitch and I'll blast you and the whole damned wall out from behindyou! Freeze!     The guard whirled. He widened his sharp eyes, and reluctantly, droppedhis gun to the floor.     Get his gun, Irish.     Marnagan made as if to move, crumpled clumsily forward.     Hathaway ran in, snatched up the gun, smirked at the guard. Thanks forposing, he said. That shot will go down in film history for candidacting.     What!     Ah: ah! Keep your place. I've got a real gun now. Where's the doorleading into the Base?     The guard moved his head sullenly over his left shoulder.     Click was afraid he would show his weak dizziness. He needed air.Okay. Drag Marnagan with you, open the door and we'll have air. Doubletime! Double!     Ten minutes later, Marnagan and Hathaway, fresh tanks of oxygen ontheir backs, Marnagan in a fresh bulger and helmet, trussed the guard,hid him in a huge trash receptacle. Where he belongs, observed Irishtersely.     They found themselves in a complete inner world; an asteroid nothingmore than a honey-comb fortress sliding through the void unchallenged.Perfect front for a raider who had little equipment and wasshort-handed of men. Gunther simply waited for specific cargo ships torocket by, pulled them or knocked them down and swarmed over them forcargo. The animals served simply to insure against suspicion and theswarms of tourists that filled the void these days. Small fry weren'twanted. They were scared off.     The telepathic sending station for the animals was a great bank ofintricate, glittering machine, through which strips of colored filmwith images slid into slots and machine mouths that translated theminto thought-emanations. A damned neat piece of genius.     So here we are, still not much better off than we were, growledIrish. We haven't a ship or a space-radio, and more guards'll turnup any moment. You think we could refocus this doohingey, project themonsters inside the asteroid to fool the pirates themselves?     What good would that do? Hathaway gnawed his lip. They wouldn't foolthe engineers who created them, you nut.     Marnagan exhaled disgustedly. Ah, if only the U.S. Cavalry would comeriding over the hill—  Irish! Hathaway snapped that, his face lighting up. Irish. The U.S.Cavalry it is! His eyes darted over the machines. Here. Help me.We'll stage everything on the most colossal raid of the century.     Marnagan winced. You breathing oxygen or whiskey?     There's only one stipulation I make, Irish. I want a complete pictureof Marnagan capturing Raider's Base. I want a picture of Gunther's facewhen you do it. Snap it, now, we've got rush work to do. How good anactor are you?     That's a silly question.     You only have to do three things. Walk with your gun out in front ofyou, firing. That's number one. Number two is to clutch at your heartand fall down dead. Number three is to clutch at your side, fall downand twitch on the ground. Is that clear?     Clear as the Coal Sack Nebula....     An hour later Hathaway trudged down a passageway that led out into asort of city street inside the asteroid. There were about six streets,lined with cube houses in yellow metal, ending near Hathaway in awide, green-lawned Plaza.     Hathaway, weaponless, idly carrying his camera in one hand, walkedacross the Plaza as if he owned it. He was heading for a building thatwas pretentious enough to be Gunther's quarters.     He got halfway there when he felt a gun in his back.     He didn't resist. They took him straight ahead to his destination andpushed him into a room where Gunther sat.     Hathaway looked at him. So you're Gunther? he said, calmly. Thepirate was incredibly old, his bulging forehead stood out over sunken,questioningly dark eyes, and his scrawny body was lost in folds ofmetal-link cloth. He glanced up from a paper-file, surprised. Before hecould speak, Hathaway said:     Everything's over with, Mr. Gunther. The Patrol is in the city now andwe're capturing your Base. Don't try to fight. We've a thousand menagainst your eighty-five.     Gunther sat there, blinking at Hathaway, not moving. His thin handstwitched in his lap. You are bluffing, he said, finally, with a firmdirectness. A ship hasn't landed here for an hour. Your ship was thelast. Two people were on it. The last I saw of them they were beingpursued to the death by the Beasts. One of you escaped, it seemed.     Both. The other guy went after the Patrol.     Impossible!     I can't respect your opinion, Mr. Gunther.     A shouting rose from the Plaza. About fifty of Gunther's men, loungingon carved benches during their time-off, stirred to their feet andstarted yelling. Gunther turned slowly to the huge window in one sideof his office. He stared, hard.     The Patrol was coming!     Across the Plaza, marching quietly and decisively, came the Patrol.Five hundred Patrolmen in one long, incredible line, carrying paralysisguns with them in their tight hands.     Gunther babbled like a child, his voice a shrill dagger in the air.Get out there, you men! Throw them back! We're outnumbered!     Guns flared. But the Patrol came on. Gunther's men didn't run, Hathawayhad to credit them on that. They took it, standing.     Hathaway chuckled inside, deep. What a sweet, sweet shot this was.His camera whirred, clicked and whirred again. Nobody stopped himfrom filming it. Everything was too wild, hot and angry. Gunther wasthrowing a fit, still seated at his desk, unable to move because of hisfragile, bony legs and their atrophied state.     Some of the Patrol were killed. Hathaway chuckled again as he saw threeof the Patrolmen clutch at their hearts, crumple, lie on the ground andtwitch. God, what photography!     Gunther raged, and swept a small pistol from his linked corselet. Hefired wildly until Hathaway hit him over the head with a paper-weight.Then Hathaway took a picture of Gunther slumped at his desk, the chaostaking place immediately outside his window.     The pirates broke and fled, those that were left. A mere handful. Andout of the chaos came Marnagan's voice, Here!  One of the Patrolmen stopped firing, and ran toward Click and theBuilding. He got inside. Did you see them run, Click boy? What anidea. How did we do?     Fine, Irish. Fine!     So here's Gunther, the spalpeen! Gunther, the little dried up pirate,eh? Marnagan whacked Hathaway on the back. I'll have to hand it toyou, this is the best plan o' battle ever laid out. And proud I was tofight with such splendid men as these— He gestured toward the Plaza.     Click laughed with him. You should be proud. Five hundred Patrolmenwith hair like red banners flying, with thick Irish brogues and broadshoulders and freckles and blue eyes and a body as tall as yourstories!     Marnagan roared. I always said, I said—if ever there could be anarmy of Marnagans, we could lick the whole damn uneeverse! Did youphotograph it, Click?     I did. Hathaway tapped his camera happily.     Ah, then, won't that be a scoop for you, boy? Money from the Patrol sothey can use the film as instruction in Classes and money from CosmicFilms for the news-reel headlines! And what a scene, and what acting!Five hundred duplicates of Steve Marnagan, broadcast telepathicallyinto the minds of the pirates, walking across a Plaza, capturing thewhole she-bang! How did you like my death-scenes?     You're a ham. And anyway—five hundred duplicates, nothing! saidClick. He ripped the film-spool from the camera, spread it in the airto develop, inserted it in the micro-viewer. Have a look—     Marnagan looked. Ah, now. Ah, now, he said over and over. There'sthe Plaza, and there's Gunther's men fighting and then they're turningand running. And what are they running from? One man! Me. IrishMarnagan! Walking all by myself across the lawn, paralyzing them. Oneagainst a hundred, and the cowards running from me!     Sure, Click, this is better than I thought. I forgot that the filmwouldn't register telepathic emanations, them other Marnagans. Itmakes it look like I'm a mighty brave man, does it not? It does. Ah,look—look at me, Hathaway, I'm enjoying every minute of it, I am.  Hathaway swatted him on his back-side. Look here, you egocentric sonof Erin, there's more work to be done. More pirates to be captured. ThePatrol is still marching around and someone might be suspicious if theylooked too close and saw all that red hair.     All right, Click, we'll clean up the rest of them now. We're acombination, we two, we are. I take it all back about your pictures,Click, if you hadn't thought of taking pictures of me and insertingit into those telepath machines we'd be dead ducks now. Well—here Igo....     Hathaway stopped him. Hold it. Until I load my camera again.     Irish grinned. Hurry it up. Here come three guards. They're unarmed.I think I'll handle them with me fists for a change. The gentle art ofuppercuts. Are you ready, Hathaway?     Ready.     Marnagan lifted his big ham-fists.     The camera whirred. Hathaway chuckled, to himself.     What a sweet fade-out this was!   ","“Click” Hathaway, a photographer, is on a spaceship with “Irish” Marnagan, the ship’s pilot, as the ship is hit by a meteor and crashesAfter the crash, Hathaway jokes about getting a shot of Marnagan emerging from the wreckage, which Marnagan takes offense to, pointing out he could have been dead; Hathaway says he took it for granted that Marnagan would survive.  Marnagan states that they could walk the entire diameter of the planet they are on in four hours, but Hathaway points out that he has only an hour of oxygen.  Hathaway states that he has photo evidence that the meteor that hit their ship was thrown at them, probably by Gunther, the person Marnagan is trying to capture, but Marnagan redirects their priorities to oxygen, food, and a way back to earth.As they walk in search of help, they notice that there is human-made gravity on the planet.  Immediately after making that discovery, they encounter an enormous herd of dangerous beasts.  When Marnagan discovers his gun is ineffective as a weapon, they flee to a nearby cave for protection, as the cave is too small for the beasts to enter.Marnagan asks Hathaway to take a picture of him with the beasts.  Hathaway snaps several pictures of Marnagan posing at a safe distance.  Hathaway then says that between the “natural” meteors, gravity, and beasts, their crash will look accidental rather than like murder.  He shows Marnagan the pictures he shot, intending to use the beasts as part of his argument, but Marnagan protests that his film is “lousy” as only Marnagan, appears in the shots and not the beasts.  When Hathaway confirms this is so, he is insistent that the film cannot lie.  If the beasts do not appear in the photos, they don’t exist.When they emerge from the cave and the animals are gone, the men are at first elated.  Hathaway quickly realizes, though, that with their oxygen running low and limiting the time they have to find Gunther’s base and fresh oxygen, they must get the beasts to return so that they can follow the beasts to their source--Gunther’s base.The men concentrate on the beasts and the beasts reappear; Hathaway and Marnagan locate a source point and head toward it.  Marnagan believes he is being attacked by a beast, but when Hathaway reminds him the monsters are fake, Marnagan is able to resist the telepathic message.  Marnagan enters the cave where it appears the animals are coming from and finds an air-lock door and a tunnel before he is captured by a guard.  He tells the guard his partner is dead.Hathaway creeps in through the air-lock door to see Marnagan held at gunpoint.  Hathaway fools the guard into believing he is armed, takes his gun, and gets the guard to guide him and Marnagan to oxygen.  They then use photos of Marnagan, inserted in the telepath machines, to take over Gunther’s fortress and capture him.  The story ends with Hathaway taking a triumphant posed picture of Marnagan."
"What is the significance of Hathaway’s profession in the story? </s>     The Monster Maker     By RAY BRADBURY     Get Gunther, the official orders read. It     was to laugh! For Click and Irish were     marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only     weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Suddenly, it was there. There wasn't time to blink or speak or getscared. Click Hathaway's camera was loaded and he stood there listeningto it rack-spin film between his fingers, and he knew he was getting adamned sweet picture of everything that was happening.     The picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console,wrenching levers, jamming studs with freckled fists. And out in thedark of the fore-part there was space and a star-sprinkling and thismeteor coming like blazing fury.     Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal'sskin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked therear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round.     There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he waspicked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn'tlong in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on tohis camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that hadbeen of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out ofthe controls and keeping his words to himself until just now.     It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroidsrushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking atom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs.     Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was thenearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and youended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk ofmetal death. What a fade-out!     Irish! he heard himself say. Is this IT?     Is this      what     ? yelled Marnagan inside his helmet.     Is this where the Big Producer yells CUT!?     Marnagan fumed. I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'mready I'll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films!     They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand ofgravity; listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones.     The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end overand stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattledaround—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst,air and energy flung out.     Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinkingquick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reachfilm, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like      this     one! Hisbrain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of hiscamera.  Silence came and engulfed all the noise, ate it up and swallowed it.Hathaway shook his head, instinctively grabbed at the camera lockedto his mid-belt. There was nothing but stars, twisted wreckage, coldthat pierced through his vac-suit, and silence. He wriggled out of thewreckage into that silence.     He didn't know what he was doing until he found the camera in hisfingers as if it had grown there when he was born. He stood there,thinking Well, I'll at least have a few good scenes on film. I'll—     A hunk of metal teetered, fell with a crash. Marnagan elevated sevenfeet of bellowing manhood from the wreck.     Hold it! cracked Hathaway's high voice. Marnagan froze. The camerawhirred. Low angle shot; Interplanetary Patrolman emerges unscathedfrom asteroid crackup. Swell stuff. I'll get a raise for this!     From the toe of me boot! snarled Marnagan brusquely. Oxen shouldersflexed inside his vac-suit. I might've died in there, and you nursin'that film-contraption!     Hathaway felt funny inside, suddenly. I never thought of that.Marnagan die? I just took it for granted you'd come through. You alwayshave. Funny, but you don't think about dying. You try not to. Hathawaystared at his gloved hand, but the gloving was so thick and heavy hecouldn't tell if it was shaking. Muscles in his bony face went down,pale. Where are we?     A million miles from nobody.     They stood in the middle of a pocked, time-eroded meteor plain thatstretched off, dipping down into silent indigo and a rash of stars.Overhead, the sun poised; black and stars all around it, making it looksick.     If we walk in opposite directions, Click Hathaway, we'd be shakinghands the other side of this rock in two hours. Marnagan shook his mopof dusty red hair. And I promised the boys at Luna Base this time I'dcapture that Gunther lad!     His voice stopped and the silence spoke.     Hathaway felt his heart pumping slow, hot pumps of blood. I checkedmy oxygen, Irish. Sixty minutes of breathing left.     The silence punctuated that sentence, too. Upon the sharp meteoricrocks Hathaway saw the tangled insides of the radio, the food supplymashed and scattered. They were lucky to have escaped. Or      was     suffocation a better death...?      Sixty minutes.       They stood and looked at one another.     Damn that meteor! said Marnagan, hotly.     Hathaway got hold of an idea; remembering something. He said it out:Somebody tossed that meteor, Irish. I took a picture of it, lookedit right in the eye when it rolled at us, and it was poker-hot.Space-meteors are never hot and glowing. If it's proof you want, I'vegot it here, on film.     Marnagan winced his freckled square of face. It's not proof we neednow, Click. Oxygen. And then      food     . And then some way back to Earth.     Hathaway went on saying his thoughts: This is Gunther's work. He'shere somewhere, probably laughing his guts out at the job he did us.Oh, God, this would make great news-release stuff if we ever get backto Earth. I.P.'s Irish Marnagan, temporarily indisposed by a piratewhose dirty face has never been seen, Gunther by name, finally winsthrough to a triumphant finish. Photographed on the spot, in color, byyours truly, Click Hathaway. Cosmic Films, please notice.  They started walking, fast, over the pocked, rubbled plain toward abony ridge of metal. They kept their eyes wide and awake. There wasn'tmuch to see, but it was better than standing still, waiting.     Marnagan said, We're working on margin, and we got nothin' to sweatwith except your suspicions about this not being an accident. We gotfifty minutes to prove you're right. After that—right or wrong—you'llbe Cosmic Films prettiest unmoving, unbreathin' genius. But talk allyou like, Click. It's times like this when we all need words, anywords, on our tongues. You got your camera and your scoop. Talk aboutit. As for me— he twisted his glossy red face. Keeping alive is mehobby. And this sort of two-bit death I did not order.     Click nodded. Gunther knows how you'd hate dying this way, Irish.It's irony clean through. That's probably why he planned the meteor andthe crash this way.     Marnagan said nothing, but his thick lips went down at the corners, fardown, and the green eyes blazed.     They stopped, together.     Oops! Click said.     Hey! Marnagan blinked. Did you feel      that     ?     Hathaway's body felt feathery, light as a whisper, boneless andlimbless, suddenly. Irish! We lost weight, coming over that ridge!     They ran back. Let's try it again.     They tried it. They scowled at each other. The same thing happened.Gravity should not act this way, Click.     Are you telling me? It's man-made. Better than that—it's Gunther! Nowonder we fell so fast—we were dragged down by a super-gravity set-up!Gunther'd do anything to—did I say      anything     ?     Hathaway leaped backward in reaction. His eyes widened and his handcame up, jabbing. Over a hill-ridge swarmed a brew of unbelievablehorrors. Progeny from Frankenstein's ARK. Immense crimson beasts withnumerous legs and gnashing mandibles, brown-black creatures, sometubular and fat, others like thin white poisonous whips slashing alongin the air. Fangs caught starlight white on them.     Hathaway yelled and ran, Marnagan at his heels, lumbering. Sweat brokecold on his body. The immense things rolled, slithered and squirmedafter him. A blast of light. Marnagan, firing his proton-gun. Then, inClick's ears, the Irishman's incredulous bellow. The gun didn't hurtthe creatures at all.     Irish! Hathaway flung himself over the ridge, slid down an inclinetoward the mouth a small cave. This way, fella!     Hathaway made it first, Marnagan bellowing just behind him. They'retoo big; they can't get us in here! Click's voice gasped it out,as Marnagan squeezed his two-hundred-fifty pounds beside him.Instinctively, Hathaway added, Asteroid monsters! My camera! What ascene!     Damn your damn camera! yelled Marnagan. They might come in!     Use your gun.     They got impervious hides. No use. Gahh! And that was a pretty chase,eh, Click?     Yeah. Sure.      You     enjoyed it, every moment of it.     I did that. Irish grinned, showing white uneven teeth. Now, whatwill we be doing with these uninvited guests at our door?     Let me think—     Lots of time, little man. Forty more minutes of air, to be exact.  They sat, staring at the monsters for about a minute. Hathaway feltfunny about something; didn't know what. Something about these monstersand Gunther and—     Which one will you be having? asked Irish, casually. A red one or ablue one?     Hathaway laughed nervously. A pink one with yellow ruffles—Good God,now you've got      me     doing it. Joking in the face of death.     Me father taught me; keep laughing and you'll have Irish luck.     That didn't please the photographer. I'm an Anglo-Swede, he pointedout.     Marnagan shifted uneasily. Here, now. You're doing nothing butsitting, looking like a little boy locked in a bedroom closet, so takeme a profile shot of the beasties and myself.     Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly. What in hell's the use? Allthis swell film shot. Nobody'll ever see it.     Then, retorted Marnagan, we'll develop it for our own benefit; whilewaitin' for the U.S. Cavalry to come riding over the hill to ourrescue!     Hathaway snorted. U.S. Cavalry.     Marnagan raised his proton-gun dramatically. Snap me this pose, hesaid. I paid your salary to trot along, photographing, we hoped,my capture of Gunther, now the least you can do is record peacenegotiations betwixt me and these pixies.     Marnagan wasn't fooling anybody. Hathaway knew the superficial palaverfor nothing but a covering over the fast, furious thinking runningaround in that red-cropped skull. Hathaway played the palaver, too, buthis mind was whirring faster than his camera as he spun a picture ofMarnagan standing there with a useless gun pointed at the animals.     Montage. Marnagan sitting, chatting at the monsters. Marnagan smilingfor the camera. Marnagan in profile. Marnagan looking grim, withoutmuch effort, for the camera. And then, a closeup of the thrashing deathwall that holed them in. Click took them all, those shots, not sayinganything. Nobody fooled nobody with this act. Death was near and theyhad sweaty faces, dry mouths and frozen guts.     When Click finished filming, Irish sat down to save oxygen, and used itup arguing about Gunther. Click came back at him:     Gunther drew us down here, sure as Ceres! That gravity change we feltback on that ridge, Irish; that proves it. Gunther's short on men. So,what's he do; he builds an asteroid-base, and drags ships down. Spacewar isn't perfect yet, guns don't prime true in space, trajectoryis lousy over long distances. So what's the best weapon, whichdispenses with losing valuable, rare ships and a small bunch of men?Super-gravity and a couple of well-tossed meteors. Saves all around.It's a good front, this damned iron pebble. From it, Gunther strikesunseen; ships simply crash, that's all. A subtle hand, with all aces.     Marnagan rumbled. Where is the dirty son, then!     He didn't have to appear, Irish. He sent—them. Hathaway nodded atthe beasts. People crashing here die from air-lack, no food, or fromwounds caused at the crackup. If they survive all that—the animalstend to them. It all looks like Nature was responsible. See how subtlehis attack is? Looks like accidental death instead of murder, if thePatrol happens to land and finds us. No reason for undue investigation,then.     I don't see no Base around.  Click shrugged. Still doubt it? Okay. Look. He tapped his camera anda spool popped out onto his gloved palm. Holding it up, he strippedit out to its full twenty inch length, held it to the light while itdeveloped, smiling. It was one of his best inventions. Self-developingfilm. The first light struck film-surface, destroyed one chemical,leaving imprints; the second exposure simply hardened, secured theimpressions. Quick stuff.     Inserting the film-tongue into a micro-viewer in the camera's base,Click handed the whole thing over. Look.     Marnagan put the viewer up against the helmet glass, squinted. Ah,Click. Now, now. This is one lousy film you invented.     Huh?     It's a strange process'll develop my picture and ignore the asteroidmonsters complete.     What!     Hathaway grabbed the camera, gasped, squinted, and gasped again:Pictures in montage; Marnagan sitting down, chatting conversationallywith      nothing     ; Marnagan shooting his gun at      nothing     ; Marnaganpretending to be happy in front of      nothing     .     Then, closeup—of—NOTHING!     The monsters had failed to image the film. Marnagan was there, his hairlike a red banner, his freckled face with the blue eyes bright in it.Maybe—     Hathaway said it, loud: Irish! Irish! I think I see a way out of thismess! Here—     He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film,the beasts, and how the film couldn't be wrong. If the film said themonsters weren't there, they weren't there.     Yeah, said Marnagan. But step outside this cave—     If my theory is correct I'll do it, unafraid, said Click.     Marnagan scowled. You sure them beasts don't radiate ultra-violet orinfra-red or something that won't come out on film?     Nuts! Any color      we     see, the camera sees. We've been fooled.     Hey, where      you     going? Marnagan blocked Hathaway as the smaller mantried pushing past him.     Get out of the way, said Hathaway.     Marnagan put his big fists on his hips. If anyone is going anywhere,it'll be me does the going.     I can't let you do that, Irish.     Why not?     You'd be going on my say-so.     Ain't your say-so good enough for me?     Yes. Sure. Of course. I guess—     If you say them animals ain't there, that's all I need. Now, standaside, you film-developing flea, and let an Irishman settle theirbones. He took an unnecessary hitch in trousers that didn't existexcept under an inch of porous metal plate. Your express purpose onthis voyage, Hathaway, is taking films to be used by the Patrol laterfor teaching Junior Patrolmen how to act in tough spots. First-handeducation. Poke another spool of film in that contraption and give meprofile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into TheLion's Den.     Irish, I—     Shut up and load up.     Hathaway nervously loaded the film-slot, raised it.     Ready, Click?     I—I guess so, said Hathaway. And remember, think it hard, Irish.Think it hard. There aren't any animals—     Keep me in focus, lad.     All the way, Irish.     What do they say...? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera!     Marnagan held his gun out in front of him and still smiling took one,two, three, four steps out into the outside world. The monsters werewaiting for him at the fifth step. Marnagan kept walking.     Right out into the middle of them....  That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and themonsters!     Only now it was only Marnagan.     No more monsters.     Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. Hey, Click, lookat me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail andran away!     Ran, hell! cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed andanimated. They just plain vanished. They were only imaginativefigments!     And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, youcoward!     Smile when you say that, Irish.     Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears inyour sweet grey eyes?     Damn, swore the photographer, embarrassedly. Why don't they putwindow-wipers in these helmets?     I'll take it up with the Board, lad.     Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in onehunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are partof his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased backinto their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothingsuspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animalskill them.     Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill.     Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they couldhave frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. Ifthat isn't being dangerous—     The Irishman whistled.     But, we've got to      move     , Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen.In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source,Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters. Clickattached his camera to his mid-belt. Gunther probably thinks we'redead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates; they neverhad a chance to disbelieve them.     If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click—     Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident— Clickstopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head andfelt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steadyhimself, and swayed. I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours.This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick.     Marnagan's homely face grimaced in sympathy. Hold tight, Click. Theguy that invented these fish-bowls didn't provide for a sick stomach.     Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animalscame from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to comeback!     Come back? How?     They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if webelieve in them again, they'll return.     Marnagan didn't like it. Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—ifwe believe in 'em?     Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. Not if we believein them to a      certain point     . Psychologically they can both be seen andfelt. We only want to      see     them coming at us again.           Do     we, now?     With twenty minutes left, maybe less—     All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it?     Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. Just think—I will seethe monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them.Think it over and over.     Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. And—what if I forget to rememberall that? What if I get excited...?     Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking atIrish.     Marnagan cursed. All right, lad. Let's have at it!     The monsters returned.  A soundless deluge of them, pouring over the rubbled horizon, swarmingin malevolent anticipation about the two men.     This way, Irish. They come from this way! There's a focal point, asending station for these telepathic brutes. Come on!     Hathaway sludged into the pressing tide of color, mouths, contortedfaces, silvery fat bodies misting as he plowed through them.       Marnagan was making good progress ahead of Hathaway. But he stopped andraised his gun and made quick moves with it. Click! This one here!It's real! He fell back and something struck him down. His immenseframe slammed against rock, noiselessly.     Hathaway darted forward, flung his body over Marnagan's, covered thehelmet glass with his hands, shouting:     Marnagan! Get a grip, dammit! It's not real—don't let it force intoyour mind! It's not real, I tell you!     Click— Marnagan's face was a bitter, tortured movement behind glass.Click— He was fighting hard. I—I—sure now. Sure— He smiled.It—it's only a shanty fake!     Keep saying it, Irish. Keep it up.     Marnagan's thick lips opened. It's only a fake, he said. And then,irritated, Get the hell off me, Hathaway. Let me up to my feet!     Hathaway got up, shakily. The air in his helmet smelled stale, andlittle bubbles danced in his eyes. Irish,      you     forget the monsters.Let me handle them, I know how. They might fool you again, you mightforget.     Marnagan showed his teeth. Gah! Let a flea have all the fun? Andbesides, Click, I like to look at them. They're pretty.     The outpour of animals came from a low lying mound a mile farther on.Evidently the telepathic source lay there. They approached it warily.     We'll be taking our chances on guard, hissed Irish. I'll go ahead,draw their attention, maybe get captured. Then,      you     show up with      your     gun....     I haven't got one.     We'll chance it, then. You stick here until I see what's ahead. Theyprobably got scanners out. Let them see me—     And before Hathaway could object, Marnagan walked off. He walked aboutfive hundred yards, bent down, applied his fingers to something, heavedup, and there was a door opening in the rock.     His voice came back across the distance, into Click's earphones. Adoor, an air-lock, Click. A tunnel leading down inside!     Then, Marnagan dropped into the tunnel, disappearing. Click heard thethud of his feet hitting the metal flooring.     Click sucked in his breath, hard and fast.     All right, put 'em up! a new harsh voice cried over a differentradio. One of Gunther's guards.     Three shots sizzled out, and Marnagan bellowed.     The strange harsh voice said, That's better. Don't try and pick thatgun up now. Oh, so it's you. I thought Gunther had finished you off.How'd you get past the animals?     Click started running. He switched off his      sending     audio, kept his      receiving     on. Marnagan, weaponless.      One     guard. Click gasped. Thingswere getting dark. Had to have air. Air. Air. He ran and kept runningand listening to Marnagan's lying voice:     I tied them pink elephants of Gunther's in neat alphabetical bundlesand stacked them up to dry, ya louse! Marnagan said. But, damn you,they killed my partner before he had a chance!     The guard laughed.  The air-lock door was still wide open when Click reached it, his headswimming darkly, his lungs crammed with pain-fire and hell-rockets. Helet himself down in, quiet and soft. He didn't have a weapon. He didn'thave a weapon. Oh, damn, damn!     A tunnel curved, ending in light, and two men silhouetted in thatyellow glare. Marnagan, backed against a wall, his helmet cracked,air hissing slowly out of it, his face turning blue. And the guard, aproton gun extended stiffly before him, also in a vac-suit. The guardhad his profile toward Hathaway, his lips twisting: I think I'll letyou stand right there and die, he said quietly. That what Guntherwanted, anway. A nice sordid death.     Hathaway took three strides, his hands out in front of him.     Don't move! he snapped. I've got a weapon stronger than yours. Onetwitch and I'll blast you and the whole damned wall out from behindyou! Freeze!     The guard whirled. He widened his sharp eyes, and reluctantly, droppedhis gun to the floor.     Get his gun, Irish.     Marnagan made as if to move, crumpled clumsily forward.     Hathaway ran in, snatched up the gun, smirked at the guard. Thanks forposing, he said. That shot will go down in film history for candidacting.     What!     Ah: ah! Keep your place. I've got a real gun now. Where's the doorleading into the Base?     The guard moved his head sullenly over his left shoulder.     Click was afraid he would show his weak dizziness. He needed air.Okay. Drag Marnagan with you, open the door and we'll have air. Doubletime! Double!     Ten minutes later, Marnagan and Hathaway, fresh tanks of oxygen ontheir backs, Marnagan in a fresh bulger and helmet, trussed the guard,hid him in a huge trash receptacle. Where he belongs, observed Irishtersely.     They found themselves in a complete inner world; an asteroid nothingmore than a honey-comb fortress sliding through the void unchallenged.Perfect front for a raider who had little equipment and wasshort-handed of men. Gunther simply waited for specific cargo ships torocket by, pulled them or knocked them down and swarmed over them forcargo. The animals served simply to insure against suspicion and theswarms of tourists that filled the void these days. Small fry weren'twanted. They were scared off.     The telepathic sending station for the animals was a great bank ofintricate, glittering machine, through which strips of colored filmwith images slid into slots and machine mouths that translated theminto thought-emanations. A damned neat piece of genius.     So here we are, still not much better off than we were, growledIrish. We haven't a ship or a space-radio, and more guards'll turnup any moment. You think we could refocus this doohingey, project themonsters inside the asteroid to fool the pirates themselves?     What good would that do? Hathaway gnawed his lip. They wouldn't foolthe engineers who created them, you nut.     Marnagan exhaled disgustedly. Ah, if only the U.S. Cavalry would comeriding over the hill—  Irish! Hathaway snapped that, his face lighting up. Irish. The U.S.Cavalry it is! His eyes darted over the machines. Here. Help me.We'll stage everything on the most colossal raid of the century.     Marnagan winced. You breathing oxygen or whiskey?     There's only one stipulation I make, Irish. I want a complete pictureof Marnagan capturing Raider's Base. I want a picture of Gunther's facewhen you do it. Snap it, now, we've got rush work to do. How good anactor are you?     That's a silly question.     You only have to do three things. Walk with your gun out in front ofyou, firing. That's number one. Number two is to clutch at your heartand fall down dead. Number three is to clutch at your side, fall downand twitch on the ground. Is that clear?     Clear as the Coal Sack Nebula....     An hour later Hathaway trudged down a passageway that led out into asort of city street inside the asteroid. There were about six streets,lined with cube houses in yellow metal, ending near Hathaway in awide, green-lawned Plaza.     Hathaway, weaponless, idly carrying his camera in one hand, walkedacross the Plaza as if he owned it. He was heading for a building thatwas pretentious enough to be Gunther's quarters.     He got halfway there when he felt a gun in his back.     He didn't resist. They took him straight ahead to his destination andpushed him into a room where Gunther sat.     Hathaway looked at him. So you're Gunther? he said, calmly. Thepirate was incredibly old, his bulging forehead stood out over sunken,questioningly dark eyes, and his scrawny body was lost in folds ofmetal-link cloth. He glanced up from a paper-file, surprised. Before hecould speak, Hathaway said:     Everything's over with, Mr. Gunther. The Patrol is in the city now andwe're capturing your Base. Don't try to fight. We've a thousand menagainst your eighty-five.     Gunther sat there, blinking at Hathaway, not moving. His thin handstwitched in his lap. You are bluffing, he said, finally, with a firmdirectness. A ship hasn't landed here for an hour. Your ship was thelast. Two people were on it. The last I saw of them they were beingpursued to the death by the Beasts. One of you escaped, it seemed.     Both. The other guy went after the Patrol.     Impossible!     I can't respect your opinion, Mr. Gunther.     A shouting rose from the Plaza. About fifty of Gunther's men, loungingon carved benches during their time-off, stirred to their feet andstarted yelling. Gunther turned slowly to the huge window in one sideof his office. He stared, hard.     The Patrol was coming!     Across the Plaza, marching quietly and decisively, came the Patrol.Five hundred Patrolmen in one long, incredible line, carrying paralysisguns with them in their tight hands.     Gunther babbled like a child, his voice a shrill dagger in the air.Get out there, you men! Throw them back! We're outnumbered!     Guns flared. But the Patrol came on. Gunther's men didn't run, Hathawayhad to credit them on that. They took it, standing.     Hathaway chuckled inside, deep. What a sweet, sweet shot this was.His camera whirred, clicked and whirred again. Nobody stopped himfrom filming it. Everything was too wild, hot and angry. Gunther wasthrowing a fit, still seated at his desk, unable to move because of hisfragile, bony legs and their atrophied state.     Some of the Patrol were killed. Hathaway chuckled again as he saw threeof the Patrolmen clutch at their hearts, crumple, lie on the ground andtwitch. God, what photography!     Gunther raged, and swept a small pistol from his linked corselet. Hefired wildly until Hathaway hit him over the head with a paper-weight.Then Hathaway took a picture of Gunther slumped at his desk, the chaostaking place immediately outside his window.     The pirates broke and fled, those that were left. A mere handful. Andout of the chaos came Marnagan's voice, Here!  One of the Patrolmen stopped firing, and ran toward Click and theBuilding. He got inside. Did you see them run, Click boy? What anidea. How did we do?     Fine, Irish. Fine!     So here's Gunther, the spalpeen! Gunther, the little dried up pirate,eh? Marnagan whacked Hathaway on the back. I'll have to hand it toyou, this is the best plan o' battle ever laid out. And proud I was tofight with such splendid men as these— He gestured toward the Plaza.     Click laughed with him. You should be proud. Five hundred Patrolmenwith hair like red banners flying, with thick Irish brogues and broadshoulders and freckles and blue eyes and a body as tall as yourstories!     Marnagan roared. I always said, I said—if ever there could be anarmy of Marnagans, we could lick the whole damn uneeverse! Did youphotograph it, Click?     I did. Hathaway tapped his camera happily.     Ah, then, won't that be a scoop for you, boy? Money from the Patrol sothey can use the film as instruction in Classes and money from CosmicFilms for the news-reel headlines! And what a scene, and what acting!Five hundred duplicates of Steve Marnagan, broadcast telepathicallyinto the minds of the pirates, walking across a Plaza, capturing thewhole she-bang! How did you like my death-scenes?     You're a ham. And anyway—five hundred duplicates, nothing! saidClick. He ripped the film-spool from the camera, spread it in the airto develop, inserted it in the micro-viewer. Have a look—     Marnagan looked. Ah, now. Ah, now, he said over and over. There'sthe Plaza, and there's Gunther's men fighting and then they're turningand running. And what are they running from? One man! Me. IrishMarnagan! Walking all by myself across the lawn, paralyzing them. Oneagainst a hundred, and the cowards running from me!     Sure, Click, this is better than I thought. I forgot that the filmwouldn't register telepathic emanations, them other Marnagans. Itmakes it look like I'm a mighty brave man, does it not? It does. Ah,look—look at me, Hathaway, I'm enjoying every minute of it, I am.  Hathaway swatted him on his back-side. Look here, you egocentric sonof Erin, there's more work to be done. More pirates to be captured. ThePatrol is still marching around and someone might be suspicious if theylooked too close and saw all that red hair.     All right, Click, we'll clean up the rest of them now. We're acombination, we two, we are. I take it all back about your pictures,Click, if you hadn't thought of taking pictures of me and insertingit into those telepath machines we'd be dead ducks now. Well—here Igo....     Hathaway stopped him. Hold it. Until I load my camera again.     Irish grinned. Hurry it up. Here come three guards. They're unarmed.I think I'll handle them with me fists for a change. The gentle art ofuppercuts. Are you ready, Hathaway?     Ready.     Marnagan lifted his big ham-fists.     The camera whirred. Hathaway chuckled, to himself.     What a sweet fade-out this was!   ","Hathaway’s photography is the reason he is initially selected to go along on the mission to capture the outlaw Gunther.  Unlike the character Marnagan, who is repeatedly described as physically very large and strong, Hathaway is not on the mission for his physical prowess, but is there to document Marnagan’s capture of Gunther for training of Junior Patrolmen in the future  Hathaway has also invented self-developing film which seems like a cross between Polaroid pictures and a digital camera, as it has to be put into a micro-viewer at the camera’s base to be seen.  This film allows Hathaway and Marnagan, the active partner on the mission, to view Hathaway’s pictures immediately and notice the absence of beasts from Hathaway’s pictures.  This allows for the revelation that the beasts are telepathic projections into the men’s minds and sets up the final “battle” in the story, in which telepathic projections of Marnagan, created by the same projectors that created the beasts, along with photos from Hathaway’s film, defeat Gunther’s guards and enable Hathaway and Marnagan to capture Gunther.  While nothing could have been accomplished without Marnagan, Hathaway’s photography is essential to the successful completion of the mission."
"What is the relationship between Hathaway and Marnagan in the story? </s>     The Monster Maker     By RAY BRADBURY     Get Gunther, the official orders read. It     was to laugh! For Click and Irish were     marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only     weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Suddenly, it was there. There wasn't time to blink or speak or getscared. Click Hathaway's camera was loaded and he stood there listeningto it rack-spin film between his fingers, and he knew he was getting adamned sweet picture of everything that was happening.     The picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console,wrenching levers, jamming studs with freckled fists. And out in thedark of the fore-part there was space and a star-sprinkling and thismeteor coming like blazing fury.     Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal'sskin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked therear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round.     There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he waspicked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn'tlong in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on tohis camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that hadbeen of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out ofthe controls and keeping his words to himself until just now.     It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroidsrushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking atom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs.     Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was thenearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and youended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk ofmetal death. What a fade-out!     Irish! he heard himself say. Is this IT?     Is this      what     ? yelled Marnagan inside his helmet.     Is this where the Big Producer yells CUT!?     Marnagan fumed. I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'mready I'll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films!     They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand ofgravity; listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones.     The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end overand stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattledaround—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst,air and energy flung out.     Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinkingquick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reachfilm, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like      this     one! Hisbrain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of hiscamera.  Silence came and engulfed all the noise, ate it up and swallowed it.Hathaway shook his head, instinctively grabbed at the camera lockedto his mid-belt. There was nothing but stars, twisted wreckage, coldthat pierced through his vac-suit, and silence. He wriggled out of thewreckage into that silence.     He didn't know what he was doing until he found the camera in hisfingers as if it had grown there when he was born. He stood there,thinking Well, I'll at least have a few good scenes on film. I'll—     A hunk of metal teetered, fell with a crash. Marnagan elevated sevenfeet of bellowing manhood from the wreck.     Hold it! cracked Hathaway's high voice. Marnagan froze. The camerawhirred. Low angle shot; Interplanetary Patrolman emerges unscathedfrom asteroid crackup. Swell stuff. I'll get a raise for this!     From the toe of me boot! snarled Marnagan brusquely. Oxen shouldersflexed inside his vac-suit. I might've died in there, and you nursin'that film-contraption!     Hathaway felt funny inside, suddenly. I never thought of that.Marnagan die? I just took it for granted you'd come through. You alwayshave. Funny, but you don't think about dying. You try not to. Hathawaystared at his gloved hand, but the gloving was so thick and heavy hecouldn't tell if it was shaking. Muscles in his bony face went down,pale. Where are we?     A million miles from nobody.     They stood in the middle of a pocked, time-eroded meteor plain thatstretched off, dipping down into silent indigo and a rash of stars.Overhead, the sun poised; black and stars all around it, making it looksick.     If we walk in opposite directions, Click Hathaway, we'd be shakinghands the other side of this rock in two hours. Marnagan shook his mopof dusty red hair. And I promised the boys at Luna Base this time I'dcapture that Gunther lad!     His voice stopped and the silence spoke.     Hathaway felt his heart pumping slow, hot pumps of blood. I checkedmy oxygen, Irish. Sixty minutes of breathing left.     The silence punctuated that sentence, too. Upon the sharp meteoricrocks Hathaway saw the tangled insides of the radio, the food supplymashed and scattered. They were lucky to have escaped. Or      was     suffocation a better death...?      Sixty minutes.       They stood and looked at one another.     Damn that meteor! said Marnagan, hotly.     Hathaway got hold of an idea; remembering something. He said it out:Somebody tossed that meteor, Irish. I took a picture of it, lookedit right in the eye when it rolled at us, and it was poker-hot.Space-meteors are never hot and glowing. If it's proof you want, I'vegot it here, on film.     Marnagan winced his freckled square of face. It's not proof we neednow, Click. Oxygen. And then      food     . And then some way back to Earth.     Hathaway went on saying his thoughts: This is Gunther's work. He'shere somewhere, probably laughing his guts out at the job he did us.Oh, God, this would make great news-release stuff if we ever get backto Earth. I.P.'s Irish Marnagan, temporarily indisposed by a piratewhose dirty face has never been seen, Gunther by name, finally winsthrough to a triumphant finish. Photographed on the spot, in color, byyours truly, Click Hathaway. Cosmic Films, please notice.  They started walking, fast, over the pocked, rubbled plain toward abony ridge of metal. They kept their eyes wide and awake. There wasn'tmuch to see, but it was better than standing still, waiting.     Marnagan said, We're working on margin, and we got nothin' to sweatwith except your suspicions about this not being an accident. We gotfifty minutes to prove you're right. After that—right or wrong—you'llbe Cosmic Films prettiest unmoving, unbreathin' genius. But talk allyou like, Click. It's times like this when we all need words, anywords, on our tongues. You got your camera and your scoop. Talk aboutit. As for me— he twisted his glossy red face. Keeping alive is mehobby. And this sort of two-bit death I did not order.     Click nodded. Gunther knows how you'd hate dying this way, Irish.It's irony clean through. That's probably why he planned the meteor andthe crash this way.     Marnagan said nothing, but his thick lips went down at the corners, fardown, and the green eyes blazed.     They stopped, together.     Oops! Click said.     Hey! Marnagan blinked. Did you feel      that     ?     Hathaway's body felt feathery, light as a whisper, boneless andlimbless, suddenly. Irish! We lost weight, coming over that ridge!     They ran back. Let's try it again.     They tried it. They scowled at each other. The same thing happened.Gravity should not act this way, Click.     Are you telling me? It's man-made. Better than that—it's Gunther! Nowonder we fell so fast—we were dragged down by a super-gravity set-up!Gunther'd do anything to—did I say      anything     ?     Hathaway leaped backward in reaction. His eyes widened and his handcame up, jabbing. Over a hill-ridge swarmed a brew of unbelievablehorrors. Progeny from Frankenstein's ARK. Immense crimson beasts withnumerous legs and gnashing mandibles, brown-black creatures, sometubular and fat, others like thin white poisonous whips slashing alongin the air. Fangs caught starlight white on them.     Hathaway yelled and ran, Marnagan at his heels, lumbering. Sweat brokecold on his body. The immense things rolled, slithered and squirmedafter him. A blast of light. Marnagan, firing his proton-gun. Then, inClick's ears, the Irishman's incredulous bellow. The gun didn't hurtthe creatures at all.     Irish! Hathaway flung himself over the ridge, slid down an inclinetoward the mouth a small cave. This way, fella!     Hathaway made it first, Marnagan bellowing just behind him. They'retoo big; they can't get us in here! Click's voice gasped it out,as Marnagan squeezed his two-hundred-fifty pounds beside him.Instinctively, Hathaway added, Asteroid monsters! My camera! What ascene!     Damn your damn camera! yelled Marnagan. They might come in!     Use your gun.     They got impervious hides. No use. Gahh! And that was a pretty chase,eh, Click?     Yeah. Sure.      You     enjoyed it, every moment of it.     I did that. Irish grinned, showing white uneven teeth. Now, whatwill we be doing with these uninvited guests at our door?     Let me think—     Lots of time, little man. Forty more minutes of air, to be exact.  They sat, staring at the monsters for about a minute. Hathaway feltfunny about something; didn't know what. Something about these monstersand Gunther and—     Which one will you be having? asked Irish, casually. A red one or ablue one?     Hathaway laughed nervously. A pink one with yellow ruffles—Good God,now you've got      me     doing it. Joking in the face of death.     Me father taught me; keep laughing and you'll have Irish luck.     That didn't please the photographer. I'm an Anglo-Swede, he pointedout.     Marnagan shifted uneasily. Here, now. You're doing nothing butsitting, looking like a little boy locked in a bedroom closet, so takeme a profile shot of the beasties and myself.     Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly. What in hell's the use? Allthis swell film shot. Nobody'll ever see it.     Then, retorted Marnagan, we'll develop it for our own benefit; whilewaitin' for the U.S. Cavalry to come riding over the hill to ourrescue!     Hathaway snorted. U.S. Cavalry.     Marnagan raised his proton-gun dramatically. Snap me this pose, hesaid. I paid your salary to trot along, photographing, we hoped,my capture of Gunther, now the least you can do is record peacenegotiations betwixt me and these pixies.     Marnagan wasn't fooling anybody. Hathaway knew the superficial palaverfor nothing but a covering over the fast, furious thinking runningaround in that red-cropped skull. Hathaway played the palaver, too, buthis mind was whirring faster than his camera as he spun a picture ofMarnagan standing there with a useless gun pointed at the animals.     Montage. Marnagan sitting, chatting at the monsters. Marnagan smilingfor the camera. Marnagan in profile. Marnagan looking grim, withoutmuch effort, for the camera. And then, a closeup of the thrashing deathwall that holed them in. Click took them all, those shots, not sayinganything. Nobody fooled nobody with this act. Death was near and theyhad sweaty faces, dry mouths and frozen guts.     When Click finished filming, Irish sat down to save oxygen, and used itup arguing about Gunther. Click came back at him:     Gunther drew us down here, sure as Ceres! That gravity change we feltback on that ridge, Irish; that proves it. Gunther's short on men. So,what's he do; he builds an asteroid-base, and drags ships down. Spacewar isn't perfect yet, guns don't prime true in space, trajectoryis lousy over long distances. So what's the best weapon, whichdispenses with losing valuable, rare ships and a small bunch of men?Super-gravity and a couple of well-tossed meteors. Saves all around.It's a good front, this damned iron pebble. From it, Gunther strikesunseen; ships simply crash, that's all. A subtle hand, with all aces.     Marnagan rumbled. Where is the dirty son, then!     He didn't have to appear, Irish. He sent—them. Hathaway nodded atthe beasts. People crashing here die from air-lack, no food, or fromwounds caused at the crackup. If they survive all that—the animalstend to them. It all looks like Nature was responsible. See how subtlehis attack is? Looks like accidental death instead of murder, if thePatrol happens to land and finds us. No reason for undue investigation,then.     I don't see no Base around.  Click shrugged. Still doubt it? Okay. Look. He tapped his camera anda spool popped out onto his gloved palm. Holding it up, he strippedit out to its full twenty inch length, held it to the light while itdeveloped, smiling. It was one of his best inventions. Self-developingfilm. The first light struck film-surface, destroyed one chemical,leaving imprints; the second exposure simply hardened, secured theimpressions. Quick stuff.     Inserting the film-tongue into a micro-viewer in the camera's base,Click handed the whole thing over. Look.     Marnagan put the viewer up against the helmet glass, squinted. Ah,Click. Now, now. This is one lousy film you invented.     Huh?     It's a strange process'll develop my picture and ignore the asteroidmonsters complete.     What!     Hathaway grabbed the camera, gasped, squinted, and gasped again:Pictures in montage; Marnagan sitting down, chatting conversationallywith      nothing     ; Marnagan shooting his gun at      nothing     ; Marnaganpretending to be happy in front of      nothing     .     Then, closeup—of—NOTHING!     The monsters had failed to image the film. Marnagan was there, his hairlike a red banner, his freckled face with the blue eyes bright in it.Maybe—     Hathaway said it, loud: Irish! Irish! I think I see a way out of thismess! Here—     He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film,the beasts, and how the film couldn't be wrong. If the film said themonsters weren't there, they weren't there.     Yeah, said Marnagan. But step outside this cave—     If my theory is correct I'll do it, unafraid, said Click.     Marnagan scowled. You sure them beasts don't radiate ultra-violet orinfra-red or something that won't come out on film?     Nuts! Any color      we     see, the camera sees. We've been fooled.     Hey, where      you     going? Marnagan blocked Hathaway as the smaller mantried pushing past him.     Get out of the way, said Hathaway.     Marnagan put his big fists on his hips. If anyone is going anywhere,it'll be me does the going.     I can't let you do that, Irish.     Why not?     You'd be going on my say-so.     Ain't your say-so good enough for me?     Yes. Sure. Of course. I guess—     If you say them animals ain't there, that's all I need. Now, standaside, you film-developing flea, and let an Irishman settle theirbones. He took an unnecessary hitch in trousers that didn't existexcept under an inch of porous metal plate. Your express purpose onthis voyage, Hathaway, is taking films to be used by the Patrol laterfor teaching Junior Patrolmen how to act in tough spots. First-handeducation. Poke another spool of film in that contraption and give meprofile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into TheLion's Den.     Irish, I—     Shut up and load up.     Hathaway nervously loaded the film-slot, raised it.     Ready, Click?     I—I guess so, said Hathaway. And remember, think it hard, Irish.Think it hard. There aren't any animals—     Keep me in focus, lad.     All the way, Irish.     What do they say...? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera!     Marnagan held his gun out in front of him and still smiling took one,two, three, four steps out into the outside world. The monsters werewaiting for him at the fifth step. Marnagan kept walking.     Right out into the middle of them....  That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and themonsters!     Only now it was only Marnagan.     No more monsters.     Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. Hey, Click, lookat me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail andran away!     Ran, hell! cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed andanimated. They just plain vanished. They were only imaginativefigments!     And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, youcoward!     Smile when you say that, Irish.     Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears inyour sweet grey eyes?     Damn, swore the photographer, embarrassedly. Why don't they putwindow-wipers in these helmets?     I'll take it up with the Board, lad.     Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in onehunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are partof his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased backinto their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothingsuspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animalskill them.     Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill.     Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they couldhave frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. Ifthat isn't being dangerous—     The Irishman whistled.     But, we've got to      move     , Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen.In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source,Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters. Clickattached his camera to his mid-belt. Gunther probably thinks we'redead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates; they neverhad a chance to disbelieve them.     If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click—     Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident— Clickstopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head andfelt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steadyhimself, and swayed. I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours.This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick.     Marnagan's homely face grimaced in sympathy. Hold tight, Click. Theguy that invented these fish-bowls didn't provide for a sick stomach.     Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animalscame from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to comeback!     Come back? How?     They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if webelieve in them again, they'll return.     Marnagan didn't like it. Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—ifwe believe in 'em?     Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. Not if we believein them to a      certain point     . Psychologically they can both be seen andfelt. We only want to      see     them coming at us again.           Do     we, now?     With twenty minutes left, maybe less—     All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it?     Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. Just think—I will seethe monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them.Think it over and over.     Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. And—what if I forget to rememberall that? What if I get excited...?     Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking atIrish.     Marnagan cursed. All right, lad. Let's have at it!     The monsters returned.  A soundless deluge of them, pouring over the rubbled horizon, swarmingin malevolent anticipation about the two men.     This way, Irish. They come from this way! There's a focal point, asending station for these telepathic brutes. Come on!     Hathaway sludged into the pressing tide of color, mouths, contortedfaces, silvery fat bodies misting as he plowed through them.       Marnagan was making good progress ahead of Hathaway. But he stopped andraised his gun and made quick moves with it. Click! This one here!It's real! He fell back and something struck him down. His immenseframe slammed against rock, noiselessly.     Hathaway darted forward, flung his body over Marnagan's, covered thehelmet glass with his hands, shouting:     Marnagan! Get a grip, dammit! It's not real—don't let it force intoyour mind! It's not real, I tell you!     Click— Marnagan's face was a bitter, tortured movement behind glass.Click— He was fighting hard. I—I—sure now. Sure— He smiled.It—it's only a shanty fake!     Keep saying it, Irish. Keep it up.     Marnagan's thick lips opened. It's only a fake, he said. And then,irritated, Get the hell off me, Hathaway. Let me up to my feet!     Hathaway got up, shakily. The air in his helmet smelled stale, andlittle bubbles danced in his eyes. Irish,      you     forget the monsters.Let me handle them, I know how. They might fool you again, you mightforget.     Marnagan showed his teeth. Gah! Let a flea have all the fun? Andbesides, Click, I like to look at them. They're pretty.     The outpour of animals came from a low lying mound a mile farther on.Evidently the telepathic source lay there. They approached it warily.     We'll be taking our chances on guard, hissed Irish. I'll go ahead,draw their attention, maybe get captured. Then,      you     show up with      your     gun....     I haven't got one.     We'll chance it, then. You stick here until I see what's ahead. Theyprobably got scanners out. Let them see me—     And before Hathaway could object, Marnagan walked off. He walked aboutfive hundred yards, bent down, applied his fingers to something, heavedup, and there was a door opening in the rock.     His voice came back across the distance, into Click's earphones. Adoor, an air-lock, Click. A tunnel leading down inside!     Then, Marnagan dropped into the tunnel, disappearing. Click heard thethud of his feet hitting the metal flooring.     Click sucked in his breath, hard and fast.     All right, put 'em up! a new harsh voice cried over a differentradio. One of Gunther's guards.     Three shots sizzled out, and Marnagan bellowed.     The strange harsh voice said, That's better. Don't try and pick thatgun up now. Oh, so it's you. I thought Gunther had finished you off.How'd you get past the animals?     Click started running. He switched off his      sending     audio, kept his      receiving     on. Marnagan, weaponless.      One     guard. Click gasped. Thingswere getting dark. Had to have air. Air. Air. He ran and kept runningand listening to Marnagan's lying voice:     I tied them pink elephants of Gunther's in neat alphabetical bundlesand stacked them up to dry, ya louse! Marnagan said. But, damn you,they killed my partner before he had a chance!     The guard laughed.  The air-lock door was still wide open when Click reached it, his headswimming darkly, his lungs crammed with pain-fire and hell-rockets. Helet himself down in, quiet and soft. He didn't have a weapon. He didn'thave a weapon. Oh, damn, damn!     A tunnel curved, ending in light, and two men silhouetted in thatyellow glare. Marnagan, backed against a wall, his helmet cracked,air hissing slowly out of it, his face turning blue. And the guard, aproton gun extended stiffly before him, also in a vac-suit. The guardhad his profile toward Hathaway, his lips twisting: I think I'll letyou stand right there and die, he said quietly. That what Guntherwanted, anway. A nice sordid death.     Hathaway took three strides, his hands out in front of him.     Don't move! he snapped. I've got a weapon stronger than yours. Onetwitch and I'll blast you and the whole damned wall out from behindyou! Freeze!     The guard whirled. He widened his sharp eyes, and reluctantly, droppedhis gun to the floor.     Get his gun, Irish.     Marnagan made as if to move, crumpled clumsily forward.     Hathaway ran in, snatched up the gun, smirked at the guard. Thanks forposing, he said. That shot will go down in film history for candidacting.     What!     Ah: ah! Keep your place. I've got a real gun now. Where's the doorleading into the Base?     The guard moved his head sullenly over his left shoulder.     Click was afraid he would show his weak dizziness. He needed air.Okay. Drag Marnagan with you, open the door and we'll have air. Doubletime! Double!     Ten minutes later, Marnagan and Hathaway, fresh tanks of oxygen ontheir backs, Marnagan in a fresh bulger and helmet, trussed the guard,hid him in a huge trash receptacle. Where he belongs, observed Irishtersely.     They found themselves in a complete inner world; an asteroid nothingmore than a honey-comb fortress sliding through the void unchallenged.Perfect front for a raider who had little equipment and wasshort-handed of men. Gunther simply waited for specific cargo ships torocket by, pulled them or knocked them down and swarmed over them forcargo. The animals served simply to insure against suspicion and theswarms of tourists that filled the void these days. Small fry weren'twanted. They were scared off.     The telepathic sending station for the animals was a great bank ofintricate, glittering machine, through which strips of colored filmwith images slid into slots and machine mouths that translated theminto thought-emanations. A damned neat piece of genius.     So here we are, still not much better off than we were, growledIrish. We haven't a ship or a space-radio, and more guards'll turnup any moment. You think we could refocus this doohingey, project themonsters inside the asteroid to fool the pirates themselves?     What good would that do? Hathaway gnawed his lip. They wouldn't foolthe engineers who created them, you nut.     Marnagan exhaled disgustedly. Ah, if only the U.S. Cavalry would comeriding over the hill—  Irish! Hathaway snapped that, his face lighting up. Irish. The U.S.Cavalry it is! His eyes darted over the machines. Here. Help me.We'll stage everything on the most colossal raid of the century.     Marnagan winced. You breathing oxygen or whiskey?     There's only one stipulation I make, Irish. I want a complete pictureof Marnagan capturing Raider's Base. I want a picture of Gunther's facewhen you do it. Snap it, now, we've got rush work to do. How good anactor are you?     That's a silly question.     You only have to do three things. Walk with your gun out in front ofyou, firing. That's number one. Number two is to clutch at your heartand fall down dead. Number three is to clutch at your side, fall downand twitch on the ground. Is that clear?     Clear as the Coal Sack Nebula....     An hour later Hathaway trudged down a passageway that led out into asort of city street inside the asteroid. There were about six streets,lined with cube houses in yellow metal, ending near Hathaway in awide, green-lawned Plaza.     Hathaway, weaponless, idly carrying his camera in one hand, walkedacross the Plaza as if he owned it. He was heading for a building thatwas pretentious enough to be Gunther's quarters.     He got halfway there when he felt a gun in his back.     He didn't resist. They took him straight ahead to his destination andpushed him into a room where Gunther sat.     Hathaway looked at him. So you're Gunther? he said, calmly. Thepirate was incredibly old, his bulging forehead stood out over sunken,questioningly dark eyes, and his scrawny body was lost in folds ofmetal-link cloth. He glanced up from a paper-file, surprised. Before hecould speak, Hathaway said:     Everything's over with, Mr. Gunther. The Patrol is in the city now andwe're capturing your Base. Don't try to fight. We've a thousand menagainst your eighty-five.     Gunther sat there, blinking at Hathaway, not moving. His thin handstwitched in his lap. You are bluffing, he said, finally, with a firmdirectness. A ship hasn't landed here for an hour. Your ship was thelast. Two people were on it. The last I saw of them they were beingpursued to the death by the Beasts. One of you escaped, it seemed.     Both. The other guy went after the Patrol.     Impossible!     I can't respect your opinion, Mr. Gunther.     A shouting rose from the Plaza. About fifty of Gunther's men, loungingon carved benches during their time-off, stirred to their feet andstarted yelling. Gunther turned slowly to the huge window in one sideof his office. He stared, hard.     The Patrol was coming!     Across the Plaza, marching quietly and decisively, came the Patrol.Five hundred Patrolmen in one long, incredible line, carrying paralysisguns with them in their tight hands.     Gunther babbled like a child, his voice a shrill dagger in the air.Get out there, you men! Throw them back! We're outnumbered!     Guns flared. But the Patrol came on. Gunther's men didn't run, Hathawayhad to credit them on that. They took it, standing.     Hathaway chuckled inside, deep. What a sweet, sweet shot this was.His camera whirred, clicked and whirred again. Nobody stopped himfrom filming it. Everything was too wild, hot and angry. Gunther wasthrowing a fit, still seated at his desk, unable to move because of hisfragile, bony legs and their atrophied state.     Some of the Patrol were killed. Hathaway chuckled again as he saw threeof the Patrolmen clutch at their hearts, crumple, lie on the ground andtwitch. God, what photography!     Gunther raged, and swept a small pistol from his linked corselet. Hefired wildly until Hathaway hit him over the head with a paper-weight.Then Hathaway took a picture of Gunther slumped at his desk, the chaostaking place immediately outside his window.     The pirates broke and fled, those that were left. A mere handful. Andout of the chaos came Marnagan's voice, Here!  One of the Patrolmen stopped firing, and ran toward Click and theBuilding. He got inside. Did you see them run, Click boy? What anidea. How did we do?     Fine, Irish. Fine!     So here's Gunther, the spalpeen! Gunther, the little dried up pirate,eh? Marnagan whacked Hathaway on the back. I'll have to hand it toyou, this is the best plan o' battle ever laid out. And proud I was tofight with such splendid men as these— He gestured toward the Plaza.     Click laughed with him. You should be proud. Five hundred Patrolmenwith hair like red banners flying, with thick Irish brogues and broadshoulders and freckles and blue eyes and a body as tall as yourstories!     Marnagan roared. I always said, I said—if ever there could be anarmy of Marnagans, we could lick the whole damn uneeverse! Did youphotograph it, Click?     I did. Hathaway tapped his camera happily.     Ah, then, won't that be a scoop for you, boy? Money from the Patrol sothey can use the film as instruction in Classes and money from CosmicFilms for the news-reel headlines! And what a scene, and what acting!Five hundred duplicates of Steve Marnagan, broadcast telepathicallyinto the minds of the pirates, walking across a Plaza, capturing thewhole she-bang! How did you like my death-scenes?     You're a ham. And anyway—five hundred duplicates, nothing! saidClick. He ripped the film-spool from the camera, spread it in the airto develop, inserted it in the micro-viewer. Have a look—     Marnagan looked. Ah, now. Ah, now, he said over and over. There'sthe Plaza, and there's Gunther's men fighting and then they're turningand running. And what are they running from? One man! Me. IrishMarnagan! Walking all by myself across the lawn, paralyzing them. Oneagainst a hundred, and the cowards running from me!     Sure, Click, this is better than I thought. I forgot that the filmwouldn't register telepathic emanations, them other Marnagans. Itmakes it look like I'm a mighty brave man, does it not? It does. Ah,look—look at me, Hathaway, I'm enjoying every minute of it, I am.  Hathaway swatted him on his back-side. Look here, you egocentric sonof Erin, there's more work to be done. More pirates to be captured. ThePatrol is still marching around and someone might be suspicious if theylooked too close and saw all that red hair.     All right, Click, we'll clean up the rest of them now. We're acombination, we two, we are. I take it all back about your pictures,Click, if you hadn't thought of taking pictures of me and insertingit into those telepath machines we'd be dead ducks now. Well—here Igo....     Hathaway stopped him. Hold it. Until I load my camera again.     Irish grinned. Hurry it up. Here come three guards. They're unarmed.I think I'll handle them with me fists for a change. The gentle art ofuppercuts. Are you ready, Hathaway?     Ready.     Marnagan lifted his big ham-fists.     The camera whirred. Hathaway chuckled, to himself.     What a sweet fade-out this was!   ","Despite their clear differences, Hathaway and Marnagan are a solid team who work well together and depend on each other.  We first see this in the opening scene of the story where Hathaway is physically clinging to Marnagan in his distress during the crash sequence.  After the crash, Hathaway is more concerned with taking photos of Marnagan emerging from the crash than helping him emerge from the rubble, not because he doesn’t care about his companion, but because he sees his companion as so strong, it doesn’t occur to him to be concerned for his physical safety.  This points to one of their key differences--while Marnagan is immediately concerned for Hathaway’s safety and assumes Hathaway would reciprocate, Hathaway sees Marnagan as much stronger than himself, nearly invulnerable.We see Hathaway and Marnagan’s collaborative relationship continue when they are faced with the beasts.  They are both afraid; Hathaway is the first to spot the secure hiding place of the cave and hails Marnagan to run there.  Marnagan then proposes that he pose “with” the beasts--standing at a safe distance with them in the background--and Hathaway agrees.  They continue to argue about what to do while Hathaway develops the film as part of his argument.  When Hathaway presents the developed film as evidence, Marnagan teases him about his invention being “lousy”, as only he (Marnagan) shows in the photos, but the monsters do not.  This joke sets up Hathaway’s realization that the beasts are telepathic projections rather than physical beings, leading the men to debate which of them will lead the hunt for oxygen.  While Hathaway knows his partner is physically stronger and he is already suffering from oxygen deprivation, he doesn’t want to risk Marnagan’s safety if his deduction proves wrong.  Marnagan, however, shows his trust in Hathaway by insisting that he (Marnagan) lead, confident that if Hathaway says the monsters aren’t there, they are indeed not.When Marnagan briefly succumbs to the telepathic illusion of the beasts, Hathaway is able to talk him down.  Just by listening to Hathaway’s words, Marnagan is able to convince himself again that the beasts are not real.  Marnagan then convinces the guard he encounters that Hathaway died in the ship crash, allowing Hathaway to sneak in, capture the guard, and get both the men oxygen.  They use their teamwork in a last instance to defeat the principal antagonist of the story, Gunther.  Hathaway is captured by more of Gunther’s guards and taken to him, but is already prepared.  He shows Gunther that Gunther’s men are being overwhelmed and defeated by five hundred armed Patrol men, causing Gunther to pull out a weapon and fire wildly until Hathaway knocks him unconscious.  We then are told that the “five hundred Patrol men” are telepathic illusions of Marnagan projected by the same projectors that created the images of the beasts, supplied with photos of Marnagan shot by Hathaway.  Once again their teamwork proves crucial to the success of the mission."
"What is the significance of the crash of Hathaway and Marnagan’s ship in the opening scene for the rest of the story? </s>     The Monster Maker     By RAY BRADBURY     Get Gunther, the official orders read. It     was to laugh! For Click and Irish were     marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only     weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Suddenly, it was there. There wasn't time to blink or speak or getscared. Click Hathaway's camera was loaded and he stood there listeningto it rack-spin film between his fingers, and he knew he was getting adamned sweet picture of everything that was happening.     The picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console,wrenching levers, jamming studs with freckled fists. And out in thedark of the fore-part there was space and a star-sprinkling and thismeteor coming like blazing fury.     Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal'sskin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked therear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round.     There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he waspicked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn'tlong in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on tohis camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that hadbeen of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out ofthe controls and keeping his words to himself until just now.     It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroidsrushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking atom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs.     Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was thenearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and youended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk ofmetal death. What a fade-out!     Irish! he heard himself say. Is this IT?     Is this      what     ? yelled Marnagan inside his helmet.     Is this where the Big Producer yells CUT!?     Marnagan fumed. I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'mready I'll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films!     They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand ofgravity; listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones.     The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end overand stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattledaround—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst,air and energy flung out.     Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinkingquick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reachfilm, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like      this     one! Hisbrain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of hiscamera.  Silence came and engulfed all the noise, ate it up and swallowed it.Hathaway shook his head, instinctively grabbed at the camera lockedto his mid-belt. There was nothing but stars, twisted wreckage, coldthat pierced through his vac-suit, and silence. He wriggled out of thewreckage into that silence.     He didn't know what he was doing until he found the camera in hisfingers as if it had grown there when he was born. He stood there,thinking Well, I'll at least have a few good scenes on film. I'll—     A hunk of metal teetered, fell with a crash. Marnagan elevated sevenfeet of bellowing manhood from the wreck.     Hold it! cracked Hathaway's high voice. Marnagan froze. The camerawhirred. Low angle shot; Interplanetary Patrolman emerges unscathedfrom asteroid crackup. Swell stuff. I'll get a raise for this!     From the toe of me boot! snarled Marnagan brusquely. Oxen shouldersflexed inside his vac-suit. I might've died in there, and you nursin'that film-contraption!     Hathaway felt funny inside, suddenly. I never thought of that.Marnagan die? I just took it for granted you'd come through. You alwayshave. Funny, but you don't think about dying. You try not to. Hathawaystared at his gloved hand, but the gloving was so thick and heavy hecouldn't tell if it was shaking. Muscles in his bony face went down,pale. Where are we?     A million miles from nobody.     They stood in the middle of a pocked, time-eroded meteor plain thatstretched off, dipping down into silent indigo and a rash of stars.Overhead, the sun poised; black and stars all around it, making it looksick.     If we walk in opposite directions, Click Hathaway, we'd be shakinghands the other side of this rock in two hours. Marnagan shook his mopof dusty red hair. And I promised the boys at Luna Base this time I'dcapture that Gunther lad!     His voice stopped and the silence spoke.     Hathaway felt his heart pumping slow, hot pumps of blood. I checkedmy oxygen, Irish. Sixty minutes of breathing left.     The silence punctuated that sentence, too. Upon the sharp meteoricrocks Hathaway saw the tangled insides of the radio, the food supplymashed and scattered. They were lucky to have escaped. Or      was     suffocation a better death...?      Sixty minutes.       They stood and looked at one another.     Damn that meteor! said Marnagan, hotly.     Hathaway got hold of an idea; remembering something. He said it out:Somebody tossed that meteor, Irish. I took a picture of it, lookedit right in the eye when it rolled at us, and it was poker-hot.Space-meteors are never hot and glowing. If it's proof you want, I'vegot it here, on film.     Marnagan winced his freckled square of face. It's not proof we neednow, Click. Oxygen. And then      food     . And then some way back to Earth.     Hathaway went on saying his thoughts: This is Gunther's work. He'shere somewhere, probably laughing his guts out at the job he did us.Oh, God, this would make great news-release stuff if we ever get backto Earth. I.P.'s Irish Marnagan, temporarily indisposed by a piratewhose dirty face has never been seen, Gunther by name, finally winsthrough to a triumphant finish. Photographed on the spot, in color, byyours truly, Click Hathaway. Cosmic Films, please notice.  They started walking, fast, over the pocked, rubbled plain toward abony ridge of metal. They kept their eyes wide and awake. There wasn'tmuch to see, but it was better than standing still, waiting.     Marnagan said, We're working on margin, and we got nothin' to sweatwith except your suspicions about this not being an accident. We gotfifty minutes to prove you're right. After that—right or wrong—you'llbe Cosmic Films prettiest unmoving, unbreathin' genius. But talk allyou like, Click. It's times like this when we all need words, anywords, on our tongues. You got your camera and your scoop. Talk aboutit. As for me— he twisted his glossy red face. Keeping alive is mehobby. And this sort of two-bit death I did not order.     Click nodded. Gunther knows how you'd hate dying this way, Irish.It's irony clean through. That's probably why he planned the meteor andthe crash this way.     Marnagan said nothing, but his thick lips went down at the corners, fardown, and the green eyes blazed.     They stopped, together.     Oops! Click said.     Hey! Marnagan blinked. Did you feel      that     ?     Hathaway's body felt feathery, light as a whisper, boneless andlimbless, suddenly. Irish! We lost weight, coming over that ridge!     They ran back. Let's try it again.     They tried it. They scowled at each other. The same thing happened.Gravity should not act this way, Click.     Are you telling me? It's man-made. Better than that—it's Gunther! Nowonder we fell so fast—we were dragged down by a super-gravity set-up!Gunther'd do anything to—did I say      anything     ?     Hathaway leaped backward in reaction. His eyes widened and his handcame up, jabbing. Over a hill-ridge swarmed a brew of unbelievablehorrors. Progeny from Frankenstein's ARK. Immense crimson beasts withnumerous legs and gnashing mandibles, brown-black creatures, sometubular and fat, others like thin white poisonous whips slashing alongin the air. Fangs caught starlight white on them.     Hathaway yelled and ran, Marnagan at his heels, lumbering. Sweat brokecold on his body. The immense things rolled, slithered and squirmedafter him. A blast of light. Marnagan, firing his proton-gun. Then, inClick's ears, the Irishman's incredulous bellow. The gun didn't hurtthe creatures at all.     Irish! Hathaway flung himself over the ridge, slid down an inclinetoward the mouth a small cave. This way, fella!     Hathaway made it first, Marnagan bellowing just behind him. They'retoo big; they can't get us in here! Click's voice gasped it out,as Marnagan squeezed his two-hundred-fifty pounds beside him.Instinctively, Hathaway added, Asteroid monsters! My camera! What ascene!     Damn your damn camera! yelled Marnagan. They might come in!     Use your gun.     They got impervious hides. No use. Gahh! And that was a pretty chase,eh, Click?     Yeah. Sure.      You     enjoyed it, every moment of it.     I did that. Irish grinned, showing white uneven teeth. Now, whatwill we be doing with these uninvited guests at our door?     Let me think—     Lots of time, little man. Forty more minutes of air, to be exact.  They sat, staring at the monsters for about a minute. Hathaway feltfunny about something; didn't know what. Something about these monstersand Gunther and—     Which one will you be having? asked Irish, casually. A red one or ablue one?     Hathaway laughed nervously. A pink one with yellow ruffles—Good God,now you've got      me     doing it. Joking in the face of death.     Me father taught me; keep laughing and you'll have Irish luck.     That didn't please the photographer. I'm an Anglo-Swede, he pointedout.     Marnagan shifted uneasily. Here, now. You're doing nothing butsitting, looking like a little boy locked in a bedroom closet, so takeme a profile shot of the beasties and myself.     Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly. What in hell's the use? Allthis swell film shot. Nobody'll ever see it.     Then, retorted Marnagan, we'll develop it for our own benefit; whilewaitin' for the U.S. Cavalry to come riding over the hill to ourrescue!     Hathaway snorted. U.S. Cavalry.     Marnagan raised his proton-gun dramatically. Snap me this pose, hesaid. I paid your salary to trot along, photographing, we hoped,my capture of Gunther, now the least you can do is record peacenegotiations betwixt me and these pixies.     Marnagan wasn't fooling anybody. Hathaway knew the superficial palaverfor nothing but a covering over the fast, furious thinking runningaround in that red-cropped skull. Hathaway played the palaver, too, buthis mind was whirring faster than his camera as he spun a picture ofMarnagan standing there with a useless gun pointed at the animals.     Montage. Marnagan sitting, chatting at the monsters. Marnagan smilingfor the camera. Marnagan in profile. Marnagan looking grim, withoutmuch effort, for the camera. And then, a closeup of the thrashing deathwall that holed them in. Click took them all, those shots, not sayinganything. Nobody fooled nobody with this act. Death was near and theyhad sweaty faces, dry mouths and frozen guts.     When Click finished filming, Irish sat down to save oxygen, and used itup arguing about Gunther. Click came back at him:     Gunther drew us down here, sure as Ceres! That gravity change we feltback on that ridge, Irish; that proves it. Gunther's short on men. So,what's he do; he builds an asteroid-base, and drags ships down. Spacewar isn't perfect yet, guns don't prime true in space, trajectoryis lousy over long distances. So what's the best weapon, whichdispenses with losing valuable, rare ships and a small bunch of men?Super-gravity and a couple of well-tossed meteors. Saves all around.It's a good front, this damned iron pebble. From it, Gunther strikesunseen; ships simply crash, that's all. A subtle hand, with all aces.     Marnagan rumbled. Where is the dirty son, then!     He didn't have to appear, Irish. He sent—them. Hathaway nodded atthe beasts. People crashing here die from air-lack, no food, or fromwounds caused at the crackup. If they survive all that—the animalstend to them. It all looks like Nature was responsible. See how subtlehis attack is? Looks like accidental death instead of murder, if thePatrol happens to land and finds us. No reason for undue investigation,then.     I don't see no Base around.  Click shrugged. Still doubt it? Okay. Look. He tapped his camera anda spool popped out onto his gloved palm. Holding it up, he strippedit out to its full twenty inch length, held it to the light while itdeveloped, smiling. It was one of his best inventions. Self-developingfilm. The first light struck film-surface, destroyed one chemical,leaving imprints; the second exposure simply hardened, secured theimpressions. Quick stuff.     Inserting the film-tongue into a micro-viewer in the camera's base,Click handed the whole thing over. Look.     Marnagan put the viewer up against the helmet glass, squinted. Ah,Click. Now, now. This is one lousy film you invented.     Huh?     It's a strange process'll develop my picture and ignore the asteroidmonsters complete.     What!     Hathaway grabbed the camera, gasped, squinted, and gasped again:Pictures in montage; Marnagan sitting down, chatting conversationallywith      nothing     ; Marnagan shooting his gun at      nothing     ; Marnaganpretending to be happy in front of      nothing     .     Then, closeup—of—NOTHING!     The monsters had failed to image the film. Marnagan was there, his hairlike a red banner, his freckled face with the blue eyes bright in it.Maybe—     Hathaway said it, loud: Irish! Irish! I think I see a way out of thismess! Here—     He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film,the beasts, and how the film couldn't be wrong. If the film said themonsters weren't there, they weren't there.     Yeah, said Marnagan. But step outside this cave—     If my theory is correct I'll do it, unafraid, said Click.     Marnagan scowled. You sure them beasts don't radiate ultra-violet orinfra-red or something that won't come out on film?     Nuts! Any color      we     see, the camera sees. We've been fooled.     Hey, where      you     going? Marnagan blocked Hathaway as the smaller mantried pushing past him.     Get out of the way, said Hathaway.     Marnagan put his big fists on his hips. If anyone is going anywhere,it'll be me does the going.     I can't let you do that, Irish.     Why not?     You'd be going on my say-so.     Ain't your say-so good enough for me?     Yes. Sure. Of course. I guess—     If you say them animals ain't there, that's all I need. Now, standaside, you film-developing flea, and let an Irishman settle theirbones. He took an unnecessary hitch in trousers that didn't existexcept under an inch of porous metal plate. Your express purpose onthis voyage, Hathaway, is taking films to be used by the Patrol laterfor teaching Junior Patrolmen how to act in tough spots. First-handeducation. Poke another spool of film in that contraption and give meprofile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into TheLion's Den.     Irish, I—     Shut up and load up.     Hathaway nervously loaded the film-slot, raised it.     Ready, Click?     I—I guess so, said Hathaway. And remember, think it hard, Irish.Think it hard. There aren't any animals—     Keep me in focus, lad.     All the way, Irish.     What do they say...? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera!     Marnagan held his gun out in front of him and still smiling took one,two, three, four steps out into the outside world. The monsters werewaiting for him at the fifth step. Marnagan kept walking.     Right out into the middle of them....  That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and themonsters!     Only now it was only Marnagan.     No more monsters.     Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. Hey, Click, lookat me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail andran away!     Ran, hell! cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed andanimated. They just plain vanished. They were only imaginativefigments!     And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, youcoward!     Smile when you say that, Irish.     Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears inyour sweet grey eyes?     Damn, swore the photographer, embarrassedly. Why don't they putwindow-wipers in these helmets?     I'll take it up with the Board, lad.     Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in onehunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are partof his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased backinto their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothingsuspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animalskill them.     Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill.     Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they couldhave frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. Ifthat isn't being dangerous—     The Irishman whistled.     But, we've got to      move     , Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen.In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source,Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters. Clickattached his camera to his mid-belt. Gunther probably thinks we'redead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates; they neverhad a chance to disbelieve them.     If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click—     Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident— Clickstopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head andfelt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steadyhimself, and swayed. I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours.This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick.     Marnagan's homely face grimaced in sympathy. Hold tight, Click. Theguy that invented these fish-bowls didn't provide for a sick stomach.     Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animalscame from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to comeback!     Come back? How?     They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if webelieve in them again, they'll return.     Marnagan didn't like it. Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—ifwe believe in 'em?     Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. Not if we believein them to a      certain point     . Psychologically they can both be seen andfelt. We only want to      see     them coming at us again.           Do     we, now?     With twenty minutes left, maybe less—     All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it?     Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. Just think—I will seethe monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them.Think it over and over.     Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. And—what if I forget to rememberall that? What if I get excited...?     Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking atIrish.     Marnagan cursed. All right, lad. Let's have at it!     The monsters returned.  A soundless deluge of them, pouring over the rubbled horizon, swarmingin malevolent anticipation about the two men.     This way, Irish. They come from this way! There's a focal point, asending station for these telepathic brutes. Come on!     Hathaway sludged into the pressing tide of color, mouths, contortedfaces, silvery fat bodies misting as he plowed through them.       Marnagan was making good progress ahead of Hathaway. But he stopped andraised his gun and made quick moves with it. Click! This one here!It's real! He fell back and something struck him down. His immenseframe slammed against rock, noiselessly.     Hathaway darted forward, flung his body over Marnagan's, covered thehelmet glass with his hands, shouting:     Marnagan! Get a grip, dammit! It's not real—don't let it force intoyour mind! It's not real, I tell you!     Click— Marnagan's face was a bitter, tortured movement behind glass.Click— He was fighting hard. I—I—sure now. Sure— He smiled.It—it's only a shanty fake!     Keep saying it, Irish. Keep it up.     Marnagan's thick lips opened. It's only a fake, he said. And then,irritated, Get the hell off me, Hathaway. Let me up to my feet!     Hathaway got up, shakily. The air in his helmet smelled stale, andlittle bubbles danced in his eyes. Irish,      you     forget the monsters.Let me handle them, I know how. They might fool you again, you mightforget.     Marnagan showed his teeth. Gah! Let a flea have all the fun? Andbesides, Click, I like to look at them. They're pretty.     The outpour of animals came from a low lying mound a mile farther on.Evidently the telepathic source lay there. They approached it warily.     We'll be taking our chances on guard, hissed Irish. I'll go ahead,draw their attention, maybe get captured. Then,      you     show up with      your     gun....     I haven't got one.     We'll chance it, then. You stick here until I see what's ahead. Theyprobably got scanners out. Let them see me—     And before Hathaway could object, Marnagan walked off. He walked aboutfive hundred yards, bent down, applied his fingers to something, heavedup, and there was a door opening in the rock.     His voice came back across the distance, into Click's earphones. Adoor, an air-lock, Click. A tunnel leading down inside!     Then, Marnagan dropped into the tunnel, disappearing. Click heard thethud of his feet hitting the metal flooring.     Click sucked in his breath, hard and fast.     All right, put 'em up! a new harsh voice cried over a differentradio. One of Gunther's guards.     Three shots sizzled out, and Marnagan bellowed.     The strange harsh voice said, That's better. Don't try and pick thatgun up now. Oh, so it's you. I thought Gunther had finished you off.How'd you get past the animals?     Click started running. He switched off his      sending     audio, kept his      receiving     on. Marnagan, weaponless.      One     guard. Click gasped. Thingswere getting dark. Had to have air. Air. Air. He ran and kept runningand listening to Marnagan's lying voice:     I tied them pink elephants of Gunther's in neat alphabetical bundlesand stacked them up to dry, ya louse! Marnagan said. But, damn you,they killed my partner before he had a chance!     The guard laughed.  The air-lock door was still wide open when Click reached it, his headswimming darkly, his lungs crammed with pain-fire and hell-rockets. Helet himself down in, quiet and soft. He didn't have a weapon. He didn'thave a weapon. Oh, damn, damn!     A tunnel curved, ending in light, and two men silhouetted in thatyellow glare. Marnagan, backed against a wall, his helmet cracked,air hissing slowly out of it, his face turning blue. And the guard, aproton gun extended stiffly before him, also in a vac-suit. The guardhad his profile toward Hathaway, his lips twisting: I think I'll letyou stand right there and die, he said quietly. That what Guntherwanted, anway. A nice sordid death.     Hathaway took three strides, his hands out in front of him.     Don't move! he snapped. I've got a weapon stronger than yours. Onetwitch and I'll blast you and the whole damned wall out from behindyou! Freeze!     The guard whirled. He widened his sharp eyes, and reluctantly, droppedhis gun to the floor.     Get his gun, Irish.     Marnagan made as if to move, crumpled clumsily forward.     Hathaway ran in, snatched up the gun, smirked at the guard. Thanks forposing, he said. That shot will go down in film history for candidacting.     What!     Ah: ah! Keep your place. I've got a real gun now. Where's the doorleading into the Base?     The guard moved his head sullenly over his left shoulder.     Click was afraid he would show his weak dizziness. He needed air.Okay. Drag Marnagan with you, open the door and we'll have air. Doubletime! Double!     Ten minutes later, Marnagan and Hathaway, fresh tanks of oxygen ontheir backs, Marnagan in a fresh bulger and helmet, trussed the guard,hid him in a huge trash receptacle. Where he belongs, observed Irishtersely.     They found themselves in a complete inner world; an asteroid nothingmore than a honey-comb fortress sliding through the void unchallenged.Perfect front for a raider who had little equipment and wasshort-handed of men. Gunther simply waited for specific cargo ships torocket by, pulled them or knocked them down and swarmed over them forcargo. The animals served simply to insure against suspicion and theswarms of tourists that filled the void these days. Small fry weren'twanted. They were scared off.     The telepathic sending station for the animals was a great bank ofintricate, glittering machine, through which strips of colored filmwith images slid into slots and machine mouths that translated theminto thought-emanations. A damned neat piece of genius.     So here we are, still not much better off than we were, growledIrish. We haven't a ship or a space-radio, and more guards'll turnup any moment. You think we could refocus this doohingey, project themonsters inside the asteroid to fool the pirates themselves?     What good would that do? Hathaway gnawed his lip. They wouldn't foolthe engineers who created them, you nut.     Marnagan exhaled disgustedly. Ah, if only the U.S. Cavalry would comeriding over the hill—  Irish! Hathaway snapped that, his face lighting up. Irish. The U.S.Cavalry it is! His eyes darted over the machines. Here. Help me.We'll stage everything on the most colossal raid of the century.     Marnagan winced. You breathing oxygen or whiskey?     There's only one stipulation I make, Irish. I want a complete pictureof Marnagan capturing Raider's Base. I want a picture of Gunther's facewhen you do it. Snap it, now, we've got rush work to do. How good anactor are you?     That's a silly question.     You only have to do three things. Walk with your gun out in front ofyou, firing. That's number one. Number two is to clutch at your heartand fall down dead. Number three is to clutch at your side, fall downand twitch on the ground. Is that clear?     Clear as the Coal Sack Nebula....     An hour later Hathaway trudged down a passageway that led out into asort of city street inside the asteroid. There were about six streets,lined with cube houses in yellow metal, ending near Hathaway in awide, green-lawned Plaza.     Hathaway, weaponless, idly carrying his camera in one hand, walkedacross the Plaza as if he owned it. He was heading for a building thatwas pretentious enough to be Gunther's quarters.     He got halfway there when he felt a gun in his back.     He didn't resist. They took him straight ahead to his destination andpushed him into a room where Gunther sat.     Hathaway looked at him. So you're Gunther? he said, calmly. Thepirate was incredibly old, his bulging forehead stood out over sunken,questioningly dark eyes, and his scrawny body was lost in folds ofmetal-link cloth. He glanced up from a paper-file, surprised. Before hecould speak, Hathaway said:     Everything's over with, Mr. Gunther. The Patrol is in the city now andwe're capturing your Base. Don't try to fight. We've a thousand menagainst your eighty-five.     Gunther sat there, blinking at Hathaway, not moving. His thin handstwitched in his lap. You are bluffing, he said, finally, with a firmdirectness. A ship hasn't landed here for an hour. Your ship was thelast. Two people were on it. The last I saw of them they were beingpursued to the death by the Beasts. One of you escaped, it seemed.     Both. The other guy went after the Patrol.     Impossible!     I can't respect your opinion, Mr. Gunther.     A shouting rose from the Plaza. About fifty of Gunther's men, loungingon carved benches during their time-off, stirred to their feet andstarted yelling. Gunther turned slowly to the huge window in one sideof his office. He stared, hard.     The Patrol was coming!     Across the Plaza, marching quietly and decisively, came the Patrol.Five hundred Patrolmen in one long, incredible line, carrying paralysisguns with them in their tight hands.     Gunther babbled like a child, his voice a shrill dagger in the air.Get out there, you men! Throw them back! We're outnumbered!     Guns flared. But the Patrol came on. Gunther's men didn't run, Hathawayhad to credit them on that. They took it, standing.     Hathaway chuckled inside, deep. What a sweet, sweet shot this was.His camera whirred, clicked and whirred again. Nobody stopped himfrom filming it. Everything was too wild, hot and angry. Gunther wasthrowing a fit, still seated at his desk, unable to move because of hisfragile, bony legs and their atrophied state.     Some of the Patrol were killed. Hathaway chuckled again as he saw threeof the Patrolmen clutch at their hearts, crumple, lie on the ground andtwitch. God, what photography!     Gunther raged, and swept a small pistol from his linked corselet. Hefired wildly until Hathaway hit him over the head with a paper-weight.Then Hathaway took a picture of Gunther slumped at his desk, the chaostaking place immediately outside his window.     The pirates broke and fled, those that were left. A mere handful. Andout of the chaos came Marnagan's voice, Here!  One of the Patrolmen stopped firing, and ran toward Click and theBuilding. He got inside. Did you see them run, Click boy? What anidea. How did we do?     Fine, Irish. Fine!     So here's Gunther, the spalpeen! Gunther, the little dried up pirate,eh? Marnagan whacked Hathaway on the back. I'll have to hand it toyou, this is the best plan o' battle ever laid out. And proud I was tofight with such splendid men as these— He gestured toward the Plaza.     Click laughed with him. You should be proud. Five hundred Patrolmenwith hair like red banners flying, with thick Irish brogues and broadshoulders and freckles and blue eyes and a body as tall as yourstories!     Marnagan roared. I always said, I said—if ever there could be anarmy of Marnagans, we could lick the whole damn uneeverse! Did youphotograph it, Click?     I did. Hathaway tapped his camera happily.     Ah, then, won't that be a scoop for you, boy? Money from the Patrol sothey can use the film as instruction in Classes and money from CosmicFilms for the news-reel headlines! And what a scene, and what acting!Five hundred duplicates of Steve Marnagan, broadcast telepathicallyinto the minds of the pirates, walking across a Plaza, capturing thewhole she-bang! How did you like my death-scenes?     You're a ham. And anyway—five hundred duplicates, nothing! saidClick. He ripped the film-spool from the camera, spread it in the airto develop, inserted it in the micro-viewer. Have a look—     Marnagan looked. Ah, now. Ah, now, he said over and over. There'sthe Plaza, and there's Gunther's men fighting and then they're turningand running. And what are they running from? One man! Me. IrishMarnagan! Walking all by myself across the lawn, paralyzing them. Oneagainst a hundred, and the cowards running from me!     Sure, Click, this is better than I thought. I forgot that the filmwouldn't register telepathic emanations, them other Marnagans. Itmakes it look like I'm a mighty brave man, does it not? It does. Ah,look—look at me, Hathaway, I'm enjoying every minute of it, I am.  Hathaway swatted him on his back-side. Look here, you egocentric sonof Erin, there's more work to be done. More pirates to be captured. ThePatrol is still marching around and someone might be suspicious if theylooked too close and saw all that red hair.     All right, Click, we'll clean up the rest of them now. We're acombination, we two, we are. I take it all back about your pictures,Click, if you hadn't thought of taking pictures of me and insertingit into those telepath machines we'd be dead ducks now. Well—here Igo....     Hathaway stopped him. Hold it. Until I load my camera again.     Irish grinned. Hurry it up. Here come three guards. They're unarmed.I think I'll handle them with me fists for a change. The gentle art ofuppercuts. Are you ready, Hathaway?     Ready.     Marnagan lifted his big ham-fists.     The camera whirred. Hathaway chuckled, to himself.     What a sweet fade-out this was!   ","The crash of Hathaway and Marnagan’s ship is the precipitating event for the events that follow, but it is also more than that.  Hathaway states shortly after the crash that the meteor that hit their ship was deliberately aimed at them with force, based on it being “hot and glowing” at the time of the collision.  Hathaway hypothesizes at that time that Gunther, the man Marnagan is trying to capture on their mission, had engineered the crash.  A short time later, when walking along the surface of the planet, Hathaway notices sudden weight loss.  After he and Marnagan test it and confirm that it really happened, they conclude that their ship was not only hit by a meteor, it was dragged down to the planet by an unnatural amount of gravity, more than the planet is generating.  They then meet horrifying, dangerous monsters, but these are revealed in short order to be telepathic projections.  They are able to dispel the images of the monsters by their own belief that the monsters are not really there, then summon them back by imagining that they are there, but that the monsters cannot harm them.  In this way, the monsters lead them to Gunther, who is captured when Marnagan and Hathaway use the telepathic projectors that generated the “monster” images to generate hundreds of images of Marnagan, making it appear that there is an army ready to take over Gunther’s base and capture or kill all his men.  All of this flows from the initial crash engineered by Gunther with the propelled meteor and the area of super-gravity that pulled the ship down to the planet.  Gunther hoped to make the ship disappear and Marnagan and Hathaway along with it.  Instead, they crashed on the single planet where they could find him and had to take on an immediate quest to search for him in order to survive, as they had limited oxygen and needed to find the only other humans on the planet in order to replenish their supply."
"What is the significance of the telepathic projectors in the story? </s>     The Monster Maker     By RAY BRADBURY     Get Gunther, the official orders read. It     was to laugh! For Click and Irish were     marooned on the pirate's asteroid—their only     weapons a single gun and a news-reel camera.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Suddenly, it was there. There wasn't time to blink or speak or getscared. Click Hathaway's camera was loaded and he stood there listeningto it rack-spin film between his fingers, and he knew he was getting adamned sweet picture of everything that was happening.     The picture of Marnagan hunched huge over the control-console,wrenching levers, jamming studs with freckled fists. And out in thedark of the fore-part there was space and a star-sprinkling and thismeteor coming like blazing fury.     Click Hathaway felt the ship move under him like a sensitive animal'sskin. And then the meteor hit. It made a spiked fist and knocked therear-jets flat, and the ship spun like a cosmic merry-go-round.     There was plenty of noise. Too damned much. Hathaway only knew he waspicked up and hurled against a lever-bank, and that Marnagan wasn'tlong in following, swearing loud words. Click remembered hanging on tohis camera and gritting to keep holding it. What a sweet shot that hadbeen of the meteor! A sweeter one still of Marnagan beating hell out ofthe controls and keeping his words to himself until just now.     It got quiet. It got so quiet you could almost hear the asteroidsrushing up, cold, blue and hard. You could hear your heart kicking atom-tom between your sick stomach and your empty lungs.     Stars, asteroids revolved. Click grabbed Marnagan because he was thenearest thing, and held on. You came hunting for a space-raider and youended up cradled in a slab-sized Irishman's arms, diving at a hunk ofmetal death. What a fade-out!     Irish! he heard himself say. Is this IT?     Is this      what     ? yelled Marnagan inside his helmet.     Is this where the Big Producer yells CUT!?     Marnagan fumed. I'll die when I'm damned good and ready. And when I'mready I'll inform you and you can picture me profile for Cosmic Films!     They both waited, thrust against the shipside and held by a hand ofgravity; listening to each other's breathing hard in the earphones.     The ship struck, once. Bouncing, it struck again. It turned end overand stopped. Hathaway felt himself grabbed; he and Marnagan rattledaround—human dice in a croupier's cup. The shell of the ship burst,air and energy flung out.     Hathaway screamed the air out of his lungs, but his brain was thinkingquick crazy, unimportant things. The best scenes in life never reachfilm, or an audience. Like this one, dammit! Like      this     one! Hisbrain spun, racketing like the instantaneous, flicking motions of hiscamera.  Silence came and engulfed all the noise, ate it up and swallowed it.Hathaway shook his head, instinctively grabbed at the camera lockedto his mid-belt. There was nothing but stars, twisted wreckage, coldthat pierced through his vac-suit, and silence. He wriggled out of thewreckage into that silence.     He didn't know what he was doing until he found the camera in hisfingers as if it had grown there when he was born. He stood there,thinking Well, I'll at least have a few good scenes on film. I'll—     A hunk of metal teetered, fell with a crash. Marnagan elevated sevenfeet of bellowing manhood from the wreck.     Hold it! cracked Hathaway's high voice. Marnagan froze. The camerawhirred. Low angle shot; Interplanetary Patrolman emerges unscathedfrom asteroid crackup. Swell stuff. I'll get a raise for this!     From the toe of me boot! snarled Marnagan brusquely. Oxen shouldersflexed inside his vac-suit. I might've died in there, and you nursin'that film-contraption!     Hathaway felt funny inside, suddenly. I never thought of that.Marnagan die? I just took it for granted you'd come through. You alwayshave. Funny, but you don't think about dying. You try not to. Hathawaystared at his gloved hand, but the gloving was so thick and heavy hecouldn't tell if it was shaking. Muscles in his bony face went down,pale. Where are we?     A million miles from nobody.     They stood in the middle of a pocked, time-eroded meteor plain thatstretched off, dipping down into silent indigo and a rash of stars.Overhead, the sun poised; black and stars all around it, making it looksick.     If we walk in opposite directions, Click Hathaway, we'd be shakinghands the other side of this rock in two hours. Marnagan shook his mopof dusty red hair. And I promised the boys at Luna Base this time I'dcapture that Gunther lad!     His voice stopped and the silence spoke.     Hathaway felt his heart pumping slow, hot pumps of blood. I checkedmy oxygen, Irish. Sixty minutes of breathing left.     The silence punctuated that sentence, too. Upon the sharp meteoricrocks Hathaway saw the tangled insides of the radio, the food supplymashed and scattered. They were lucky to have escaped. Or      was     suffocation a better death...?      Sixty minutes.       They stood and looked at one another.     Damn that meteor! said Marnagan, hotly.     Hathaway got hold of an idea; remembering something. He said it out:Somebody tossed that meteor, Irish. I took a picture of it, lookedit right in the eye when it rolled at us, and it was poker-hot.Space-meteors are never hot and glowing. If it's proof you want, I'vegot it here, on film.     Marnagan winced his freckled square of face. It's not proof we neednow, Click. Oxygen. And then      food     . And then some way back to Earth.     Hathaway went on saying his thoughts: This is Gunther's work. He'shere somewhere, probably laughing his guts out at the job he did us.Oh, God, this would make great news-release stuff if we ever get backto Earth. I.P.'s Irish Marnagan, temporarily indisposed by a piratewhose dirty face has never been seen, Gunther by name, finally winsthrough to a triumphant finish. Photographed on the spot, in color, byyours truly, Click Hathaway. Cosmic Films, please notice.  They started walking, fast, over the pocked, rubbled plain toward abony ridge of metal. They kept their eyes wide and awake. There wasn'tmuch to see, but it was better than standing still, waiting.     Marnagan said, We're working on margin, and we got nothin' to sweatwith except your suspicions about this not being an accident. We gotfifty minutes to prove you're right. After that—right or wrong—you'llbe Cosmic Films prettiest unmoving, unbreathin' genius. But talk allyou like, Click. It's times like this when we all need words, anywords, on our tongues. You got your camera and your scoop. Talk aboutit. As for me— he twisted his glossy red face. Keeping alive is mehobby. And this sort of two-bit death I did not order.     Click nodded. Gunther knows how you'd hate dying this way, Irish.It's irony clean through. That's probably why he planned the meteor andthe crash this way.     Marnagan said nothing, but his thick lips went down at the corners, fardown, and the green eyes blazed.     They stopped, together.     Oops! Click said.     Hey! Marnagan blinked. Did you feel      that     ?     Hathaway's body felt feathery, light as a whisper, boneless andlimbless, suddenly. Irish! We lost weight, coming over that ridge!     They ran back. Let's try it again.     They tried it. They scowled at each other. The same thing happened.Gravity should not act this way, Click.     Are you telling me? It's man-made. Better than that—it's Gunther! Nowonder we fell so fast—we were dragged down by a super-gravity set-up!Gunther'd do anything to—did I say      anything     ?     Hathaway leaped backward in reaction. His eyes widened and his handcame up, jabbing. Over a hill-ridge swarmed a brew of unbelievablehorrors. Progeny from Frankenstein's ARK. Immense crimson beasts withnumerous legs and gnashing mandibles, brown-black creatures, sometubular and fat, others like thin white poisonous whips slashing alongin the air. Fangs caught starlight white on them.     Hathaway yelled and ran, Marnagan at his heels, lumbering. Sweat brokecold on his body. The immense things rolled, slithered and squirmedafter him. A blast of light. Marnagan, firing his proton-gun. Then, inClick's ears, the Irishman's incredulous bellow. The gun didn't hurtthe creatures at all.     Irish! Hathaway flung himself over the ridge, slid down an inclinetoward the mouth a small cave. This way, fella!     Hathaway made it first, Marnagan bellowing just behind him. They'retoo big; they can't get us in here! Click's voice gasped it out,as Marnagan squeezed his two-hundred-fifty pounds beside him.Instinctively, Hathaway added, Asteroid monsters! My camera! What ascene!     Damn your damn camera! yelled Marnagan. They might come in!     Use your gun.     They got impervious hides. No use. Gahh! And that was a pretty chase,eh, Click?     Yeah. Sure.      You     enjoyed it, every moment of it.     I did that. Irish grinned, showing white uneven teeth. Now, whatwill we be doing with these uninvited guests at our door?     Let me think—     Lots of time, little man. Forty more minutes of air, to be exact.  They sat, staring at the monsters for about a minute. Hathaway feltfunny about something; didn't know what. Something about these monstersand Gunther and—     Which one will you be having? asked Irish, casually. A red one or ablue one?     Hathaway laughed nervously. A pink one with yellow ruffles—Good God,now you've got      me     doing it. Joking in the face of death.     Me father taught me; keep laughing and you'll have Irish luck.     That didn't please the photographer. I'm an Anglo-Swede, he pointedout.     Marnagan shifted uneasily. Here, now. You're doing nothing butsitting, looking like a little boy locked in a bedroom closet, so takeme a profile shot of the beasties and myself.     Hathaway petted his camera reluctantly. What in hell's the use? Allthis swell film shot. Nobody'll ever see it.     Then, retorted Marnagan, we'll develop it for our own benefit; whilewaitin' for the U.S. Cavalry to come riding over the hill to ourrescue!     Hathaway snorted. U.S. Cavalry.     Marnagan raised his proton-gun dramatically. Snap me this pose, hesaid. I paid your salary to trot along, photographing, we hoped,my capture of Gunther, now the least you can do is record peacenegotiations betwixt me and these pixies.     Marnagan wasn't fooling anybody. Hathaway knew the superficial palaverfor nothing but a covering over the fast, furious thinking runningaround in that red-cropped skull. Hathaway played the palaver, too, buthis mind was whirring faster than his camera as he spun a picture ofMarnagan standing there with a useless gun pointed at the animals.     Montage. Marnagan sitting, chatting at the monsters. Marnagan smilingfor the camera. Marnagan in profile. Marnagan looking grim, withoutmuch effort, for the camera. And then, a closeup of the thrashing deathwall that holed them in. Click took them all, those shots, not sayinganything. Nobody fooled nobody with this act. Death was near and theyhad sweaty faces, dry mouths and frozen guts.     When Click finished filming, Irish sat down to save oxygen, and used itup arguing about Gunther. Click came back at him:     Gunther drew us down here, sure as Ceres! That gravity change we feltback on that ridge, Irish; that proves it. Gunther's short on men. So,what's he do; he builds an asteroid-base, and drags ships down. Spacewar isn't perfect yet, guns don't prime true in space, trajectoryis lousy over long distances. So what's the best weapon, whichdispenses with losing valuable, rare ships and a small bunch of men?Super-gravity and a couple of well-tossed meteors. Saves all around.It's a good front, this damned iron pebble. From it, Gunther strikesunseen; ships simply crash, that's all. A subtle hand, with all aces.     Marnagan rumbled. Where is the dirty son, then!     He didn't have to appear, Irish. He sent—them. Hathaway nodded atthe beasts. People crashing here die from air-lack, no food, or fromwounds caused at the crackup. If they survive all that—the animalstend to them. It all looks like Nature was responsible. See how subtlehis attack is? Looks like accidental death instead of murder, if thePatrol happens to land and finds us. No reason for undue investigation,then.     I don't see no Base around.  Click shrugged. Still doubt it? Okay. Look. He tapped his camera anda spool popped out onto his gloved palm. Holding it up, he strippedit out to its full twenty inch length, held it to the light while itdeveloped, smiling. It was one of his best inventions. Self-developingfilm. The first light struck film-surface, destroyed one chemical,leaving imprints; the second exposure simply hardened, secured theimpressions. Quick stuff.     Inserting the film-tongue into a micro-viewer in the camera's base,Click handed the whole thing over. Look.     Marnagan put the viewer up against the helmet glass, squinted. Ah,Click. Now, now. This is one lousy film you invented.     Huh?     It's a strange process'll develop my picture and ignore the asteroidmonsters complete.     What!     Hathaway grabbed the camera, gasped, squinted, and gasped again:Pictures in montage; Marnagan sitting down, chatting conversationallywith      nothing     ; Marnagan shooting his gun at      nothing     ; Marnaganpretending to be happy in front of      nothing     .     Then, closeup—of—NOTHING!     The monsters had failed to image the film. Marnagan was there, his hairlike a red banner, his freckled face with the blue eyes bright in it.Maybe—     Hathaway said it, loud: Irish! Irish! I think I see a way out of thismess! Here—     He elucidated it over and over again to the Patrolman. About the film,the beasts, and how the film couldn't be wrong. If the film said themonsters weren't there, they weren't there.     Yeah, said Marnagan. But step outside this cave—     If my theory is correct I'll do it, unafraid, said Click.     Marnagan scowled. You sure them beasts don't radiate ultra-violet orinfra-red or something that won't come out on film?     Nuts! Any color      we     see, the camera sees. We've been fooled.     Hey, where      you     going? Marnagan blocked Hathaway as the smaller mantried pushing past him.     Get out of the way, said Hathaway.     Marnagan put his big fists on his hips. If anyone is going anywhere,it'll be me does the going.     I can't let you do that, Irish.     Why not?     You'd be going on my say-so.     Ain't your say-so good enough for me?     Yes. Sure. Of course. I guess—     If you say them animals ain't there, that's all I need. Now, standaside, you film-developing flea, and let an Irishman settle theirbones. He took an unnecessary hitch in trousers that didn't existexcept under an inch of porous metal plate. Your express purpose onthis voyage, Hathaway, is taking films to be used by the Patrol laterfor teaching Junior Patrolmen how to act in tough spots. First-handeducation. Poke another spool of film in that contraption and give meprofile a scan. This is lesson number seven: Daniel Walks Into TheLion's Den.     Irish, I—     Shut up and load up.     Hathaway nervously loaded the film-slot, raised it.     Ready, Click?     I—I guess so, said Hathaway. And remember, think it hard, Irish.Think it hard. There aren't any animals—     Keep me in focus, lad.     All the way, Irish.     What do they say...? Oh, yeah. Action. Lights. Camera!     Marnagan held his gun out in front of him and still smiling took one,two, three, four steps out into the outside world. The monsters werewaiting for him at the fifth step. Marnagan kept walking.     Right out into the middle of them....  That was the sweetest shot Hathaway ever took. Marnagan and themonsters!     Only now it was only Marnagan.     No more monsters.     Marnagan smiled a smile broader than his shoulders. Hey, Click, lookat me! I'm in one piece. Why, hell, the damned things turned tail andran away!     Ran, hell! cried Hathaway, rushing out, his face flushed andanimated. They just plain vanished. They were only imaginativefigments!     And to think we let them hole us in that way, Click Hathaway, youcoward!     Smile when you say that, Irish.     Sure, and ain't I always smilin'? Ah, Click boy, are them tears inyour sweet grey eyes?     Damn, swore the photographer, embarrassedly. Why don't they putwindow-wipers in these helmets?     I'll take it up with the Board, lad.     Forget it. I was so blamed glad to see your homely carcass in onehunk, I couldn't help—Look, now, about Gunther. Those animals are partof his set-up. Explorers who land here inadvertently, are chased backinto their ships, forced to take off. Tourists and the like. Nothingsuspicious about animals. And if the tourists don't leave, the animalskill them.     Shaw, now. Those animals can't kill.     Think not, Mr. Marnagan? As long as we believed in them they couldhave frightened us to death, forced us, maybe, to commit suicide. Ifthat isn't being dangerous—     The Irishman whistled.     But, we've got to      move     , Irish. We've got twenty minutes of oxygen.In that time we've got to trace those monsters to their source,Gunther's Base, fight our way in, and get fresh oxy-cannisters. Clickattached his camera to his mid-belt. Gunther probably thinks we'redead by now. Everyone else's been fooled by his playmates; they neverhad a chance to disbelieve them.     If it hadn't been for you taking them pictures, Click—     Coupled with your damned stubborn attitude about the accident— Clickstopped and felt his insides turning to water. He shook his head andfelt a film slip down over his eyes. He spread his legs out to steadyhimself, and swayed. I—I don't think my oxygen is as full as yours.This excitement had me double-breathing and I feel sick.     Marnagan's homely face grimaced in sympathy. Hold tight, Click. Theguy that invented these fish-bowls didn't provide for a sick stomach.     Hold tight, hell, let's move. We've got to find where those animalscame from! And the only way to do that is to get the animals to comeback!     Come back? How?     They're waiting, just outside the aura of our thoughts, and if webelieve in them again, they'll return.     Marnagan didn't like it. Won't—won't they kill us—if they come—ifwe believe in 'em?     Hathaway shook a head that was tons heavy and weary. Not if we believein them to a      certain point     . Psychologically they can both be seen andfelt. We only want to      see     them coming at us again.           Do     we, now?     With twenty minutes left, maybe less—     All right, Click, let's bring 'em back. How do we do it?     Hathaway fought against the mist in his eyes. Just think—I will seethe monsters again. I will see them again and I will not feel them.Think it over and over.     Marnagan's hulk stirred uneasily. And—what if I forget to rememberall that? What if I get excited...?     Hathaway didn't answer. But his eyes told the story by just looking atIrish.     Marnagan cursed. All right, lad. Let's have at it!     The monsters returned.  A soundless deluge of them, pouring over the rubbled horizon, swarmingin malevolent anticipation about the two men.     This way, Irish. They come from this way! There's a focal point, asending station for these telepathic brutes. Come on!     Hathaway sludged into the pressing tide of color, mouths, contortedfaces, silvery fat bodies misting as he plowed through them.       Marnagan was making good progress ahead of Hathaway. But he stopped andraised his gun and made quick moves with it. Click! This one here!It's real! He fell back and something struck him down. His immenseframe slammed against rock, noiselessly.     Hathaway darted forward, flung his body over Marnagan's, covered thehelmet glass with his hands, shouting:     Marnagan! Get a grip, dammit! It's not real—don't let it force intoyour mind! It's not real, I tell you!     Click— Marnagan's face was a bitter, tortured movement behind glass.Click— He was fighting hard. I—I—sure now. Sure— He smiled.It—it's only a shanty fake!     Keep saying it, Irish. Keep it up.     Marnagan's thick lips opened. It's only a fake, he said. And then,irritated, Get the hell off me, Hathaway. Let me up to my feet!     Hathaway got up, shakily. The air in his helmet smelled stale, andlittle bubbles danced in his eyes. Irish,      you     forget the monsters.Let me handle them, I know how. They might fool you again, you mightforget.     Marnagan showed his teeth. Gah! Let a flea have all the fun? Andbesides, Click, I like to look at them. They're pretty.     The outpour of animals came from a low lying mound a mile farther on.Evidently the telepathic source lay there. They approached it warily.     We'll be taking our chances on guard, hissed Irish. I'll go ahead,draw their attention, maybe get captured. Then,      you     show up with      your     gun....     I haven't got one.     We'll chance it, then. You stick here until I see what's ahead. Theyprobably got scanners out. Let them see me—     And before Hathaway could object, Marnagan walked off. He walked aboutfive hundred yards, bent down, applied his fingers to something, heavedup, and there was a door opening in the rock.     His voice came back across the distance, into Click's earphones. Adoor, an air-lock, Click. A tunnel leading down inside!     Then, Marnagan dropped into the tunnel, disappearing. Click heard thethud of his feet hitting the metal flooring.     Click sucked in his breath, hard and fast.     All right, put 'em up! a new harsh voice cried over a differentradio. One of Gunther's guards.     Three shots sizzled out, and Marnagan bellowed.     The strange harsh voice said, That's better. Don't try and pick thatgun up now. Oh, so it's you. I thought Gunther had finished you off.How'd you get past the animals?     Click started running. He switched off his      sending     audio, kept his      receiving     on. Marnagan, weaponless.      One     guard. Click gasped. Thingswere getting dark. Had to have air. Air. Air. He ran and kept runningand listening to Marnagan's lying voice:     I tied them pink elephants of Gunther's in neat alphabetical bundlesand stacked them up to dry, ya louse! Marnagan said. But, damn you,they killed my partner before he had a chance!     The guard laughed.  The air-lock door was still wide open when Click reached it, his headswimming darkly, his lungs crammed with pain-fire and hell-rockets. Helet himself down in, quiet and soft. He didn't have a weapon. He didn'thave a weapon. Oh, damn, damn!     A tunnel curved, ending in light, and two men silhouetted in thatyellow glare. Marnagan, backed against a wall, his helmet cracked,air hissing slowly out of it, his face turning blue. And the guard, aproton gun extended stiffly before him, also in a vac-suit. The guardhad his profile toward Hathaway, his lips twisting: I think I'll letyou stand right there and die, he said quietly. That what Guntherwanted, anway. A nice sordid death.     Hathaway took three strides, his hands out in front of him.     Don't move! he snapped. I've got a weapon stronger than yours. Onetwitch and I'll blast you and the whole damned wall out from behindyou! Freeze!     The guard whirled. He widened his sharp eyes, and reluctantly, droppedhis gun to the floor.     Get his gun, Irish.     Marnagan made as if to move, crumpled clumsily forward.     Hathaway ran in, snatched up the gun, smirked at the guard. Thanks forposing, he said. That shot will go down in film history for candidacting.     What!     Ah: ah! Keep your place. I've got a real gun now. Where's the doorleading into the Base?     The guard moved his head sullenly over his left shoulder.     Click was afraid he would show his weak dizziness. He needed air.Okay. Drag Marnagan with you, open the door and we'll have air. Doubletime! Double!     Ten minutes later, Marnagan and Hathaway, fresh tanks of oxygen ontheir backs, Marnagan in a fresh bulger and helmet, trussed the guard,hid him in a huge trash receptacle. Where he belongs, observed Irishtersely.     They found themselves in a complete inner world; an asteroid nothingmore than a honey-comb fortress sliding through the void unchallenged.Perfect front for a raider who had little equipment and wasshort-handed of men. Gunther simply waited for specific cargo ships torocket by, pulled them or knocked them down and swarmed over them forcargo. The animals served simply to insure against suspicion and theswarms of tourists that filled the void these days. Small fry weren'twanted. They were scared off.     The telepathic sending station for the animals was a great bank ofintricate, glittering machine, through which strips of colored filmwith images slid into slots and machine mouths that translated theminto thought-emanations. A damned neat piece of genius.     So here we are, still not much better off than we were, growledIrish. We haven't a ship or a space-radio, and more guards'll turnup any moment. You think we could refocus this doohingey, project themonsters inside the asteroid to fool the pirates themselves?     What good would that do? Hathaway gnawed his lip. They wouldn't foolthe engineers who created them, you nut.     Marnagan exhaled disgustedly. Ah, if only the U.S. Cavalry would comeriding over the hill—  Irish! Hathaway snapped that, his face lighting up. Irish. The U.S.Cavalry it is! His eyes darted over the machines. Here. Help me.We'll stage everything on the most colossal raid of the century.     Marnagan winced. You breathing oxygen or whiskey?     There's only one stipulation I make, Irish. I want a complete pictureof Marnagan capturing Raider's Base. I want a picture of Gunther's facewhen you do it. Snap it, now, we've got rush work to do. How good anactor are you?     That's a silly question.     You only have to do three things. Walk with your gun out in front ofyou, firing. That's number one. Number two is to clutch at your heartand fall down dead. Number three is to clutch at your side, fall downand twitch on the ground. Is that clear?     Clear as the Coal Sack Nebula....     An hour later Hathaway trudged down a passageway that led out into asort of city street inside the asteroid. There were about six streets,lined with cube houses in yellow metal, ending near Hathaway in awide, green-lawned Plaza.     Hathaway, weaponless, idly carrying his camera in one hand, walkedacross the Plaza as if he owned it. He was heading for a building thatwas pretentious enough to be Gunther's quarters.     He got halfway there when he felt a gun in his back.     He didn't resist. They took him straight ahead to his destination andpushed him into a room where Gunther sat.     Hathaway looked at him. So you're Gunther? he said, calmly. Thepirate was incredibly old, his bulging forehead stood out over sunken,questioningly dark eyes, and his scrawny body was lost in folds ofmetal-link cloth. He glanced up from a paper-file, surprised. Before hecould speak, Hathaway said:     Everything's over with, Mr. Gunther. The Patrol is in the city now andwe're capturing your Base. Don't try to fight. We've a thousand menagainst your eighty-five.     Gunther sat there, blinking at Hathaway, not moving. His thin handstwitched in his lap. You are bluffing, he said, finally, with a firmdirectness. A ship hasn't landed here for an hour. Your ship was thelast. Two people were on it. The last I saw of them they were beingpursued to the death by the Beasts. One of you escaped, it seemed.     Both. The other guy went after the Patrol.     Impossible!     I can't respect your opinion, Mr. Gunther.     A shouting rose from the Plaza. About fifty of Gunther's men, loungingon carved benches during their time-off, stirred to their feet andstarted yelling. Gunther turned slowly to the huge window in one sideof his office. He stared, hard.     The Patrol was coming!     Across the Plaza, marching quietly and decisively, came the Patrol.Five hundred Patrolmen in one long, incredible line, carrying paralysisguns with them in their tight hands.     Gunther babbled like a child, his voice a shrill dagger in the air.Get out there, you men! Throw them back! We're outnumbered!     Guns flared. But the Patrol came on. Gunther's men didn't run, Hathawayhad to credit them on that. They took it, standing.     Hathaway chuckled inside, deep. What a sweet, sweet shot this was.His camera whirred, clicked and whirred again. Nobody stopped himfrom filming it. Everything was too wild, hot and angry. Gunther wasthrowing a fit, still seated at his desk, unable to move because of hisfragile, bony legs and their atrophied state.     Some of the Patrol were killed. Hathaway chuckled again as he saw threeof the Patrolmen clutch at their hearts, crumple, lie on the ground andtwitch. God, what photography!     Gunther raged, and swept a small pistol from his linked corselet. Hefired wildly until Hathaway hit him over the head with a paper-weight.Then Hathaway took a picture of Gunther slumped at his desk, the chaostaking place immediately outside his window.     The pirates broke and fled, those that were left. A mere handful. Andout of the chaos came Marnagan's voice, Here!  One of the Patrolmen stopped firing, and ran toward Click and theBuilding. He got inside. Did you see them run, Click boy? What anidea. How did we do?     Fine, Irish. Fine!     So here's Gunther, the spalpeen! Gunther, the little dried up pirate,eh? Marnagan whacked Hathaway on the back. I'll have to hand it toyou, this is the best plan o' battle ever laid out. And proud I was tofight with such splendid men as these— He gestured toward the Plaza.     Click laughed with him. You should be proud. Five hundred Patrolmenwith hair like red banners flying, with thick Irish brogues and broadshoulders and freckles and blue eyes and a body as tall as yourstories!     Marnagan roared. I always said, I said—if ever there could be anarmy of Marnagans, we could lick the whole damn uneeverse! Did youphotograph it, Click?     I did. Hathaway tapped his camera happily.     Ah, then, won't that be a scoop for you, boy? Money from the Patrol sothey can use the film as instruction in Classes and money from CosmicFilms for the news-reel headlines! And what a scene, and what acting!Five hundred duplicates of Steve Marnagan, broadcast telepathicallyinto the minds of the pirates, walking across a Plaza, capturing thewhole she-bang! How did you like my death-scenes?     You're a ham. And anyway—five hundred duplicates, nothing! saidClick. He ripped the film-spool from the camera, spread it in the airto develop, inserted it in the micro-viewer. Have a look—     Marnagan looked. Ah, now. Ah, now, he said over and over. There'sthe Plaza, and there's Gunther's men fighting and then they're turningand running. And what are they running from? One man! Me. IrishMarnagan! Walking all by myself across the lawn, paralyzing them. Oneagainst a hundred, and the cowards running from me!     Sure, Click, this is better than I thought. I forgot that the filmwouldn't register telepathic emanations, them other Marnagans. Itmakes it look like I'm a mighty brave man, does it not? It does. Ah,look—look at me, Hathaway, I'm enjoying every minute of it, I am.  Hathaway swatted him on his back-side. Look here, you egocentric sonof Erin, there's more work to be done. More pirates to be captured. ThePatrol is still marching around and someone might be suspicious if theylooked too close and saw all that red hair.     All right, Click, we'll clean up the rest of them now. We're acombination, we two, we are. I take it all back about your pictures,Click, if you hadn't thought of taking pictures of me and insertingit into those telepath machines we'd be dead ducks now. Well—here Igo....     Hathaway stopped him. Hold it. Until I load my camera again.     Irish grinned. Hurry it up. Here come three guards. They're unarmed.I think I'll handle them with me fists for a change. The gentle art ofuppercuts. Are you ready, Hathaway?     Ready.     Marnagan lifted his big ham-fists.     The camera whirred. Hathaway chuckled, to himself.     What a sweet fade-out this was!   ","Telepathy plays an interesting role in this story.  Rather than telepathy being used by one character to discern the thoughts of another character, as is often the case, we instead have machines creating telepathic projections.  It is fitting, then, that since machines are creating the telepathic projections, a machine can also defeat them.  The camera does not ""see"" through interpreting images or trying to understand them.  It only records light and shadow.  For this reason, it remains unaffected by telepathy--it can only record what is there, not what is projected into the mind.Hathaway and Marnagan become trapped in a small cave by what they believe are dangerous wild beasts.  Marnagan asks Hathaway to take his pictures as Marnagan poses against the backdrop of the beasts.  When Marnagan looks at the photos and complains that the beasts do not appear, Hathaway realizes that the beasts are not physically real, but only telepathic projections in the men's minds.  He and Marnagan are then able to dismiss the beasts and bring them back at will in order to let the projections lead them to their source.Telepathy plays a significant role again when Hathaway and Marnagan formulate a plan to capture Gunther, the person Marnagan is on a mission to capture and the man that caused their crash.  While the two of them could easily overpower Gunther if he were alone, there are at least fifty guards with him at his base.  Hathaway realizes they can photograph Marnagan in poses as though he's taking over the base and use those images in the telepathic projector against the guards and Gunther.  The telepathic projector turns one Marnagan into five hundred, allowing the two men to easily capture the base and Gunther while the guards flee.  The guards are likely aware of the telepathic projectors, but do not suspect that Hathaway and Marnagan have managed to turn the projectors to their own ends.  By using the projectors, Hathaway and Marnagan are able to turn a very dangerous situation into an easy victory. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    Doctor Universe     By CARL JACOBI     Grannie Annie, who wrote science fiction     under the nom de plume of Annabella C. Flowers,     had stumbled onto a murderous plot more     hair-raising than any she had ever concocted.     And the danger from the villain of the piece     didn't worry her—I was the guy he was shooting at.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I was killing an hour in the billiard room of the      Spacemen's Club     in Swamp City when the Venusian bellboy came and tapped me on theshoulder.     Beg pardon, thir, he said with his racial lisp, thereth thome one tothee you in the main lounge. His eyes rolled as he added, A lady!     A woman here...! The      Spacemen's     was a sanctuary, a rest club wherein-coming pilots and crewmen could relax before leaving for anothervoyage. The rule that no females could pass its portals was strictlyenforced.     I followed the bellhop down the long corridor that led to the mainlounge. At the threshold I jerked to a halt and stared incredulously.     Grannie Annie!     There she stood before a frantically gesticulating desk clerk, leaningon her faded green umbrella. A little wisp of a woman clad in avoluminous black dress with one of those doily-like caps on her head,tied by a ribbon under her chin. Her high-topped button shoes wereplanted firmly on the varpla carpet and her wrinkled face was set incalm defiance.     I barged across the lounge and seized her hand. Grannie Annie! Ihaven't seen you in two years.     Hi, Billy-boy, she greeted calmly. Will you please tell thisfish-face to shut up.     The desk clerk went white. Mithter Trenwith, if thith lady ith afriend of yourth, you'll have to take her away. It'th abtholutelyagainth the ruleth....     Okay, okay, I grinned. Look, we'll go into the grille. There's noone there at this hour.     In the grille an equally astonished waiter served us—me a lime rickeyand Grannie Annie her usual whisky sour—I waited until she had tossedthe drink off at a gulp before I set off a chain of questions:     What the devil are you doing on Venus? Don't you know women aren'tallowed in the      Spacemen's     ? What happened to the book you werewriting?     Hold it, Billy-boy. Laughingly she threw up both hands. Sure, I knewthis place had some antiquated laws. Pure fiddle-faddle, that's whatthey are. Anyway, I've been thrown out of better places.     She hadn't changed. To her publishers and her readers she might beAnnabella C. Flowers, author of a long list of science fiction novels.But to me she was still Grannie Annie, as old-fashioned as last year'shat, as modern as an atomic motor. She had probably written more drivelin the name of science fiction than anyone alive.     But the public loved it. They ate up her stories, and they clamored formore. Her annual income totaled into six figures, and her publisherssat back and massaged their digits, watching their earnings mount.     One thing you had to admit about her books. They may have been dimenovels, but they weren't synthetic. If Annabella C. Flowers wrote anovel, and the locale was the desert of Mars, she packed her carpet bagand hopped a liner for Craterville. If she cooked up a feud between twoexpeditions on Callisto, she went to Callisto.     She was the most completely delightful crackpot I had ever known.     What happened to      Guns for Ganymede     ? I asked. That was the title ofyour last, wasn't it?  Grannie spilled a few shreds of Martian tobacco onto a paper and deftlyrolled herself a cigarette.     It wasn't      Guns     , it was      Pistols     ; and it wasn't      Ganymede     , it was      Pluto     .     I grinned. All complete, I'll bet, with threats against the universeand beautiful Earth heroines dragged in by the hair.     What else is there in science fiction? she demanded. You can't haveyour hero fall in love with a bug-eyed monster.     Up on the wall a clock chimed the hour. The old woman jerked to herfeet.     I almost forgot, Billy-boy. I'm due at the      Satellite     Theater in tenminutes. Come on, you're going with me.     Before I realized it, I was following her through the lounge and out tothe jetty front. Grannie Annie hailed a hydrocar. Five minutes later wedrew up before the big doors of the      Satellite     .     They don't go in for style in Swamp City. A theater to the grizzledcolonials on this side of the planet meant a shack on stilts over themuck,      zilcon     wood seats and dingy atobide lamps. But the place waspacked with miners, freight-crew-men—all the tide and wash of humanitythat made Swamp City the frontier post it is.     In front was a big sign. It read:     ONE NIGHT ONLY     DOCTOR UNIVERSE AND HIS     NINE GENIUSES     THE QUESTION PROGRAM OF     THE SYSTEM     As we strode down the aisle a mangy-looking Venusian began to pound atinpan piano in the pit. Grannie Annie pushed me into a seat in thefront row.     Sit here, she said. I'm sorry about all this rush, but I'm one ofthe players in this shindig. As soon as the show is over, we'll gosomewhere and talk. She minced lightly down the aisle, climbed thestage steps and disappeared in the wings.     That damned fossilized dynamo, I muttered. She'll be the death of meyet.     The piano struck a chord in G, and the curtain went rattling up. On thestage four Earthmen, two Martians, two Venusians, and one Mercuriansat on an upraised dais. That is to say, eight of them sat. TheMercurian, a huge lump of granite-like flesh, sprawled there, palpablyuncomfortable. On the right were nine visi sets, each with its newimproved pantascope panel and switchboard. Before each set stood anEarthman operator.  A tall man, clad in a claw-hammer coat, came out from the wings andadvanced to the footlights.     People of Swamp City, he said, bowing, permit me to introducemyself. I am Doctor Universe, and these are my nine experts.     There was a roar of applause from the      Satellite     audience. When it hadsubsided, the man continued:     As most of you are familiar with our program, it will be unnecessaryto give any advance explanation. I will only say that on this stage arenine visi sets, each tuned to one of the nine planets. At transmittingsets all over these planets listeners will appear and voice questions.These questions, my nine experts will endeavor to answer. For everyquestion missed, the sender will receive a check for one thousand      planetoles     .     One thing more. As usual we have with us a guest star who will matchher wits with the experts. May I present that renowned writer ofscience fiction, Annabella C. Flowers.     From the left wing Grannie Annie appeared. She bowed and took her placeon the dais.     The Doctor's program began. The operator of the Earth visi twisted hisdials and nodded. Blue light flickered on the pantascope panel tocoalesce slowly into the face of a red-haired man. Sharp and dear hisvoice echoed through the theater:           Who was the first Earthman to titter the sunward side of Mercury?          Doctor Universe nodded and turned to Grannie Annie who had raised herhand. She said quietly:     Charles Zanner in the year 2012. In a specially constructedtracto-car.     And so it went. Questions from Mars, from Earth, from Saturn flowed inthe visi sets. Isolated miners on Jupiter, dancers in swank Plutoniancafes strove to stump the experts. With Doctor Universe offeringbantering side play, the experts gave their answers. When they failed,or when the Truthicator flashed a red light, he announced the name ofthe winner.     It grew a little tiresome after a while and I wondered why Grannie hadbrought me here. And then I began to notice things.     The audience in the      Satellite     seemed to have lost much of itsoriginal fervor. They applauded as before but they did so only at thesignal of Doctor Universe. The spell created by the man was complete.     Pompous and erect, he strode back and forth across the stage like ageneral surveying his army. His black eyes gleamed, and his thin lipswere turned in a smile of satisfaction.     When the last question had been answered I joined the exit-movingcrowd. It was outside under the street marquee that a strange incidentoccurred.     A yellow-faced Kagor from the upper Martian desert country shuffled by,dragging his cumbersome third leg behind him. Kagors, of course, had anunpleasant history of persecution since the early colonization days ofthe Red Planet. But the thing that happened there was a throw back toan earlier era.     Someone shouted, Yah, yellow-face! Down with all Kagors! As oneman the crowd took up the cry and surged forward. The helpless Kagorwas seized and flung to the pavement. A knife appeared from nowhere,snipped the Martian's single lock of hair. A booted foot bludgeonedinto his mouth.     Moments later an official hydrocar roared up and a dozen I.P. menrushed out and scattered the crowd. But a few stragglers lingered toshout derisive epithets.     Grannie Annie came out from behind the box office then. She took my armand led me around a corner and through a doorway under a sign that readTHE JET. Inside was a deep room with booths along one wall. The placewas all but deserted.     In a booth well toward the rear the old lady surveyed me with sobereyes.     Billy-boy, did you see the way that crowd acted?     I nodded. As disgraceful an exhibition as I've ever seen. The I.P. menought to clamp down.     The I.P. men aren't strong enough.     She said it quietly, but there was a glitter in her eyes and a harshline about her usually smiling lips.     What do you mean?  For a moment the old lady sat there in silence; then she leaned back,closed her eyes, and I knew there was a story coming.     My last book,      Death In The Atom     , hit the stands last January,she began. When it was finished I had planned to take a six months'vacation, but those fool publishers of mine insisted I do a sequel.Well, I'd used Mars and Pluto and Ganymede as settings for novels, sofor this one I decided on Venus. I went to Venus City, and I spent sixweeks in-country. I got some swell background material, and I met EzraKarn....     Who? I interrupted.     An old prospector who lives out in the deep marsh on the outskirts ofVarsoom country. To make a long story short, I got him talking abouthis adventures, and he told me plenty.     The old woman paused. Did you ever hear of the Green Flames? sheasked abruptly.     I shook my head. Some new kind of ...     It's not a new kind of anything. The Green Flame is a radio-activerock once found on Mercury. The      Alpha     rays of this rock are similarto radium in that they consist of streams of material particlesprojected at high speed. But the character of the      Gamma     rays hasnever been completely analyzed. Like those set up by radium, they areelectromagnetic pulsations, but they are also a strange combination of      Beta     or cathode rays with negatively charged electrons.     When any form of life is exposed to these      Gamma     rays from the GreenFlame rock, they produce in the creature's brain a certain lassitudeand lack of energy. As the period of exposure increases, this conditiondevelops into a sense of impotence and a desire for leadership orguidance. Occasionally, as with the weak-willed, there is a spirit ofintolerance. The Green Flames might be said to be an inorganic opiate,a thousand times more subtle and more powerful than any known drug.     I was sitting up now, hanging on to the woman's every word.     Now in 2710, as you'd know if you studied your history, the threeplanets of Earth, Venus, and Mars were under governmental bondage. Thecruel dictatorship of Vennox I was short-lived, but it lasted longenough to endanger all civilized life.     The archives tell us that one of the first acts of the overthrowinggovernment was to cast out all Green Flames, two of which Vennox hadordered must be kept in each household. The effect on the people wasimmediate. Representative government, individual enterprise, freedomfollowed.     Grannie Annie lit a cigarette and flipped the match to the floor.     To go back to my first trip to Venus. As I said, I met Ezra Karn, anold prospector there in the marsh. Karn told me that on one of histravels into the Varsoom district he had come upon the wreckage ofan old space ship. The hold of that space ship was packed with GreenFlames!     If Grannie expected me to show surprise at that, she was disappointed.I said, So what?     So everything, Billy-boy. Do you realize what such a thing would meanif it were true? Green Flames were supposedly destroyed on all planetsafter the Vennox regime crashed. If a quantity of the rock were inexistence, and it fell into the wrong hands, there'd be trouble.     Of course, I regarded Karn's story as a wild dream, but it madecorking good story material. I wrote it into a novel, and a week afterit was completed, the manuscript was stolen from my study back onEarth.     I see, I said as she lapsed into silence. And now you've come to theconclusion that the details of your story were true and that someone isattempting to put your plot into action.     Grannie nodded. Yes, she said. That's exactly what I think.     I got my pipe out of my pocket, tamped Martian tobacco into the bowland laughed heartily. The same old Flowers, I said. Tell me, who'syour thief ... Doctor Universe?     She regarded me evenly. What makes you say that?     I shrugged.     The way the theater crowd acted. It all ties in.     The old woman shook her head. No, this is a lot bigger than a simplequiz program. The theater crowd was but a cross-section of what ishappening all over the System. There have been riots on Earth and Mars,police officials murdered on Pluto and a demand that government byrepresentation be abolished on Jupiter. The time is ripe for a militarydictator to step in.     And you can lay it all to the Green Flames. It seems incredible that asingle shipload of the ore could effect such a wide ranged area, but inmy opinion someone has found a means of making that quantity a thousandtimes more potent and is transmiting it      en masse     .     If it had been anyone but Grannie Annie there before me, I wouldhave called her a fool. And then all at once I got an odd feeling ofapproaching danger.     Let's get out of here, I said, getting up.       Zinnng-whack!       All right!     On the mirror behind the bar a small circle with radiating cracksappeared. On the booth wall a scant inch above Grannie's head thefresco seemed to melt away suddenly.     A heat ray!     Grannie Annie leaped to her feet, grasped my arm and raced for thedoor. Outside a driverless hydrocar stood with idling motors. The oldwoman threw herself into the control seat, yanked me in after her andthrew over the starting stud.     An instant later we were plunging through the dark night.  Six days after leaving Swamp City we reached Level Five, the lastoutpost of firm ground. Ahead lay the inner marsh, stretching as far asthe eye could reach. Low islands projected at intervals from the thickwater. Mold balls, two feet across, drifted down from the slate-graysky like puffs of cotton.     We had traveled this far by      ganet     , the tough little two headed packanimal of the Venus hinterland. Any form of plane or rocket would havehad its motor instantly destroyed, of course, by the magnetic forcebelt that encircled the planet's equator. Now our drivers changed toboatmen, and we loaded our supplies into three clumsy      jagua     canoes.     It was around the camp fire that night that Grannie took me into herconfidence for the first time since we had left Swamp City.     We're heading directly for Varsoom country, she said. If we findEzra Karn so much the better. If we don't, we follow his directions tothe lost space ship. Our job is to find that ore and destroy it. Yousee, I'm positive the Green Flames have never been removed from theship.     Sleep had never bothered me, yet that night I lay awake for hourstossing restlessly. The thousand sounds of the blue marsh dronedsteadily. And the news broadcast I had heard over the portable visijust before retiring still lingered in my mind. To a casual observerthat broadcast would have meant little, a slight rebellion here, anisolated crime there. But viewed from the perspective Grannie hadgiven me, everything dovetailed. The situation on Jupiter was swiftlycoming to a head. Not only had the people on that planet demanded thatrepresentative government be abolished, but a forum was now being heldto find a leader who might take complete dictatorial control.     Outside a whisper-worm hissed softly. I got up and strode out of mytent. For some time I stood there, lost in thought. Could I believeGrannie's incredible story? Or was this another of her fantastic plotswhich she had skilfully blended into a novel?     Abruptly I stiffened. The familiar drone of the marsh was gone. In itsplace a ringing silence blanketed everything.     And then out in the gloom a darker shadow appeared, moving inundulating sweeps toward the center of the camp. Fascinated, I watchedit advance and retreat, saw two hyalescent eyes swim out of the murk.It charged, and with but a split second to act, I threw myself flat.There was a rush of mighty wings as the thing swept over me. Sharptalons raked my clothing. Again it came, and again I rolled swiftly,missing the thing by the narrowest of margins.     From the tent opposite a gaunt figure clad in a familiar dressappeared. Grannie gave a single warning:     Stand still!     The thing in the darkness turned like a cam on a rod and drove at usagain. This time the old woman's heat gun clicked, and a tracery ofpurple flame shot outward. A horrible soul-chilling scream rent theair. A moment later something huge and heavy scrabbled across theground and shot aloft.        Grannie Annie fired with deliberate speed.        I stood frozen as the diminuendo of its wild cries echoed back to me.     In heaven's name, what was it?     Hunter-bird, Grannie said calmly. A form of avian life found herein the swamp. Harmless in its wild state, but when captured, it can betrained to pursue a quarry until it kills. It has a single unit brainand follows with a relentless purpose.     Then that would mean...?     That it was sent by our enemy, the same enemy that shot at us in thecafe in Swamp City. Exactly. Grannie Annie halted at the door of hertent and faced me with earnest eyes. Billy-boy, our every move isbeing watched. From now on it's the survival of the fittest.  The following day was our seventh in the swamp. The water hereresembled a vast mosaic, striped and cross-striped with long windingribbons of yellowish substance that floated a few inches below thesurface. The mold balls coming into contact with the evonium water ofthe swamp had undergone a chemical change and evolved into a cohesivemulti-celled marine life that lived and died within a space of hours.The Venusians paddled with extreme care. Had one of them dipped hishand into one of those yellow streaks, he would have been devoured ina matter of seconds.     At high noon by my Earth watch I sighted a low white structure on oneof the distant islands. Moments later we made a landing at a rudejetty, and Grannie Annie was introducing me to Ezra Karn.     He was not as old a man as I had expected, but he was ragged andunkempt with iron gray hair falling almost to his shoulders. He wasdressed in      varpa     cloth, the Venus equivalent of buckskin, and on hishead was an enormous flop-brimmed hat.     Glad to meet you, he said, shaking my hand. Any friend of MissFlowers is a friend of mine. He ushered us down the catwalk into hishut.     The place was a two room affair, small but comfortable. The latesttype of visi set in one corner showed that Karn was not isolated fromcivilization entirely.     Grannie Annie came to the point abruptly. When she had explained theobject of our trip, the prospector became thoughtful.     Green Flames, eh? he repeated slowly. Well yes, I suppose I couldfind that space ship again. That is, if I wanted to.     What do you mean? Grannie paused in the act of rolling herself acigarette. You know where it is, don't you?     Ye-s, Karn nodded. But like I told you before, that ship lies inVarsoom country, and that isn't exactly a summer vacation spot.     What are the Varsoom? I asked. A native tribe?     Karn shook his head. They're a form of life that's never been seen byEarthmen. Strictly speaking, they're no more than a form of energy.     Dangerous?     Yes and no. Only man I ever heard of who escaped their country outsideof myself was the explorer, Darthier, three years ago. I got awaybecause I was alone, and they didn't notice me, and Darthier escapedbecause he made 'em laugh.     Laugh? A scowl crossed Grannie's face.     That's right, Karn said. The Varsoom have a strange nervous reactionthat's manifested by laughing. But just what it is that makes themlaugh, I don't know.     Food supplies and fresh drinking water were replenished at the hut.Several mold guns were borrowed from the prospector's supply to arm theVenusians. And then as we were about to leave, Karn suddenly turned.     The Doctor Universe program, he said. I ain't missed one in months.You gotta wait 'til I hear it.     Grannie frowned in annoyance, but the prospector was adamant. Heflipped a stud, twisted a dial and a moment later was leaning back in achair, listening with avid interest.     It was the same show I had witnessed back in Swamp City. Once again Iheard questions filter in from the far outposts of the System. Onceagain I saw the commanding figure of the quiz master as he strode backand forth across the stage. And as I sat there, looking into the visiscreen, a curious numbing drowsiness seemed to steal over me and leadmy thoughts far away.  Half an hour later we headed into the unknown. The Venusian boatmenwere ill-at-ease now and jabbered among themselves constantly. Wecamped that night on a miserable little island where insects swarmedabout us in hordes. The next day an indefinable wave of weariness anddespondency beset our entire party. I caught myself musing over thefutility of the venture. Only the pleadings of Grannie Annie kept mefrom turning back. On the morrow I realized the truth in her warning,that all of us had been exposed to the insidious radiations.     After that I lost track of time. Day after day of incessant rain ... ofsteaming swamp.... But at length we reached firm ground and began ouradvance on foot.     It was Karn who first sighted the ship. Striding in the lead, hesuddenly halted at the top of a hill and leveled his arm before him.There it lay, a huge cigar-shaped vessel of blackened      arelium     steel,half buried in the swamp soil.     What's that thing on top? Karn demanded, puzzled.     A rectangular metal envelope had been constructed over the sternquarters of the ship. Above this structure were three tall masts. Andsuspended between them was a network of copper wire studded with whiteinsulators.     Grannie gazed a long moment through binoculars. Billy-boy, take threeVenusians and head across the knoll, she ordered. Ezra and I willcircle in from the west. Fire a gun if you strike trouble.     But we found no trouble. The scene before us lay steeped in silence.Moments later our two parties converged at the base of the great ship.     A metal ladder extended from the envelope down the side of the vessel.Mid-way we could see a circular hatch-like door.     Up we go, Billy-boy. Heat gun in readiness, Grannie Annie began toclimb slowly.     The silence remained absolute. We reached the door and pulled it open.There was no sign of life.     Somebody's gone to a lot of trouble here, Ezra Karn observed.     Somebody had. Before us stretched a narrow corridor, flanked on theleft side by a wall of impenetrable stepto glass. The corridor wasbare of furnishings. But beyond the glass, revealed to us in mockingclarity, was a high panel, studded with dials and gauges. Even as welooked, we could see liquid pulse in glass tubes, indicator needlesswing slowly to and fro.     Grannie nodded. Some kind of a broadcasting unit. The Green Flames inthe lower hold are probably exposed to a      tholpane     plate and theirradiations stepped up by an electro-phosicalic process.     Karn raised the butt of his pistol and brought it crashing against theglass wall. His arm jumped in recoil, but the glass remained intact.     You'll never do it that way, Grannie said. Nothing short of anatomic blast will shatter that wall. It explains why there are noguards here. The mechanism is entirely self-operating. Let's see if theGreen Flames are more accessible.     In the lower hold disappointment again confronted us. Visible inthe feeble shafts of daylight that filtered through cracks in thevessel's hull were tiers of rectangular ingots of green iridescent ore.Suspended by insulators from the ceiling over them was a thick metalplate.     But between was a barrier. A wall of impenetrable stepto glass.     Grannie stamped her foot. It's maddening, she said. Here we are atthe crux of the whole matter, and we're powerless to make a singlemove.  Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram.     Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'.     For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet.     Say that again! she cried.     The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and....     That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this      is     Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see?     I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on.     What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration....     But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...?     Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty.     I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream.     And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another.     There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly.     An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment.     It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh!     He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes.     Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more.     Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again.     Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled.  Inside the freighter's narrow corridor Grannie faced me with eyesfilled with excitement.     Billy-boy, she said, we've got two problems now. We've got to stopDoctor Universe, and we've got to find a way of getting out of here.Right now we're nicely bottled up.     As if in answer to her words the visi set revealed the face of the quizmaster on the screen. He was saying:           Remember tomorrow at this same hour I will have a message ofunparalleled importance for the people of the nine planets. Tomorrownight I urge you, I command you, to tune in.          With a whistling intake of breath the old woman turned to one of theVenusians.     Bring all our equipment in here, she ordered. Hurry!     She untied the ribbon under her chin and took off her cap. She rolledup her sleeves, and as the Venusians came marching into the space shipwith bundles of equipment, she fell to work.     Silently Ezra Karn and I watched her. First she completely dismantledthe visi set, put it together again with an entirely altered hookup.Next she unrolled a coil of flexible copper mesh which we had broughtalong as a protective electrical screening against the marsh insects.She fastened rubberite suction cups to this mesh at intervals of everytwelve inches or more, carried it down to the freighter's hold andfastened it securely against the stepto glass wall.     Trailing a three-ply conduit up from the hold to the corridor sheselected an induction coil, several Micro-Wellman tubes and a quantityof wire from a box of spare parts. Dexterously her fingers moved in andout, fashioning a complicated and curious piece of apparatus.     At length she finished.     It's pretty hay-wire, she said, but I think it will work. Now I'lltell you what I'm going to do. When Doctor Universe broadcasts tomorrownight, he's going to announce that he has set himself up as supremedictator. He'll have the Green Flame radiations coming from this shipunder full power. I'm going to insert into his broadcast—the laughingof the Varsoom!     You're going to what?     Broadcast the mass laughter from those invisible creatures out there.Visualize it, Billy-boy! At the dramatic moment when Doctor Universemakes his plea for System-wide power, he will be accompanied by wildpeals of laughter. The whole broadcast will be turned into a burlesque.     How you going to make 'em laugh? interrupted Karn.     We must think of a way, Grannie replied soberly.     I, for one, am glad that no representative of the InterstellarPsychiatry Society witnessed our antics during the early hours of thatmorning and on into the long reaches of the afternoon, as we vainlytried to provoke the laughter of the Varsoom. All to no avail. Uttersilence greeted our efforts. And the time was growing close to thescheduled Doctor Universe program.     Ezra Karn wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. Maybe we've gotto attract their attention first, he suggested. Miss Flowers, whydon't you go up on the roof and read to 'em? Read 'em something fromone of your books, if you've got one along. That ought to make 'em situp and take notice.     For a moment the old woman gazed at him in silence. Then she got to herfeet quickly.     I'll do it, she said. I'll read them the attack scene from      MurderOn A Space Liner     .  It didn't make sense, of course. But nothing made sense in this madventure. Grannie Annie opened her duffel bag and drew out a copy ofher most popular book. With the volume under her arm, she mounted theladder to the top of the envelope. Ezra Karn rigged up a radite searchlamp, and a moment later the old woman stood in the center of a circleof white radiance.     Karn gripped my arm. This is it, he said tensely. If this fails ...     His voice clipped off as Grannie began to read. She read slowlyat first, then intoned the words and sentences faster and moredramatically.     And out in the swamp a vast hush fell as if unseen ears were listening.     ...      the space liner was over on her beam ends now as another shotfrom the raider's vessel crashed into the stern hold. In the controlcabin Cuthbert Strong twisted vainly at his bonds as he sought to freehimself. Opposite him, lashed by strong Martian vinta ropes to thegravascope, Louise Belmont sobbed softly, wringing her hands in muteappeal.          A restless rustling sounded out in the marsh, as if hundreds of bodieswere surging closer. Karn nodded in awe.     She's got 'em! he whispered. Listen. They're eatin' up every word.     I heard it then, and I thought I must be dreaming. From somewhere outin the swamp a sound rose into the thick air. A high-pitched chuckle,it was. The chuckle came again. Now it was followed by another andanother. An instant later a wave of low subdued laughter rose into theair.     Ezra Karn gulped. Gripes! he said. They're laughing already.      They're laughing at her book!     And look, the old lady's gettin' sore.     Up on the roof of the envelope Grannie Annie halted her reading toglare savagely out into the darkness.     The laughter was a roar now. It rose louder and louder, peal after pealof mirthful yells and hysterical shouts. And for the first time in mylife, I saw Annabella C. Flowers mad. She stamped her foot; she shookher fist at the unseen hordes out before her.     Ignorant slap-happy fools! she screamed. You don't know good sciencefiction when you hear it.     I turned to Karn and said quietly, Turn on the visi set. DoctorUniverse should be broadcasting now. Tune your microphone to pull inas much of that laughter as you can.  It took three weeks to make the return trip to Swamp City. The Varsoomfollowed us far beyond the frontier of their country like an unseenarmy in the throes of laughing gas. Not until we reached Level Five didthe last chuckle fade into the distance.     All during that trek back, Grannie sat in the dugout, staring silentlyout before her.     But when we reached Swamp City, the news was flung at us from allsides. One newspaper headline accurately told the story: DOCTORUNIVERSE BID FOR SYSTEM DICTATORSHIP SQUELCHED BY RIDICULE OF UNSEENAUDIENCE. QUIZ MASTER NOW IN HANDS OF I.P. COUP FAILURE.     Grannie, I said that night as we sat again in a rear booth of THEJET, what are you going to do now? Give up writing science fiction?     She looked at me soberly, then broke into a smile.     Just because some silly form of life that can't even be seen doesn'tappreciate it? I should say not. Right now I've got an idea for a swellyarn about Mars. Want to come along while I dig up some backgroundmaterial?     I shook my head. Not me, I said.     But I knew I would.   ","Grannie Annie,  a prolific science fiction novelist, goes to see Billy at a men’s club. The two sit down to have a drink in an empty portion of the club, but they only have a minute to chat before Grannie Annie remembers she has an appointment at the Satellite Theater. She insists that Billy come with her. Grannie Annie forces Billy to take a seat in the audience, and she takes her place backstage. The show is called “Doctor Universe and His Nine Geniuses,” and it’s a type of gameshow. People and creatures on nine different planets tune into the program, and they ask the geniuses questions. If the show’s experts cannot answer the question, the listener gets a sum of money. Grannie Annie is there to serve as the guest star. The show goes off without a hitch. The only remarkable thing that Billy notices is that the audience appears to be mesmerized by Dr. Universe. Grannie Annie tells Billy that while she was writing a sequel to her latest novel, she met Ezra Karn, and he told her about the Green Flames. The Green Flame is a radioactive rock originally found on Mercury, and the rock’s Gamma Rays have the power to make people and creatures have a strong desire for a leader. Grannie Annie included these fantastical ideas in her recent novel, but her manuscript was stolen. Now, she’s concerned that the rocks and rays will be used by an authoritarian leader. In the middle of their conversation, Grannie Annie and Billy are attacked by someone with a heat ray. The pair leaves Swamp City, followed by the enemy. They travel and find Ezra Karn in his home. Karn takes his friends to the spaceship where the Green Flames are stored. The precious resource is behind impenetrable glass, and it’s clear that whoever controls it made sure it was safe. Karn is an avid Doctor Universe fan, and he off-handedly tells Grannie Annie and Billy that they ought to make the man the king. Grannie Annie realizes that Doctor Universe is in fact the person hoarding the Green Flames, and he’s using his quiz show to control the minds of the masses so that he can take over as dictator. Without warning, Billy and his friends feel an invisible force pushing them and holding down their bodies. They recognize force as the Varsoom, and the only way to stop it is to make them laugh. Grannie Annie builds a machine that allows the group to interrupt Doctor Universe’s broadcast. When Doctor Universe comes on the radio again, Grannie Annie reads one of her science fiction books to the invisible creatures. The plan works, and the Varsoom laugh wildly, which ruins the Doctor’s plans to take over the universe. Grannie Annie says it won’t deter her from writing her novels, and she invites Billy to come along for the research portion of her next project. "
"Describe the character of Grannie Annie </s>    Doctor Universe     By CARL JACOBI     Grannie Annie, who wrote science fiction     under the nom de plume of Annabella C. Flowers,     had stumbled onto a murderous plot more     hair-raising than any she had ever concocted.     And the danger from the villain of the piece     didn't worry her—I was the guy he was shooting at.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I was killing an hour in the billiard room of the      Spacemen's Club     in Swamp City when the Venusian bellboy came and tapped me on theshoulder.     Beg pardon, thir, he said with his racial lisp, thereth thome one tothee you in the main lounge. His eyes rolled as he added, A lady!     A woman here...! The      Spacemen's     was a sanctuary, a rest club wherein-coming pilots and crewmen could relax before leaving for anothervoyage. The rule that no females could pass its portals was strictlyenforced.     I followed the bellhop down the long corridor that led to the mainlounge. At the threshold I jerked to a halt and stared incredulously.     Grannie Annie!     There she stood before a frantically gesticulating desk clerk, leaningon her faded green umbrella. A little wisp of a woman clad in avoluminous black dress with one of those doily-like caps on her head,tied by a ribbon under her chin. Her high-topped button shoes wereplanted firmly on the varpla carpet and her wrinkled face was set incalm defiance.     I barged across the lounge and seized her hand. Grannie Annie! Ihaven't seen you in two years.     Hi, Billy-boy, she greeted calmly. Will you please tell thisfish-face to shut up.     The desk clerk went white. Mithter Trenwith, if thith lady ith afriend of yourth, you'll have to take her away. It'th abtholutelyagainth the ruleth....     Okay, okay, I grinned. Look, we'll go into the grille. There's noone there at this hour.     In the grille an equally astonished waiter served us—me a lime rickeyand Grannie Annie her usual whisky sour—I waited until she had tossedthe drink off at a gulp before I set off a chain of questions:     What the devil are you doing on Venus? Don't you know women aren'tallowed in the      Spacemen's     ? What happened to the book you werewriting?     Hold it, Billy-boy. Laughingly she threw up both hands. Sure, I knewthis place had some antiquated laws. Pure fiddle-faddle, that's whatthey are. Anyway, I've been thrown out of better places.     She hadn't changed. To her publishers and her readers she might beAnnabella C. Flowers, author of a long list of science fiction novels.But to me she was still Grannie Annie, as old-fashioned as last year'shat, as modern as an atomic motor. She had probably written more drivelin the name of science fiction than anyone alive.     But the public loved it. They ate up her stories, and they clamored formore. Her annual income totaled into six figures, and her publisherssat back and massaged their digits, watching their earnings mount.     One thing you had to admit about her books. They may have been dimenovels, but they weren't synthetic. If Annabella C. Flowers wrote anovel, and the locale was the desert of Mars, she packed her carpet bagand hopped a liner for Craterville. If she cooked up a feud between twoexpeditions on Callisto, she went to Callisto.     She was the most completely delightful crackpot I had ever known.     What happened to      Guns for Ganymede     ? I asked. That was the title ofyour last, wasn't it?  Grannie spilled a few shreds of Martian tobacco onto a paper and deftlyrolled herself a cigarette.     It wasn't      Guns     , it was      Pistols     ; and it wasn't      Ganymede     , it was      Pluto     .     I grinned. All complete, I'll bet, with threats against the universeand beautiful Earth heroines dragged in by the hair.     What else is there in science fiction? she demanded. You can't haveyour hero fall in love with a bug-eyed monster.     Up on the wall a clock chimed the hour. The old woman jerked to herfeet.     I almost forgot, Billy-boy. I'm due at the      Satellite     Theater in tenminutes. Come on, you're going with me.     Before I realized it, I was following her through the lounge and out tothe jetty front. Grannie Annie hailed a hydrocar. Five minutes later wedrew up before the big doors of the      Satellite     .     They don't go in for style in Swamp City. A theater to the grizzledcolonials on this side of the planet meant a shack on stilts over themuck,      zilcon     wood seats and dingy atobide lamps. But the place waspacked with miners, freight-crew-men—all the tide and wash of humanitythat made Swamp City the frontier post it is.     In front was a big sign. It read:     ONE NIGHT ONLY     DOCTOR UNIVERSE AND HIS     NINE GENIUSES     THE QUESTION PROGRAM OF     THE SYSTEM     As we strode down the aisle a mangy-looking Venusian began to pound atinpan piano in the pit. Grannie Annie pushed me into a seat in thefront row.     Sit here, she said. I'm sorry about all this rush, but I'm one ofthe players in this shindig. As soon as the show is over, we'll gosomewhere and talk. She minced lightly down the aisle, climbed thestage steps and disappeared in the wings.     That damned fossilized dynamo, I muttered. She'll be the death of meyet.     The piano struck a chord in G, and the curtain went rattling up. On thestage four Earthmen, two Martians, two Venusians, and one Mercuriansat on an upraised dais. That is to say, eight of them sat. TheMercurian, a huge lump of granite-like flesh, sprawled there, palpablyuncomfortable. On the right were nine visi sets, each with its newimproved pantascope panel and switchboard. Before each set stood anEarthman operator.  A tall man, clad in a claw-hammer coat, came out from the wings andadvanced to the footlights.     People of Swamp City, he said, bowing, permit me to introducemyself. I am Doctor Universe, and these are my nine experts.     There was a roar of applause from the      Satellite     audience. When it hadsubsided, the man continued:     As most of you are familiar with our program, it will be unnecessaryto give any advance explanation. I will only say that on this stage arenine visi sets, each tuned to one of the nine planets. At transmittingsets all over these planets listeners will appear and voice questions.These questions, my nine experts will endeavor to answer. For everyquestion missed, the sender will receive a check for one thousand      planetoles     .     One thing more. As usual we have with us a guest star who will matchher wits with the experts. May I present that renowned writer ofscience fiction, Annabella C. Flowers.     From the left wing Grannie Annie appeared. She bowed and took her placeon the dais.     The Doctor's program began. The operator of the Earth visi twisted hisdials and nodded. Blue light flickered on the pantascope panel tocoalesce slowly into the face of a red-haired man. Sharp and dear hisvoice echoed through the theater:           Who was the first Earthman to titter the sunward side of Mercury?          Doctor Universe nodded and turned to Grannie Annie who had raised herhand. She said quietly:     Charles Zanner in the year 2012. In a specially constructedtracto-car.     And so it went. Questions from Mars, from Earth, from Saturn flowed inthe visi sets. Isolated miners on Jupiter, dancers in swank Plutoniancafes strove to stump the experts. With Doctor Universe offeringbantering side play, the experts gave their answers. When they failed,or when the Truthicator flashed a red light, he announced the name ofthe winner.     It grew a little tiresome after a while and I wondered why Grannie hadbrought me here. And then I began to notice things.     The audience in the      Satellite     seemed to have lost much of itsoriginal fervor. They applauded as before but they did so only at thesignal of Doctor Universe. The spell created by the man was complete.     Pompous and erect, he strode back and forth across the stage like ageneral surveying his army. His black eyes gleamed, and his thin lipswere turned in a smile of satisfaction.     When the last question had been answered I joined the exit-movingcrowd. It was outside under the street marquee that a strange incidentoccurred.     A yellow-faced Kagor from the upper Martian desert country shuffled by,dragging his cumbersome third leg behind him. Kagors, of course, had anunpleasant history of persecution since the early colonization days ofthe Red Planet. But the thing that happened there was a throw back toan earlier era.     Someone shouted, Yah, yellow-face! Down with all Kagors! As oneman the crowd took up the cry and surged forward. The helpless Kagorwas seized and flung to the pavement. A knife appeared from nowhere,snipped the Martian's single lock of hair. A booted foot bludgeonedinto his mouth.     Moments later an official hydrocar roared up and a dozen I.P. menrushed out and scattered the crowd. But a few stragglers lingered toshout derisive epithets.     Grannie Annie came out from behind the box office then. She took my armand led me around a corner and through a doorway under a sign that readTHE JET. Inside was a deep room with booths along one wall. The placewas all but deserted.     In a booth well toward the rear the old lady surveyed me with sobereyes.     Billy-boy, did you see the way that crowd acted?     I nodded. As disgraceful an exhibition as I've ever seen. The I.P. menought to clamp down.     The I.P. men aren't strong enough.     She said it quietly, but there was a glitter in her eyes and a harshline about her usually smiling lips.     What do you mean?  For a moment the old lady sat there in silence; then she leaned back,closed her eyes, and I knew there was a story coming.     My last book,      Death In The Atom     , hit the stands last January,she began. When it was finished I had planned to take a six months'vacation, but those fool publishers of mine insisted I do a sequel.Well, I'd used Mars and Pluto and Ganymede as settings for novels, sofor this one I decided on Venus. I went to Venus City, and I spent sixweeks in-country. I got some swell background material, and I met EzraKarn....     Who? I interrupted.     An old prospector who lives out in the deep marsh on the outskirts ofVarsoom country. To make a long story short, I got him talking abouthis adventures, and he told me plenty.     The old woman paused. Did you ever hear of the Green Flames? sheasked abruptly.     I shook my head. Some new kind of ...     It's not a new kind of anything. The Green Flame is a radio-activerock once found on Mercury. The      Alpha     rays of this rock are similarto radium in that they consist of streams of material particlesprojected at high speed. But the character of the      Gamma     rays hasnever been completely analyzed. Like those set up by radium, they areelectromagnetic pulsations, but they are also a strange combination of      Beta     or cathode rays with negatively charged electrons.     When any form of life is exposed to these      Gamma     rays from the GreenFlame rock, they produce in the creature's brain a certain lassitudeand lack of energy. As the period of exposure increases, this conditiondevelops into a sense of impotence and a desire for leadership orguidance. Occasionally, as with the weak-willed, there is a spirit ofintolerance. The Green Flames might be said to be an inorganic opiate,a thousand times more subtle and more powerful than any known drug.     I was sitting up now, hanging on to the woman's every word.     Now in 2710, as you'd know if you studied your history, the threeplanets of Earth, Venus, and Mars were under governmental bondage. Thecruel dictatorship of Vennox I was short-lived, but it lasted longenough to endanger all civilized life.     The archives tell us that one of the first acts of the overthrowinggovernment was to cast out all Green Flames, two of which Vennox hadordered must be kept in each household. The effect on the people wasimmediate. Representative government, individual enterprise, freedomfollowed.     Grannie Annie lit a cigarette and flipped the match to the floor.     To go back to my first trip to Venus. As I said, I met Ezra Karn, anold prospector there in the marsh. Karn told me that on one of histravels into the Varsoom district he had come upon the wreckage ofan old space ship. The hold of that space ship was packed with GreenFlames!     If Grannie expected me to show surprise at that, she was disappointed.I said, So what?     So everything, Billy-boy. Do you realize what such a thing would meanif it were true? Green Flames were supposedly destroyed on all planetsafter the Vennox regime crashed. If a quantity of the rock were inexistence, and it fell into the wrong hands, there'd be trouble.     Of course, I regarded Karn's story as a wild dream, but it madecorking good story material. I wrote it into a novel, and a week afterit was completed, the manuscript was stolen from my study back onEarth.     I see, I said as she lapsed into silence. And now you've come to theconclusion that the details of your story were true and that someone isattempting to put your plot into action.     Grannie nodded. Yes, she said. That's exactly what I think.     I got my pipe out of my pocket, tamped Martian tobacco into the bowland laughed heartily. The same old Flowers, I said. Tell me, who'syour thief ... Doctor Universe?     She regarded me evenly. What makes you say that?     I shrugged.     The way the theater crowd acted. It all ties in.     The old woman shook her head. No, this is a lot bigger than a simplequiz program. The theater crowd was but a cross-section of what ishappening all over the System. There have been riots on Earth and Mars,police officials murdered on Pluto and a demand that government byrepresentation be abolished on Jupiter. The time is ripe for a militarydictator to step in.     And you can lay it all to the Green Flames. It seems incredible that asingle shipload of the ore could effect such a wide ranged area, but inmy opinion someone has found a means of making that quantity a thousandtimes more potent and is transmiting it      en masse     .     If it had been anyone but Grannie Annie there before me, I wouldhave called her a fool. And then all at once I got an odd feeling ofapproaching danger.     Let's get out of here, I said, getting up.       Zinnng-whack!       All right!     On the mirror behind the bar a small circle with radiating cracksappeared. On the booth wall a scant inch above Grannie's head thefresco seemed to melt away suddenly.     A heat ray!     Grannie Annie leaped to her feet, grasped my arm and raced for thedoor. Outside a driverless hydrocar stood with idling motors. The oldwoman threw herself into the control seat, yanked me in after her andthrew over the starting stud.     An instant later we were plunging through the dark night.  Six days after leaving Swamp City we reached Level Five, the lastoutpost of firm ground. Ahead lay the inner marsh, stretching as far asthe eye could reach. Low islands projected at intervals from the thickwater. Mold balls, two feet across, drifted down from the slate-graysky like puffs of cotton.     We had traveled this far by      ganet     , the tough little two headed packanimal of the Venus hinterland. Any form of plane or rocket would havehad its motor instantly destroyed, of course, by the magnetic forcebelt that encircled the planet's equator. Now our drivers changed toboatmen, and we loaded our supplies into three clumsy      jagua     canoes.     It was around the camp fire that night that Grannie took me into herconfidence for the first time since we had left Swamp City.     We're heading directly for Varsoom country, she said. If we findEzra Karn so much the better. If we don't, we follow his directions tothe lost space ship. Our job is to find that ore and destroy it. Yousee, I'm positive the Green Flames have never been removed from theship.     Sleep had never bothered me, yet that night I lay awake for hourstossing restlessly. The thousand sounds of the blue marsh dronedsteadily. And the news broadcast I had heard over the portable visijust before retiring still lingered in my mind. To a casual observerthat broadcast would have meant little, a slight rebellion here, anisolated crime there. But viewed from the perspective Grannie hadgiven me, everything dovetailed. The situation on Jupiter was swiftlycoming to a head. Not only had the people on that planet demanded thatrepresentative government be abolished, but a forum was now being heldto find a leader who might take complete dictatorial control.     Outside a whisper-worm hissed softly. I got up and strode out of mytent. For some time I stood there, lost in thought. Could I believeGrannie's incredible story? Or was this another of her fantastic plotswhich she had skilfully blended into a novel?     Abruptly I stiffened. The familiar drone of the marsh was gone. In itsplace a ringing silence blanketed everything.     And then out in the gloom a darker shadow appeared, moving inundulating sweeps toward the center of the camp. Fascinated, I watchedit advance and retreat, saw two hyalescent eyes swim out of the murk.It charged, and with but a split second to act, I threw myself flat.There was a rush of mighty wings as the thing swept over me. Sharptalons raked my clothing. Again it came, and again I rolled swiftly,missing the thing by the narrowest of margins.     From the tent opposite a gaunt figure clad in a familiar dressappeared. Grannie gave a single warning:     Stand still!     The thing in the darkness turned like a cam on a rod and drove at usagain. This time the old woman's heat gun clicked, and a tracery ofpurple flame shot outward. A horrible soul-chilling scream rent theair. A moment later something huge and heavy scrabbled across theground and shot aloft.        Grannie Annie fired with deliberate speed.        I stood frozen as the diminuendo of its wild cries echoed back to me.     In heaven's name, what was it?     Hunter-bird, Grannie said calmly. A form of avian life found herein the swamp. Harmless in its wild state, but when captured, it can betrained to pursue a quarry until it kills. It has a single unit brainand follows with a relentless purpose.     Then that would mean...?     That it was sent by our enemy, the same enemy that shot at us in thecafe in Swamp City. Exactly. Grannie Annie halted at the door of hertent and faced me with earnest eyes. Billy-boy, our every move isbeing watched. From now on it's the survival of the fittest.  The following day was our seventh in the swamp. The water hereresembled a vast mosaic, striped and cross-striped with long windingribbons of yellowish substance that floated a few inches below thesurface. The mold balls coming into contact with the evonium water ofthe swamp had undergone a chemical change and evolved into a cohesivemulti-celled marine life that lived and died within a space of hours.The Venusians paddled with extreme care. Had one of them dipped hishand into one of those yellow streaks, he would have been devoured ina matter of seconds.     At high noon by my Earth watch I sighted a low white structure on oneof the distant islands. Moments later we made a landing at a rudejetty, and Grannie Annie was introducing me to Ezra Karn.     He was not as old a man as I had expected, but he was ragged andunkempt with iron gray hair falling almost to his shoulders. He wasdressed in      varpa     cloth, the Venus equivalent of buckskin, and on hishead was an enormous flop-brimmed hat.     Glad to meet you, he said, shaking my hand. Any friend of MissFlowers is a friend of mine. He ushered us down the catwalk into hishut.     The place was a two room affair, small but comfortable. The latesttype of visi set in one corner showed that Karn was not isolated fromcivilization entirely.     Grannie Annie came to the point abruptly. When she had explained theobject of our trip, the prospector became thoughtful.     Green Flames, eh? he repeated slowly. Well yes, I suppose I couldfind that space ship again. That is, if I wanted to.     What do you mean? Grannie paused in the act of rolling herself acigarette. You know where it is, don't you?     Ye-s, Karn nodded. But like I told you before, that ship lies inVarsoom country, and that isn't exactly a summer vacation spot.     What are the Varsoom? I asked. A native tribe?     Karn shook his head. They're a form of life that's never been seen byEarthmen. Strictly speaking, they're no more than a form of energy.     Dangerous?     Yes and no. Only man I ever heard of who escaped their country outsideof myself was the explorer, Darthier, three years ago. I got awaybecause I was alone, and they didn't notice me, and Darthier escapedbecause he made 'em laugh.     Laugh? A scowl crossed Grannie's face.     That's right, Karn said. The Varsoom have a strange nervous reactionthat's manifested by laughing. But just what it is that makes themlaugh, I don't know.     Food supplies and fresh drinking water were replenished at the hut.Several mold guns were borrowed from the prospector's supply to arm theVenusians. And then as we were about to leave, Karn suddenly turned.     The Doctor Universe program, he said. I ain't missed one in months.You gotta wait 'til I hear it.     Grannie frowned in annoyance, but the prospector was adamant. Heflipped a stud, twisted a dial and a moment later was leaning back in achair, listening with avid interest.     It was the same show I had witnessed back in Swamp City. Once again Iheard questions filter in from the far outposts of the System. Onceagain I saw the commanding figure of the quiz master as he strode backand forth across the stage. And as I sat there, looking into the visiscreen, a curious numbing drowsiness seemed to steal over me and leadmy thoughts far away.  Half an hour later we headed into the unknown. The Venusian boatmenwere ill-at-ease now and jabbered among themselves constantly. Wecamped that night on a miserable little island where insects swarmedabout us in hordes. The next day an indefinable wave of weariness anddespondency beset our entire party. I caught myself musing over thefutility of the venture. Only the pleadings of Grannie Annie kept mefrom turning back. On the morrow I realized the truth in her warning,that all of us had been exposed to the insidious radiations.     After that I lost track of time. Day after day of incessant rain ... ofsteaming swamp.... But at length we reached firm ground and began ouradvance on foot.     It was Karn who first sighted the ship. Striding in the lead, hesuddenly halted at the top of a hill and leveled his arm before him.There it lay, a huge cigar-shaped vessel of blackened      arelium     steel,half buried in the swamp soil.     What's that thing on top? Karn demanded, puzzled.     A rectangular metal envelope had been constructed over the sternquarters of the ship. Above this structure were three tall masts. Andsuspended between them was a network of copper wire studded with whiteinsulators.     Grannie gazed a long moment through binoculars. Billy-boy, take threeVenusians and head across the knoll, she ordered. Ezra and I willcircle in from the west. Fire a gun if you strike trouble.     But we found no trouble. The scene before us lay steeped in silence.Moments later our two parties converged at the base of the great ship.     A metal ladder extended from the envelope down the side of the vessel.Mid-way we could see a circular hatch-like door.     Up we go, Billy-boy. Heat gun in readiness, Grannie Annie began toclimb slowly.     The silence remained absolute. We reached the door and pulled it open.There was no sign of life.     Somebody's gone to a lot of trouble here, Ezra Karn observed.     Somebody had. Before us stretched a narrow corridor, flanked on theleft side by a wall of impenetrable stepto glass. The corridor wasbare of furnishings. But beyond the glass, revealed to us in mockingclarity, was a high panel, studded with dials and gauges. Even as welooked, we could see liquid pulse in glass tubes, indicator needlesswing slowly to and fro.     Grannie nodded. Some kind of a broadcasting unit. The Green Flames inthe lower hold are probably exposed to a      tholpane     plate and theirradiations stepped up by an electro-phosicalic process.     Karn raised the butt of his pistol and brought it crashing against theglass wall. His arm jumped in recoil, but the glass remained intact.     You'll never do it that way, Grannie said. Nothing short of anatomic blast will shatter that wall. It explains why there are noguards here. The mechanism is entirely self-operating. Let's see if theGreen Flames are more accessible.     In the lower hold disappointment again confronted us. Visible inthe feeble shafts of daylight that filtered through cracks in thevessel's hull were tiers of rectangular ingots of green iridescent ore.Suspended by insulators from the ceiling over them was a thick metalplate.     But between was a barrier. A wall of impenetrable stepto glass.     Grannie stamped her foot. It's maddening, she said. Here we are atthe crux of the whole matter, and we're powerless to make a singlemove.  Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram.     Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'.     For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet.     Say that again! she cried.     The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and....     That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this      is     Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see?     I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on.     What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration....     But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...?     Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty.     I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream.     And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another.     There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly.     An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment.     It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh!     He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes.     Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more.     Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again.     Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled.  Inside the freighter's narrow corridor Grannie faced me with eyesfilled with excitement.     Billy-boy, she said, we've got two problems now. We've got to stopDoctor Universe, and we've got to find a way of getting out of here.Right now we're nicely bottled up.     As if in answer to her words the visi set revealed the face of the quizmaster on the screen. He was saying:           Remember tomorrow at this same hour I will have a message ofunparalleled importance for the people of the nine planets. Tomorrownight I urge you, I command you, to tune in.          With a whistling intake of breath the old woman turned to one of theVenusians.     Bring all our equipment in here, she ordered. Hurry!     She untied the ribbon under her chin and took off her cap. She rolledup her sleeves, and as the Venusians came marching into the space shipwith bundles of equipment, she fell to work.     Silently Ezra Karn and I watched her. First she completely dismantledthe visi set, put it together again with an entirely altered hookup.Next she unrolled a coil of flexible copper mesh which we had broughtalong as a protective electrical screening against the marsh insects.She fastened rubberite suction cups to this mesh at intervals of everytwelve inches or more, carried it down to the freighter's hold andfastened it securely against the stepto glass wall.     Trailing a three-ply conduit up from the hold to the corridor sheselected an induction coil, several Micro-Wellman tubes and a quantityof wire from a box of spare parts. Dexterously her fingers moved in andout, fashioning a complicated and curious piece of apparatus.     At length she finished.     It's pretty hay-wire, she said, but I think it will work. Now I'lltell you what I'm going to do. When Doctor Universe broadcasts tomorrownight, he's going to announce that he has set himself up as supremedictator. He'll have the Green Flame radiations coming from this shipunder full power. I'm going to insert into his broadcast—the laughingof the Varsoom!     You're going to what?     Broadcast the mass laughter from those invisible creatures out there.Visualize it, Billy-boy! At the dramatic moment when Doctor Universemakes his plea for System-wide power, he will be accompanied by wildpeals of laughter. The whole broadcast will be turned into a burlesque.     How you going to make 'em laugh? interrupted Karn.     We must think of a way, Grannie replied soberly.     I, for one, am glad that no representative of the InterstellarPsychiatry Society witnessed our antics during the early hours of thatmorning and on into the long reaches of the afternoon, as we vainlytried to provoke the laughter of the Varsoom. All to no avail. Uttersilence greeted our efforts. And the time was growing close to thescheduled Doctor Universe program.     Ezra Karn wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. Maybe we've gotto attract their attention first, he suggested. Miss Flowers, whydon't you go up on the roof and read to 'em? Read 'em something fromone of your books, if you've got one along. That ought to make 'em situp and take notice.     For a moment the old woman gazed at him in silence. Then she got to herfeet quickly.     I'll do it, she said. I'll read them the attack scene from      MurderOn A Space Liner     .  It didn't make sense, of course. But nothing made sense in this madventure. Grannie Annie opened her duffel bag and drew out a copy ofher most popular book. With the volume under her arm, she mounted theladder to the top of the envelope. Ezra Karn rigged up a radite searchlamp, and a moment later the old woman stood in the center of a circleof white radiance.     Karn gripped my arm. This is it, he said tensely. If this fails ...     His voice clipped off as Grannie began to read. She read slowlyat first, then intoned the words and sentences faster and moredramatically.     And out in the swamp a vast hush fell as if unseen ears were listening.     ...      the space liner was over on her beam ends now as another shotfrom the raider's vessel crashed into the stern hold. In the controlcabin Cuthbert Strong twisted vainly at his bonds as he sought to freehimself. Opposite him, lashed by strong Martian vinta ropes to thegravascope, Louise Belmont sobbed softly, wringing her hands in muteappeal.          A restless rustling sounded out in the marsh, as if hundreds of bodieswere surging closer. Karn nodded in awe.     She's got 'em! he whispered. Listen. They're eatin' up every word.     I heard it then, and I thought I must be dreaming. From somewhere outin the swamp a sound rose into the thick air. A high-pitched chuckle,it was. The chuckle came again. Now it was followed by another andanother. An instant later a wave of low subdued laughter rose into theair.     Ezra Karn gulped. Gripes! he said. They're laughing already.      They're laughing at her book!     And look, the old lady's gettin' sore.     Up on the roof of the envelope Grannie Annie halted her reading toglare savagely out into the darkness.     The laughter was a roar now. It rose louder and louder, peal after pealof mirthful yells and hysterical shouts. And for the first time in mylife, I saw Annabella C. Flowers mad. She stamped her foot; she shookher fist at the unseen hordes out before her.     Ignorant slap-happy fools! she screamed. You don't know good sciencefiction when you hear it.     I turned to Karn and said quietly, Turn on the visi set. DoctorUniverse should be broadcasting now. Tune your microphone to pull inas much of that laughter as you can.  It took three weeks to make the return trip to Swamp City. The Varsoomfollowed us far beyond the frontier of their country like an unseenarmy in the throes of laughing gas. Not until we reached Level Five didthe last chuckle fade into the distance.     All during that trek back, Grannie sat in the dugout, staring silentlyout before her.     But when we reached Swamp City, the news was flung at us from allsides. One newspaper headline accurately told the story: DOCTORUNIVERSE BID FOR SYSTEM DICTATORSHIP SQUELCHED BY RIDICULE OF UNSEENAUDIENCE. QUIZ MASTER NOW IN HANDS OF I.P. COUP FAILURE.     Grannie, I said that night as we sat again in a rear booth of THEJET, what are you going to do now? Give up writing science fiction?     She looked at me soberly, then broke into a smile.     Just because some silly form of life that can't even be seen doesn'tappreciate it? I should say not. Right now I've got an idea for a swellyarn about Mars. Want to come along while I dig up some backgroundmaterial?     I shook my head. Not me, I said.     But I knew I would.   ","Grannie Annie is a small elderly woman who wears a bonnet and dresses in black. She smokes tobacco and her choice of beverage is whiskey. She is a very well-known science fiction writer, and her work is highly sought after by publishers. Her pen name is Annabella C. Flowers. Her writing includes some repetition. Each novel includes a beautiful woman for the protagonist to fall in love with. Still, Grannie Annie always does her research. If she’s writing about a colony on Venus, she spends weeks there to truly get to know the place before she portrays the setting in her book. Grannie Annie is bold and intelligent. Although she does not first suspect that Doctor Universe is the wannabe dictator, as soon as Karn mentions that he thinks the Doctor should be king, everything clicks, and Annie recognizes him as the villain. She is a quick thinker and a tinkerer as well. She is able to build a contraption that interrupts Doctor Universe’s broadcast in very little time. When the Varsoom laugh at her novel, she gets angry. She clearly takes pride in her work and doesn’t like feeling like a laughingstock. Annie is not a quitter. When Billy asks her if she will continue writing, she already has the idea for her next piece ready to go. "
"Describe the significance of the Green Flames. </s>    Doctor Universe     By CARL JACOBI     Grannie Annie, who wrote science fiction     under the nom de plume of Annabella C. Flowers,     had stumbled onto a murderous plot more     hair-raising than any she had ever concocted.     And the danger from the villain of the piece     didn't worry her—I was the guy he was shooting at.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I was killing an hour in the billiard room of the      Spacemen's Club     in Swamp City when the Venusian bellboy came and tapped me on theshoulder.     Beg pardon, thir, he said with his racial lisp, thereth thome one tothee you in the main lounge. His eyes rolled as he added, A lady!     A woman here...! The      Spacemen's     was a sanctuary, a rest club wherein-coming pilots and crewmen could relax before leaving for anothervoyage. The rule that no females could pass its portals was strictlyenforced.     I followed the bellhop down the long corridor that led to the mainlounge. At the threshold I jerked to a halt and stared incredulously.     Grannie Annie!     There she stood before a frantically gesticulating desk clerk, leaningon her faded green umbrella. A little wisp of a woman clad in avoluminous black dress with one of those doily-like caps on her head,tied by a ribbon under her chin. Her high-topped button shoes wereplanted firmly on the varpla carpet and her wrinkled face was set incalm defiance.     I barged across the lounge and seized her hand. Grannie Annie! Ihaven't seen you in two years.     Hi, Billy-boy, she greeted calmly. Will you please tell thisfish-face to shut up.     The desk clerk went white. Mithter Trenwith, if thith lady ith afriend of yourth, you'll have to take her away. It'th abtholutelyagainth the ruleth....     Okay, okay, I grinned. Look, we'll go into the grille. There's noone there at this hour.     In the grille an equally astonished waiter served us—me a lime rickeyand Grannie Annie her usual whisky sour—I waited until she had tossedthe drink off at a gulp before I set off a chain of questions:     What the devil are you doing on Venus? Don't you know women aren'tallowed in the      Spacemen's     ? What happened to the book you werewriting?     Hold it, Billy-boy. Laughingly she threw up both hands. Sure, I knewthis place had some antiquated laws. Pure fiddle-faddle, that's whatthey are. Anyway, I've been thrown out of better places.     She hadn't changed. To her publishers and her readers she might beAnnabella C. Flowers, author of a long list of science fiction novels.But to me she was still Grannie Annie, as old-fashioned as last year'shat, as modern as an atomic motor. She had probably written more drivelin the name of science fiction than anyone alive.     But the public loved it. They ate up her stories, and they clamored formore. Her annual income totaled into six figures, and her publisherssat back and massaged their digits, watching their earnings mount.     One thing you had to admit about her books. They may have been dimenovels, but they weren't synthetic. If Annabella C. Flowers wrote anovel, and the locale was the desert of Mars, she packed her carpet bagand hopped a liner for Craterville. If she cooked up a feud between twoexpeditions on Callisto, she went to Callisto.     She was the most completely delightful crackpot I had ever known.     What happened to      Guns for Ganymede     ? I asked. That was the title ofyour last, wasn't it?  Grannie spilled a few shreds of Martian tobacco onto a paper and deftlyrolled herself a cigarette.     It wasn't      Guns     , it was      Pistols     ; and it wasn't      Ganymede     , it was      Pluto     .     I grinned. All complete, I'll bet, with threats against the universeand beautiful Earth heroines dragged in by the hair.     What else is there in science fiction? she demanded. You can't haveyour hero fall in love with a bug-eyed monster.     Up on the wall a clock chimed the hour. The old woman jerked to herfeet.     I almost forgot, Billy-boy. I'm due at the      Satellite     Theater in tenminutes. Come on, you're going with me.     Before I realized it, I was following her through the lounge and out tothe jetty front. Grannie Annie hailed a hydrocar. Five minutes later wedrew up before the big doors of the      Satellite     .     They don't go in for style in Swamp City. A theater to the grizzledcolonials on this side of the planet meant a shack on stilts over themuck,      zilcon     wood seats and dingy atobide lamps. But the place waspacked with miners, freight-crew-men—all the tide and wash of humanitythat made Swamp City the frontier post it is.     In front was a big sign. It read:     ONE NIGHT ONLY     DOCTOR UNIVERSE AND HIS     NINE GENIUSES     THE QUESTION PROGRAM OF     THE SYSTEM     As we strode down the aisle a mangy-looking Venusian began to pound atinpan piano in the pit. Grannie Annie pushed me into a seat in thefront row.     Sit here, she said. I'm sorry about all this rush, but I'm one ofthe players in this shindig. As soon as the show is over, we'll gosomewhere and talk. She minced lightly down the aisle, climbed thestage steps and disappeared in the wings.     That damned fossilized dynamo, I muttered. She'll be the death of meyet.     The piano struck a chord in G, and the curtain went rattling up. On thestage four Earthmen, two Martians, two Venusians, and one Mercuriansat on an upraised dais. That is to say, eight of them sat. TheMercurian, a huge lump of granite-like flesh, sprawled there, palpablyuncomfortable. On the right were nine visi sets, each with its newimproved pantascope panel and switchboard. Before each set stood anEarthman operator.  A tall man, clad in a claw-hammer coat, came out from the wings andadvanced to the footlights.     People of Swamp City, he said, bowing, permit me to introducemyself. I am Doctor Universe, and these are my nine experts.     There was a roar of applause from the      Satellite     audience. When it hadsubsided, the man continued:     As most of you are familiar with our program, it will be unnecessaryto give any advance explanation. I will only say that on this stage arenine visi sets, each tuned to one of the nine planets. At transmittingsets all over these planets listeners will appear and voice questions.These questions, my nine experts will endeavor to answer. For everyquestion missed, the sender will receive a check for one thousand      planetoles     .     One thing more. As usual we have with us a guest star who will matchher wits with the experts. May I present that renowned writer ofscience fiction, Annabella C. Flowers.     From the left wing Grannie Annie appeared. She bowed and took her placeon the dais.     The Doctor's program began. The operator of the Earth visi twisted hisdials and nodded. Blue light flickered on the pantascope panel tocoalesce slowly into the face of a red-haired man. Sharp and dear hisvoice echoed through the theater:           Who was the first Earthman to titter the sunward side of Mercury?          Doctor Universe nodded and turned to Grannie Annie who had raised herhand. She said quietly:     Charles Zanner in the year 2012. In a specially constructedtracto-car.     And so it went. Questions from Mars, from Earth, from Saturn flowed inthe visi sets. Isolated miners on Jupiter, dancers in swank Plutoniancafes strove to stump the experts. With Doctor Universe offeringbantering side play, the experts gave their answers. When they failed,or when the Truthicator flashed a red light, he announced the name ofthe winner.     It grew a little tiresome after a while and I wondered why Grannie hadbrought me here. And then I began to notice things.     The audience in the      Satellite     seemed to have lost much of itsoriginal fervor. They applauded as before but they did so only at thesignal of Doctor Universe. The spell created by the man was complete.     Pompous and erect, he strode back and forth across the stage like ageneral surveying his army. His black eyes gleamed, and his thin lipswere turned in a smile of satisfaction.     When the last question had been answered I joined the exit-movingcrowd. It was outside under the street marquee that a strange incidentoccurred.     A yellow-faced Kagor from the upper Martian desert country shuffled by,dragging his cumbersome third leg behind him. Kagors, of course, had anunpleasant history of persecution since the early colonization days ofthe Red Planet. But the thing that happened there was a throw back toan earlier era.     Someone shouted, Yah, yellow-face! Down with all Kagors! As oneman the crowd took up the cry and surged forward. The helpless Kagorwas seized and flung to the pavement. A knife appeared from nowhere,snipped the Martian's single lock of hair. A booted foot bludgeonedinto his mouth.     Moments later an official hydrocar roared up and a dozen I.P. menrushed out and scattered the crowd. But a few stragglers lingered toshout derisive epithets.     Grannie Annie came out from behind the box office then. She took my armand led me around a corner and through a doorway under a sign that readTHE JET. Inside was a deep room with booths along one wall. The placewas all but deserted.     In a booth well toward the rear the old lady surveyed me with sobereyes.     Billy-boy, did you see the way that crowd acted?     I nodded. As disgraceful an exhibition as I've ever seen. The I.P. menought to clamp down.     The I.P. men aren't strong enough.     She said it quietly, but there was a glitter in her eyes and a harshline about her usually smiling lips.     What do you mean?  For a moment the old lady sat there in silence; then she leaned back,closed her eyes, and I knew there was a story coming.     My last book,      Death In The Atom     , hit the stands last January,she began. When it was finished I had planned to take a six months'vacation, but those fool publishers of mine insisted I do a sequel.Well, I'd used Mars and Pluto and Ganymede as settings for novels, sofor this one I decided on Venus. I went to Venus City, and I spent sixweeks in-country. I got some swell background material, and I met EzraKarn....     Who? I interrupted.     An old prospector who lives out in the deep marsh on the outskirts ofVarsoom country. To make a long story short, I got him talking abouthis adventures, and he told me plenty.     The old woman paused. Did you ever hear of the Green Flames? sheasked abruptly.     I shook my head. Some new kind of ...     It's not a new kind of anything. The Green Flame is a radio-activerock once found on Mercury. The      Alpha     rays of this rock are similarto radium in that they consist of streams of material particlesprojected at high speed. But the character of the      Gamma     rays hasnever been completely analyzed. Like those set up by radium, they areelectromagnetic pulsations, but they are also a strange combination of      Beta     or cathode rays with negatively charged electrons.     When any form of life is exposed to these      Gamma     rays from the GreenFlame rock, they produce in the creature's brain a certain lassitudeand lack of energy. As the period of exposure increases, this conditiondevelops into a sense of impotence and a desire for leadership orguidance. Occasionally, as with the weak-willed, there is a spirit ofintolerance. The Green Flames might be said to be an inorganic opiate,a thousand times more subtle and more powerful than any known drug.     I was sitting up now, hanging on to the woman's every word.     Now in 2710, as you'd know if you studied your history, the threeplanets of Earth, Venus, and Mars were under governmental bondage. Thecruel dictatorship of Vennox I was short-lived, but it lasted longenough to endanger all civilized life.     The archives tell us that one of the first acts of the overthrowinggovernment was to cast out all Green Flames, two of which Vennox hadordered must be kept in each household. The effect on the people wasimmediate. Representative government, individual enterprise, freedomfollowed.     Grannie Annie lit a cigarette and flipped the match to the floor.     To go back to my first trip to Venus. As I said, I met Ezra Karn, anold prospector there in the marsh. Karn told me that on one of histravels into the Varsoom district he had come upon the wreckage ofan old space ship. The hold of that space ship was packed with GreenFlames!     If Grannie expected me to show surprise at that, she was disappointed.I said, So what?     So everything, Billy-boy. Do you realize what such a thing would meanif it were true? Green Flames were supposedly destroyed on all planetsafter the Vennox regime crashed. If a quantity of the rock were inexistence, and it fell into the wrong hands, there'd be trouble.     Of course, I regarded Karn's story as a wild dream, but it madecorking good story material. I wrote it into a novel, and a week afterit was completed, the manuscript was stolen from my study back onEarth.     I see, I said as she lapsed into silence. And now you've come to theconclusion that the details of your story were true and that someone isattempting to put your plot into action.     Grannie nodded. Yes, she said. That's exactly what I think.     I got my pipe out of my pocket, tamped Martian tobacco into the bowland laughed heartily. The same old Flowers, I said. Tell me, who'syour thief ... Doctor Universe?     She regarded me evenly. What makes you say that?     I shrugged.     The way the theater crowd acted. It all ties in.     The old woman shook her head. No, this is a lot bigger than a simplequiz program. The theater crowd was but a cross-section of what ishappening all over the System. There have been riots on Earth and Mars,police officials murdered on Pluto and a demand that government byrepresentation be abolished on Jupiter. The time is ripe for a militarydictator to step in.     And you can lay it all to the Green Flames. It seems incredible that asingle shipload of the ore could effect such a wide ranged area, but inmy opinion someone has found a means of making that quantity a thousandtimes more potent and is transmiting it      en masse     .     If it had been anyone but Grannie Annie there before me, I wouldhave called her a fool. And then all at once I got an odd feeling ofapproaching danger.     Let's get out of here, I said, getting up.       Zinnng-whack!       All right!     On the mirror behind the bar a small circle with radiating cracksappeared. On the booth wall a scant inch above Grannie's head thefresco seemed to melt away suddenly.     A heat ray!     Grannie Annie leaped to her feet, grasped my arm and raced for thedoor. Outside a driverless hydrocar stood with idling motors. The oldwoman threw herself into the control seat, yanked me in after her andthrew over the starting stud.     An instant later we were plunging through the dark night.  Six days after leaving Swamp City we reached Level Five, the lastoutpost of firm ground. Ahead lay the inner marsh, stretching as far asthe eye could reach. Low islands projected at intervals from the thickwater. Mold balls, two feet across, drifted down from the slate-graysky like puffs of cotton.     We had traveled this far by      ganet     , the tough little two headed packanimal of the Venus hinterland. Any form of plane or rocket would havehad its motor instantly destroyed, of course, by the magnetic forcebelt that encircled the planet's equator. Now our drivers changed toboatmen, and we loaded our supplies into three clumsy      jagua     canoes.     It was around the camp fire that night that Grannie took me into herconfidence for the first time since we had left Swamp City.     We're heading directly for Varsoom country, she said. If we findEzra Karn so much the better. If we don't, we follow his directions tothe lost space ship. Our job is to find that ore and destroy it. Yousee, I'm positive the Green Flames have never been removed from theship.     Sleep had never bothered me, yet that night I lay awake for hourstossing restlessly. The thousand sounds of the blue marsh dronedsteadily. And the news broadcast I had heard over the portable visijust before retiring still lingered in my mind. To a casual observerthat broadcast would have meant little, a slight rebellion here, anisolated crime there. But viewed from the perspective Grannie hadgiven me, everything dovetailed. The situation on Jupiter was swiftlycoming to a head. Not only had the people on that planet demanded thatrepresentative government be abolished, but a forum was now being heldto find a leader who might take complete dictatorial control.     Outside a whisper-worm hissed softly. I got up and strode out of mytent. For some time I stood there, lost in thought. Could I believeGrannie's incredible story? Or was this another of her fantastic plotswhich she had skilfully blended into a novel?     Abruptly I stiffened. The familiar drone of the marsh was gone. In itsplace a ringing silence blanketed everything.     And then out in the gloom a darker shadow appeared, moving inundulating sweeps toward the center of the camp. Fascinated, I watchedit advance and retreat, saw two hyalescent eyes swim out of the murk.It charged, and with but a split second to act, I threw myself flat.There was a rush of mighty wings as the thing swept over me. Sharptalons raked my clothing. Again it came, and again I rolled swiftly,missing the thing by the narrowest of margins.     From the tent opposite a gaunt figure clad in a familiar dressappeared. Grannie gave a single warning:     Stand still!     The thing in the darkness turned like a cam on a rod and drove at usagain. This time the old woman's heat gun clicked, and a tracery ofpurple flame shot outward. A horrible soul-chilling scream rent theair. A moment later something huge and heavy scrabbled across theground and shot aloft.        Grannie Annie fired with deliberate speed.        I stood frozen as the diminuendo of its wild cries echoed back to me.     In heaven's name, what was it?     Hunter-bird, Grannie said calmly. A form of avian life found herein the swamp. Harmless in its wild state, but when captured, it can betrained to pursue a quarry until it kills. It has a single unit brainand follows with a relentless purpose.     Then that would mean...?     That it was sent by our enemy, the same enemy that shot at us in thecafe in Swamp City. Exactly. Grannie Annie halted at the door of hertent and faced me with earnest eyes. Billy-boy, our every move isbeing watched. From now on it's the survival of the fittest.  The following day was our seventh in the swamp. The water hereresembled a vast mosaic, striped and cross-striped with long windingribbons of yellowish substance that floated a few inches below thesurface. The mold balls coming into contact with the evonium water ofthe swamp had undergone a chemical change and evolved into a cohesivemulti-celled marine life that lived and died within a space of hours.The Venusians paddled with extreme care. Had one of them dipped hishand into one of those yellow streaks, he would have been devoured ina matter of seconds.     At high noon by my Earth watch I sighted a low white structure on oneof the distant islands. Moments later we made a landing at a rudejetty, and Grannie Annie was introducing me to Ezra Karn.     He was not as old a man as I had expected, but he was ragged andunkempt with iron gray hair falling almost to his shoulders. He wasdressed in      varpa     cloth, the Venus equivalent of buckskin, and on hishead was an enormous flop-brimmed hat.     Glad to meet you, he said, shaking my hand. Any friend of MissFlowers is a friend of mine. He ushered us down the catwalk into hishut.     The place was a two room affair, small but comfortable. The latesttype of visi set in one corner showed that Karn was not isolated fromcivilization entirely.     Grannie Annie came to the point abruptly. When she had explained theobject of our trip, the prospector became thoughtful.     Green Flames, eh? he repeated slowly. Well yes, I suppose I couldfind that space ship again. That is, if I wanted to.     What do you mean? Grannie paused in the act of rolling herself acigarette. You know where it is, don't you?     Ye-s, Karn nodded. But like I told you before, that ship lies inVarsoom country, and that isn't exactly a summer vacation spot.     What are the Varsoom? I asked. A native tribe?     Karn shook his head. They're a form of life that's never been seen byEarthmen. Strictly speaking, they're no more than a form of energy.     Dangerous?     Yes and no. Only man I ever heard of who escaped their country outsideof myself was the explorer, Darthier, three years ago. I got awaybecause I was alone, and they didn't notice me, and Darthier escapedbecause he made 'em laugh.     Laugh? A scowl crossed Grannie's face.     That's right, Karn said. The Varsoom have a strange nervous reactionthat's manifested by laughing. But just what it is that makes themlaugh, I don't know.     Food supplies and fresh drinking water were replenished at the hut.Several mold guns were borrowed from the prospector's supply to arm theVenusians. And then as we were about to leave, Karn suddenly turned.     The Doctor Universe program, he said. I ain't missed one in months.You gotta wait 'til I hear it.     Grannie frowned in annoyance, but the prospector was adamant. Heflipped a stud, twisted a dial and a moment later was leaning back in achair, listening with avid interest.     It was the same show I had witnessed back in Swamp City. Once again Iheard questions filter in from the far outposts of the System. Onceagain I saw the commanding figure of the quiz master as he strode backand forth across the stage. And as I sat there, looking into the visiscreen, a curious numbing drowsiness seemed to steal over me and leadmy thoughts far away.  Half an hour later we headed into the unknown. The Venusian boatmenwere ill-at-ease now and jabbered among themselves constantly. Wecamped that night on a miserable little island where insects swarmedabout us in hordes. The next day an indefinable wave of weariness anddespondency beset our entire party. I caught myself musing over thefutility of the venture. Only the pleadings of Grannie Annie kept mefrom turning back. On the morrow I realized the truth in her warning,that all of us had been exposed to the insidious radiations.     After that I lost track of time. Day after day of incessant rain ... ofsteaming swamp.... But at length we reached firm ground and began ouradvance on foot.     It was Karn who first sighted the ship. Striding in the lead, hesuddenly halted at the top of a hill and leveled his arm before him.There it lay, a huge cigar-shaped vessel of blackened      arelium     steel,half buried in the swamp soil.     What's that thing on top? Karn demanded, puzzled.     A rectangular metal envelope had been constructed over the sternquarters of the ship. Above this structure were three tall masts. Andsuspended between them was a network of copper wire studded with whiteinsulators.     Grannie gazed a long moment through binoculars. Billy-boy, take threeVenusians and head across the knoll, she ordered. Ezra and I willcircle in from the west. Fire a gun if you strike trouble.     But we found no trouble. The scene before us lay steeped in silence.Moments later our two parties converged at the base of the great ship.     A metal ladder extended from the envelope down the side of the vessel.Mid-way we could see a circular hatch-like door.     Up we go, Billy-boy. Heat gun in readiness, Grannie Annie began toclimb slowly.     The silence remained absolute. We reached the door and pulled it open.There was no sign of life.     Somebody's gone to a lot of trouble here, Ezra Karn observed.     Somebody had. Before us stretched a narrow corridor, flanked on theleft side by a wall of impenetrable stepto glass. The corridor wasbare of furnishings. But beyond the glass, revealed to us in mockingclarity, was a high panel, studded with dials and gauges. Even as welooked, we could see liquid pulse in glass tubes, indicator needlesswing slowly to and fro.     Grannie nodded. Some kind of a broadcasting unit. The Green Flames inthe lower hold are probably exposed to a      tholpane     plate and theirradiations stepped up by an electro-phosicalic process.     Karn raised the butt of his pistol and brought it crashing against theglass wall. His arm jumped in recoil, but the glass remained intact.     You'll never do it that way, Grannie said. Nothing short of anatomic blast will shatter that wall. It explains why there are noguards here. The mechanism is entirely self-operating. Let's see if theGreen Flames are more accessible.     In the lower hold disappointment again confronted us. Visible inthe feeble shafts of daylight that filtered through cracks in thevessel's hull were tiers of rectangular ingots of green iridescent ore.Suspended by insulators from the ceiling over them was a thick metalplate.     But between was a barrier. A wall of impenetrable stepto glass.     Grannie stamped her foot. It's maddening, she said. Here we are atthe crux of the whole matter, and we're powerless to make a singlemove.  Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram.     Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'.     For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet.     Say that again! she cried.     The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and....     That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this      is     Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see?     I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on.     What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration....     But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...?     Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty.     I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream.     And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another.     There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly.     An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment.     It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh!     He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes.     Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more.     Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again.     Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled.  Inside the freighter's narrow corridor Grannie faced me with eyesfilled with excitement.     Billy-boy, she said, we've got two problems now. We've got to stopDoctor Universe, and we've got to find a way of getting out of here.Right now we're nicely bottled up.     As if in answer to her words the visi set revealed the face of the quizmaster on the screen. He was saying:           Remember tomorrow at this same hour I will have a message ofunparalleled importance for the people of the nine planets. Tomorrownight I urge you, I command you, to tune in.          With a whistling intake of breath the old woman turned to one of theVenusians.     Bring all our equipment in here, she ordered. Hurry!     She untied the ribbon under her chin and took off her cap. She rolledup her sleeves, and as the Venusians came marching into the space shipwith bundles of equipment, she fell to work.     Silently Ezra Karn and I watched her. First she completely dismantledthe visi set, put it together again with an entirely altered hookup.Next she unrolled a coil of flexible copper mesh which we had broughtalong as a protective electrical screening against the marsh insects.She fastened rubberite suction cups to this mesh at intervals of everytwelve inches or more, carried it down to the freighter's hold andfastened it securely against the stepto glass wall.     Trailing a three-ply conduit up from the hold to the corridor sheselected an induction coil, several Micro-Wellman tubes and a quantityof wire from a box of spare parts. Dexterously her fingers moved in andout, fashioning a complicated and curious piece of apparatus.     At length she finished.     It's pretty hay-wire, she said, but I think it will work. Now I'lltell you what I'm going to do. When Doctor Universe broadcasts tomorrownight, he's going to announce that he has set himself up as supremedictator. He'll have the Green Flame radiations coming from this shipunder full power. I'm going to insert into his broadcast—the laughingof the Varsoom!     You're going to what?     Broadcast the mass laughter from those invisible creatures out there.Visualize it, Billy-boy! At the dramatic moment when Doctor Universemakes his plea for System-wide power, he will be accompanied by wildpeals of laughter. The whole broadcast will be turned into a burlesque.     How you going to make 'em laugh? interrupted Karn.     We must think of a way, Grannie replied soberly.     I, for one, am glad that no representative of the InterstellarPsychiatry Society witnessed our antics during the early hours of thatmorning and on into the long reaches of the afternoon, as we vainlytried to provoke the laughter of the Varsoom. All to no avail. Uttersilence greeted our efforts. And the time was growing close to thescheduled Doctor Universe program.     Ezra Karn wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. Maybe we've gotto attract their attention first, he suggested. Miss Flowers, whydon't you go up on the roof and read to 'em? Read 'em something fromone of your books, if you've got one along. That ought to make 'em situp and take notice.     For a moment the old woman gazed at him in silence. Then she got to herfeet quickly.     I'll do it, she said. I'll read them the attack scene from      MurderOn A Space Liner     .  It didn't make sense, of course. But nothing made sense in this madventure. Grannie Annie opened her duffel bag and drew out a copy ofher most popular book. With the volume under her arm, she mounted theladder to the top of the envelope. Ezra Karn rigged up a radite searchlamp, and a moment later the old woman stood in the center of a circleof white radiance.     Karn gripped my arm. This is it, he said tensely. If this fails ...     His voice clipped off as Grannie began to read. She read slowlyat first, then intoned the words and sentences faster and moredramatically.     And out in the swamp a vast hush fell as if unseen ears were listening.     ...      the space liner was over on her beam ends now as another shotfrom the raider's vessel crashed into the stern hold. In the controlcabin Cuthbert Strong twisted vainly at his bonds as he sought to freehimself. Opposite him, lashed by strong Martian vinta ropes to thegravascope, Louise Belmont sobbed softly, wringing her hands in muteappeal.          A restless rustling sounded out in the marsh, as if hundreds of bodieswere surging closer. Karn nodded in awe.     She's got 'em! he whispered. Listen. They're eatin' up every word.     I heard it then, and I thought I must be dreaming. From somewhere outin the swamp a sound rose into the thick air. A high-pitched chuckle,it was. The chuckle came again. Now it was followed by another andanother. An instant later a wave of low subdued laughter rose into theair.     Ezra Karn gulped. Gripes! he said. They're laughing already.      They're laughing at her book!     And look, the old lady's gettin' sore.     Up on the roof of the envelope Grannie Annie halted her reading toglare savagely out into the darkness.     The laughter was a roar now. It rose louder and louder, peal after pealof mirthful yells and hysterical shouts. And for the first time in mylife, I saw Annabella C. Flowers mad. She stamped her foot; she shookher fist at the unseen hordes out before her.     Ignorant slap-happy fools! she screamed. You don't know good sciencefiction when you hear it.     I turned to Karn and said quietly, Turn on the visi set. DoctorUniverse should be broadcasting now. Tune your microphone to pull inas much of that laughter as you can.  It took three weeks to make the return trip to Swamp City. The Varsoomfollowed us far beyond the frontier of their country like an unseenarmy in the throes of laughing gas. Not until we reached Level Five didthe last chuckle fade into the distance.     All during that trek back, Grannie sat in the dugout, staring silentlyout before her.     But when we reached Swamp City, the news was flung at us from allsides. One newspaper headline accurately told the story: DOCTORUNIVERSE BID FOR SYSTEM DICTATORSHIP SQUELCHED BY RIDICULE OF UNSEENAUDIENCE. QUIZ MASTER NOW IN HANDS OF I.P. COUP FAILURE.     Grannie, I said that night as we sat again in a rear booth of THEJET, what are you going to do now? Give up writing science fiction?     She looked at me soberly, then broke into a smile.     Just because some silly form of life that can't even be seen doesn'tappreciate it? I should say not. Right now I've got an idea for a swellyarn about Mars. Want to come along while I dig up some backgroundmaterial?     I shook my head. Not me, I said.     But I knew I would.   ","The Green Flames are highly important to the narrative because without them, Doctor Universe would not be able to try and take over the universe. The Green Flames originally come from planet Mercury. When earthlings or other creatures come in contract with the rock’s Gamma rays, their brains instantly desire control from leadership. The element’s power is immense but also subtle. The Green Flames have already been used to institute a dictatorship, as with the cautionary tail of Vennox. Vennox forced each creature to keep two of the rocks in each house, and he used their powers to make them servile. When the government was overthrown, the Green Flames were destroyed. Ezra Karn finds the Green Flames hidden away in a spaceship in the Varsoom district of Venus. Doctor Universe has secured the resource and its power when he broadcasts his weekly quiz show, “Doctor Universe and His Nine Geniuses.” The show is a hit on multiple planets, and the quiz master urges his followers to tune in to each broadcast. The Green Flames lead listeners to believe that he is a supreme being and deserves to be in a position of power. "
"Describe the relationship between Billy and Grannie Annie. </s>    Doctor Universe     By CARL JACOBI     Grannie Annie, who wrote science fiction     under the nom de plume of Annabella C. Flowers,     had stumbled onto a murderous plot more     hair-raising than any she had ever concocted.     And the danger from the villain of the piece     didn't worry her—I was the guy he was shooting at.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I was killing an hour in the billiard room of the      Spacemen's Club     in Swamp City when the Venusian bellboy came and tapped me on theshoulder.     Beg pardon, thir, he said with his racial lisp, thereth thome one tothee you in the main lounge. His eyes rolled as he added, A lady!     A woman here...! The      Spacemen's     was a sanctuary, a rest club wherein-coming pilots and crewmen could relax before leaving for anothervoyage. The rule that no females could pass its portals was strictlyenforced.     I followed the bellhop down the long corridor that led to the mainlounge. At the threshold I jerked to a halt and stared incredulously.     Grannie Annie!     There she stood before a frantically gesticulating desk clerk, leaningon her faded green umbrella. A little wisp of a woman clad in avoluminous black dress with one of those doily-like caps on her head,tied by a ribbon under her chin. Her high-topped button shoes wereplanted firmly on the varpla carpet and her wrinkled face was set incalm defiance.     I barged across the lounge and seized her hand. Grannie Annie! Ihaven't seen you in two years.     Hi, Billy-boy, she greeted calmly. Will you please tell thisfish-face to shut up.     The desk clerk went white. Mithter Trenwith, if thith lady ith afriend of yourth, you'll have to take her away. It'th abtholutelyagainth the ruleth....     Okay, okay, I grinned. Look, we'll go into the grille. There's noone there at this hour.     In the grille an equally astonished waiter served us—me a lime rickeyand Grannie Annie her usual whisky sour—I waited until she had tossedthe drink off at a gulp before I set off a chain of questions:     What the devil are you doing on Venus? Don't you know women aren'tallowed in the      Spacemen's     ? What happened to the book you werewriting?     Hold it, Billy-boy. Laughingly she threw up both hands. Sure, I knewthis place had some antiquated laws. Pure fiddle-faddle, that's whatthey are. Anyway, I've been thrown out of better places.     She hadn't changed. To her publishers and her readers she might beAnnabella C. Flowers, author of a long list of science fiction novels.But to me she was still Grannie Annie, as old-fashioned as last year'shat, as modern as an atomic motor. She had probably written more drivelin the name of science fiction than anyone alive.     But the public loved it. They ate up her stories, and they clamored formore. Her annual income totaled into six figures, and her publisherssat back and massaged their digits, watching their earnings mount.     One thing you had to admit about her books. They may have been dimenovels, but they weren't synthetic. If Annabella C. Flowers wrote anovel, and the locale was the desert of Mars, she packed her carpet bagand hopped a liner for Craterville. If she cooked up a feud between twoexpeditions on Callisto, she went to Callisto.     She was the most completely delightful crackpot I had ever known.     What happened to      Guns for Ganymede     ? I asked. That was the title ofyour last, wasn't it?  Grannie spilled a few shreds of Martian tobacco onto a paper and deftlyrolled herself a cigarette.     It wasn't      Guns     , it was      Pistols     ; and it wasn't      Ganymede     , it was      Pluto     .     I grinned. All complete, I'll bet, with threats against the universeand beautiful Earth heroines dragged in by the hair.     What else is there in science fiction? she demanded. You can't haveyour hero fall in love with a bug-eyed monster.     Up on the wall a clock chimed the hour. The old woman jerked to herfeet.     I almost forgot, Billy-boy. I'm due at the      Satellite     Theater in tenminutes. Come on, you're going with me.     Before I realized it, I was following her through the lounge and out tothe jetty front. Grannie Annie hailed a hydrocar. Five minutes later wedrew up before the big doors of the      Satellite     .     They don't go in for style in Swamp City. A theater to the grizzledcolonials on this side of the planet meant a shack on stilts over themuck,      zilcon     wood seats and dingy atobide lamps. But the place waspacked with miners, freight-crew-men—all the tide and wash of humanitythat made Swamp City the frontier post it is.     In front was a big sign. It read:     ONE NIGHT ONLY     DOCTOR UNIVERSE AND HIS     NINE GENIUSES     THE QUESTION PROGRAM OF     THE SYSTEM     As we strode down the aisle a mangy-looking Venusian began to pound atinpan piano in the pit. Grannie Annie pushed me into a seat in thefront row.     Sit here, she said. I'm sorry about all this rush, but I'm one ofthe players in this shindig. As soon as the show is over, we'll gosomewhere and talk. She minced lightly down the aisle, climbed thestage steps and disappeared in the wings.     That damned fossilized dynamo, I muttered. She'll be the death of meyet.     The piano struck a chord in G, and the curtain went rattling up. On thestage four Earthmen, two Martians, two Venusians, and one Mercuriansat on an upraised dais. That is to say, eight of them sat. TheMercurian, a huge lump of granite-like flesh, sprawled there, palpablyuncomfortable. On the right were nine visi sets, each with its newimproved pantascope panel and switchboard. Before each set stood anEarthman operator.  A tall man, clad in a claw-hammer coat, came out from the wings andadvanced to the footlights.     People of Swamp City, he said, bowing, permit me to introducemyself. I am Doctor Universe, and these are my nine experts.     There was a roar of applause from the      Satellite     audience. When it hadsubsided, the man continued:     As most of you are familiar with our program, it will be unnecessaryto give any advance explanation. I will only say that on this stage arenine visi sets, each tuned to one of the nine planets. At transmittingsets all over these planets listeners will appear and voice questions.These questions, my nine experts will endeavor to answer. For everyquestion missed, the sender will receive a check for one thousand      planetoles     .     One thing more. As usual we have with us a guest star who will matchher wits with the experts. May I present that renowned writer ofscience fiction, Annabella C. Flowers.     From the left wing Grannie Annie appeared. She bowed and took her placeon the dais.     The Doctor's program began. The operator of the Earth visi twisted hisdials and nodded. Blue light flickered on the pantascope panel tocoalesce slowly into the face of a red-haired man. Sharp and dear hisvoice echoed through the theater:           Who was the first Earthman to titter the sunward side of Mercury?          Doctor Universe nodded and turned to Grannie Annie who had raised herhand. She said quietly:     Charles Zanner in the year 2012. In a specially constructedtracto-car.     And so it went. Questions from Mars, from Earth, from Saturn flowed inthe visi sets. Isolated miners on Jupiter, dancers in swank Plutoniancafes strove to stump the experts. With Doctor Universe offeringbantering side play, the experts gave their answers. When they failed,or when the Truthicator flashed a red light, he announced the name ofthe winner.     It grew a little tiresome after a while and I wondered why Grannie hadbrought me here. And then I began to notice things.     The audience in the      Satellite     seemed to have lost much of itsoriginal fervor. They applauded as before but they did so only at thesignal of Doctor Universe. The spell created by the man was complete.     Pompous and erect, he strode back and forth across the stage like ageneral surveying his army. His black eyes gleamed, and his thin lipswere turned in a smile of satisfaction.     When the last question had been answered I joined the exit-movingcrowd. It was outside under the street marquee that a strange incidentoccurred.     A yellow-faced Kagor from the upper Martian desert country shuffled by,dragging his cumbersome third leg behind him. Kagors, of course, had anunpleasant history of persecution since the early colonization days ofthe Red Planet. But the thing that happened there was a throw back toan earlier era.     Someone shouted, Yah, yellow-face! Down with all Kagors! As oneman the crowd took up the cry and surged forward. The helpless Kagorwas seized and flung to the pavement. A knife appeared from nowhere,snipped the Martian's single lock of hair. A booted foot bludgeonedinto his mouth.     Moments later an official hydrocar roared up and a dozen I.P. menrushed out and scattered the crowd. But a few stragglers lingered toshout derisive epithets.     Grannie Annie came out from behind the box office then. She took my armand led me around a corner and through a doorway under a sign that readTHE JET. Inside was a deep room with booths along one wall. The placewas all but deserted.     In a booth well toward the rear the old lady surveyed me with sobereyes.     Billy-boy, did you see the way that crowd acted?     I nodded. As disgraceful an exhibition as I've ever seen. The I.P. menought to clamp down.     The I.P. men aren't strong enough.     She said it quietly, but there was a glitter in her eyes and a harshline about her usually smiling lips.     What do you mean?  For a moment the old lady sat there in silence; then she leaned back,closed her eyes, and I knew there was a story coming.     My last book,      Death In The Atom     , hit the stands last January,she began. When it was finished I had planned to take a six months'vacation, but those fool publishers of mine insisted I do a sequel.Well, I'd used Mars and Pluto and Ganymede as settings for novels, sofor this one I decided on Venus. I went to Venus City, and I spent sixweeks in-country. I got some swell background material, and I met EzraKarn....     Who? I interrupted.     An old prospector who lives out in the deep marsh on the outskirts ofVarsoom country. To make a long story short, I got him talking abouthis adventures, and he told me plenty.     The old woman paused. Did you ever hear of the Green Flames? sheasked abruptly.     I shook my head. Some new kind of ...     It's not a new kind of anything. The Green Flame is a radio-activerock once found on Mercury. The      Alpha     rays of this rock are similarto radium in that they consist of streams of material particlesprojected at high speed. But the character of the      Gamma     rays hasnever been completely analyzed. Like those set up by radium, they areelectromagnetic pulsations, but they are also a strange combination of      Beta     or cathode rays with negatively charged electrons.     When any form of life is exposed to these      Gamma     rays from the GreenFlame rock, they produce in the creature's brain a certain lassitudeand lack of energy. As the period of exposure increases, this conditiondevelops into a sense of impotence and a desire for leadership orguidance. Occasionally, as with the weak-willed, there is a spirit ofintolerance. The Green Flames might be said to be an inorganic opiate,a thousand times more subtle and more powerful than any known drug.     I was sitting up now, hanging on to the woman's every word.     Now in 2710, as you'd know if you studied your history, the threeplanets of Earth, Venus, and Mars were under governmental bondage. Thecruel dictatorship of Vennox I was short-lived, but it lasted longenough to endanger all civilized life.     The archives tell us that one of the first acts of the overthrowinggovernment was to cast out all Green Flames, two of which Vennox hadordered must be kept in each household. The effect on the people wasimmediate. Representative government, individual enterprise, freedomfollowed.     Grannie Annie lit a cigarette and flipped the match to the floor.     To go back to my first trip to Venus. As I said, I met Ezra Karn, anold prospector there in the marsh. Karn told me that on one of histravels into the Varsoom district he had come upon the wreckage ofan old space ship. The hold of that space ship was packed with GreenFlames!     If Grannie expected me to show surprise at that, she was disappointed.I said, So what?     So everything, Billy-boy. Do you realize what such a thing would meanif it were true? Green Flames were supposedly destroyed on all planetsafter the Vennox regime crashed. If a quantity of the rock were inexistence, and it fell into the wrong hands, there'd be trouble.     Of course, I regarded Karn's story as a wild dream, but it madecorking good story material. I wrote it into a novel, and a week afterit was completed, the manuscript was stolen from my study back onEarth.     I see, I said as she lapsed into silence. And now you've come to theconclusion that the details of your story were true and that someone isattempting to put your plot into action.     Grannie nodded. Yes, she said. That's exactly what I think.     I got my pipe out of my pocket, tamped Martian tobacco into the bowland laughed heartily. The same old Flowers, I said. Tell me, who'syour thief ... Doctor Universe?     She regarded me evenly. What makes you say that?     I shrugged.     The way the theater crowd acted. It all ties in.     The old woman shook her head. No, this is a lot bigger than a simplequiz program. The theater crowd was but a cross-section of what ishappening all over the System. There have been riots on Earth and Mars,police officials murdered on Pluto and a demand that government byrepresentation be abolished on Jupiter. The time is ripe for a militarydictator to step in.     And you can lay it all to the Green Flames. It seems incredible that asingle shipload of the ore could effect such a wide ranged area, but inmy opinion someone has found a means of making that quantity a thousandtimes more potent and is transmiting it      en masse     .     If it had been anyone but Grannie Annie there before me, I wouldhave called her a fool. And then all at once I got an odd feeling ofapproaching danger.     Let's get out of here, I said, getting up.       Zinnng-whack!       All right!     On the mirror behind the bar a small circle with radiating cracksappeared. On the booth wall a scant inch above Grannie's head thefresco seemed to melt away suddenly.     A heat ray!     Grannie Annie leaped to her feet, grasped my arm and raced for thedoor. Outside a driverless hydrocar stood with idling motors. The oldwoman threw herself into the control seat, yanked me in after her andthrew over the starting stud.     An instant later we were plunging through the dark night.  Six days after leaving Swamp City we reached Level Five, the lastoutpost of firm ground. Ahead lay the inner marsh, stretching as far asthe eye could reach. Low islands projected at intervals from the thickwater. Mold balls, two feet across, drifted down from the slate-graysky like puffs of cotton.     We had traveled this far by      ganet     , the tough little two headed packanimal of the Venus hinterland. Any form of plane or rocket would havehad its motor instantly destroyed, of course, by the magnetic forcebelt that encircled the planet's equator. Now our drivers changed toboatmen, and we loaded our supplies into three clumsy      jagua     canoes.     It was around the camp fire that night that Grannie took me into herconfidence for the first time since we had left Swamp City.     We're heading directly for Varsoom country, she said. If we findEzra Karn so much the better. If we don't, we follow his directions tothe lost space ship. Our job is to find that ore and destroy it. Yousee, I'm positive the Green Flames have never been removed from theship.     Sleep had never bothered me, yet that night I lay awake for hourstossing restlessly. The thousand sounds of the blue marsh dronedsteadily. And the news broadcast I had heard over the portable visijust before retiring still lingered in my mind. To a casual observerthat broadcast would have meant little, a slight rebellion here, anisolated crime there. But viewed from the perspective Grannie hadgiven me, everything dovetailed. The situation on Jupiter was swiftlycoming to a head. Not only had the people on that planet demanded thatrepresentative government be abolished, but a forum was now being heldto find a leader who might take complete dictatorial control.     Outside a whisper-worm hissed softly. I got up and strode out of mytent. For some time I stood there, lost in thought. Could I believeGrannie's incredible story? Or was this another of her fantastic plotswhich she had skilfully blended into a novel?     Abruptly I stiffened. The familiar drone of the marsh was gone. In itsplace a ringing silence blanketed everything.     And then out in the gloom a darker shadow appeared, moving inundulating sweeps toward the center of the camp. Fascinated, I watchedit advance and retreat, saw two hyalescent eyes swim out of the murk.It charged, and with but a split second to act, I threw myself flat.There was a rush of mighty wings as the thing swept over me. Sharptalons raked my clothing. Again it came, and again I rolled swiftly,missing the thing by the narrowest of margins.     From the tent opposite a gaunt figure clad in a familiar dressappeared. Grannie gave a single warning:     Stand still!     The thing in the darkness turned like a cam on a rod and drove at usagain. This time the old woman's heat gun clicked, and a tracery ofpurple flame shot outward. A horrible soul-chilling scream rent theair. A moment later something huge and heavy scrabbled across theground and shot aloft.        Grannie Annie fired with deliberate speed.        I stood frozen as the diminuendo of its wild cries echoed back to me.     In heaven's name, what was it?     Hunter-bird, Grannie said calmly. A form of avian life found herein the swamp. Harmless in its wild state, but when captured, it can betrained to pursue a quarry until it kills. It has a single unit brainand follows with a relentless purpose.     Then that would mean...?     That it was sent by our enemy, the same enemy that shot at us in thecafe in Swamp City. Exactly. Grannie Annie halted at the door of hertent and faced me with earnest eyes. Billy-boy, our every move isbeing watched. From now on it's the survival of the fittest.  The following day was our seventh in the swamp. The water hereresembled a vast mosaic, striped and cross-striped with long windingribbons of yellowish substance that floated a few inches below thesurface. The mold balls coming into contact with the evonium water ofthe swamp had undergone a chemical change and evolved into a cohesivemulti-celled marine life that lived and died within a space of hours.The Venusians paddled with extreme care. Had one of them dipped hishand into one of those yellow streaks, he would have been devoured ina matter of seconds.     At high noon by my Earth watch I sighted a low white structure on oneof the distant islands. Moments later we made a landing at a rudejetty, and Grannie Annie was introducing me to Ezra Karn.     He was not as old a man as I had expected, but he was ragged andunkempt with iron gray hair falling almost to his shoulders. He wasdressed in      varpa     cloth, the Venus equivalent of buckskin, and on hishead was an enormous flop-brimmed hat.     Glad to meet you, he said, shaking my hand. Any friend of MissFlowers is a friend of mine. He ushered us down the catwalk into hishut.     The place was a two room affair, small but comfortable. The latesttype of visi set in one corner showed that Karn was not isolated fromcivilization entirely.     Grannie Annie came to the point abruptly. When she had explained theobject of our trip, the prospector became thoughtful.     Green Flames, eh? he repeated slowly. Well yes, I suppose I couldfind that space ship again. That is, if I wanted to.     What do you mean? Grannie paused in the act of rolling herself acigarette. You know where it is, don't you?     Ye-s, Karn nodded. But like I told you before, that ship lies inVarsoom country, and that isn't exactly a summer vacation spot.     What are the Varsoom? I asked. A native tribe?     Karn shook his head. They're a form of life that's never been seen byEarthmen. Strictly speaking, they're no more than a form of energy.     Dangerous?     Yes and no. Only man I ever heard of who escaped their country outsideof myself was the explorer, Darthier, three years ago. I got awaybecause I was alone, and they didn't notice me, and Darthier escapedbecause he made 'em laugh.     Laugh? A scowl crossed Grannie's face.     That's right, Karn said. The Varsoom have a strange nervous reactionthat's manifested by laughing. But just what it is that makes themlaugh, I don't know.     Food supplies and fresh drinking water were replenished at the hut.Several mold guns were borrowed from the prospector's supply to arm theVenusians. And then as we were about to leave, Karn suddenly turned.     The Doctor Universe program, he said. I ain't missed one in months.You gotta wait 'til I hear it.     Grannie frowned in annoyance, but the prospector was adamant. Heflipped a stud, twisted a dial and a moment later was leaning back in achair, listening with avid interest.     It was the same show I had witnessed back in Swamp City. Once again Iheard questions filter in from the far outposts of the System. Onceagain I saw the commanding figure of the quiz master as he strode backand forth across the stage. And as I sat there, looking into the visiscreen, a curious numbing drowsiness seemed to steal over me and leadmy thoughts far away.  Half an hour later we headed into the unknown. The Venusian boatmenwere ill-at-ease now and jabbered among themselves constantly. Wecamped that night on a miserable little island where insects swarmedabout us in hordes. The next day an indefinable wave of weariness anddespondency beset our entire party. I caught myself musing over thefutility of the venture. Only the pleadings of Grannie Annie kept mefrom turning back. On the morrow I realized the truth in her warning,that all of us had been exposed to the insidious radiations.     After that I lost track of time. Day after day of incessant rain ... ofsteaming swamp.... But at length we reached firm ground and began ouradvance on foot.     It was Karn who first sighted the ship. Striding in the lead, hesuddenly halted at the top of a hill and leveled his arm before him.There it lay, a huge cigar-shaped vessel of blackened      arelium     steel,half buried in the swamp soil.     What's that thing on top? Karn demanded, puzzled.     A rectangular metal envelope had been constructed over the sternquarters of the ship. Above this structure were three tall masts. Andsuspended between them was a network of copper wire studded with whiteinsulators.     Grannie gazed a long moment through binoculars. Billy-boy, take threeVenusians and head across the knoll, she ordered. Ezra and I willcircle in from the west. Fire a gun if you strike trouble.     But we found no trouble. The scene before us lay steeped in silence.Moments later our two parties converged at the base of the great ship.     A metal ladder extended from the envelope down the side of the vessel.Mid-way we could see a circular hatch-like door.     Up we go, Billy-boy. Heat gun in readiness, Grannie Annie began toclimb slowly.     The silence remained absolute. We reached the door and pulled it open.There was no sign of life.     Somebody's gone to a lot of trouble here, Ezra Karn observed.     Somebody had. Before us stretched a narrow corridor, flanked on theleft side by a wall of impenetrable stepto glass. The corridor wasbare of furnishings. But beyond the glass, revealed to us in mockingclarity, was a high panel, studded with dials and gauges. Even as welooked, we could see liquid pulse in glass tubes, indicator needlesswing slowly to and fro.     Grannie nodded. Some kind of a broadcasting unit. The Green Flames inthe lower hold are probably exposed to a      tholpane     plate and theirradiations stepped up by an electro-phosicalic process.     Karn raised the butt of his pistol and brought it crashing against theglass wall. His arm jumped in recoil, but the glass remained intact.     You'll never do it that way, Grannie said. Nothing short of anatomic blast will shatter that wall. It explains why there are noguards here. The mechanism is entirely self-operating. Let's see if theGreen Flames are more accessible.     In the lower hold disappointment again confronted us. Visible inthe feeble shafts of daylight that filtered through cracks in thevessel's hull were tiers of rectangular ingots of green iridescent ore.Suspended by insulators from the ceiling over them was a thick metalplate.     But between was a barrier. A wall of impenetrable stepto glass.     Grannie stamped her foot. It's maddening, she said. Here we are atthe crux of the whole matter, and we're powerless to make a singlemove.  Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram.     Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'.     For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet.     Say that again! she cried.     The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and....     That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this      is     Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see?     I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on.     What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration....     But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...?     Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty.     I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream.     And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another.     There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly.     An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment.     It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh!     He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes.     Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more.     Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again.     Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled.  Inside the freighter's narrow corridor Grannie faced me with eyesfilled with excitement.     Billy-boy, she said, we've got two problems now. We've got to stopDoctor Universe, and we've got to find a way of getting out of here.Right now we're nicely bottled up.     As if in answer to her words the visi set revealed the face of the quizmaster on the screen. He was saying:           Remember tomorrow at this same hour I will have a message ofunparalleled importance for the people of the nine planets. Tomorrownight I urge you, I command you, to tune in.          With a whistling intake of breath the old woman turned to one of theVenusians.     Bring all our equipment in here, she ordered. Hurry!     She untied the ribbon under her chin and took off her cap. She rolledup her sleeves, and as the Venusians came marching into the space shipwith bundles of equipment, she fell to work.     Silently Ezra Karn and I watched her. First she completely dismantledthe visi set, put it together again with an entirely altered hookup.Next she unrolled a coil of flexible copper mesh which we had broughtalong as a protective electrical screening against the marsh insects.She fastened rubberite suction cups to this mesh at intervals of everytwelve inches or more, carried it down to the freighter's hold andfastened it securely against the stepto glass wall.     Trailing a three-ply conduit up from the hold to the corridor sheselected an induction coil, several Micro-Wellman tubes and a quantityof wire from a box of spare parts. Dexterously her fingers moved in andout, fashioning a complicated and curious piece of apparatus.     At length she finished.     It's pretty hay-wire, she said, but I think it will work. Now I'lltell you what I'm going to do. When Doctor Universe broadcasts tomorrownight, he's going to announce that he has set himself up as supremedictator. He'll have the Green Flame radiations coming from this shipunder full power. I'm going to insert into his broadcast—the laughingof the Varsoom!     You're going to what?     Broadcast the mass laughter from those invisible creatures out there.Visualize it, Billy-boy! At the dramatic moment when Doctor Universemakes his plea for System-wide power, he will be accompanied by wildpeals of laughter. The whole broadcast will be turned into a burlesque.     How you going to make 'em laugh? interrupted Karn.     We must think of a way, Grannie replied soberly.     I, for one, am glad that no representative of the InterstellarPsychiatry Society witnessed our antics during the early hours of thatmorning and on into the long reaches of the afternoon, as we vainlytried to provoke the laughter of the Varsoom. All to no avail. Uttersilence greeted our efforts. And the time was growing close to thescheduled Doctor Universe program.     Ezra Karn wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. Maybe we've gotto attract their attention first, he suggested. Miss Flowers, whydon't you go up on the roof and read to 'em? Read 'em something fromone of your books, if you've got one along. That ought to make 'em situp and take notice.     For a moment the old woman gazed at him in silence. Then she got to herfeet quickly.     I'll do it, she said. I'll read them the attack scene from      MurderOn A Space Liner     .  It didn't make sense, of course. But nothing made sense in this madventure. Grannie Annie opened her duffel bag and drew out a copy ofher most popular book. With the volume under her arm, she mounted theladder to the top of the envelope. Ezra Karn rigged up a radite searchlamp, and a moment later the old woman stood in the center of a circleof white radiance.     Karn gripped my arm. This is it, he said tensely. If this fails ...     His voice clipped off as Grannie began to read. She read slowlyat first, then intoned the words and sentences faster and moredramatically.     And out in the swamp a vast hush fell as if unseen ears were listening.     ...      the space liner was over on her beam ends now as another shotfrom the raider's vessel crashed into the stern hold. In the controlcabin Cuthbert Strong twisted vainly at his bonds as he sought to freehimself. Opposite him, lashed by strong Martian vinta ropes to thegravascope, Louise Belmont sobbed softly, wringing her hands in muteappeal.          A restless rustling sounded out in the marsh, as if hundreds of bodieswere surging closer. Karn nodded in awe.     She's got 'em! he whispered. Listen. They're eatin' up every word.     I heard it then, and I thought I must be dreaming. From somewhere outin the swamp a sound rose into the thick air. A high-pitched chuckle,it was. The chuckle came again. Now it was followed by another andanother. An instant later a wave of low subdued laughter rose into theair.     Ezra Karn gulped. Gripes! he said. They're laughing already.      They're laughing at her book!     And look, the old lady's gettin' sore.     Up on the roof of the envelope Grannie Annie halted her reading toglare savagely out into the darkness.     The laughter was a roar now. It rose louder and louder, peal after pealof mirthful yells and hysterical shouts. And for the first time in mylife, I saw Annabella C. Flowers mad. She stamped her foot; she shookher fist at the unseen hordes out before her.     Ignorant slap-happy fools! she screamed. You don't know good sciencefiction when you hear it.     I turned to Karn and said quietly, Turn on the visi set. DoctorUniverse should be broadcasting now. Tune your microphone to pull inas much of that laughter as you can.  It took three weeks to make the return trip to Swamp City. The Varsoomfollowed us far beyond the frontier of their country like an unseenarmy in the throes of laughing gas. Not until we reached Level Five didthe last chuckle fade into the distance.     All during that trek back, Grannie sat in the dugout, staring silentlyout before her.     But when we reached Swamp City, the news was flung at us from allsides. One newspaper headline accurately told the story: DOCTORUNIVERSE BID FOR SYSTEM DICTATORSHIP SQUELCHED BY RIDICULE OF UNSEENAUDIENCE. QUIZ MASTER NOW IN HANDS OF I.P. COUP FAILURE.     Grannie, I said that night as we sat again in a rear booth of THEJET, what are you going to do now? Give up writing science fiction?     She looked at me soberly, then broke into a smile.     Just because some silly form of life that can't even be seen doesn'tappreciate it? I should say not. Right now I've got an idea for a swellyarn about Mars. Want to come along while I dig up some backgroundmaterial?     I shook my head. Not me, I said.     But I knew I would.   ","When Grannie Annie shows up at the men’s club to see Billy, the two friends have not seen each other in two years. It is immediately clear that Grannie Annie runs the show in their relationship, in part because Billy is willing to risk his reputation at the men’s club in order to make his elderly friends happy. Within minutes, Billy is whisked away to the theater to watch Annie guest star on Doctor Universe’s show, even though she does not explain the plan to him and he has little interest in being an audience member.Although the rest of the world knows Grannie Annie as Annabella C. Flowers, the name she uses to publish her science fiction novels, Billy would never address her so formally. There is an obvious feeling of trust between the two characters. When Grannie Annie gets her novel stolen and worries that there’s a dictator about to take over the universe, she finds Billy to help her solve the case. Similarly, when Grannie Annie spills her guts about her far-fetched theory about her novel inspiring an evil villain to use the Green Flames to control millions of beings, Billy believes her right off the bat. The pair get along very well, and it’s clear that’s the case when Grannie Annie asks Billy to accompany her on her next trip to research her upcoming novel. Billy simply can’t say no to his friend, whom he deeply admires. "
"What happens to Ezra Karn throughout the story? </s>    Doctor Universe     By CARL JACOBI     Grannie Annie, who wrote science fiction     under the nom de plume of Annabella C. Flowers,     had stumbled onto a murderous plot more     hair-raising than any she had ever concocted.     And the danger from the villain of the piece     didn't worry her—I was the guy he was shooting at.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I was killing an hour in the billiard room of the      Spacemen's Club     in Swamp City when the Venusian bellboy came and tapped me on theshoulder.     Beg pardon, thir, he said with his racial lisp, thereth thome one tothee you in the main lounge. His eyes rolled as he added, A lady!     A woman here...! The      Spacemen's     was a sanctuary, a rest club wherein-coming pilots and crewmen could relax before leaving for anothervoyage. The rule that no females could pass its portals was strictlyenforced.     I followed the bellhop down the long corridor that led to the mainlounge. At the threshold I jerked to a halt and stared incredulously.     Grannie Annie!     There she stood before a frantically gesticulating desk clerk, leaningon her faded green umbrella. A little wisp of a woman clad in avoluminous black dress with one of those doily-like caps on her head,tied by a ribbon under her chin. Her high-topped button shoes wereplanted firmly on the varpla carpet and her wrinkled face was set incalm defiance.     I barged across the lounge and seized her hand. Grannie Annie! Ihaven't seen you in two years.     Hi, Billy-boy, she greeted calmly. Will you please tell thisfish-face to shut up.     The desk clerk went white. Mithter Trenwith, if thith lady ith afriend of yourth, you'll have to take her away. It'th abtholutelyagainth the ruleth....     Okay, okay, I grinned. Look, we'll go into the grille. There's noone there at this hour.     In the grille an equally astonished waiter served us—me a lime rickeyand Grannie Annie her usual whisky sour—I waited until she had tossedthe drink off at a gulp before I set off a chain of questions:     What the devil are you doing on Venus? Don't you know women aren'tallowed in the      Spacemen's     ? What happened to the book you werewriting?     Hold it, Billy-boy. Laughingly she threw up both hands. Sure, I knewthis place had some antiquated laws. Pure fiddle-faddle, that's whatthey are. Anyway, I've been thrown out of better places.     She hadn't changed. To her publishers and her readers she might beAnnabella C. Flowers, author of a long list of science fiction novels.But to me she was still Grannie Annie, as old-fashioned as last year'shat, as modern as an atomic motor. She had probably written more drivelin the name of science fiction than anyone alive.     But the public loved it. They ate up her stories, and they clamored formore. Her annual income totaled into six figures, and her publisherssat back and massaged their digits, watching their earnings mount.     One thing you had to admit about her books. They may have been dimenovels, but they weren't synthetic. If Annabella C. Flowers wrote anovel, and the locale was the desert of Mars, she packed her carpet bagand hopped a liner for Craterville. If she cooked up a feud between twoexpeditions on Callisto, she went to Callisto.     She was the most completely delightful crackpot I had ever known.     What happened to      Guns for Ganymede     ? I asked. That was the title ofyour last, wasn't it?  Grannie spilled a few shreds of Martian tobacco onto a paper and deftlyrolled herself a cigarette.     It wasn't      Guns     , it was      Pistols     ; and it wasn't      Ganymede     , it was      Pluto     .     I grinned. All complete, I'll bet, with threats against the universeand beautiful Earth heroines dragged in by the hair.     What else is there in science fiction? she demanded. You can't haveyour hero fall in love with a bug-eyed monster.     Up on the wall a clock chimed the hour. The old woman jerked to herfeet.     I almost forgot, Billy-boy. I'm due at the      Satellite     Theater in tenminutes. Come on, you're going with me.     Before I realized it, I was following her through the lounge and out tothe jetty front. Grannie Annie hailed a hydrocar. Five minutes later wedrew up before the big doors of the      Satellite     .     They don't go in for style in Swamp City. A theater to the grizzledcolonials on this side of the planet meant a shack on stilts over themuck,      zilcon     wood seats and dingy atobide lamps. But the place waspacked with miners, freight-crew-men—all the tide and wash of humanitythat made Swamp City the frontier post it is.     In front was a big sign. It read:     ONE NIGHT ONLY     DOCTOR UNIVERSE AND HIS     NINE GENIUSES     THE QUESTION PROGRAM OF     THE SYSTEM     As we strode down the aisle a mangy-looking Venusian began to pound atinpan piano in the pit. Grannie Annie pushed me into a seat in thefront row.     Sit here, she said. I'm sorry about all this rush, but I'm one ofthe players in this shindig. As soon as the show is over, we'll gosomewhere and talk. She minced lightly down the aisle, climbed thestage steps and disappeared in the wings.     That damned fossilized dynamo, I muttered. She'll be the death of meyet.     The piano struck a chord in G, and the curtain went rattling up. On thestage four Earthmen, two Martians, two Venusians, and one Mercuriansat on an upraised dais. That is to say, eight of them sat. TheMercurian, a huge lump of granite-like flesh, sprawled there, palpablyuncomfortable. On the right were nine visi sets, each with its newimproved pantascope panel and switchboard. Before each set stood anEarthman operator.  A tall man, clad in a claw-hammer coat, came out from the wings andadvanced to the footlights.     People of Swamp City, he said, bowing, permit me to introducemyself. I am Doctor Universe, and these are my nine experts.     There was a roar of applause from the      Satellite     audience. When it hadsubsided, the man continued:     As most of you are familiar with our program, it will be unnecessaryto give any advance explanation. I will only say that on this stage arenine visi sets, each tuned to one of the nine planets. At transmittingsets all over these planets listeners will appear and voice questions.These questions, my nine experts will endeavor to answer. For everyquestion missed, the sender will receive a check for one thousand      planetoles     .     One thing more. As usual we have with us a guest star who will matchher wits with the experts. May I present that renowned writer ofscience fiction, Annabella C. Flowers.     From the left wing Grannie Annie appeared. She bowed and took her placeon the dais.     The Doctor's program began. The operator of the Earth visi twisted hisdials and nodded. Blue light flickered on the pantascope panel tocoalesce slowly into the face of a red-haired man. Sharp and dear hisvoice echoed through the theater:           Who was the first Earthman to titter the sunward side of Mercury?          Doctor Universe nodded and turned to Grannie Annie who had raised herhand. She said quietly:     Charles Zanner in the year 2012. In a specially constructedtracto-car.     And so it went. Questions from Mars, from Earth, from Saturn flowed inthe visi sets. Isolated miners on Jupiter, dancers in swank Plutoniancafes strove to stump the experts. With Doctor Universe offeringbantering side play, the experts gave their answers. When they failed,or when the Truthicator flashed a red light, he announced the name ofthe winner.     It grew a little tiresome after a while and I wondered why Grannie hadbrought me here. And then I began to notice things.     The audience in the      Satellite     seemed to have lost much of itsoriginal fervor. They applauded as before but they did so only at thesignal of Doctor Universe. The spell created by the man was complete.     Pompous and erect, he strode back and forth across the stage like ageneral surveying his army. His black eyes gleamed, and his thin lipswere turned in a smile of satisfaction.     When the last question had been answered I joined the exit-movingcrowd. It was outside under the street marquee that a strange incidentoccurred.     A yellow-faced Kagor from the upper Martian desert country shuffled by,dragging his cumbersome third leg behind him. Kagors, of course, had anunpleasant history of persecution since the early colonization days ofthe Red Planet. But the thing that happened there was a throw back toan earlier era.     Someone shouted, Yah, yellow-face! Down with all Kagors! As oneman the crowd took up the cry and surged forward. The helpless Kagorwas seized and flung to the pavement. A knife appeared from nowhere,snipped the Martian's single lock of hair. A booted foot bludgeonedinto his mouth.     Moments later an official hydrocar roared up and a dozen I.P. menrushed out and scattered the crowd. But a few stragglers lingered toshout derisive epithets.     Grannie Annie came out from behind the box office then. She took my armand led me around a corner and through a doorway under a sign that readTHE JET. Inside was a deep room with booths along one wall. The placewas all but deserted.     In a booth well toward the rear the old lady surveyed me with sobereyes.     Billy-boy, did you see the way that crowd acted?     I nodded. As disgraceful an exhibition as I've ever seen. The I.P. menought to clamp down.     The I.P. men aren't strong enough.     She said it quietly, but there was a glitter in her eyes and a harshline about her usually smiling lips.     What do you mean?  For a moment the old lady sat there in silence; then she leaned back,closed her eyes, and I knew there was a story coming.     My last book,      Death In The Atom     , hit the stands last January,she began. When it was finished I had planned to take a six months'vacation, but those fool publishers of mine insisted I do a sequel.Well, I'd used Mars and Pluto and Ganymede as settings for novels, sofor this one I decided on Venus. I went to Venus City, and I spent sixweeks in-country. I got some swell background material, and I met EzraKarn....     Who? I interrupted.     An old prospector who lives out in the deep marsh on the outskirts ofVarsoom country. To make a long story short, I got him talking abouthis adventures, and he told me plenty.     The old woman paused. Did you ever hear of the Green Flames? sheasked abruptly.     I shook my head. Some new kind of ...     It's not a new kind of anything. The Green Flame is a radio-activerock once found on Mercury. The      Alpha     rays of this rock are similarto radium in that they consist of streams of material particlesprojected at high speed. But the character of the      Gamma     rays hasnever been completely analyzed. Like those set up by radium, they areelectromagnetic pulsations, but they are also a strange combination of      Beta     or cathode rays with negatively charged electrons.     When any form of life is exposed to these      Gamma     rays from the GreenFlame rock, they produce in the creature's brain a certain lassitudeand lack of energy. As the period of exposure increases, this conditiondevelops into a sense of impotence and a desire for leadership orguidance. Occasionally, as with the weak-willed, there is a spirit ofintolerance. The Green Flames might be said to be an inorganic opiate,a thousand times more subtle and more powerful than any known drug.     I was sitting up now, hanging on to the woman's every word.     Now in 2710, as you'd know if you studied your history, the threeplanets of Earth, Venus, and Mars were under governmental bondage. Thecruel dictatorship of Vennox I was short-lived, but it lasted longenough to endanger all civilized life.     The archives tell us that one of the first acts of the overthrowinggovernment was to cast out all Green Flames, two of which Vennox hadordered must be kept in each household. The effect on the people wasimmediate. Representative government, individual enterprise, freedomfollowed.     Grannie Annie lit a cigarette and flipped the match to the floor.     To go back to my first trip to Venus. As I said, I met Ezra Karn, anold prospector there in the marsh. Karn told me that on one of histravels into the Varsoom district he had come upon the wreckage ofan old space ship. The hold of that space ship was packed with GreenFlames!     If Grannie expected me to show surprise at that, she was disappointed.I said, So what?     So everything, Billy-boy. Do you realize what such a thing would meanif it were true? Green Flames were supposedly destroyed on all planetsafter the Vennox regime crashed. If a quantity of the rock were inexistence, and it fell into the wrong hands, there'd be trouble.     Of course, I regarded Karn's story as a wild dream, but it madecorking good story material. I wrote it into a novel, and a week afterit was completed, the manuscript was stolen from my study back onEarth.     I see, I said as she lapsed into silence. And now you've come to theconclusion that the details of your story were true and that someone isattempting to put your plot into action.     Grannie nodded. Yes, she said. That's exactly what I think.     I got my pipe out of my pocket, tamped Martian tobacco into the bowland laughed heartily. The same old Flowers, I said. Tell me, who'syour thief ... Doctor Universe?     She regarded me evenly. What makes you say that?     I shrugged.     The way the theater crowd acted. It all ties in.     The old woman shook her head. No, this is a lot bigger than a simplequiz program. The theater crowd was but a cross-section of what ishappening all over the System. There have been riots on Earth and Mars,police officials murdered on Pluto and a demand that government byrepresentation be abolished on Jupiter. The time is ripe for a militarydictator to step in.     And you can lay it all to the Green Flames. It seems incredible that asingle shipload of the ore could effect such a wide ranged area, but inmy opinion someone has found a means of making that quantity a thousandtimes more potent and is transmiting it      en masse     .     If it had been anyone but Grannie Annie there before me, I wouldhave called her a fool. And then all at once I got an odd feeling ofapproaching danger.     Let's get out of here, I said, getting up.       Zinnng-whack!       All right!     On the mirror behind the bar a small circle with radiating cracksappeared. On the booth wall a scant inch above Grannie's head thefresco seemed to melt away suddenly.     A heat ray!     Grannie Annie leaped to her feet, grasped my arm and raced for thedoor. Outside a driverless hydrocar stood with idling motors. The oldwoman threw herself into the control seat, yanked me in after her andthrew over the starting stud.     An instant later we were plunging through the dark night.  Six days after leaving Swamp City we reached Level Five, the lastoutpost of firm ground. Ahead lay the inner marsh, stretching as far asthe eye could reach. Low islands projected at intervals from the thickwater. Mold balls, two feet across, drifted down from the slate-graysky like puffs of cotton.     We had traveled this far by      ganet     , the tough little two headed packanimal of the Venus hinterland. Any form of plane or rocket would havehad its motor instantly destroyed, of course, by the magnetic forcebelt that encircled the planet's equator. Now our drivers changed toboatmen, and we loaded our supplies into three clumsy      jagua     canoes.     It was around the camp fire that night that Grannie took me into herconfidence for the first time since we had left Swamp City.     We're heading directly for Varsoom country, she said. If we findEzra Karn so much the better. If we don't, we follow his directions tothe lost space ship. Our job is to find that ore and destroy it. Yousee, I'm positive the Green Flames have never been removed from theship.     Sleep had never bothered me, yet that night I lay awake for hourstossing restlessly. The thousand sounds of the blue marsh dronedsteadily. And the news broadcast I had heard over the portable visijust before retiring still lingered in my mind. To a casual observerthat broadcast would have meant little, a slight rebellion here, anisolated crime there. But viewed from the perspective Grannie hadgiven me, everything dovetailed. The situation on Jupiter was swiftlycoming to a head. Not only had the people on that planet demanded thatrepresentative government be abolished, but a forum was now being heldto find a leader who might take complete dictatorial control.     Outside a whisper-worm hissed softly. I got up and strode out of mytent. For some time I stood there, lost in thought. Could I believeGrannie's incredible story? Or was this another of her fantastic plotswhich she had skilfully blended into a novel?     Abruptly I stiffened. The familiar drone of the marsh was gone. In itsplace a ringing silence blanketed everything.     And then out in the gloom a darker shadow appeared, moving inundulating sweeps toward the center of the camp. Fascinated, I watchedit advance and retreat, saw two hyalescent eyes swim out of the murk.It charged, and with but a split second to act, I threw myself flat.There was a rush of mighty wings as the thing swept over me. Sharptalons raked my clothing. Again it came, and again I rolled swiftly,missing the thing by the narrowest of margins.     From the tent opposite a gaunt figure clad in a familiar dressappeared. Grannie gave a single warning:     Stand still!     The thing in the darkness turned like a cam on a rod and drove at usagain. This time the old woman's heat gun clicked, and a tracery ofpurple flame shot outward. A horrible soul-chilling scream rent theair. A moment later something huge and heavy scrabbled across theground and shot aloft.        Grannie Annie fired with deliberate speed.        I stood frozen as the diminuendo of its wild cries echoed back to me.     In heaven's name, what was it?     Hunter-bird, Grannie said calmly. A form of avian life found herein the swamp. Harmless in its wild state, but when captured, it can betrained to pursue a quarry until it kills. It has a single unit brainand follows with a relentless purpose.     Then that would mean...?     That it was sent by our enemy, the same enemy that shot at us in thecafe in Swamp City. Exactly. Grannie Annie halted at the door of hertent and faced me with earnest eyes. Billy-boy, our every move isbeing watched. From now on it's the survival of the fittest.  The following day was our seventh in the swamp. The water hereresembled a vast mosaic, striped and cross-striped with long windingribbons of yellowish substance that floated a few inches below thesurface. The mold balls coming into contact with the evonium water ofthe swamp had undergone a chemical change and evolved into a cohesivemulti-celled marine life that lived and died within a space of hours.The Venusians paddled with extreme care. Had one of them dipped hishand into one of those yellow streaks, he would have been devoured ina matter of seconds.     At high noon by my Earth watch I sighted a low white structure on oneof the distant islands. Moments later we made a landing at a rudejetty, and Grannie Annie was introducing me to Ezra Karn.     He was not as old a man as I had expected, but he was ragged andunkempt with iron gray hair falling almost to his shoulders. He wasdressed in      varpa     cloth, the Venus equivalent of buckskin, and on hishead was an enormous flop-brimmed hat.     Glad to meet you, he said, shaking my hand. Any friend of MissFlowers is a friend of mine. He ushered us down the catwalk into hishut.     The place was a two room affair, small but comfortable. The latesttype of visi set in one corner showed that Karn was not isolated fromcivilization entirely.     Grannie Annie came to the point abruptly. When she had explained theobject of our trip, the prospector became thoughtful.     Green Flames, eh? he repeated slowly. Well yes, I suppose I couldfind that space ship again. That is, if I wanted to.     What do you mean? Grannie paused in the act of rolling herself acigarette. You know where it is, don't you?     Ye-s, Karn nodded. But like I told you before, that ship lies inVarsoom country, and that isn't exactly a summer vacation spot.     What are the Varsoom? I asked. A native tribe?     Karn shook his head. They're a form of life that's never been seen byEarthmen. Strictly speaking, they're no more than a form of energy.     Dangerous?     Yes and no. Only man I ever heard of who escaped their country outsideof myself was the explorer, Darthier, three years ago. I got awaybecause I was alone, and they didn't notice me, and Darthier escapedbecause he made 'em laugh.     Laugh? A scowl crossed Grannie's face.     That's right, Karn said. The Varsoom have a strange nervous reactionthat's manifested by laughing. But just what it is that makes themlaugh, I don't know.     Food supplies and fresh drinking water were replenished at the hut.Several mold guns were borrowed from the prospector's supply to arm theVenusians. And then as we were about to leave, Karn suddenly turned.     The Doctor Universe program, he said. I ain't missed one in months.You gotta wait 'til I hear it.     Grannie frowned in annoyance, but the prospector was adamant. Heflipped a stud, twisted a dial and a moment later was leaning back in achair, listening with avid interest.     It was the same show I had witnessed back in Swamp City. Once again Iheard questions filter in from the far outposts of the System. Onceagain I saw the commanding figure of the quiz master as he strode backand forth across the stage. And as I sat there, looking into the visiscreen, a curious numbing drowsiness seemed to steal over me and leadmy thoughts far away.  Half an hour later we headed into the unknown. The Venusian boatmenwere ill-at-ease now and jabbered among themselves constantly. Wecamped that night on a miserable little island where insects swarmedabout us in hordes. The next day an indefinable wave of weariness anddespondency beset our entire party. I caught myself musing over thefutility of the venture. Only the pleadings of Grannie Annie kept mefrom turning back. On the morrow I realized the truth in her warning,that all of us had been exposed to the insidious radiations.     After that I lost track of time. Day after day of incessant rain ... ofsteaming swamp.... But at length we reached firm ground and began ouradvance on foot.     It was Karn who first sighted the ship. Striding in the lead, hesuddenly halted at the top of a hill and leveled his arm before him.There it lay, a huge cigar-shaped vessel of blackened      arelium     steel,half buried in the swamp soil.     What's that thing on top? Karn demanded, puzzled.     A rectangular metal envelope had been constructed over the sternquarters of the ship. Above this structure were three tall masts. Andsuspended between them was a network of copper wire studded with whiteinsulators.     Grannie gazed a long moment through binoculars. Billy-boy, take threeVenusians and head across the knoll, she ordered. Ezra and I willcircle in from the west. Fire a gun if you strike trouble.     But we found no trouble. The scene before us lay steeped in silence.Moments later our two parties converged at the base of the great ship.     A metal ladder extended from the envelope down the side of the vessel.Mid-way we could see a circular hatch-like door.     Up we go, Billy-boy. Heat gun in readiness, Grannie Annie began toclimb slowly.     The silence remained absolute. We reached the door and pulled it open.There was no sign of life.     Somebody's gone to a lot of trouble here, Ezra Karn observed.     Somebody had. Before us stretched a narrow corridor, flanked on theleft side by a wall of impenetrable stepto glass. The corridor wasbare of furnishings. But beyond the glass, revealed to us in mockingclarity, was a high panel, studded with dials and gauges. Even as welooked, we could see liquid pulse in glass tubes, indicator needlesswing slowly to and fro.     Grannie nodded. Some kind of a broadcasting unit. The Green Flames inthe lower hold are probably exposed to a      tholpane     plate and theirradiations stepped up by an electro-phosicalic process.     Karn raised the butt of his pistol and brought it crashing against theglass wall. His arm jumped in recoil, but the glass remained intact.     You'll never do it that way, Grannie said. Nothing short of anatomic blast will shatter that wall. It explains why there are noguards here. The mechanism is entirely self-operating. Let's see if theGreen Flames are more accessible.     In the lower hold disappointment again confronted us. Visible inthe feeble shafts of daylight that filtered through cracks in thevessel's hull were tiers of rectangular ingots of green iridescent ore.Suspended by insulators from the ceiling over them was a thick metalplate.     But between was a barrier. A wall of impenetrable stepto glass.     Grannie stamped her foot. It's maddening, she said. Here we are atthe crux of the whole matter, and we're powerless to make a singlemove.  Outside the day was beginning to wane. The Venusians, apparentlyunawed by the presence of the space ship, had already started a fireand erected the tents. We left the vessel to find a spell of broodingdesolation heavy over the improvised camp. And the evening meal thistime was a gloomy affair. When it was finished, Ezra Karn lit his pipeand switched on the portable visi set. A moment later the silence ofthe march was broken by the opening fanfare of the Doctor Universeprogram.     Great stuff, Karn commented. I sent in a couple of questions once,but I never did win nothin'. This Doctor Universe is a great guy. Oughtto make him king or somethin'.     For a moment none of us made reply. Then suddenly Grannie Annie leapedto her feet.     Say that again! she cried.     The old prospector looked startled. Why, I only said they ought tomake this Doctor Universe the big boss and....     That's it! Grannie paced ten yards off into the gathering darknessand returned quickly. Billy-boy, you were right. The man behind this      is     Doctor Universe. It was he who stole my manuscript and devised amethod to amplify the radiations of the Green Flames in the freighter'shold. He lit on a sure-fire plan to broadcast those radiations in sucha way that millions of persons would be exposed to them simultaneously.Don't you see?     I didn't see, but Grannie hurried on.     What better way to expose civilized life to the Green Flamesradiations than when the people are in a state of relaxation. TheDoctor Universe quiz program. The whole System tuned in on them, butthey were only a blind to cover up the transmission of the radiationsfrom the ore. Their power must have been amplified a thousandfold, andtheir wave-length must lie somewhere between light and the supersonicscale in that transition band which so far has defied exploration....     But with what motive? I demanded. Why should...?     Power! the old woman answered. The old thirst for dictatorialcontrol of the masses. By presenting himself as an intellectual genius,Doctor Universe utilized a bizarre method to intrench himself in theminds of the people. Oh, don't you see, Billy-boy? The Green Flames'radiations spell doom to freedom, individual liberty.     I sat there stupidly, wondering if this all were some wild dream.     And then, as I looked across at Grannie Annie, the vague light over thetents seemed to shift a little, as if one layer of the atmosphere haddropped away to be replaced by another.     There it was again, a definite movement in the air. Somehow I got theimpression I was looking around that space rather than through it. Andsimultaneously Ezra Karn uttered a howl of pain. An instant later theold prospector was rolling over and over, threshing his arms wildly.     An invisible sledge hammer descended on my shoulder. The blow wasfollowed by another and another. Heavy unseen hands held me down.Opposite me Grannie Annie and the Venusians were suffering similarpunishment, the latter screaming in pain and bewilderment.     It's the Varsoom! Ezra Karn yelled. We've got to make 'em laugh. Ouronly escape is to make 'em laugh!     He struggled to his feet and began leaping wildly around the camp fire.Abruptly his foot caught on a log protruding from the fire; he trippedand fell headlong into a mass of hot coals and ashes. Like a jumpingjack he was on his feet again, clawing dirt and soot from his eyes.     Out of the empty space about us there came a sudden hush. The unseenblows ceased in mid-career. And then the silence was rent by wildlaughter. Peal after peal of mirthful yells pounded against our ears.For many moments it continued; then it died away, and everything waspeaceful once more.     Grannie Annie picked herself up slowly. That was close, she said. Iwouldn't want to go through that again.     Ezra Karn nursed an ugly welt under one eye. Those Varsoom got a funnysense of humor, he growled.  Inside the freighter's narrow corridor Grannie faced me with eyesfilled with excitement.     Billy-boy, she said, we've got two problems now. We've got to stopDoctor Universe, and we've got to find a way of getting out of here.Right now we're nicely bottled up.     As if in answer to her words the visi set revealed the face of the quizmaster on the screen. He was saying:           Remember tomorrow at this same hour I will have a message ofunparalleled importance for the people of the nine planets. Tomorrownight I urge you, I command you, to tune in.          With a whistling intake of breath the old woman turned to one of theVenusians.     Bring all our equipment in here, she ordered. Hurry!     She untied the ribbon under her chin and took off her cap. She rolledup her sleeves, and as the Venusians came marching into the space shipwith bundles of equipment, she fell to work.     Silently Ezra Karn and I watched her. First she completely dismantledthe visi set, put it together again with an entirely altered hookup.Next she unrolled a coil of flexible copper mesh which we had broughtalong as a protective electrical screening against the marsh insects.She fastened rubberite suction cups to this mesh at intervals of everytwelve inches or more, carried it down to the freighter's hold andfastened it securely against the stepto glass wall.     Trailing a three-ply conduit up from the hold to the corridor sheselected an induction coil, several Micro-Wellman tubes and a quantityof wire from a box of spare parts. Dexterously her fingers moved in andout, fashioning a complicated and curious piece of apparatus.     At length she finished.     It's pretty hay-wire, she said, but I think it will work. Now I'lltell you what I'm going to do. When Doctor Universe broadcasts tomorrownight, he's going to announce that he has set himself up as supremedictator. He'll have the Green Flame radiations coming from this shipunder full power. I'm going to insert into his broadcast—the laughingof the Varsoom!     You're going to what?     Broadcast the mass laughter from those invisible creatures out there.Visualize it, Billy-boy! At the dramatic moment when Doctor Universemakes his plea for System-wide power, he will be accompanied by wildpeals of laughter. The whole broadcast will be turned into a burlesque.     How you going to make 'em laugh? interrupted Karn.     We must think of a way, Grannie replied soberly.     I, for one, am glad that no representative of the InterstellarPsychiatry Society witnessed our antics during the early hours of thatmorning and on into the long reaches of the afternoon, as we vainlytried to provoke the laughter of the Varsoom. All to no avail. Uttersilence greeted our efforts. And the time was growing close to thescheduled Doctor Universe program.     Ezra Karn wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow. Maybe we've gotto attract their attention first, he suggested. Miss Flowers, whydon't you go up on the roof and read to 'em? Read 'em something fromone of your books, if you've got one along. That ought to make 'em situp and take notice.     For a moment the old woman gazed at him in silence. Then she got to herfeet quickly.     I'll do it, she said. I'll read them the attack scene from      MurderOn A Space Liner     .  It didn't make sense, of course. But nothing made sense in this madventure. Grannie Annie opened her duffel bag and drew out a copy ofher most popular book. With the volume under her arm, she mounted theladder to the top of the envelope. Ezra Karn rigged up a radite searchlamp, and a moment later the old woman stood in the center of a circleof white radiance.     Karn gripped my arm. This is it, he said tensely. If this fails ...     His voice clipped off as Grannie began to read. She read slowlyat first, then intoned the words and sentences faster and moredramatically.     And out in the swamp a vast hush fell as if unseen ears were listening.     ...      the space liner was over on her beam ends now as another shotfrom the raider's vessel crashed into the stern hold. In the controlcabin Cuthbert Strong twisted vainly at his bonds as he sought to freehimself. Opposite him, lashed by strong Martian vinta ropes to thegravascope, Louise Belmont sobbed softly, wringing her hands in muteappeal.          A restless rustling sounded out in the marsh, as if hundreds of bodieswere surging closer. Karn nodded in awe.     She's got 'em! he whispered. Listen. They're eatin' up every word.     I heard it then, and I thought I must be dreaming. From somewhere outin the swamp a sound rose into the thick air. A high-pitched chuckle,it was. The chuckle came again. Now it was followed by another andanother. An instant later a wave of low subdued laughter rose into theair.     Ezra Karn gulped. Gripes! he said. They're laughing already.      They're laughing at her book!     And look, the old lady's gettin' sore.     Up on the roof of the envelope Grannie Annie halted her reading toglare savagely out into the darkness.     The laughter was a roar now. It rose louder and louder, peal after pealof mirthful yells and hysterical shouts. And for the first time in mylife, I saw Annabella C. Flowers mad. She stamped her foot; she shookher fist at the unseen hordes out before her.     Ignorant slap-happy fools! she screamed. You don't know good sciencefiction when you hear it.     I turned to Karn and said quietly, Turn on the visi set. DoctorUniverse should be broadcasting now. Tune your microphone to pull inas much of that laughter as you can.  It took three weeks to make the return trip to Swamp City. The Varsoomfollowed us far beyond the frontier of their country like an unseenarmy in the throes of laughing gas. Not until we reached Level Five didthe last chuckle fade into the distance.     All during that trek back, Grannie sat in the dugout, staring silentlyout before her.     But when we reached Swamp City, the news was flung at us from allsides. One newspaper headline accurately told the story: DOCTORUNIVERSE BID FOR SYSTEM DICTATORSHIP SQUELCHED BY RIDICULE OF UNSEENAUDIENCE. QUIZ MASTER NOW IN HANDS OF I.P. COUP FAILURE.     Grannie, I said that night as we sat again in a rear booth of THEJET, what are you going to do now? Give up writing science fiction?     She looked at me soberly, then broke into a smile.     Just because some silly form of life that can't even be seen doesn'tappreciate it? I should say not. Right now I've got an idea for a swellyarn about Mars. Want to come along while I dig up some backgroundmaterial?     I shook my head. Not me, I said.     But I knew I would.   ","Grannie Annie first meets Ezra Karn when she goes to Venus City to research the setting for her novel. Ezra Karn is a prospector who lives in a deep marsh in Varsoom country. Grannie Annie learns that the Green Flames were not all destroyed after the last dictatorship when he tells her that he stumbled upon the resource in an abandoned spaceship. Grannie Annie and Billy find Karn at his hut in the marsh. They ask Karn to take them to the Green Flames, and after some hesitation, he agrees. He knows that the only way to defeat the Varsoom is to make them laugh, but he does not know what exactly they think is funny. He is a huge fan of Doctor Universe, and he never misses a show. Ezra Karn successfully takes Grannie Annie and Billy to the spaceship he previously found. Within moments of laying eyes on it, Karl yells out in pain. He rolls around on the ground, trying to stand but failing. He informs his companions that the force he is dealing with is the Varsoom, and the only way to end the madness is to make them laugh. When it’s time to interrupt Doctor Universe’s broadcast to stop him from taking over the universe, it is Karn’s idea to have Grannie Annie read her book to the Varsoom. He does not realize that they will find it funny, but he does think it’s a good way to get the invisible creatures’ attention. He essentially saves everyone, since Grannie Annie’s book makes the Varsoom laugh and laugh and make it impossible for Doctor Universe to control the minds of the masses. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    IMAGE OF SPLENDOR     By LU KELLA       From Venus to Earth, and all the way between,       it was a hell of a world for men ... and       Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly particularly.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The intercom roared fit to blow O'Rielly back to Venus. Burner Four!     On my way, sir!     At the first flash of red on the bank of meters Apprentice BurnermanO'Rielly had slammed the safety helmet on his head; he was alreadythrowing open the lock to the burner room. The hot, throbbing rumblewhipped around him and near crushed his breath away. Power! Power ofthe universe trapped here and ready to destroy its captors given onechance! Swiftly O'Rielly unlocked the controls and reset them. Thethrobbing rumble changed tone.     Old Callahan's voice crackled now through the helmet's ear contact.Well, Mr. O'Rielly?     Fusion control two points low, sir.     O'Rielly wondered had Callahan passed out, was so long before the oldBurner Chief demanded hoarsely, Didn't you lock them controls beforeblast-off?     If every control hadn't been locked in correct setting, O'Riellyanswered from his own angry bewilderment, the error would haveregistered before blast-off—wouldn't it, sir?     So a control reset itself in flight, hey?     I don't know yet, sir.     Well, Mr. O'Rielly, you better know before we orbit Earth!     The icy knot in O'Rielly's stomach jerked tighter. A dozen burners onthis ship; why did something crazy have to happen to O'Rielly's? In ahundred years, so the instructors—brisk females all—had told O'Riellyin pre-flight school, no control had ever been known to slip. But onehad moved here. Not enough to cause serious trouble this far out fromEarth. On blast-down, though, with one jet below peak, the uneventhrust could throw the ship, crash it, the whole lovely thing and allaboard gone in a churning cloud.     Sweat pouring off him, O'Rielly prowled around his burner. Design ofthe thing had been bossed by dames of course; what on Earth wasn't anymore? Anyway, nobody could get to a burner except through its watchroom. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashedand a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the BurnerChief's console up in the flight room full of beautifully efficientofficers. Ever since Venus blast-off O'Rielly had been in Four's watchroom. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it.By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probablyinquired what was in charge of Burner Four.     Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailedmouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Riellysaw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands ofsome God-forsaken satellite. He staggered back into his watch room. Andhis brain was suddenly taken apart and slapped together again. Feltthat way.     She was sitting on his bunk. No three-tailed mouse. No Old Womaneither. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at whichO'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am!     I was in your burner room. Her voice matched the rest of her, a blendof loveliness unlike anything outside a guy's most secret dreams. Icouldn't stand the heat any longer and I couldn't open that big door.So I moved one of your controls a tiny bit. All the noise in there,naturally you couldn't hear me walk out while your back was turnedresetting the control.  O'Rielly suddenly felt like turning her over his knee and whaling heruntil she couldn't sit for a year. This, mind you, he felt in an agewhere no Earth guy for a thousand years had dared raise so much as abreath against woman's supremacy in all matters. That male charactertrait, however, did not seem to be the overpowering reason whyO'Rielly, instead of laying violent hands upon this one's person, heardhimself saying in sympathetic outrage, A shame you had to go to allthat bother to get out here!     You're so kind. But I'm afraid I became rather sticky and smelly inthere.     They ought to cool the air in there with perfume! I'll drop asuggestion in the Old Woman's box first chance I get.     You're so thoughtful. And do you have bathing facilities?     That door right there. Oh, let me open it for you!     You're so sweet. Her big dark eyes glowed with such pure innocencethat O'Rielly could have torn down the universe and rebuilt it just forher.     Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly was floating on a pink cloud with heavenly musicin his head. Never felt so fine before. Except on the Venus layoverwhen he'd been roped into a dice game with a bunch of Venus lads whohad a jug to cheer one's parting with one's money.     A bell suddenly clanged fit to wake the dead while the overhead lightsflashed wildly. Only the watch room door. Only Callahan here now. Oldbuzzard had a drooped nose like a pick, chin like a shovel.     When he talked he was like digging a hole in front of himself. Well,what about that control?     What control?     Your fusion control that got itself two points low!     Oh, that little thing.     Callahan said something through his teeth, then studied O'Riellysharply. Hey, you been wetting your whistle on that Venus vino again?Lemme smell your breath! Bah. Loaded yourself full of chlorophyllagain probably. All right, stand aside whilst I see your burner.     Charmed to, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly said while bowinggracefully.     Higher than a swacked skunk's tail again, Callahan muttered, thensnapped back over his shoulder, Use your shower!     O'Rielly stood considering his shower door. Somehow he doubted thatBurner Chief Terrence Callahan's mood, or Captain Millicent Hatwoody's,would be improved by knowledge of she who was in O'Rielly's shower now.Not that the dear stowaway was less than charming. Quite the contrary.Oh, very quite!     You rockhead! Only Callahan back from the burner. Didn't I tell youto shower the stink off yourself? Old Woman's taking a Venus bigwigon tour the ship. Old Woman catches you like you been rassling skunksshe'll peel both our hides off. Not to mention what she'll do anywayabout your fusion control!     Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded courteously, I havebeen thinking.     With what? Never mind, just keep on trying whilst I have a shower formyself here. Wherewith Callahan reached hand for O'Rielly's showerdoor.     Venus dames, O'Rielly said dreamily, don't boss anything, do they?     Callahan yelped like he'd been bit in the pants by a big Jupiter ant.O'Rielly! You trying to get both of us condemned to a Uranus moon?Callahan also shot a wild look to the intercom switch. It was in OFFposition; the flight room full of fancy gold-lace petticoats could nothave overheard from here. Nevertheless Callahan's eyes rolled like thedevil was behind him with the fork ready. O'Rielly, open your big earswhilst for your own good and mine I speak of certain matters.     Thousand years ago, it was, the first flight reached Venus. Guysgot one look at them dames. Had to bring some home or bust. So theneverybody on Earth got a look, mostly by TV only of course. That didit. Every guy on Earth began blowing his fuse over them dames. Give upthe shirt off his back, last buck in the bank, his own Earth dame orfamily—everything.     Well, that's when Earth dames took over like armies of wild catswith knots in their tails. Before the guys who'd brought the Venusdames to Earth could say anything they was taken apart too small topick up with a blotter. Earth dames wound up by flying the Venus onesback where they come from and serving notice if one ever set foot onEarth again there wouldn't be enough left of Venus to find with anelectron microscope.  Venus boys rared up and served notice that if Earth ever got any funnynotions, right away there wouldn't be enough Earth left to hide in anatom's eyebrow. Touchy as hornets on a hot griddle, them Venus guys.Crazier than bed bugs about war. Could smell a loose dollar a millionlight years away too. Finagled around until they finally cooked up adeal.     No Venus dames allowed within fifty miles of their port. Earth guysstay inside the high-voltage fence. Any dame caught trying to leaveVenus thrown to the tigers for supper. Same for any Earth guy caughtaround a Venus dame. In return, Earth could buy practically everythingat bargain basement prices.     Oh, I was shown the history films in pre-flight, O'Rielly said, stilldreamily. But not a peek of any Venus dame.     Pray heaven you'll never lay eyes on one nor have one get within tenfoot of you! Even though you'd know she'd be your damnation wouldn'tmake a whit difference—you'd still act sappier than thirty-sevenangels flying on vino. Callahan suddenly stared at O'Rielly. Holyhollering saints!     Now, now, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded with an airylaugh. No Earth guy for a hundred twenty-five years been near one andlived to tell it, has he?     So the whispers run, Callahan murmured with a queer flame dancinginto his eyes. So the old whispers still run.     Never a name, though. Never how it was done. O'Rielly snorted.Probably just a goofy tale set loose by some old space bum.     Oh? Callahan bristled up like a bad name had been bandied about.Seen them ditty bags Venus bigwigs have, ain't you? Some big enough tostuff a cow in. Notice how nobody ever dares question a bigwig's bags,even through customs? Just run 'em through the big Geiger that tellswhether there's any fusionable junk inside. Well, our boy got himselfone of them bags, stuffed himself inside and joined a bigwig's pile of'em.     Didn't pull it whilst on the Venus port during a layover either, whena crew check would of turned him up missing. Pulled it on vacation.Started on the Earth end. Made himself a pair of beards to paste on hisears of course. Wove Jupiter wiggle worms in to keep the beards moving.Wasn't like the real thing, but good enough to flimflam Venus guys.     With suddenly enlivened interest O'Rielly looked at Callahan. Hey, howcome you know so much?     Hah? What? Callahan blinked like waking from a trance; even groanedto himself, something that sounded like, Blabbering like I'd hada nip myself—or one of them dillies was radiating nearby. ThenCallahan glared fit to drill holes in O'Rielly's head. Look! I wasa full Burnerman before you was born. Been flying the spaces hundredtwenty-five years now. Had more chances to hear more—just hear more,you hear! Only tried to clear your mind about Venus dames so you couldput your brain on your control mess. So now put it! If you ain't highon vino and ain't been made nuts by a Venus dame, what answer do wefeed the Old Woman?     Search me, Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly responded cheerfully.     Of all the loony apprentices I ever had to answer the Old Woman for!Awp, lemme out where I can think of something to save me own neck atleast!     Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from rolling on the deck with glee.Old Callahan had been flimflammed for fair! The dear little stowawaywas saved! And O'Rielly would now think of grand ways to save herlovely neck and his own forever.     O'Rielly's shower door, however, opened abruptly. O'Rielly had notopened it. O'Rielly, however, suffered a cruel stab of dismay. Surelyhis dear stowaway had been listening through the door. Why didn't shehave brains enough to stay hid until Callahan was gone!     At sight of her, of course, Callahan's eyes near popped from his oldhead. Berta!     Oh, I'm Trillium, she assured Callahan sweetly. But Grandmamma'sname is Berta and people say I'm just like she was a hundred andtwenty-five years ago.  Hah? What? Callahan blinked like his brain had been taken apart andwas being slapped together again. O'Rielly! Awp, you angel-facedpirate, couldn't you hide her somewheres better than that? Shut up,you don't have to explain to me, but God help the whole universe if wedon't flimflam the Old Woman! With which ominous remark, rendered ina zesty devil-may-care manner, however, Callahan threw himself intoO'Rielly's shower.     O'Rielly stood looking thoughtfully at lovely, womanly, exquisiteTrillium. Just like that, O'Rielly felt as sparkling of mind as aspiral nebula. My locker! he crowed with inspiration and yanked openthe doors under his bunk. He glimpsed a black ditty bag, also the capand coverall uniform of a baggage boy.     I threw them in there before you came on duty before blast-off,Trillium explained. I knew the burner room would be warm.     Trillium—with her shape—passing as a boy hustling bags through thisship. O'Rielly chortled as he tucked her under his bunk. Now don't youworry about another thing!     Oh, I'm not, she assured him happily. Everything is going just theway Grandmamma knew it would!     O'Rielly's shower opened and Callahan, glowing like a young bucko,bounced onto the bunk. Well, did you hide her good this time? No,don't tell me! I want to be surprised if the Old Woman ever finds her.     If what old woman finds whom? a voice like thin ice crackling wantedto know.     The watch room's door had opened. Wouldn't think the Old Woman was aday over seventy-five, let alone near two hundred. Cut of her uniformprobably lent a helping hand or three to the young snap of her figure.Frosty blue of fancy hair-do, she was, though, and icy of eye as shelooked at O'Rielly and Callahan still lolling on the bunk.     Her voice was an iceberg exploding. At attention!     Never in his right mind would any crewman dare fail to come stifflyerect the instant the Old Woman appeared. Behind her stood a colorfullyrobed specimen of Venus man. Handsome as the devil himself. Fit to snaplesser men in two with his highly bejeweled hands. Fuzzy beards trailedfrom his ears and kept twitching lazily as he sneered at the spectacleof two men meekly acknowledging the superiority of a woman.     She was fit to put frost on a hydrogen burner. Mr. Callahan, I askedyou a question, did I not?     Believe you did, ma'am, Callahan responded cheerfully. And theanswer is, ma'am, that Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly and me wasdiscussing—ah—matrimony, ma'am. Mr. Apprentice Burnerman O'Riellyhere is considering it, ma'am.     Wasn't too bad a fib. The more O'Rielly thought of Trillium, the moreideas he got of doing things he'd never dreamt of before in his life.Yes, ma'am!     Wasting your time talking nonsense! Old Woman's look was fit tofreeze O'Rielly's brain, then she gave Callahan the look. I sent youdown here to find the answer to that fusion control slippage!     Oh, you'll have the best answer you ever heard of before long, ma'am!Callahan assured her heartily. The subject of nonsense—I mean,women—merely chanced to arise whilst we was scientifically analyzingthe control phenomenon, ma'am. Naturally I offered this innocent youngBurnerman the benefit of me long years of experience. Why, Callahansaid with a jaunty laugh, dames mean nothing to me. Indeed 'twouldn'tbother me none if there wasn't one of the things left in the world!Present company excepted, of course, Callahan hastened to say with acourtly bow.     Stay at attention! Old Woman sniffed the air near Callahan's face,then in O'Rielly's vicinity. Smothered it with chlorophyll probably,she muttered through her teeth, if it is that vino. Somethinghorrible as a plague flickered in her eyes, then the old ice was thereagain. Apprentice Burnerman, don't you know what your shower is for?Then use it! Mr. Callahan, remain at attention while I inspect thisburner! She tendered a cool glance at the Venus bigwig. Care to joinme, Your Excellency?     May as well. His Excellency glanced at O'Rielly and Callahan much ashe might at a couple of worms. Could bet your last old sox no femaleever told any Venus man what to do.     The shower units were equipped so no Burnerman need be more than twosteps from his responsibility. To keep the Old Woman from possiblyblowing her gaskets completely, O'Rielly simply stepped in, shut thedoor, flipped a switch and tingled as he was electronically cleansedof person and clothes. By time he finished, the Old Woman and HisExcellency were already coming out of the burner room, dripping withsweat.     Old Woman opened the shower with her customary commanding air. Youfirst, Your Excellency.     My dear Captain, His Excellency replied like a smoothly drawn dagger,always the lesser gender enjoys precedence.     No Earth dame ever admitted any guy was even equal to any female. OldWoman, a prime symbol of her gender's superiority, whipped a razor edgeonto her own words. Facilities of the Captain's quarters are moresatisfactory.     No more so than those of the Ambassadorial Suite.  Seeming to grind her teeth, the Old O Woman turned abruptly to leaveO'Rielly's watch room. Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from bustingout laughing for joy.     Old Woman had been flimflammed for fair! Dear Trillium was saved! Andbetwixt O'Rielly's grand brain and Callahan's great experience she'd behappy forever.     A fine loud thump, however, was now heard. Old Woman whirled back andyanked open the doors under O'Rielly's bunk.     Of all the sappy hiding places! Callahan yelped, in surprise ofcourse.     Trillium? His Excellency bellowed as if stung by one of thesabre-tailed hornets of his native planet. Trillium!     Trillium, O'Rielly pleaded in loving anguish, why do you have tokeep coming out of hiding just when nobody's going to find you?     Her eyes merely became deep pools in which O'Rielly would have gladlydrowned himself if he could.       There are rewards, the Old Woman said with the deadly coldness ofouter space, for Earthmen found in a Venus woman's company, and forher leaving her planet.     Shut up! His Excellency's ear beards were standing straight outsideways. I'll handle this!     May I remind His Excellency, the Old Woman snapped, that I representEarth and her dominion of space gained by right of original flight!     May I remind the Captain, His Excellency declared fit to be heardback to his planet, that I am the Personal Ambassador of the Presidentof Venus and this thing can mean war!     Yes! War in which people will actually die! As His Excellency paledat that grisly remark, the Old Woman spoke through her teeth atO'Rielly, Callahan and Trillium. All right, come along!     O'Rielly joined the death march gladly. He felt the way Callahanlooked: ready to wrap his arms around Trillium's brave loveliness andprotect it to his last breath of life.     Old Woman led the way to her office. Jabbed some buttons on her desk.Panels on opposite walls lit up.     Presidents of Earth and Venus, please, the Old Woman stated evenly.Interplanetary emergency.     Highly groomed flunkies appeared on the panels and were impersonallypleasant.     Madame President's office. She is in a Cabinet meeting.     Mr. President's office. He is in personal command of our glorious warefforts.     Old Woman sighed through her teeth. Venus woman aboard this ship.Stowaway. Rattle that around your belfries.     The flunkies' faces went slack with shock, then were replaced by ablizzard of scrambled faces and torrents of incoherent voices.     Finally on the Earth panel appeared the famous classic features. Thefacts, if you please, Captain Hatwoody.     The Venus panel finally held steady on universally notorious features,that were as fierce as an eagle's, in a fancy war helmet. Trillium! Myown granddaughter? Impossible! Dimdooly, Mr. President roared at hisExcellency, what's this nonsense?     Some loud creature is interfering, Madame President snapped withannoyance.     Blasted fools still have the circuits crossed, Mr. President swore.Some silly female cackling now!     The parties in the panels saw each other now. Each one's left hand on adesk moved toward a big red button marked, ROCKETS.     So, Mr. President said evenly. Another violation by your Earthmen.     By your granddaughter, at least, Madame President replied coolly.     An innocent child, Mr. President snapped, obviously kidnapped bythose two idiotic Earthmen there!     Oh, no, Grandpapa, Trillium said swiftly; I stole away all bymyself, and Mr. O'Rielly and Callahan have been very helpful.     Impossible! Grandpapa President's ear beards stood near straight upas he roared, You couldn't have stolen away by yourself! Trillium,tell the truth!     Very well. Grandmamma told me how.  Obviously Trillium's poor little brain has been drugged, HisExcellency Dimdooly declared. Grandmamma Berta wouldn't know the firstthing about such things!     Impossible! Grandpapa President agreed. I've been married to herfor a hundred and twenty-four and a half years and she's the finestrattle-brain I ever knew!     She learned, Trillium stated emphatically, a hundred and twenty-fiveyears ago.     Hundred twenty-five, Grandpapa president growled like a boilingvolcano. The year some Earthman.... Never did catch the devil....Berta? Impossible!     Madame President's shapely finger now rested full on the button thatcould launch the fleets of war rockets that had been pre-aimed for athousand years. I'm afraid your Ambassador is unwelcome now, MadamePresident stated coolly. Your granddaughter's actions have every markof an invasion tactic by your government.     What do you mean, her actions? Grandpapa President's finger now laypoised on the button that had been waiting a thousand years to blowEarth out of the universe. My grandchild was kidnapped by men underyour official command! Weren't you, Trillium dear?     No. One of us stowing away was the only way we Venus women could bringour cause to the attention of Earth's President. If Earth will onlystop buying from Venus, you won't have any money to squander on yourwars any longer no matter what happens to we revolutionaries!     Revolutionaries? Such claptrap! And what's wrong with my wars? Peoplehave to have something to keep their minds off their troubles! Nobodyaround here gets hurt. Oh, maybe a few scratches here and there. Butnobody on Venus dies from the things any more.     But Venus men are so excited all the time about going to war theyhaven't time for us women. That's why we always radiated such a fatalattraction for Earthmen. We want to be loved! We want our own men homedoing useful work!     Well, they do come home and do useful work! Couple weeks every tenmonths. Proven to be a highly efficient arrangement.     More boys to run off to your old wars and more girls to stay home andbe lonely!     Now you just listen to me, Trillium! Grandpapa President was allVenus manhood laying down the law. That's the way things have been onVenus for ten thousand years and all the women in the universe can'tchange it!     I have been in constant contact with my Cabinet during theseconversations, Madame President said crisply. Earth is terminatingall trade agreements with Venus as of this instant.     What? Grandpapa's beards near pulled his ears off. It's not legal!You can't get away with this!     Take your finger off that trigger, boy! a heavenly voice similar toTrillium's advised from the Venus panel.     Whereupon Grandpapa glared to one side. Berta! What are you doinghere? I am deciding matters of the gravest interplanetary nature!     Were. Features more beautifully mature than Trillium's crowded ontothe panel too. From now on I'm doing the deciding.     Nonsense! You're only my wife!     And new President of Venus, elected by unanimous vote of all women.     Impossible! The men run Venus! Nobody's turning this planet intoanother Earth where a man can't even sneeze unless some woman says so!     Take him away, girls, Berta ordered coolly, whereupon her spouse wasyanked from view.     His bellows, however, could be heard yet. Unhand me, you foolcreatures! Guards! Guards!     Save your breath, Berta advised him. And while you're in the cooler,enjoy this latest batch of surrender communiques. We women are incontrol everywhere now.     Dimmy, Trillium was saying firmly to His Excellency, you have beataround the bush with me long enough. Now say it!  Dimdooly—the mighty, the lordly, who had sneered at the sight of mereEarthmen kowtowing to a mere woman—swelled up fit to blow his gaskets,then all the gas went out of him. His ear beards, however, still hadenough zip left to flutter like butterflies. Yes, Trillium dear. Ilove only you. Please marry me at your earliest convenience.     Well, Grandmamma, Trillium said with a highly self-satisfied air, itworks. And just like you said, Earthmen meant nothing once I knew weVenus women had our own men in our power.     Those crewmen there, Grandmamma President said, seem to be proofenough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth'stranquility.     Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden.Worse than the hangover from that crap game with Venus vino. He lookedaway from Trillium and took a look at Callahan. Old guy looked awayfrom Grandmamma President like he was packing the second biggestheadache in history.     Hmmmm, yes, Madame President of Earth observed. Reactions agreeperfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have beenconducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. MadamePresident of Venus, congratulations on your victory!     Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted toreceive an Ambassadoress to discuss a new trade treaty at your earliestconvenience.     Thank you for cancelling the old trade agreements at the psychologicalmoment, Grandmamma President said cordially. What with thecommunications mixup, we managed to have the scenes on these panelsbroadcast throughout all Venus. When the rug went out from under thetop man, the tide really turned in our favor. Now, Trillium, you takeover Dimmy's credentials.     The Ambassadorial Suite, too, Madame President of Earth saidgraciously. Anything else now, Berta?     I should like, Grandmamma President Berta said charmingly, thatMr. O'Rielly and Mr. Callahan be suitably rewarded for assisting ourrevolution better than they knew.     Of course, Madame President of Earth was delighted to oblige. Nodoubt Captain Hatwoody knows what reward would satisfy their needsbest.     The Madame Presidents switched to a private circuit, Trillium draggedDimdooly off somewhere and the Old Woman eyed O'Rielly and Callahan.Especially she eyed Callahan, like running chilled drills through hisold conniving brain. I award the pair of you five minutes leisurebefore returning to your stations.     Oh, well, O'Rielly muttered, once he and Callahan were safely beyondearshot, could have been rewarded worse, I suppose.     What you expect for being flimflammed by a foreign dame, the rings ofSaturn? Lucky we ain't programmed to be hung, shot and thrown to thecrows for breakfast. Callahan's old pick-and-shovel face wore a littlegrin like the cat that nobody could prove ate the canary.     You—I mean, that Earth guy a hundred twenty-five years ago, O'Riellysaid in sudden thought. If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, whydid Trillium's Grandmamma let him go?     Venus guys wasn't so busy playing war all the time, Callahan mumbled,like to himself, they'd of found out the answer centuries ago. Yep,guess our boy was the only guy on Earth or Venus to find out and live.Dames bossing both planets now, though, his old secret won't be onemuch longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselvesbut didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizingto take over Venus, I guess.     O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trilliumbefore her revolution. All right, Callahan, why did 'our boy' leaveGrandmamma?     Yes, ma'am, Callahan sighed like he hadn't heard a word O'Riellysaid, you could sweet-talk 'em, kiss 'em and hold 'em tighter'nBilly-be-damned. And that's all.     I'm not sure, O'Rielly said, what you mean by, 'that's all.'     Anybody ever seen anybody but a Venus guy come built with ear beards?Course not.     But I thought our boy was wearing the best fakes ever.     Ain't nothing can match the natural growed-on variety, no, ma'am.Venus guy kisses a Venus dame, his beards grabs her roundst the ears.     So what?     Tickles 'em, boy, tickles 'em!   ","O’Rielly is an apprentice maintaining Burner Four during his first flight on a spaceship traveling between Venus and Earth. The story begins when his supervisor, Burner Chief Callahan, alerts O’Rielly that one of the controls on his burner has slipped, so he sets about resetting the controls to prevent the ship from crashing when it starts its descent toward Earth. He searches his watch room and around the burner looking for a mouse or anyone who might have moved the control. He thinks about Captain Millicent Hatwoody, the ship’s commander nicknamed “Old Woman”, and worries she will exile him to a distant moon if she discovers the issue. During his search, he discovers a stowaway Venusian woman named Trillium on his bunk bed, and she tells him she had moved the control in order to escape the burner room where she was hiding. O’Rielly is struck by her beauty and allows her to shower in his bathroom. While she is showering, Callahan to interrogate O’Rielly and instructs him to take a shower because Captain Hatwoody is bringing a guest to tour the facilities. He reminds O’Rielly of the history of the Earth women’s supremacy over men, which began as a response to the Earth men’s infatuation with Venusian women. When they established dominance, the Earth women returned the Venusian women to their planet. Consequently, the Venusian men warned of war if any Earth men attempted to contact Venusian women. For their part, Venusian women would be killed if they tried to leave. To soften the threat, Venus agreed to let Earth purchase products at a lower cost. O’Rielly reminds Callahan that no Earth man has seen a Venusian woman in 125 years, and Callahan tells the story—an Earth man disguised himself as a Venusian in order to visit his love, a Venusian woman named Berta. When Trillium returns, she reveals that she is Berta’s granddaughter. She hides again before Captain Hatwoody arrives. The captain and her guest, a Venusian ambassador named Dimdooly, investigate the burner, and their interactions reveal conflicting attitudes towards gender superiority on Earth versus Venus. As they leave, Trillium reveals herself, and Dimdooly recognizes her as the Venusian president’s granddaughter. Captain Hatwoody then calls the presidents of both planets, who begin to blame each other and threaten war. Trillium explains that it was Berta, the president’s wife, who taught her how to stowaway, as she had done so herself 125 years prior. She reveals her purpose for stowing away was to draw attention to her revolutionary vision—to convince Earth to stop purchasing products from Venus, thus stopping their cash flow to fund wars. She explains the wars distract Venusian men, and that is why the women are attracted to Earth men. While the president balks, his wife orders him to step aside as she has been elected new President of Venus, and the Venusian women are taking over. Trillium is rewarded with Dimdooly’s ambassadorship, and Callahan and O’Rielly are sent back to work. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>    IMAGE OF SPLENDOR     By LU KELLA       From Venus to Earth, and all the way between,       it was a hell of a world for men ... and       Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly particularly.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The intercom roared fit to blow O'Rielly back to Venus. Burner Four!     On my way, sir!     At the first flash of red on the bank of meters Apprentice BurnermanO'Rielly had slammed the safety helmet on his head; he was alreadythrowing open the lock to the burner room. The hot, throbbing rumblewhipped around him and near crushed his breath away. Power! Power ofthe universe trapped here and ready to destroy its captors given onechance! Swiftly O'Rielly unlocked the controls and reset them. Thethrobbing rumble changed tone.     Old Callahan's voice crackled now through the helmet's ear contact.Well, Mr. O'Rielly?     Fusion control two points low, sir.     O'Rielly wondered had Callahan passed out, was so long before the oldBurner Chief demanded hoarsely, Didn't you lock them controls beforeblast-off?     If every control hadn't been locked in correct setting, O'Riellyanswered from his own angry bewilderment, the error would haveregistered before blast-off—wouldn't it, sir?     So a control reset itself in flight, hey?     I don't know yet, sir.     Well, Mr. O'Rielly, you better know before we orbit Earth!     The icy knot in O'Rielly's stomach jerked tighter. A dozen burners onthis ship; why did something crazy have to happen to O'Rielly's? In ahundred years, so the instructors—brisk females all—had told O'Riellyin pre-flight school, no control had ever been known to slip. But onehad moved here. Not enough to cause serious trouble this far out fromEarth. On blast-down, though, with one jet below peak, the uneventhrust could throw the ship, crash it, the whole lovely thing and allaboard gone in a churning cloud.     Sweat pouring off him, O'Rielly prowled around his burner. Design ofthe thing had been bossed by dames of course; what on Earth wasn't anymore? Anyway, nobody could get to a burner except through its watchroom. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashedand a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the BurnerChief's console up in the flight room full of beautifully efficientofficers. Ever since Venus blast-off O'Rielly had been in Four's watchroom. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it.By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probablyinquired what was in charge of Burner Four.     Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailedmouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Riellysaw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands ofsome God-forsaken satellite. He staggered back into his watch room. Andhis brain was suddenly taken apart and slapped together again. Feltthat way.     She was sitting on his bunk. No three-tailed mouse. No Old Womaneither. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at whichO'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am!     I was in your burner room. Her voice matched the rest of her, a blendof loveliness unlike anything outside a guy's most secret dreams. Icouldn't stand the heat any longer and I couldn't open that big door.So I moved one of your controls a tiny bit. All the noise in there,naturally you couldn't hear me walk out while your back was turnedresetting the control.  O'Rielly suddenly felt like turning her over his knee and whaling heruntil she couldn't sit for a year. This, mind you, he felt in an agewhere no Earth guy for a thousand years had dared raise so much as abreath against woman's supremacy in all matters. That male charactertrait, however, did not seem to be the overpowering reason whyO'Rielly, instead of laying violent hands upon this one's person, heardhimself saying in sympathetic outrage, A shame you had to go to allthat bother to get out here!     You're so kind. But I'm afraid I became rather sticky and smelly inthere.     They ought to cool the air in there with perfume! I'll drop asuggestion in the Old Woman's box first chance I get.     You're so thoughtful. And do you have bathing facilities?     That door right there. Oh, let me open it for you!     You're so sweet. Her big dark eyes glowed with such pure innocencethat O'Rielly could have torn down the universe and rebuilt it just forher.     Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly was floating on a pink cloud with heavenly musicin his head. Never felt so fine before. Except on the Venus layoverwhen he'd been roped into a dice game with a bunch of Venus lads whohad a jug to cheer one's parting with one's money.     A bell suddenly clanged fit to wake the dead while the overhead lightsflashed wildly. Only the watch room door. Only Callahan here now. Oldbuzzard had a drooped nose like a pick, chin like a shovel.     When he talked he was like digging a hole in front of himself. Well,what about that control?     What control?     Your fusion control that got itself two points low!     Oh, that little thing.     Callahan said something through his teeth, then studied O'Riellysharply. Hey, you been wetting your whistle on that Venus vino again?Lemme smell your breath! Bah. Loaded yourself full of chlorophyllagain probably. All right, stand aside whilst I see your burner.     Charmed to, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly said while bowinggracefully.     Higher than a swacked skunk's tail again, Callahan muttered, thensnapped back over his shoulder, Use your shower!     O'Rielly stood considering his shower door. Somehow he doubted thatBurner Chief Terrence Callahan's mood, or Captain Millicent Hatwoody's,would be improved by knowledge of she who was in O'Rielly's shower now.Not that the dear stowaway was less than charming. Quite the contrary.Oh, very quite!     You rockhead! Only Callahan back from the burner. Didn't I tell youto shower the stink off yourself? Old Woman's taking a Venus bigwigon tour the ship. Old Woman catches you like you been rassling skunksshe'll peel both our hides off. Not to mention what she'll do anywayabout your fusion control!     Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded courteously, I havebeen thinking.     With what? Never mind, just keep on trying whilst I have a shower formyself here. Wherewith Callahan reached hand for O'Rielly's showerdoor.     Venus dames, O'Rielly said dreamily, don't boss anything, do they?     Callahan yelped like he'd been bit in the pants by a big Jupiter ant.O'Rielly! You trying to get both of us condemned to a Uranus moon?Callahan also shot a wild look to the intercom switch. It was in OFFposition; the flight room full of fancy gold-lace petticoats could nothave overheard from here. Nevertheless Callahan's eyes rolled like thedevil was behind him with the fork ready. O'Rielly, open your big earswhilst for your own good and mine I speak of certain matters.     Thousand years ago, it was, the first flight reached Venus. Guysgot one look at them dames. Had to bring some home or bust. So theneverybody on Earth got a look, mostly by TV only of course. That didit. Every guy on Earth began blowing his fuse over them dames. Give upthe shirt off his back, last buck in the bank, his own Earth dame orfamily—everything.     Well, that's when Earth dames took over like armies of wild catswith knots in their tails. Before the guys who'd brought the Venusdames to Earth could say anything they was taken apart too small topick up with a blotter. Earth dames wound up by flying the Venus onesback where they come from and serving notice if one ever set foot onEarth again there wouldn't be enough left of Venus to find with anelectron microscope.  Venus boys rared up and served notice that if Earth ever got any funnynotions, right away there wouldn't be enough Earth left to hide in anatom's eyebrow. Touchy as hornets on a hot griddle, them Venus guys.Crazier than bed bugs about war. Could smell a loose dollar a millionlight years away too. Finagled around until they finally cooked up adeal.     No Venus dames allowed within fifty miles of their port. Earth guysstay inside the high-voltage fence. Any dame caught trying to leaveVenus thrown to the tigers for supper. Same for any Earth guy caughtaround a Venus dame. In return, Earth could buy practically everythingat bargain basement prices.     Oh, I was shown the history films in pre-flight, O'Rielly said, stilldreamily. But not a peek of any Venus dame.     Pray heaven you'll never lay eyes on one nor have one get within tenfoot of you! Even though you'd know she'd be your damnation wouldn'tmake a whit difference—you'd still act sappier than thirty-sevenangels flying on vino. Callahan suddenly stared at O'Rielly. Holyhollering saints!     Now, now, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded with an airylaugh. No Earth guy for a hundred twenty-five years been near one andlived to tell it, has he?     So the whispers run, Callahan murmured with a queer flame dancinginto his eyes. So the old whispers still run.     Never a name, though. Never how it was done. O'Rielly snorted.Probably just a goofy tale set loose by some old space bum.     Oh? Callahan bristled up like a bad name had been bandied about.Seen them ditty bags Venus bigwigs have, ain't you? Some big enough tostuff a cow in. Notice how nobody ever dares question a bigwig's bags,even through customs? Just run 'em through the big Geiger that tellswhether there's any fusionable junk inside. Well, our boy got himselfone of them bags, stuffed himself inside and joined a bigwig's pile of'em.     Didn't pull it whilst on the Venus port during a layover either, whena crew check would of turned him up missing. Pulled it on vacation.Started on the Earth end. Made himself a pair of beards to paste on hisears of course. Wove Jupiter wiggle worms in to keep the beards moving.Wasn't like the real thing, but good enough to flimflam Venus guys.     With suddenly enlivened interest O'Rielly looked at Callahan. Hey, howcome you know so much?     Hah? What? Callahan blinked like waking from a trance; even groanedto himself, something that sounded like, Blabbering like I'd hada nip myself—or one of them dillies was radiating nearby. ThenCallahan glared fit to drill holes in O'Rielly's head. Look! I wasa full Burnerman before you was born. Been flying the spaces hundredtwenty-five years now. Had more chances to hear more—just hear more,you hear! Only tried to clear your mind about Venus dames so you couldput your brain on your control mess. So now put it! If you ain't highon vino and ain't been made nuts by a Venus dame, what answer do wefeed the Old Woman?     Search me, Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly responded cheerfully.     Of all the loony apprentices I ever had to answer the Old Woman for!Awp, lemme out where I can think of something to save me own neck atleast!     Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from rolling on the deck with glee.Old Callahan had been flimflammed for fair! The dear little stowawaywas saved! And O'Rielly would now think of grand ways to save herlovely neck and his own forever.     O'Rielly's shower door, however, opened abruptly. O'Rielly had notopened it. O'Rielly, however, suffered a cruel stab of dismay. Surelyhis dear stowaway had been listening through the door. Why didn't shehave brains enough to stay hid until Callahan was gone!     At sight of her, of course, Callahan's eyes near popped from his oldhead. Berta!     Oh, I'm Trillium, she assured Callahan sweetly. But Grandmamma'sname is Berta and people say I'm just like she was a hundred andtwenty-five years ago.  Hah? What? Callahan blinked like his brain had been taken apart andwas being slapped together again. O'Rielly! Awp, you angel-facedpirate, couldn't you hide her somewheres better than that? Shut up,you don't have to explain to me, but God help the whole universe if wedon't flimflam the Old Woman! With which ominous remark, rendered ina zesty devil-may-care manner, however, Callahan threw himself intoO'Rielly's shower.     O'Rielly stood looking thoughtfully at lovely, womanly, exquisiteTrillium. Just like that, O'Rielly felt as sparkling of mind as aspiral nebula. My locker! he crowed with inspiration and yanked openthe doors under his bunk. He glimpsed a black ditty bag, also the capand coverall uniform of a baggage boy.     I threw them in there before you came on duty before blast-off,Trillium explained. I knew the burner room would be warm.     Trillium—with her shape—passing as a boy hustling bags through thisship. O'Rielly chortled as he tucked her under his bunk. Now don't youworry about another thing!     Oh, I'm not, she assured him happily. Everything is going just theway Grandmamma knew it would!     O'Rielly's shower opened and Callahan, glowing like a young bucko,bounced onto the bunk. Well, did you hide her good this time? No,don't tell me! I want to be surprised if the Old Woman ever finds her.     If what old woman finds whom? a voice like thin ice crackling wantedto know.     The watch room's door had opened. Wouldn't think the Old Woman was aday over seventy-five, let alone near two hundred. Cut of her uniformprobably lent a helping hand or three to the young snap of her figure.Frosty blue of fancy hair-do, she was, though, and icy of eye as shelooked at O'Rielly and Callahan still lolling on the bunk.     Her voice was an iceberg exploding. At attention!     Never in his right mind would any crewman dare fail to come stifflyerect the instant the Old Woman appeared. Behind her stood a colorfullyrobed specimen of Venus man. Handsome as the devil himself. Fit to snaplesser men in two with his highly bejeweled hands. Fuzzy beards trailedfrom his ears and kept twitching lazily as he sneered at the spectacleof two men meekly acknowledging the superiority of a woman.     She was fit to put frost on a hydrogen burner. Mr. Callahan, I askedyou a question, did I not?     Believe you did, ma'am, Callahan responded cheerfully. And theanswer is, ma'am, that Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly and me wasdiscussing—ah—matrimony, ma'am. Mr. Apprentice Burnerman O'Riellyhere is considering it, ma'am.     Wasn't too bad a fib. The more O'Rielly thought of Trillium, the moreideas he got of doing things he'd never dreamt of before in his life.Yes, ma'am!     Wasting your time talking nonsense! Old Woman's look was fit tofreeze O'Rielly's brain, then she gave Callahan the look. I sent youdown here to find the answer to that fusion control slippage!     Oh, you'll have the best answer you ever heard of before long, ma'am!Callahan assured her heartily. The subject of nonsense—I mean,women—merely chanced to arise whilst we was scientifically analyzingthe control phenomenon, ma'am. Naturally I offered this innocent youngBurnerman the benefit of me long years of experience. Why, Callahansaid with a jaunty laugh, dames mean nothing to me. Indeed 'twouldn'tbother me none if there wasn't one of the things left in the world!Present company excepted, of course, Callahan hastened to say with acourtly bow.     Stay at attention! Old Woman sniffed the air near Callahan's face,then in O'Rielly's vicinity. Smothered it with chlorophyll probably,she muttered through her teeth, if it is that vino. Somethinghorrible as a plague flickered in her eyes, then the old ice was thereagain. Apprentice Burnerman, don't you know what your shower is for?Then use it! Mr. Callahan, remain at attention while I inspect thisburner! She tendered a cool glance at the Venus bigwig. Care to joinme, Your Excellency?     May as well. His Excellency glanced at O'Rielly and Callahan much ashe might at a couple of worms. Could bet your last old sox no femaleever told any Venus man what to do.     The shower units were equipped so no Burnerman need be more than twosteps from his responsibility. To keep the Old Woman from possiblyblowing her gaskets completely, O'Rielly simply stepped in, shut thedoor, flipped a switch and tingled as he was electronically cleansedof person and clothes. By time he finished, the Old Woman and HisExcellency were already coming out of the burner room, dripping withsweat.     Old Woman opened the shower with her customary commanding air. Youfirst, Your Excellency.     My dear Captain, His Excellency replied like a smoothly drawn dagger,always the lesser gender enjoys precedence.     No Earth dame ever admitted any guy was even equal to any female. OldWoman, a prime symbol of her gender's superiority, whipped a razor edgeonto her own words. Facilities of the Captain's quarters are moresatisfactory.     No more so than those of the Ambassadorial Suite.  Seeming to grind her teeth, the Old O Woman turned abruptly to leaveO'Rielly's watch room. Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from bustingout laughing for joy.     Old Woman had been flimflammed for fair! Dear Trillium was saved! Andbetwixt O'Rielly's grand brain and Callahan's great experience she'd behappy forever.     A fine loud thump, however, was now heard. Old Woman whirled back andyanked open the doors under O'Rielly's bunk.     Of all the sappy hiding places! Callahan yelped, in surprise ofcourse.     Trillium? His Excellency bellowed as if stung by one of thesabre-tailed hornets of his native planet. Trillium!     Trillium, O'Rielly pleaded in loving anguish, why do you have tokeep coming out of hiding just when nobody's going to find you?     Her eyes merely became deep pools in which O'Rielly would have gladlydrowned himself if he could.       There are rewards, the Old Woman said with the deadly coldness ofouter space, for Earthmen found in a Venus woman's company, and forher leaving her planet.     Shut up! His Excellency's ear beards were standing straight outsideways. I'll handle this!     May I remind His Excellency, the Old Woman snapped, that I representEarth and her dominion of space gained by right of original flight!     May I remind the Captain, His Excellency declared fit to be heardback to his planet, that I am the Personal Ambassador of the Presidentof Venus and this thing can mean war!     Yes! War in which people will actually die! As His Excellency paledat that grisly remark, the Old Woman spoke through her teeth atO'Rielly, Callahan and Trillium. All right, come along!     O'Rielly joined the death march gladly. He felt the way Callahanlooked: ready to wrap his arms around Trillium's brave loveliness andprotect it to his last breath of life.     Old Woman led the way to her office. Jabbed some buttons on her desk.Panels on opposite walls lit up.     Presidents of Earth and Venus, please, the Old Woman stated evenly.Interplanetary emergency.     Highly groomed flunkies appeared on the panels and were impersonallypleasant.     Madame President's office. She is in a Cabinet meeting.     Mr. President's office. He is in personal command of our glorious warefforts.     Old Woman sighed through her teeth. Venus woman aboard this ship.Stowaway. Rattle that around your belfries.     The flunkies' faces went slack with shock, then were replaced by ablizzard of scrambled faces and torrents of incoherent voices.     Finally on the Earth panel appeared the famous classic features. Thefacts, if you please, Captain Hatwoody.     The Venus panel finally held steady on universally notorious features,that were as fierce as an eagle's, in a fancy war helmet. Trillium! Myown granddaughter? Impossible! Dimdooly, Mr. President roared at hisExcellency, what's this nonsense?     Some loud creature is interfering, Madame President snapped withannoyance.     Blasted fools still have the circuits crossed, Mr. President swore.Some silly female cackling now!     The parties in the panels saw each other now. Each one's left hand on adesk moved toward a big red button marked, ROCKETS.     So, Mr. President said evenly. Another violation by your Earthmen.     By your granddaughter, at least, Madame President replied coolly.     An innocent child, Mr. President snapped, obviously kidnapped bythose two idiotic Earthmen there!     Oh, no, Grandpapa, Trillium said swiftly; I stole away all bymyself, and Mr. O'Rielly and Callahan have been very helpful.     Impossible! Grandpapa President's ear beards stood near straight upas he roared, You couldn't have stolen away by yourself! Trillium,tell the truth!     Very well. Grandmamma told me how.  Obviously Trillium's poor little brain has been drugged, HisExcellency Dimdooly declared. Grandmamma Berta wouldn't know the firstthing about such things!     Impossible! Grandpapa President agreed. I've been married to herfor a hundred and twenty-four and a half years and she's the finestrattle-brain I ever knew!     She learned, Trillium stated emphatically, a hundred and twenty-fiveyears ago.     Hundred twenty-five, Grandpapa president growled like a boilingvolcano. The year some Earthman.... Never did catch the devil....Berta? Impossible!     Madame President's shapely finger now rested full on the button thatcould launch the fleets of war rockets that had been pre-aimed for athousand years. I'm afraid your Ambassador is unwelcome now, MadamePresident stated coolly. Your granddaughter's actions have every markof an invasion tactic by your government.     What do you mean, her actions? Grandpapa President's finger now laypoised on the button that had been waiting a thousand years to blowEarth out of the universe. My grandchild was kidnapped by men underyour official command! Weren't you, Trillium dear?     No. One of us stowing away was the only way we Venus women could bringour cause to the attention of Earth's President. If Earth will onlystop buying from Venus, you won't have any money to squander on yourwars any longer no matter what happens to we revolutionaries!     Revolutionaries? Such claptrap! And what's wrong with my wars? Peoplehave to have something to keep their minds off their troubles! Nobodyaround here gets hurt. Oh, maybe a few scratches here and there. Butnobody on Venus dies from the things any more.     But Venus men are so excited all the time about going to war theyhaven't time for us women. That's why we always radiated such a fatalattraction for Earthmen. We want to be loved! We want our own men homedoing useful work!     Well, they do come home and do useful work! Couple weeks every tenmonths. Proven to be a highly efficient arrangement.     More boys to run off to your old wars and more girls to stay home andbe lonely!     Now you just listen to me, Trillium! Grandpapa President was allVenus manhood laying down the law. That's the way things have been onVenus for ten thousand years and all the women in the universe can'tchange it!     I have been in constant contact with my Cabinet during theseconversations, Madame President said crisply. Earth is terminatingall trade agreements with Venus as of this instant.     What? Grandpapa's beards near pulled his ears off. It's not legal!You can't get away with this!     Take your finger off that trigger, boy! a heavenly voice similar toTrillium's advised from the Venus panel.     Whereupon Grandpapa glared to one side. Berta! What are you doinghere? I am deciding matters of the gravest interplanetary nature!     Were. Features more beautifully mature than Trillium's crowded ontothe panel too. From now on I'm doing the deciding.     Nonsense! You're only my wife!     And new President of Venus, elected by unanimous vote of all women.     Impossible! The men run Venus! Nobody's turning this planet intoanother Earth where a man can't even sneeze unless some woman says so!     Take him away, girls, Berta ordered coolly, whereupon her spouse wasyanked from view.     His bellows, however, could be heard yet. Unhand me, you foolcreatures! Guards! Guards!     Save your breath, Berta advised him. And while you're in the cooler,enjoy this latest batch of surrender communiques. We women are incontrol everywhere now.     Dimmy, Trillium was saying firmly to His Excellency, you have beataround the bush with me long enough. Now say it!  Dimdooly—the mighty, the lordly, who had sneered at the sight of mereEarthmen kowtowing to a mere woman—swelled up fit to blow his gaskets,then all the gas went out of him. His ear beards, however, still hadenough zip left to flutter like butterflies. Yes, Trillium dear. Ilove only you. Please marry me at your earliest convenience.     Well, Grandmamma, Trillium said with a highly self-satisfied air, itworks. And just like you said, Earthmen meant nothing once I knew weVenus women had our own men in our power.     Those crewmen there, Grandmamma President said, seem to be proofenough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth'stranquility.     Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden.Worse than the hangover from that crap game with Venus vino. He lookedaway from Trillium and took a look at Callahan. Old guy looked awayfrom Grandmamma President like he was packing the second biggestheadache in history.     Hmmmm, yes, Madame President of Earth observed. Reactions agreeperfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have beenconducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. MadamePresident of Venus, congratulations on your victory!     Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted toreceive an Ambassadoress to discuss a new trade treaty at your earliestconvenience.     Thank you for cancelling the old trade agreements at the psychologicalmoment, Grandmamma President said cordially. What with thecommunications mixup, we managed to have the scenes on these panelsbroadcast throughout all Venus. When the rug went out from under thetop man, the tide really turned in our favor. Now, Trillium, you takeover Dimmy's credentials.     The Ambassadorial Suite, too, Madame President of Earth saidgraciously. Anything else now, Berta?     I should like, Grandmamma President Berta said charmingly, thatMr. O'Rielly and Mr. Callahan be suitably rewarded for assisting ourrevolution better than they knew.     Of course, Madame President of Earth was delighted to oblige. Nodoubt Captain Hatwoody knows what reward would satisfy their needsbest.     The Madame Presidents switched to a private circuit, Trillium draggedDimdooly off somewhere and the Old Woman eyed O'Rielly and Callahan.Especially she eyed Callahan, like running chilled drills through hisold conniving brain. I award the pair of you five minutes leisurebefore returning to your stations.     Oh, well, O'Rielly muttered, once he and Callahan were safely beyondearshot, could have been rewarded worse, I suppose.     What you expect for being flimflammed by a foreign dame, the rings ofSaturn? Lucky we ain't programmed to be hung, shot and thrown to thecrows for breakfast. Callahan's old pick-and-shovel face wore a littlegrin like the cat that nobody could prove ate the canary.     You—I mean, that Earth guy a hundred twenty-five years ago, O'Riellysaid in sudden thought. If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, whydid Trillium's Grandmamma let him go?     Venus guys wasn't so busy playing war all the time, Callahan mumbled,like to himself, they'd of found out the answer centuries ago. Yep,guess our boy was the only guy on Earth or Venus to find out and live.Dames bossing both planets now, though, his old secret won't be onemuch longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselvesbut didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizingto take over Venus, I guess.     O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trilliumbefore her revolution. All right, Callahan, why did 'our boy' leaveGrandmamma?     Yes, ma'am, Callahan sighed like he hadn't heard a word O'Riellysaid, you could sweet-talk 'em, kiss 'em and hold 'em tighter'nBilly-be-damned. And that's all.     I'm not sure, O'Rielly said, what you mean by, 'that's all.'     Anybody ever seen anybody but a Venus guy come built with ear beards?Course not.     But I thought our boy was wearing the best fakes ever.     Ain't nothing can match the natural growed-on variety, no, ma'am.Venus guy kisses a Venus dame, his beards grabs her roundst the ears.     So what?     Tickles 'em, boy, tickles 'em!   ","The story takes place on a spaceship that shuttles between Earth and Venus. The ship is commanded by Captain Hatwoody, a stern woman who represents the matriarchy that has taken over Earth. The majority of the story’s narrative happens in Apprentice Burnerman O’Rielly’s watch room. This is a simple room equipped with a bunk bed and bathing facilities, which includes a shower. From this room, he is able to maintain careful stewardship of Burner Four, which helps power the ship. When Callahan notifies O’Rielly that one of his controls has slipped, O’Rielly investigates the burner to find the culprit of the situation. After he discovers Trillium, she uses his bathing facilities to wash herself of the stink from the burner room where she was stowing away. After Callahan enters the watch room and learns of Trillium’s presence, he encourages her to hide again because of Captain Hatwoody’s impending visit. She hides beneath O’Rielly’s bunk. After Captain Hatwoody and her guest, Ambassador Dimdooly, stumble upon Trillium, the captain demands that they all follow her to her office. In her office, she convenes a conference with the presidents of Earth and Venus. After Berta—Trillium’s grandmother, the wife of the current Venusian president, and Callahan’s former love interest—reveals herself as the new ruler of Venus, O’Rielly and Callahan are given a five-minute break and sent back to their former duties managing the burners below."
"What is the relationship between Callahan and Berta throughout the story? </s>    IMAGE OF SPLENDOR     By LU KELLA       From Venus to Earth, and all the way between,       it was a hell of a world for men ... and       Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly particularly.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The intercom roared fit to blow O'Rielly back to Venus. Burner Four!     On my way, sir!     At the first flash of red on the bank of meters Apprentice BurnermanO'Rielly had slammed the safety helmet on his head; he was alreadythrowing open the lock to the burner room. The hot, throbbing rumblewhipped around him and near crushed his breath away. Power! Power ofthe universe trapped here and ready to destroy its captors given onechance! Swiftly O'Rielly unlocked the controls and reset them. Thethrobbing rumble changed tone.     Old Callahan's voice crackled now through the helmet's ear contact.Well, Mr. O'Rielly?     Fusion control two points low, sir.     O'Rielly wondered had Callahan passed out, was so long before the oldBurner Chief demanded hoarsely, Didn't you lock them controls beforeblast-off?     If every control hadn't been locked in correct setting, O'Riellyanswered from his own angry bewilderment, the error would haveregistered before blast-off—wouldn't it, sir?     So a control reset itself in flight, hey?     I don't know yet, sir.     Well, Mr. O'Rielly, you better know before we orbit Earth!     The icy knot in O'Rielly's stomach jerked tighter. A dozen burners onthis ship; why did something crazy have to happen to O'Rielly's? In ahundred years, so the instructors—brisk females all—had told O'Riellyin pre-flight school, no control had ever been known to slip. But onehad moved here. Not enough to cause serious trouble this far out fromEarth. On blast-down, though, with one jet below peak, the uneventhrust could throw the ship, crash it, the whole lovely thing and allaboard gone in a churning cloud.     Sweat pouring off him, O'Rielly prowled around his burner. Design ofthe thing had been bossed by dames of course; what on Earth wasn't anymore? Anyway, nobody could get to a burner except through its watchroom. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashedand a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the BurnerChief's console up in the flight room full of beautifully efficientofficers. Ever since Venus blast-off O'Rielly had been in Four's watchroom. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it.By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probablyinquired what was in charge of Burner Four.     Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailedmouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Riellysaw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands ofsome God-forsaken satellite. He staggered back into his watch room. Andhis brain was suddenly taken apart and slapped together again. Feltthat way.     She was sitting on his bunk. No three-tailed mouse. No Old Womaneither. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at whichO'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am!     I was in your burner room. Her voice matched the rest of her, a blendof loveliness unlike anything outside a guy's most secret dreams. Icouldn't stand the heat any longer and I couldn't open that big door.So I moved one of your controls a tiny bit. All the noise in there,naturally you couldn't hear me walk out while your back was turnedresetting the control.  O'Rielly suddenly felt like turning her over his knee and whaling heruntil she couldn't sit for a year. This, mind you, he felt in an agewhere no Earth guy for a thousand years had dared raise so much as abreath against woman's supremacy in all matters. That male charactertrait, however, did not seem to be the overpowering reason whyO'Rielly, instead of laying violent hands upon this one's person, heardhimself saying in sympathetic outrage, A shame you had to go to allthat bother to get out here!     You're so kind. But I'm afraid I became rather sticky and smelly inthere.     They ought to cool the air in there with perfume! I'll drop asuggestion in the Old Woman's box first chance I get.     You're so thoughtful. And do you have bathing facilities?     That door right there. Oh, let me open it for you!     You're so sweet. Her big dark eyes glowed with such pure innocencethat O'Rielly could have torn down the universe and rebuilt it just forher.     Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly was floating on a pink cloud with heavenly musicin his head. Never felt so fine before. Except on the Venus layoverwhen he'd been roped into a dice game with a bunch of Venus lads whohad a jug to cheer one's parting with one's money.     A bell suddenly clanged fit to wake the dead while the overhead lightsflashed wildly. Only the watch room door. Only Callahan here now. Oldbuzzard had a drooped nose like a pick, chin like a shovel.     When he talked he was like digging a hole in front of himself. Well,what about that control?     What control?     Your fusion control that got itself two points low!     Oh, that little thing.     Callahan said something through his teeth, then studied O'Riellysharply. Hey, you been wetting your whistle on that Venus vino again?Lemme smell your breath! Bah. Loaded yourself full of chlorophyllagain probably. All right, stand aside whilst I see your burner.     Charmed to, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly said while bowinggracefully.     Higher than a swacked skunk's tail again, Callahan muttered, thensnapped back over his shoulder, Use your shower!     O'Rielly stood considering his shower door. Somehow he doubted thatBurner Chief Terrence Callahan's mood, or Captain Millicent Hatwoody's,would be improved by knowledge of she who was in O'Rielly's shower now.Not that the dear stowaway was less than charming. Quite the contrary.Oh, very quite!     You rockhead! Only Callahan back from the burner. Didn't I tell youto shower the stink off yourself? Old Woman's taking a Venus bigwigon tour the ship. Old Woman catches you like you been rassling skunksshe'll peel both our hides off. Not to mention what she'll do anywayabout your fusion control!     Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded courteously, I havebeen thinking.     With what? Never mind, just keep on trying whilst I have a shower formyself here. Wherewith Callahan reached hand for O'Rielly's showerdoor.     Venus dames, O'Rielly said dreamily, don't boss anything, do they?     Callahan yelped like he'd been bit in the pants by a big Jupiter ant.O'Rielly! You trying to get both of us condemned to a Uranus moon?Callahan also shot a wild look to the intercom switch. It was in OFFposition; the flight room full of fancy gold-lace petticoats could nothave overheard from here. Nevertheless Callahan's eyes rolled like thedevil was behind him with the fork ready. O'Rielly, open your big earswhilst for your own good and mine I speak of certain matters.     Thousand years ago, it was, the first flight reached Venus. Guysgot one look at them dames. Had to bring some home or bust. So theneverybody on Earth got a look, mostly by TV only of course. That didit. Every guy on Earth began blowing his fuse over them dames. Give upthe shirt off his back, last buck in the bank, his own Earth dame orfamily—everything.     Well, that's when Earth dames took over like armies of wild catswith knots in their tails. Before the guys who'd brought the Venusdames to Earth could say anything they was taken apart too small topick up with a blotter. Earth dames wound up by flying the Venus onesback where they come from and serving notice if one ever set foot onEarth again there wouldn't be enough left of Venus to find with anelectron microscope.  Venus boys rared up and served notice that if Earth ever got any funnynotions, right away there wouldn't be enough Earth left to hide in anatom's eyebrow. Touchy as hornets on a hot griddle, them Venus guys.Crazier than bed bugs about war. Could smell a loose dollar a millionlight years away too. Finagled around until they finally cooked up adeal.     No Venus dames allowed within fifty miles of their port. Earth guysstay inside the high-voltage fence. Any dame caught trying to leaveVenus thrown to the tigers for supper. Same for any Earth guy caughtaround a Venus dame. In return, Earth could buy practically everythingat bargain basement prices.     Oh, I was shown the history films in pre-flight, O'Rielly said, stilldreamily. But not a peek of any Venus dame.     Pray heaven you'll never lay eyes on one nor have one get within tenfoot of you! Even though you'd know she'd be your damnation wouldn'tmake a whit difference—you'd still act sappier than thirty-sevenangels flying on vino. Callahan suddenly stared at O'Rielly. Holyhollering saints!     Now, now, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded with an airylaugh. No Earth guy for a hundred twenty-five years been near one andlived to tell it, has he?     So the whispers run, Callahan murmured with a queer flame dancinginto his eyes. So the old whispers still run.     Never a name, though. Never how it was done. O'Rielly snorted.Probably just a goofy tale set loose by some old space bum.     Oh? Callahan bristled up like a bad name had been bandied about.Seen them ditty bags Venus bigwigs have, ain't you? Some big enough tostuff a cow in. Notice how nobody ever dares question a bigwig's bags,even through customs? Just run 'em through the big Geiger that tellswhether there's any fusionable junk inside. Well, our boy got himselfone of them bags, stuffed himself inside and joined a bigwig's pile of'em.     Didn't pull it whilst on the Venus port during a layover either, whena crew check would of turned him up missing. Pulled it on vacation.Started on the Earth end. Made himself a pair of beards to paste on hisears of course. Wove Jupiter wiggle worms in to keep the beards moving.Wasn't like the real thing, but good enough to flimflam Venus guys.     With suddenly enlivened interest O'Rielly looked at Callahan. Hey, howcome you know so much?     Hah? What? Callahan blinked like waking from a trance; even groanedto himself, something that sounded like, Blabbering like I'd hada nip myself—or one of them dillies was radiating nearby. ThenCallahan glared fit to drill holes in O'Rielly's head. Look! I wasa full Burnerman before you was born. Been flying the spaces hundredtwenty-five years now. Had more chances to hear more—just hear more,you hear! Only tried to clear your mind about Venus dames so you couldput your brain on your control mess. So now put it! If you ain't highon vino and ain't been made nuts by a Venus dame, what answer do wefeed the Old Woman?     Search me, Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly responded cheerfully.     Of all the loony apprentices I ever had to answer the Old Woman for!Awp, lemme out where I can think of something to save me own neck atleast!     Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from rolling on the deck with glee.Old Callahan had been flimflammed for fair! The dear little stowawaywas saved! And O'Rielly would now think of grand ways to save herlovely neck and his own forever.     O'Rielly's shower door, however, opened abruptly. O'Rielly had notopened it. O'Rielly, however, suffered a cruel stab of dismay. Surelyhis dear stowaway had been listening through the door. Why didn't shehave brains enough to stay hid until Callahan was gone!     At sight of her, of course, Callahan's eyes near popped from his oldhead. Berta!     Oh, I'm Trillium, she assured Callahan sweetly. But Grandmamma'sname is Berta and people say I'm just like she was a hundred andtwenty-five years ago.  Hah? What? Callahan blinked like his brain had been taken apart andwas being slapped together again. O'Rielly! Awp, you angel-facedpirate, couldn't you hide her somewheres better than that? Shut up,you don't have to explain to me, but God help the whole universe if wedon't flimflam the Old Woman! With which ominous remark, rendered ina zesty devil-may-care manner, however, Callahan threw himself intoO'Rielly's shower.     O'Rielly stood looking thoughtfully at lovely, womanly, exquisiteTrillium. Just like that, O'Rielly felt as sparkling of mind as aspiral nebula. My locker! he crowed with inspiration and yanked openthe doors under his bunk. He glimpsed a black ditty bag, also the capand coverall uniform of a baggage boy.     I threw them in there before you came on duty before blast-off,Trillium explained. I knew the burner room would be warm.     Trillium—with her shape—passing as a boy hustling bags through thisship. O'Rielly chortled as he tucked her under his bunk. Now don't youworry about another thing!     Oh, I'm not, she assured him happily. Everything is going just theway Grandmamma knew it would!     O'Rielly's shower opened and Callahan, glowing like a young bucko,bounced onto the bunk. Well, did you hide her good this time? No,don't tell me! I want to be surprised if the Old Woman ever finds her.     If what old woman finds whom? a voice like thin ice crackling wantedto know.     The watch room's door had opened. Wouldn't think the Old Woman was aday over seventy-five, let alone near two hundred. Cut of her uniformprobably lent a helping hand or three to the young snap of her figure.Frosty blue of fancy hair-do, she was, though, and icy of eye as shelooked at O'Rielly and Callahan still lolling on the bunk.     Her voice was an iceberg exploding. At attention!     Never in his right mind would any crewman dare fail to come stifflyerect the instant the Old Woman appeared. Behind her stood a colorfullyrobed specimen of Venus man. Handsome as the devil himself. Fit to snaplesser men in two with his highly bejeweled hands. Fuzzy beards trailedfrom his ears and kept twitching lazily as he sneered at the spectacleof two men meekly acknowledging the superiority of a woman.     She was fit to put frost on a hydrogen burner. Mr. Callahan, I askedyou a question, did I not?     Believe you did, ma'am, Callahan responded cheerfully. And theanswer is, ma'am, that Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly and me wasdiscussing—ah—matrimony, ma'am. Mr. Apprentice Burnerman O'Riellyhere is considering it, ma'am.     Wasn't too bad a fib. The more O'Rielly thought of Trillium, the moreideas he got of doing things he'd never dreamt of before in his life.Yes, ma'am!     Wasting your time talking nonsense! Old Woman's look was fit tofreeze O'Rielly's brain, then she gave Callahan the look. I sent youdown here to find the answer to that fusion control slippage!     Oh, you'll have the best answer you ever heard of before long, ma'am!Callahan assured her heartily. The subject of nonsense—I mean,women—merely chanced to arise whilst we was scientifically analyzingthe control phenomenon, ma'am. Naturally I offered this innocent youngBurnerman the benefit of me long years of experience. Why, Callahansaid with a jaunty laugh, dames mean nothing to me. Indeed 'twouldn'tbother me none if there wasn't one of the things left in the world!Present company excepted, of course, Callahan hastened to say with acourtly bow.     Stay at attention! Old Woman sniffed the air near Callahan's face,then in O'Rielly's vicinity. Smothered it with chlorophyll probably,she muttered through her teeth, if it is that vino. Somethinghorrible as a plague flickered in her eyes, then the old ice was thereagain. Apprentice Burnerman, don't you know what your shower is for?Then use it! Mr. Callahan, remain at attention while I inspect thisburner! She tendered a cool glance at the Venus bigwig. Care to joinme, Your Excellency?     May as well. His Excellency glanced at O'Rielly and Callahan much ashe might at a couple of worms. Could bet your last old sox no femaleever told any Venus man what to do.     The shower units were equipped so no Burnerman need be more than twosteps from his responsibility. To keep the Old Woman from possiblyblowing her gaskets completely, O'Rielly simply stepped in, shut thedoor, flipped a switch and tingled as he was electronically cleansedof person and clothes. By time he finished, the Old Woman and HisExcellency were already coming out of the burner room, dripping withsweat.     Old Woman opened the shower with her customary commanding air. Youfirst, Your Excellency.     My dear Captain, His Excellency replied like a smoothly drawn dagger,always the lesser gender enjoys precedence.     No Earth dame ever admitted any guy was even equal to any female. OldWoman, a prime symbol of her gender's superiority, whipped a razor edgeonto her own words. Facilities of the Captain's quarters are moresatisfactory.     No more so than those of the Ambassadorial Suite.  Seeming to grind her teeth, the Old O Woman turned abruptly to leaveO'Rielly's watch room. Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from bustingout laughing for joy.     Old Woman had been flimflammed for fair! Dear Trillium was saved! Andbetwixt O'Rielly's grand brain and Callahan's great experience she'd behappy forever.     A fine loud thump, however, was now heard. Old Woman whirled back andyanked open the doors under O'Rielly's bunk.     Of all the sappy hiding places! Callahan yelped, in surprise ofcourse.     Trillium? His Excellency bellowed as if stung by one of thesabre-tailed hornets of his native planet. Trillium!     Trillium, O'Rielly pleaded in loving anguish, why do you have tokeep coming out of hiding just when nobody's going to find you?     Her eyes merely became deep pools in which O'Rielly would have gladlydrowned himself if he could.       There are rewards, the Old Woman said with the deadly coldness ofouter space, for Earthmen found in a Venus woman's company, and forher leaving her planet.     Shut up! His Excellency's ear beards were standing straight outsideways. I'll handle this!     May I remind His Excellency, the Old Woman snapped, that I representEarth and her dominion of space gained by right of original flight!     May I remind the Captain, His Excellency declared fit to be heardback to his planet, that I am the Personal Ambassador of the Presidentof Venus and this thing can mean war!     Yes! War in which people will actually die! As His Excellency paledat that grisly remark, the Old Woman spoke through her teeth atO'Rielly, Callahan and Trillium. All right, come along!     O'Rielly joined the death march gladly. He felt the way Callahanlooked: ready to wrap his arms around Trillium's brave loveliness andprotect it to his last breath of life.     Old Woman led the way to her office. Jabbed some buttons on her desk.Panels on opposite walls lit up.     Presidents of Earth and Venus, please, the Old Woman stated evenly.Interplanetary emergency.     Highly groomed flunkies appeared on the panels and were impersonallypleasant.     Madame President's office. She is in a Cabinet meeting.     Mr. President's office. He is in personal command of our glorious warefforts.     Old Woman sighed through her teeth. Venus woman aboard this ship.Stowaway. Rattle that around your belfries.     The flunkies' faces went slack with shock, then were replaced by ablizzard of scrambled faces and torrents of incoherent voices.     Finally on the Earth panel appeared the famous classic features. Thefacts, if you please, Captain Hatwoody.     The Venus panel finally held steady on universally notorious features,that were as fierce as an eagle's, in a fancy war helmet. Trillium! Myown granddaughter? Impossible! Dimdooly, Mr. President roared at hisExcellency, what's this nonsense?     Some loud creature is interfering, Madame President snapped withannoyance.     Blasted fools still have the circuits crossed, Mr. President swore.Some silly female cackling now!     The parties in the panels saw each other now. Each one's left hand on adesk moved toward a big red button marked, ROCKETS.     So, Mr. President said evenly. Another violation by your Earthmen.     By your granddaughter, at least, Madame President replied coolly.     An innocent child, Mr. President snapped, obviously kidnapped bythose two idiotic Earthmen there!     Oh, no, Grandpapa, Trillium said swiftly; I stole away all bymyself, and Mr. O'Rielly and Callahan have been very helpful.     Impossible! Grandpapa President's ear beards stood near straight upas he roared, You couldn't have stolen away by yourself! Trillium,tell the truth!     Very well. Grandmamma told me how.  Obviously Trillium's poor little brain has been drugged, HisExcellency Dimdooly declared. Grandmamma Berta wouldn't know the firstthing about such things!     Impossible! Grandpapa President agreed. I've been married to herfor a hundred and twenty-four and a half years and she's the finestrattle-brain I ever knew!     She learned, Trillium stated emphatically, a hundred and twenty-fiveyears ago.     Hundred twenty-five, Grandpapa president growled like a boilingvolcano. The year some Earthman.... Never did catch the devil....Berta? Impossible!     Madame President's shapely finger now rested full on the button thatcould launch the fleets of war rockets that had been pre-aimed for athousand years. I'm afraid your Ambassador is unwelcome now, MadamePresident stated coolly. Your granddaughter's actions have every markof an invasion tactic by your government.     What do you mean, her actions? Grandpapa President's finger now laypoised on the button that had been waiting a thousand years to blowEarth out of the universe. My grandchild was kidnapped by men underyour official command! Weren't you, Trillium dear?     No. One of us stowing away was the only way we Venus women could bringour cause to the attention of Earth's President. If Earth will onlystop buying from Venus, you won't have any money to squander on yourwars any longer no matter what happens to we revolutionaries!     Revolutionaries? Such claptrap! And what's wrong with my wars? Peoplehave to have something to keep their minds off their troubles! Nobodyaround here gets hurt. Oh, maybe a few scratches here and there. Butnobody on Venus dies from the things any more.     But Venus men are so excited all the time about going to war theyhaven't time for us women. That's why we always radiated such a fatalattraction for Earthmen. We want to be loved! We want our own men homedoing useful work!     Well, they do come home and do useful work! Couple weeks every tenmonths. Proven to be a highly efficient arrangement.     More boys to run off to your old wars and more girls to stay home andbe lonely!     Now you just listen to me, Trillium! Grandpapa President was allVenus manhood laying down the law. That's the way things have been onVenus for ten thousand years and all the women in the universe can'tchange it!     I have been in constant contact with my Cabinet during theseconversations, Madame President said crisply. Earth is terminatingall trade agreements with Venus as of this instant.     What? Grandpapa's beards near pulled his ears off. It's not legal!You can't get away with this!     Take your finger off that trigger, boy! a heavenly voice similar toTrillium's advised from the Venus panel.     Whereupon Grandpapa glared to one side. Berta! What are you doinghere? I am deciding matters of the gravest interplanetary nature!     Were. Features more beautifully mature than Trillium's crowded ontothe panel too. From now on I'm doing the deciding.     Nonsense! You're only my wife!     And new President of Venus, elected by unanimous vote of all women.     Impossible! The men run Venus! Nobody's turning this planet intoanother Earth where a man can't even sneeze unless some woman says so!     Take him away, girls, Berta ordered coolly, whereupon her spouse wasyanked from view.     His bellows, however, could be heard yet. Unhand me, you foolcreatures! Guards! Guards!     Save your breath, Berta advised him. And while you're in the cooler,enjoy this latest batch of surrender communiques. We women are incontrol everywhere now.     Dimmy, Trillium was saying firmly to His Excellency, you have beataround the bush with me long enough. Now say it!  Dimdooly—the mighty, the lordly, who had sneered at the sight of mereEarthmen kowtowing to a mere woman—swelled up fit to blow his gaskets,then all the gas went out of him. His ear beards, however, still hadenough zip left to flutter like butterflies. Yes, Trillium dear. Ilove only you. Please marry me at your earliest convenience.     Well, Grandmamma, Trillium said with a highly self-satisfied air, itworks. And just like you said, Earthmen meant nothing once I knew weVenus women had our own men in our power.     Those crewmen there, Grandmamma President said, seem to be proofenough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth'stranquility.     Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden.Worse than the hangover from that crap game with Venus vino. He lookedaway from Trillium and took a look at Callahan. Old guy looked awayfrom Grandmamma President like he was packing the second biggestheadache in history.     Hmmmm, yes, Madame President of Earth observed. Reactions agreeperfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have beenconducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. MadamePresident of Venus, congratulations on your victory!     Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted toreceive an Ambassadoress to discuss a new trade treaty at your earliestconvenience.     Thank you for cancelling the old trade agreements at the psychologicalmoment, Grandmamma President said cordially. What with thecommunications mixup, we managed to have the scenes on these panelsbroadcast throughout all Venus. When the rug went out from under thetop man, the tide really turned in our favor. Now, Trillium, you takeover Dimmy's credentials.     The Ambassadorial Suite, too, Madame President of Earth saidgraciously. Anything else now, Berta?     I should like, Grandmamma President Berta said charmingly, thatMr. O'Rielly and Mr. Callahan be suitably rewarded for assisting ourrevolution better than they knew.     Of course, Madame President of Earth was delighted to oblige. Nodoubt Captain Hatwoody knows what reward would satisfy their needsbest.     The Madame Presidents switched to a private circuit, Trillium draggedDimdooly off somewhere and the Old Woman eyed O'Rielly and Callahan.Especially she eyed Callahan, like running chilled drills through hisold conniving brain. I award the pair of you five minutes leisurebefore returning to your stations.     Oh, well, O'Rielly muttered, once he and Callahan were safely beyondearshot, could have been rewarded worse, I suppose.     What you expect for being flimflammed by a foreign dame, the rings ofSaturn? Lucky we ain't programmed to be hung, shot and thrown to thecrows for breakfast. Callahan's old pick-and-shovel face wore a littlegrin like the cat that nobody could prove ate the canary.     You—I mean, that Earth guy a hundred twenty-five years ago, O'Riellysaid in sudden thought. If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, whydid Trillium's Grandmamma let him go?     Venus guys wasn't so busy playing war all the time, Callahan mumbled,like to himself, they'd of found out the answer centuries ago. Yep,guess our boy was the only guy on Earth or Venus to find out and live.Dames bossing both planets now, though, his old secret won't be onemuch longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselvesbut didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizingto take over Venus, I guess.     O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trilliumbefore her revolution. All right, Callahan, why did 'our boy' leaveGrandmamma?     Yes, ma'am, Callahan sighed like he hadn't heard a word O'Riellysaid, you could sweet-talk 'em, kiss 'em and hold 'em tighter'nBilly-be-damned. And that's all.     I'm not sure, O'Rielly said, what you mean by, 'that's all.'     Anybody ever seen anybody but a Venus guy come built with ear beards?Course not.     But I thought our boy was wearing the best fakes ever.     Ain't nothing can match the natural growed-on variety, no, ma'am.Venus guy kisses a Venus dame, his beards grabs her roundst the ears.     So what?     Tickles 'em, boy, tickles 'em!   ","Callahan is Burner Chief on the ship and has been flying as a professional Burnerman for 125 years. Berta is the first lady of Venus, and the grandmother of Trillium. When O’Rielly is trying to hide Trillium in his shower, Callahan tells the story of when women first took control of Earth: They were not pleased that Earth men were so entranced by Venusian women, and so they took over leadership of the planet and sent all Venusian women back to their own planet. Likewise, Venusian men banned Earth men from interacting with Venusian women under threat of war. This led to an agreement where Earth and Venus could conduct trade together for cheaper prices. Callahan suggests that he was the last man to touch a Venusian woman, and he did so by hiding himself inside a large bag and sneaking through customs disguised as a Venusian man with a long, fake beard. The woman he was sneaking in to see turned out to be Berta, and Callahan says she ultimately rejected him because she could tell his beard was fake, and Venusian women loved to be tickled by real beards. "
"What was Trillium’s plan as a stowaway on the ship? </s>    IMAGE OF SPLENDOR     By LU KELLA       From Venus to Earth, and all the way between,       it was a hell of a world for men ... and       Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly particularly.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The intercom roared fit to blow O'Rielly back to Venus. Burner Four!     On my way, sir!     At the first flash of red on the bank of meters Apprentice BurnermanO'Rielly had slammed the safety helmet on his head; he was alreadythrowing open the lock to the burner room. The hot, throbbing rumblewhipped around him and near crushed his breath away. Power! Power ofthe universe trapped here and ready to destroy its captors given onechance! Swiftly O'Rielly unlocked the controls and reset them. Thethrobbing rumble changed tone.     Old Callahan's voice crackled now through the helmet's ear contact.Well, Mr. O'Rielly?     Fusion control two points low, sir.     O'Rielly wondered had Callahan passed out, was so long before the oldBurner Chief demanded hoarsely, Didn't you lock them controls beforeblast-off?     If every control hadn't been locked in correct setting, O'Riellyanswered from his own angry bewilderment, the error would haveregistered before blast-off—wouldn't it, sir?     So a control reset itself in flight, hey?     I don't know yet, sir.     Well, Mr. O'Rielly, you better know before we orbit Earth!     The icy knot in O'Rielly's stomach jerked tighter. A dozen burners onthis ship; why did something crazy have to happen to O'Rielly's? In ahundred years, so the instructors—brisk females all—had told O'Riellyin pre-flight school, no control had ever been known to slip. But onehad moved here. Not enough to cause serious trouble this far out fromEarth. On blast-down, though, with one jet below peak, the uneventhrust could throw the ship, crash it, the whole lovely thing and allaboard gone in a churning cloud.     Sweat pouring off him, O'Rielly prowled around his burner. Design ofthe thing had been bossed by dames of course; what on Earth wasn't anymore? Anyway, nobody could get to a burner except through its watchroom. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashedand a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the BurnerChief's console up in the flight room full of beautifully efficientofficers. Ever since Venus blast-off O'Rielly had been in Four's watchroom. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it.By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probablyinquired what was in charge of Burner Four.     Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailedmouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Riellysaw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands ofsome God-forsaken satellite. He staggered back into his watch room. Andhis brain was suddenly taken apart and slapped together again. Feltthat way.     She was sitting on his bunk. No three-tailed mouse. No Old Womaneither. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at whichO'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am!     I was in your burner room. Her voice matched the rest of her, a blendof loveliness unlike anything outside a guy's most secret dreams. Icouldn't stand the heat any longer and I couldn't open that big door.So I moved one of your controls a tiny bit. All the noise in there,naturally you couldn't hear me walk out while your back was turnedresetting the control.  O'Rielly suddenly felt like turning her over his knee and whaling heruntil she couldn't sit for a year. This, mind you, he felt in an agewhere no Earth guy for a thousand years had dared raise so much as abreath against woman's supremacy in all matters. That male charactertrait, however, did not seem to be the overpowering reason whyO'Rielly, instead of laying violent hands upon this one's person, heardhimself saying in sympathetic outrage, A shame you had to go to allthat bother to get out here!     You're so kind. But I'm afraid I became rather sticky and smelly inthere.     They ought to cool the air in there with perfume! I'll drop asuggestion in the Old Woman's box first chance I get.     You're so thoughtful. And do you have bathing facilities?     That door right there. Oh, let me open it for you!     You're so sweet. Her big dark eyes glowed with such pure innocencethat O'Rielly could have torn down the universe and rebuilt it just forher.     Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly was floating on a pink cloud with heavenly musicin his head. Never felt so fine before. Except on the Venus layoverwhen he'd been roped into a dice game with a bunch of Venus lads whohad a jug to cheer one's parting with one's money.     A bell suddenly clanged fit to wake the dead while the overhead lightsflashed wildly. Only the watch room door. Only Callahan here now. Oldbuzzard had a drooped nose like a pick, chin like a shovel.     When he talked he was like digging a hole in front of himself. Well,what about that control?     What control?     Your fusion control that got itself two points low!     Oh, that little thing.     Callahan said something through his teeth, then studied O'Riellysharply. Hey, you been wetting your whistle on that Venus vino again?Lemme smell your breath! Bah. Loaded yourself full of chlorophyllagain probably. All right, stand aside whilst I see your burner.     Charmed to, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly said while bowinggracefully.     Higher than a swacked skunk's tail again, Callahan muttered, thensnapped back over his shoulder, Use your shower!     O'Rielly stood considering his shower door. Somehow he doubted thatBurner Chief Terrence Callahan's mood, or Captain Millicent Hatwoody's,would be improved by knowledge of she who was in O'Rielly's shower now.Not that the dear stowaway was less than charming. Quite the contrary.Oh, very quite!     You rockhead! Only Callahan back from the burner. Didn't I tell youto shower the stink off yourself? Old Woman's taking a Venus bigwigon tour the ship. Old Woman catches you like you been rassling skunksshe'll peel both our hides off. Not to mention what she'll do anywayabout your fusion control!     Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded courteously, I havebeen thinking.     With what? Never mind, just keep on trying whilst I have a shower formyself here. Wherewith Callahan reached hand for O'Rielly's showerdoor.     Venus dames, O'Rielly said dreamily, don't boss anything, do they?     Callahan yelped like he'd been bit in the pants by a big Jupiter ant.O'Rielly! You trying to get both of us condemned to a Uranus moon?Callahan also shot a wild look to the intercom switch. It was in OFFposition; the flight room full of fancy gold-lace petticoats could nothave overheard from here. Nevertheless Callahan's eyes rolled like thedevil was behind him with the fork ready. O'Rielly, open your big earswhilst for your own good and mine I speak of certain matters.     Thousand years ago, it was, the first flight reached Venus. Guysgot one look at them dames. Had to bring some home or bust. So theneverybody on Earth got a look, mostly by TV only of course. That didit. Every guy on Earth began blowing his fuse over them dames. Give upthe shirt off his back, last buck in the bank, his own Earth dame orfamily—everything.     Well, that's when Earth dames took over like armies of wild catswith knots in their tails. Before the guys who'd brought the Venusdames to Earth could say anything they was taken apart too small topick up with a blotter. Earth dames wound up by flying the Venus onesback where they come from and serving notice if one ever set foot onEarth again there wouldn't be enough left of Venus to find with anelectron microscope.  Venus boys rared up and served notice that if Earth ever got any funnynotions, right away there wouldn't be enough Earth left to hide in anatom's eyebrow. Touchy as hornets on a hot griddle, them Venus guys.Crazier than bed bugs about war. Could smell a loose dollar a millionlight years away too. Finagled around until they finally cooked up adeal.     No Venus dames allowed within fifty miles of their port. Earth guysstay inside the high-voltage fence. Any dame caught trying to leaveVenus thrown to the tigers for supper. Same for any Earth guy caughtaround a Venus dame. In return, Earth could buy practically everythingat bargain basement prices.     Oh, I was shown the history films in pre-flight, O'Rielly said, stilldreamily. But not a peek of any Venus dame.     Pray heaven you'll never lay eyes on one nor have one get within tenfoot of you! Even though you'd know she'd be your damnation wouldn'tmake a whit difference—you'd still act sappier than thirty-sevenangels flying on vino. Callahan suddenly stared at O'Rielly. Holyhollering saints!     Now, now, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded with an airylaugh. No Earth guy for a hundred twenty-five years been near one andlived to tell it, has he?     So the whispers run, Callahan murmured with a queer flame dancinginto his eyes. So the old whispers still run.     Never a name, though. Never how it was done. O'Rielly snorted.Probably just a goofy tale set loose by some old space bum.     Oh? Callahan bristled up like a bad name had been bandied about.Seen them ditty bags Venus bigwigs have, ain't you? Some big enough tostuff a cow in. Notice how nobody ever dares question a bigwig's bags,even through customs? Just run 'em through the big Geiger that tellswhether there's any fusionable junk inside. Well, our boy got himselfone of them bags, stuffed himself inside and joined a bigwig's pile of'em.     Didn't pull it whilst on the Venus port during a layover either, whena crew check would of turned him up missing. Pulled it on vacation.Started on the Earth end. Made himself a pair of beards to paste on hisears of course. Wove Jupiter wiggle worms in to keep the beards moving.Wasn't like the real thing, but good enough to flimflam Venus guys.     With suddenly enlivened interest O'Rielly looked at Callahan. Hey, howcome you know so much?     Hah? What? Callahan blinked like waking from a trance; even groanedto himself, something that sounded like, Blabbering like I'd hada nip myself—or one of them dillies was radiating nearby. ThenCallahan glared fit to drill holes in O'Rielly's head. Look! I wasa full Burnerman before you was born. Been flying the spaces hundredtwenty-five years now. Had more chances to hear more—just hear more,you hear! Only tried to clear your mind about Venus dames so you couldput your brain on your control mess. So now put it! If you ain't highon vino and ain't been made nuts by a Venus dame, what answer do wefeed the Old Woman?     Search me, Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly responded cheerfully.     Of all the loony apprentices I ever had to answer the Old Woman for!Awp, lemme out where I can think of something to save me own neck atleast!     Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from rolling on the deck with glee.Old Callahan had been flimflammed for fair! The dear little stowawaywas saved! And O'Rielly would now think of grand ways to save herlovely neck and his own forever.     O'Rielly's shower door, however, opened abruptly. O'Rielly had notopened it. O'Rielly, however, suffered a cruel stab of dismay. Surelyhis dear stowaway had been listening through the door. Why didn't shehave brains enough to stay hid until Callahan was gone!     At sight of her, of course, Callahan's eyes near popped from his oldhead. Berta!     Oh, I'm Trillium, she assured Callahan sweetly. But Grandmamma'sname is Berta and people say I'm just like she was a hundred andtwenty-five years ago.  Hah? What? Callahan blinked like his brain had been taken apart andwas being slapped together again. O'Rielly! Awp, you angel-facedpirate, couldn't you hide her somewheres better than that? Shut up,you don't have to explain to me, but God help the whole universe if wedon't flimflam the Old Woman! With which ominous remark, rendered ina zesty devil-may-care manner, however, Callahan threw himself intoO'Rielly's shower.     O'Rielly stood looking thoughtfully at lovely, womanly, exquisiteTrillium. Just like that, O'Rielly felt as sparkling of mind as aspiral nebula. My locker! he crowed with inspiration and yanked openthe doors under his bunk. He glimpsed a black ditty bag, also the capand coverall uniform of a baggage boy.     I threw them in there before you came on duty before blast-off,Trillium explained. I knew the burner room would be warm.     Trillium—with her shape—passing as a boy hustling bags through thisship. O'Rielly chortled as he tucked her under his bunk. Now don't youworry about another thing!     Oh, I'm not, she assured him happily. Everything is going just theway Grandmamma knew it would!     O'Rielly's shower opened and Callahan, glowing like a young bucko,bounced onto the bunk. Well, did you hide her good this time? No,don't tell me! I want to be surprised if the Old Woman ever finds her.     If what old woman finds whom? a voice like thin ice crackling wantedto know.     The watch room's door had opened. Wouldn't think the Old Woman was aday over seventy-five, let alone near two hundred. Cut of her uniformprobably lent a helping hand or three to the young snap of her figure.Frosty blue of fancy hair-do, she was, though, and icy of eye as shelooked at O'Rielly and Callahan still lolling on the bunk.     Her voice was an iceberg exploding. At attention!     Never in his right mind would any crewman dare fail to come stifflyerect the instant the Old Woman appeared. Behind her stood a colorfullyrobed specimen of Venus man. Handsome as the devil himself. Fit to snaplesser men in two with his highly bejeweled hands. Fuzzy beards trailedfrom his ears and kept twitching lazily as he sneered at the spectacleof two men meekly acknowledging the superiority of a woman.     She was fit to put frost on a hydrogen burner. Mr. Callahan, I askedyou a question, did I not?     Believe you did, ma'am, Callahan responded cheerfully. And theanswer is, ma'am, that Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly and me wasdiscussing—ah—matrimony, ma'am. Mr. Apprentice Burnerman O'Riellyhere is considering it, ma'am.     Wasn't too bad a fib. The more O'Rielly thought of Trillium, the moreideas he got of doing things he'd never dreamt of before in his life.Yes, ma'am!     Wasting your time talking nonsense! Old Woman's look was fit tofreeze O'Rielly's brain, then she gave Callahan the look. I sent youdown here to find the answer to that fusion control slippage!     Oh, you'll have the best answer you ever heard of before long, ma'am!Callahan assured her heartily. The subject of nonsense—I mean,women—merely chanced to arise whilst we was scientifically analyzingthe control phenomenon, ma'am. Naturally I offered this innocent youngBurnerman the benefit of me long years of experience. Why, Callahansaid with a jaunty laugh, dames mean nothing to me. Indeed 'twouldn'tbother me none if there wasn't one of the things left in the world!Present company excepted, of course, Callahan hastened to say with acourtly bow.     Stay at attention! Old Woman sniffed the air near Callahan's face,then in O'Rielly's vicinity. Smothered it with chlorophyll probably,she muttered through her teeth, if it is that vino. Somethinghorrible as a plague flickered in her eyes, then the old ice was thereagain. Apprentice Burnerman, don't you know what your shower is for?Then use it! Mr. Callahan, remain at attention while I inspect thisburner! She tendered a cool glance at the Venus bigwig. Care to joinme, Your Excellency?     May as well. His Excellency glanced at O'Rielly and Callahan much ashe might at a couple of worms. Could bet your last old sox no femaleever told any Venus man what to do.     The shower units were equipped so no Burnerman need be more than twosteps from his responsibility. To keep the Old Woman from possiblyblowing her gaskets completely, O'Rielly simply stepped in, shut thedoor, flipped a switch and tingled as he was electronically cleansedof person and clothes. By time he finished, the Old Woman and HisExcellency were already coming out of the burner room, dripping withsweat.     Old Woman opened the shower with her customary commanding air. Youfirst, Your Excellency.     My dear Captain, His Excellency replied like a smoothly drawn dagger,always the lesser gender enjoys precedence.     No Earth dame ever admitted any guy was even equal to any female. OldWoman, a prime symbol of her gender's superiority, whipped a razor edgeonto her own words. Facilities of the Captain's quarters are moresatisfactory.     No more so than those of the Ambassadorial Suite.  Seeming to grind her teeth, the Old O Woman turned abruptly to leaveO'Rielly's watch room. Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from bustingout laughing for joy.     Old Woman had been flimflammed for fair! Dear Trillium was saved! Andbetwixt O'Rielly's grand brain and Callahan's great experience she'd behappy forever.     A fine loud thump, however, was now heard. Old Woman whirled back andyanked open the doors under O'Rielly's bunk.     Of all the sappy hiding places! Callahan yelped, in surprise ofcourse.     Trillium? His Excellency bellowed as if stung by one of thesabre-tailed hornets of his native planet. Trillium!     Trillium, O'Rielly pleaded in loving anguish, why do you have tokeep coming out of hiding just when nobody's going to find you?     Her eyes merely became deep pools in which O'Rielly would have gladlydrowned himself if he could.       There are rewards, the Old Woman said with the deadly coldness ofouter space, for Earthmen found in a Venus woman's company, and forher leaving her planet.     Shut up! His Excellency's ear beards were standing straight outsideways. I'll handle this!     May I remind His Excellency, the Old Woman snapped, that I representEarth and her dominion of space gained by right of original flight!     May I remind the Captain, His Excellency declared fit to be heardback to his planet, that I am the Personal Ambassador of the Presidentof Venus and this thing can mean war!     Yes! War in which people will actually die! As His Excellency paledat that grisly remark, the Old Woman spoke through her teeth atO'Rielly, Callahan and Trillium. All right, come along!     O'Rielly joined the death march gladly. He felt the way Callahanlooked: ready to wrap his arms around Trillium's brave loveliness andprotect it to his last breath of life.     Old Woman led the way to her office. Jabbed some buttons on her desk.Panels on opposite walls lit up.     Presidents of Earth and Venus, please, the Old Woman stated evenly.Interplanetary emergency.     Highly groomed flunkies appeared on the panels and were impersonallypleasant.     Madame President's office. She is in a Cabinet meeting.     Mr. President's office. He is in personal command of our glorious warefforts.     Old Woman sighed through her teeth. Venus woman aboard this ship.Stowaway. Rattle that around your belfries.     The flunkies' faces went slack with shock, then were replaced by ablizzard of scrambled faces and torrents of incoherent voices.     Finally on the Earth panel appeared the famous classic features. Thefacts, if you please, Captain Hatwoody.     The Venus panel finally held steady on universally notorious features,that were as fierce as an eagle's, in a fancy war helmet. Trillium! Myown granddaughter? Impossible! Dimdooly, Mr. President roared at hisExcellency, what's this nonsense?     Some loud creature is interfering, Madame President snapped withannoyance.     Blasted fools still have the circuits crossed, Mr. President swore.Some silly female cackling now!     The parties in the panels saw each other now. Each one's left hand on adesk moved toward a big red button marked, ROCKETS.     So, Mr. President said evenly. Another violation by your Earthmen.     By your granddaughter, at least, Madame President replied coolly.     An innocent child, Mr. President snapped, obviously kidnapped bythose two idiotic Earthmen there!     Oh, no, Grandpapa, Trillium said swiftly; I stole away all bymyself, and Mr. O'Rielly and Callahan have been very helpful.     Impossible! Grandpapa President's ear beards stood near straight upas he roared, You couldn't have stolen away by yourself! Trillium,tell the truth!     Very well. Grandmamma told me how.  Obviously Trillium's poor little brain has been drugged, HisExcellency Dimdooly declared. Grandmamma Berta wouldn't know the firstthing about such things!     Impossible! Grandpapa President agreed. I've been married to herfor a hundred and twenty-four and a half years and she's the finestrattle-brain I ever knew!     She learned, Trillium stated emphatically, a hundred and twenty-fiveyears ago.     Hundred twenty-five, Grandpapa president growled like a boilingvolcano. The year some Earthman.... Never did catch the devil....Berta? Impossible!     Madame President's shapely finger now rested full on the button thatcould launch the fleets of war rockets that had been pre-aimed for athousand years. I'm afraid your Ambassador is unwelcome now, MadamePresident stated coolly. Your granddaughter's actions have every markof an invasion tactic by your government.     What do you mean, her actions? Grandpapa President's finger now laypoised on the button that had been waiting a thousand years to blowEarth out of the universe. My grandchild was kidnapped by men underyour official command! Weren't you, Trillium dear?     No. One of us stowing away was the only way we Venus women could bringour cause to the attention of Earth's President. If Earth will onlystop buying from Venus, you won't have any money to squander on yourwars any longer no matter what happens to we revolutionaries!     Revolutionaries? Such claptrap! And what's wrong with my wars? Peoplehave to have something to keep their minds off their troubles! Nobodyaround here gets hurt. Oh, maybe a few scratches here and there. Butnobody on Venus dies from the things any more.     But Venus men are so excited all the time about going to war theyhaven't time for us women. That's why we always radiated such a fatalattraction for Earthmen. We want to be loved! We want our own men homedoing useful work!     Well, they do come home and do useful work! Couple weeks every tenmonths. Proven to be a highly efficient arrangement.     More boys to run off to your old wars and more girls to stay home andbe lonely!     Now you just listen to me, Trillium! Grandpapa President was allVenus manhood laying down the law. That's the way things have been onVenus for ten thousand years and all the women in the universe can'tchange it!     I have been in constant contact with my Cabinet during theseconversations, Madame President said crisply. Earth is terminatingall trade agreements with Venus as of this instant.     What? Grandpapa's beards near pulled his ears off. It's not legal!You can't get away with this!     Take your finger off that trigger, boy! a heavenly voice similar toTrillium's advised from the Venus panel.     Whereupon Grandpapa glared to one side. Berta! What are you doinghere? I am deciding matters of the gravest interplanetary nature!     Were. Features more beautifully mature than Trillium's crowded ontothe panel too. From now on I'm doing the deciding.     Nonsense! You're only my wife!     And new President of Venus, elected by unanimous vote of all women.     Impossible! The men run Venus! Nobody's turning this planet intoanother Earth where a man can't even sneeze unless some woman says so!     Take him away, girls, Berta ordered coolly, whereupon her spouse wasyanked from view.     His bellows, however, could be heard yet. Unhand me, you foolcreatures! Guards! Guards!     Save your breath, Berta advised him. And while you're in the cooler,enjoy this latest batch of surrender communiques. We women are incontrol everywhere now.     Dimmy, Trillium was saying firmly to His Excellency, you have beataround the bush with me long enough. Now say it!  Dimdooly—the mighty, the lordly, who had sneered at the sight of mereEarthmen kowtowing to a mere woman—swelled up fit to blow his gaskets,then all the gas went out of him. His ear beards, however, still hadenough zip left to flutter like butterflies. Yes, Trillium dear. Ilove only you. Please marry me at your earliest convenience.     Well, Grandmamma, Trillium said with a highly self-satisfied air, itworks. And just like you said, Earthmen meant nothing once I knew weVenus women had our own men in our power.     Those crewmen there, Grandmamma President said, seem to be proofenough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth'stranquility.     Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden.Worse than the hangover from that crap game with Venus vino. He lookedaway from Trillium and took a look at Callahan. Old guy looked awayfrom Grandmamma President like he was packing the second biggestheadache in history.     Hmmmm, yes, Madame President of Earth observed. Reactions agreeperfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have beenconducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. MadamePresident of Venus, congratulations on your victory!     Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted toreceive an Ambassadoress to discuss a new trade treaty at your earliestconvenience.     Thank you for cancelling the old trade agreements at the psychologicalmoment, Grandmamma President said cordially. What with thecommunications mixup, we managed to have the scenes on these panelsbroadcast throughout all Venus. When the rug went out from under thetop man, the tide really turned in our favor. Now, Trillium, you takeover Dimmy's credentials.     The Ambassadorial Suite, too, Madame President of Earth saidgraciously. Anything else now, Berta?     I should like, Grandmamma President Berta said charmingly, thatMr. O'Rielly and Mr. Callahan be suitably rewarded for assisting ourrevolution better than they knew.     Of course, Madame President of Earth was delighted to oblige. Nodoubt Captain Hatwoody knows what reward would satisfy their needsbest.     The Madame Presidents switched to a private circuit, Trillium draggedDimdooly off somewhere and the Old Woman eyed O'Rielly and Callahan.Especially she eyed Callahan, like running chilled drills through hisold conniving brain. I award the pair of you five minutes leisurebefore returning to your stations.     Oh, well, O'Rielly muttered, once he and Callahan were safely beyondearshot, could have been rewarded worse, I suppose.     What you expect for being flimflammed by a foreign dame, the rings ofSaturn? Lucky we ain't programmed to be hung, shot and thrown to thecrows for breakfast. Callahan's old pick-and-shovel face wore a littlegrin like the cat that nobody could prove ate the canary.     You—I mean, that Earth guy a hundred twenty-five years ago, O'Riellysaid in sudden thought. If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, whydid Trillium's Grandmamma let him go?     Venus guys wasn't so busy playing war all the time, Callahan mumbled,like to himself, they'd of found out the answer centuries ago. Yep,guess our boy was the only guy on Earth or Venus to find out and live.Dames bossing both planets now, though, his old secret won't be onemuch longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselvesbut didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizingto take over Venus, I guess.     O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trilliumbefore her revolution. All right, Callahan, why did 'our boy' leaveGrandmamma?     Yes, ma'am, Callahan sighed like he hadn't heard a word O'Riellysaid, you could sweet-talk 'em, kiss 'em and hold 'em tighter'nBilly-be-damned. And that's all.     I'm not sure, O'Rielly said, what you mean by, 'that's all.'     Anybody ever seen anybody but a Venus guy come built with ear beards?Course not.     But I thought our boy was wearing the best fakes ever.     Ain't nothing can match the natural growed-on variety, no, ma'am.Venus guy kisses a Venus dame, his beards grabs her roundst the ears.     So what?     Tickles 'em, boy, tickles 'em!   ","Trillium is the granddaughter of the President of Venus and his wife, Berta. One-hundred twenty-five years ago, Berta learned from Callahan’s example how to stowaway and break the rules devised between the two planets. She taught her granddaughter how to do the same, so Trillium took this knowledge to implement her own plan. Trillium represents the women of Venus, who are tired of the lack of attention they receive from Venusian men; the men are far more interested in war and harbor misogynistic attitudes towards women. Likewise, the women rulers of Earth treat men as their inferiors as a result of their lust for Venusian women. When Trillium is discovered, this triggers a meeting between the two presidents of Earth and Venus, and the president of Earth announces that her presence on the ship signifies a breach in their rules. Therefore, the special arrangement between the two planets is ended, and Earth no longer recognizes Dimdooly’s ambassadorship. As the Venusian president resists, he also learns that his wife Berta has been elected the new President of Venus, and that women will now take over just as they did on Earth. She orders her husband to be taken away. After Dimdooly loses his position, he announces his love for Trillium, which confirms her plan to regain the amorous attentions of Venusian men has worked. As a reward for her role in the revolution, Trillium receives Dimdooly’s ambassadorship."
"What is the relationship between Captain Hatwoody and Ambassador Dimdooly throughout the story? </s>    IMAGE OF SPLENDOR     By LU KELLA       From Venus to Earth, and all the way between,       it was a hell of a world for men ... and       Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly particularly.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The intercom roared fit to blow O'Rielly back to Venus. Burner Four!     On my way, sir!     At the first flash of red on the bank of meters Apprentice BurnermanO'Rielly had slammed the safety helmet on his head; he was alreadythrowing open the lock to the burner room. The hot, throbbing rumblewhipped around him and near crushed his breath away. Power! Power ofthe universe trapped here and ready to destroy its captors given onechance! Swiftly O'Rielly unlocked the controls and reset them. Thethrobbing rumble changed tone.     Old Callahan's voice crackled now through the helmet's ear contact.Well, Mr. O'Rielly?     Fusion control two points low, sir.     O'Rielly wondered had Callahan passed out, was so long before the oldBurner Chief demanded hoarsely, Didn't you lock them controls beforeblast-off?     If every control hadn't been locked in correct setting, O'Riellyanswered from his own angry bewilderment, the error would haveregistered before blast-off—wouldn't it, sir?     So a control reset itself in flight, hey?     I don't know yet, sir.     Well, Mr. O'Rielly, you better know before we orbit Earth!     The icy knot in O'Rielly's stomach jerked tighter. A dozen burners onthis ship; why did something crazy have to happen to O'Rielly's? In ahundred years, so the instructors—brisk females all—had told O'Riellyin pre-flight school, no control had ever been known to slip. But onehad moved here. Not enough to cause serious trouble this far out fromEarth. On blast-down, though, with one jet below peak, the uneventhrust could throw the ship, crash it, the whole lovely thing and allaboard gone in a churning cloud.     Sweat pouring off him, O'Rielly prowled around his burner. Design ofthe thing had been bossed by dames of course; what on Earth wasn't anymore? Anyway, nobody could get to a burner except through its watchroom. Anyone entered or left there, a bell clanged, lights flashedand a meter registered beside the Burnerman's bunk and on the BurnerChief's console up in the flight room full of beautifully efficientofficers. Ever since Venus blast-off O'Rielly had been in Four's watchroom. Nobody had passed through. O'Rielly knew it. Callahan knew it.By now the Old Woman herself, Captain Millicent Hatwoody, had probablyinquired what was in charge of Burner Four.     Well, ma'am, O'Rielly searched every cranny where even a three-tailedmouse of Venus could have stowed away. His first flight, and O'Riellysaw himself washed out, busted to sweeper on the blast-off stands ofsome God-forsaken satellite. He staggered back into his watch room. Andhis brain was suddenly taken apart and slapped together again. Feltthat way.     She was sitting on his bunk. No three-tailed mouse. No Old Womaneither. Oh, she was a female human, though, this creature at whichO'Rielly stood gaping. Yes, ma'am!     I was in your burner room. Her voice matched the rest of her, a blendof loveliness unlike anything outside a guy's most secret dreams. Icouldn't stand the heat any longer and I couldn't open that big door.So I moved one of your controls a tiny bit. All the noise in there,naturally you couldn't hear me walk out while your back was turnedresetting the control.  O'Rielly suddenly felt like turning her over his knee and whaling heruntil she couldn't sit for a year. This, mind you, he felt in an agewhere no Earth guy for a thousand years had dared raise so much as abreath against woman's supremacy in all matters. That male charactertrait, however, did not seem to be the overpowering reason whyO'Rielly, instead of laying violent hands upon this one's person, heardhimself saying in sympathetic outrage, A shame you had to go to allthat bother to get out here!     You're so kind. But I'm afraid I became rather sticky and smelly inthere.     They ought to cool the air in there with perfume! I'll drop asuggestion in the Old Woman's box first chance I get.     You're so thoughtful. And do you have bathing facilities?     That door right there. Oh, let me open it for you!     You're so sweet. Her big dark eyes glowed with such pure innocencethat O'Rielly could have torn down the universe and rebuilt it just forher.     Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly was floating on a pink cloud with heavenly musicin his head. Never felt so fine before. Except on the Venus layoverwhen he'd been roped into a dice game with a bunch of Venus lads whohad a jug to cheer one's parting with one's money.     A bell suddenly clanged fit to wake the dead while the overhead lightsflashed wildly. Only the watch room door. Only Callahan here now. Oldbuzzard had a drooped nose like a pick, chin like a shovel.     When he talked he was like digging a hole in front of himself. Well,what about that control?     What control?     Your fusion control that got itself two points low!     Oh, that little thing.     Callahan said something through his teeth, then studied O'Riellysharply. Hey, you been wetting your whistle on that Venus vino again?Lemme smell your breath! Bah. Loaded yourself full of chlorophyllagain probably. All right, stand aside whilst I see your burner.     Charmed to, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly said while bowinggracefully.     Higher than a swacked skunk's tail again, Callahan muttered, thensnapped back over his shoulder, Use your shower!     O'Rielly stood considering his shower door. Somehow he doubted thatBurner Chief Terrence Callahan's mood, or Captain Millicent Hatwoody's,would be improved by knowledge of she who was in O'Rielly's shower now.Not that the dear stowaway was less than charming. Quite the contrary.Oh, very quite!     You rockhead! Only Callahan back from the burner. Didn't I tell youto shower the stink off yourself? Old Woman's taking a Venus bigwigon tour the ship. Old Woman catches you like you been rassling skunksshe'll peel both our hides off. Not to mention what she'll do anywayabout your fusion control!     Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded courteously, I havebeen thinking.     With what? Never mind, just keep on trying whilst I have a shower formyself here. Wherewith Callahan reached hand for O'Rielly's showerdoor.     Venus dames, O'Rielly said dreamily, don't boss anything, do they?     Callahan yelped like he'd been bit in the pants by a big Jupiter ant.O'Rielly! You trying to get both of us condemned to a Uranus moon?Callahan also shot a wild look to the intercom switch. It was in OFFposition; the flight room full of fancy gold-lace petticoats could nothave overheard from here. Nevertheless Callahan's eyes rolled like thedevil was behind him with the fork ready. O'Rielly, open your big earswhilst for your own good and mine I speak of certain matters.     Thousand years ago, it was, the first flight reached Venus. Guysgot one look at them dames. Had to bring some home or bust. So theneverybody on Earth got a look, mostly by TV only of course. That didit. Every guy on Earth began blowing his fuse over them dames. Give upthe shirt off his back, last buck in the bank, his own Earth dame orfamily—everything.     Well, that's when Earth dames took over like armies of wild catswith knots in their tails. Before the guys who'd brought the Venusdames to Earth could say anything they was taken apart too small topick up with a blotter. Earth dames wound up by flying the Venus onesback where they come from and serving notice if one ever set foot onEarth again there wouldn't be enough left of Venus to find with anelectron microscope.  Venus boys rared up and served notice that if Earth ever got any funnynotions, right away there wouldn't be enough Earth left to hide in anatom's eyebrow. Touchy as hornets on a hot griddle, them Venus guys.Crazier than bed bugs about war. Could smell a loose dollar a millionlight years away too. Finagled around until they finally cooked up adeal.     No Venus dames allowed within fifty miles of their port. Earth guysstay inside the high-voltage fence. Any dame caught trying to leaveVenus thrown to the tigers for supper. Same for any Earth guy caughtaround a Venus dame. In return, Earth could buy practically everythingat bargain basement prices.     Oh, I was shown the history films in pre-flight, O'Rielly said, stilldreamily. But not a peek of any Venus dame.     Pray heaven you'll never lay eyes on one nor have one get within tenfoot of you! Even though you'd know she'd be your damnation wouldn'tmake a whit difference—you'd still act sappier than thirty-sevenangels flying on vino. Callahan suddenly stared at O'Rielly. Holyhollering saints!     Now, now, Burner Chief Callahan, sir, O'Rielly responded with an airylaugh. No Earth guy for a hundred twenty-five years been near one andlived to tell it, has he?     So the whispers run, Callahan murmured with a queer flame dancinginto his eyes. So the old whispers still run.     Never a name, though. Never how it was done. O'Rielly snorted.Probably just a goofy tale set loose by some old space bum.     Oh? Callahan bristled up like a bad name had been bandied about.Seen them ditty bags Venus bigwigs have, ain't you? Some big enough tostuff a cow in. Notice how nobody ever dares question a bigwig's bags,even through customs? Just run 'em through the big Geiger that tellswhether there's any fusionable junk inside. Well, our boy got himselfone of them bags, stuffed himself inside and joined a bigwig's pile of'em.     Didn't pull it whilst on the Venus port during a layover either, whena crew check would of turned him up missing. Pulled it on vacation.Started on the Earth end. Made himself a pair of beards to paste on hisears of course. Wove Jupiter wiggle worms in to keep the beards moving.Wasn't like the real thing, but good enough to flimflam Venus guys.     With suddenly enlivened interest O'Rielly looked at Callahan. Hey, howcome you know so much?     Hah? What? Callahan blinked like waking from a trance; even groanedto himself, something that sounded like, Blabbering like I'd hada nip myself—or one of them dillies was radiating nearby. ThenCallahan glared fit to drill holes in O'Rielly's head. Look! I wasa full Burnerman before you was born. Been flying the spaces hundredtwenty-five years now. Had more chances to hear more—just hear more,you hear! Only tried to clear your mind about Venus dames so you couldput your brain on your control mess. So now put it! If you ain't highon vino and ain't been made nuts by a Venus dame, what answer do wefeed the Old Woman?     Search me, Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly responded cheerfully.     Of all the loony apprentices I ever had to answer the Old Woman for!Awp, lemme out where I can think of something to save me own neck atleast!     Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from rolling on the deck with glee.Old Callahan had been flimflammed for fair! The dear little stowawaywas saved! And O'Rielly would now think of grand ways to save herlovely neck and his own forever.     O'Rielly's shower door, however, opened abruptly. O'Rielly had notopened it. O'Rielly, however, suffered a cruel stab of dismay. Surelyhis dear stowaway had been listening through the door. Why didn't shehave brains enough to stay hid until Callahan was gone!     At sight of her, of course, Callahan's eyes near popped from his oldhead. Berta!     Oh, I'm Trillium, she assured Callahan sweetly. But Grandmamma'sname is Berta and people say I'm just like she was a hundred andtwenty-five years ago.  Hah? What? Callahan blinked like his brain had been taken apart andwas being slapped together again. O'Rielly! Awp, you angel-facedpirate, couldn't you hide her somewheres better than that? Shut up,you don't have to explain to me, but God help the whole universe if wedon't flimflam the Old Woman! With which ominous remark, rendered ina zesty devil-may-care manner, however, Callahan threw himself intoO'Rielly's shower.     O'Rielly stood looking thoughtfully at lovely, womanly, exquisiteTrillium. Just like that, O'Rielly felt as sparkling of mind as aspiral nebula. My locker! he crowed with inspiration and yanked openthe doors under his bunk. He glimpsed a black ditty bag, also the capand coverall uniform of a baggage boy.     I threw them in there before you came on duty before blast-off,Trillium explained. I knew the burner room would be warm.     Trillium—with her shape—passing as a boy hustling bags through thisship. O'Rielly chortled as he tucked her under his bunk. Now don't youworry about another thing!     Oh, I'm not, she assured him happily. Everything is going just theway Grandmamma knew it would!     O'Rielly's shower opened and Callahan, glowing like a young bucko,bounced onto the bunk. Well, did you hide her good this time? No,don't tell me! I want to be surprised if the Old Woman ever finds her.     If what old woman finds whom? a voice like thin ice crackling wantedto know.     The watch room's door had opened. Wouldn't think the Old Woman was aday over seventy-five, let alone near two hundred. Cut of her uniformprobably lent a helping hand or three to the young snap of her figure.Frosty blue of fancy hair-do, she was, though, and icy of eye as shelooked at O'Rielly and Callahan still lolling on the bunk.     Her voice was an iceberg exploding. At attention!     Never in his right mind would any crewman dare fail to come stifflyerect the instant the Old Woman appeared. Behind her stood a colorfullyrobed specimen of Venus man. Handsome as the devil himself. Fit to snaplesser men in two with his highly bejeweled hands. Fuzzy beards trailedfrom his ears and kept twitching lazily as he sneered at the spectacleof two men meekly acknowledging the superiority of a woman.     She was fit to put frost on a hydrogen burner. Mr. Callahan, I askedyou a question, did I not?     Believe you did, ma'am, Callahan responded cheerfully. And theanswer is, ma'am, that Apprentice Burnerman O'Rielly and me wasdiscussing—ah—matrimony, ma'am. Mr. Apprentice Burnerman O'Riellyhere is considering it, ma'am.     Wasn't too bad a fib. The more O'Rielly thought of Trillium, the moreideas he got of doing things he'd never dreamt of before in his life.Yes, ma'am!     Wasting your time talking nonsense! Old Woman's look was fit tofreeze O'Rielly's brain, then she gave Callahan the look. I sent youdown here to find the answer to that fusion control slippage!     Oh, you'll have the best answer you ever heard of before long, ma'am!Callahan assured her heartily. The subject of nonsense—I mean,women—merely chanced to arise whilst we was scientifically analyzingthe control phenomenon, ma'am. Naturally I offered this innocent youngBurnerman the benefit of me long years of experience. Why, Callahansaid with a jaunty laugh, dames mean nothing to me. Indeed 'twouldn'tbother me none if there wasn't one of the things left in the world!Present company excepted, of course, Callahan hastened to say with acourtly bow.     Stay at attention! Old Woman sniffed the air near Callahan's face,then in O'Rielly's vicinity. Smothered it with chlorophyll probably,she muttered through her teeth, if it is that vino. Somethinghorrible as a plague flickered in her eyes, then the old ice was thereagain. Apprentice Burnerman, don't you know what your shower is for?Then use it! Mr. Callahan, remain at attention while I inspect thisburner! She tendered a cool glance at the Venus bigwig. Care to joinme, Your Excellency?     May as well. His Excellency glanced at O'Rielly and Callahan much ashe might at a couple of worms. Could bet your last old sox no femaleever told any Venus man what to do.     The shower units were equipped so no Burnerman need be more than twosteps from his responsibility. To keep the Old Woman from possiblyblowing her gaskets completely, O'Rielly simply stepped in, shut thedoor, flipped a switch and tingled as he was electronically cleansedof person and clothes. By time he finished, the Old Woman and HisExcellency were already coming out of the burner room, dripping withsweat.     Old Woman opened the shower with her customary commanding air. Youfirst, Your Excellency.     My dear Captain, His Excellency replied like a smoothly drawn dagger,always the lesser gender enjoys precedence.     No Earth dame ever admitted any guy was even equal to any female. OldWoman, a prime symbol of her gender's superiority, whipped a razor edgeonto her own words. Facilities of the Captain's quarters are moresatisfactory.     No more so than those of the Ambassadorial Suite.  Seeming to grind her teeth, the Old O Woman turned abruptly to leaveO'Rielly's watch room. Was all O'Rielly could do to keep from bustingout laughing for joy.     Old Woman had been flimflammed for fair! Dear Trillium was saved! Andbetwixt O'Rielly's grand brain and Callahan's great experience she'd behappy forever.     A fine loud thump, however, was now heard. Old Woman whirled back andyanked open the doors under O'Rielly's bunk.     Of all the sappy hiding places! Callahan yelped, in surprise ofcourse.     Trillium? His Excellency bellowed as if stung by one of thesabre-tailed hornets of his native planet. Trillium!     Trillium, O'Rielly pleaded in loving anguish, why do you have tokeep coming out of hiding just when nobody's going to find you?     Her eyes merely became deep pools in which O'Rielly would have gladlydrowned himself if he could.       There are rewards, the Old Woman said with the deadly coldness ofouter space, for Earthmen found in a Venus woman's company, and forher leaving her planet.     Shut up! His Excellency's ear beards were standing straight outsideways. I'll handle this!     May I remind His Excellency, the Old Woman snapped, that I representEarth and her dominion of space gained by right of original flight!     May I remind the Captain, His Excellency declared fit to be heardback to his planet, that I am the Personal Ambassador of the Presidentof Venus and this thing can mean war!     Yes! War in which people will actually die! As His Excellency paledat that grisly remark, the Old Woman spoke through her teeth atO'Rielly, Callahan and Trillium. All right, come along!     O'Rielly joined the death march gladly. He felt the way Callahanlooked: ready to wrap his arms around Trillium's brave loveliness andprotect it to his last breath of life.     Old Woman led the way to her office. Jabbed some buttons on her desk.Panels on opposite walls lit up.     Presidents of Earth and Venus, please, the Old Woman stated evenly.Interplanetary emergency.     Highly groomed flunkies appeared on the panels and were impersonallypleasant.     Madame President's office. She is in a Cabinet meeting.     Mr. President's office. He is in personal command of our glorious warefforts.     Old Woman sighed through her teeth. Venus woman aboard this ship.Stowaway. Rattle that around your belfries.     The flunkies' faces went slack with shock, then were replaced by ablizzard of scrambled faces and torrents of incoherent voices.     Finally on the Earth panel appeared the famous classic features. Thefacts, if you please, Captain Hatwoody.     The Venus panel finally held steady on universally notorious features,that were as fierce as an eagle's, in a fancy war helmet. Trillium! Myown granddaughter? Impossible! Dimdooly, Mr. President roared at hisExcellency, what's this nonsense?     Some loud creature is interfering, Madame President snapped withannoyance.     Blasted fools still have the circuits crossed, Mr. President swore.Some silly female cackling now!     The parties in the panels saw each other now. Each one's left hand on adesk moved toward a big red button marked, ROCKETS.     So, Mr. President said evenly. Another violation by your Earthmen.     By your granddaughter, at least, Madame President replied coolly.     An innocent child, Mr. President snapped, obviously kidnapped bythose two idiotic Earthmen there!     Oh, no, Grandpapa, Trillium said swiftly; I stole away all bymyself, and Mr. O'Rielly and Callahan have been very helpful.     Impossible! Grandpapa President's ear beards stood near straight upas he roared, You couldn't have stolen away by yourself! Trillium,tell the truth!     Very well. Grandmamma told me how.  Obviously Trillium's poor little brain has been drugged, HisExcellency Dimdooly declared. Grandmamma Berta wouldn't know the firstthing about such things!     Impossible! Grandpapa President agreed. I've been married to herfor a hundred and twenty-four and a half years and she's the finestrattle-brain I ever knew!     She learned, Trillium stated emphatically, a hundred and twenty-fiveyears ago.     Hundred twenty-five, Grandpapa president growled like a boilingvolcano. The year some Earthman.... Never did catch the devil....Berta? Impossible!     Madame President's shapely finger now rested full on the button thatcould launch the fleets of war rockets that had been pre-aimed for athousand years. I'm afraid your Ambassador is unwelcome now, MadamePresident stated coolly. Your granddaughter's actions have every markof an invasion tactic by your government.     What do you mean, her actions? Grandpapa President's finger now laypoised on the button that had been waiting a thousand years to blowEarth out of the universe. My grandchild was kidnapped by men underyour official command! Weren't you, Trillium dear?     No. One of us stowing away was the only way we Venus women could bringour cause to the attention of Earth's President. If Earth will onlystop buying from Venus, you won't have any money to squander on yourwars any longer no matter what happens to we revolutionaries!     Revolutionaries? Such claptrap! And what's wrong with my wars? Peoplehave to have something to keep their minds off their troubles! Nobodyaround here gets hurt. Oh, maybe a few scratches here and there. Butnobody on Venus dies from the things any more.     But Venus men are so excited all the time about going to war theyhaven't time for us women. That's why we always radiated such a fatalattraction for Earthmen. We want to be loved! We want our own men homedoing useful work!     Well, they do come home and do useful work! Couple weeks every tenmonths. Proven to be a highly efficient arrangement.     More boys to run off to your old wars and more girls to stay home andbe lonely!     Now you just listen to me, Trillium! Grandpapa President was allVenus manhood laying down the law. That's the way things have been onVenus for ten thousand years and all the women in the universe can'tchange it!     I have been in constant contact with my Cabinet during theseconversations, Madame President said crisply. Earth is terminatingall trade agreements with Venus as of this instant.     What? Grandpapa's beards near pulled his ears off. It's not legal!You can't get away with this!     Take your finger off that trigger, boy! a heavenly voice similar toTrillium's advised from the Venus panel.     Whereupon Grandpapa glared to one side. Berta! What are you doinghere? I am deciding matters of the gravest interplanetary nature!     Were. Features more beautifully mature than Trillium's crowded ontothe panel too. From now on I'm doing the deciding.     Nonsense! You're only my wife!     And new President of Venus, elected by unanimous vote of all women.     Impossible! The men run Venus! Nobody's turning this planet intoanother Earth where a man can't even sneeze unless some woman says so!     Take him away, girls, Berta ordered coolly, whereupon her spouse wasyanked from view.     His bellows, however, could be heard yet. Unhand me, you foolcreatures! Guards! Guards!     Save your breath, Berta advised him. And while you're in the cooler,enjoy this latest batch of surrender communiques. We women are incontrol everywhere now.     Dimmy, Trillium was saying firmly to His Excellency, you have beataround the bush with me long enough. Now say it!  Dimdooly—the mighty, the lordly, who had sneered at the sight of mereEarthmen kowtowing to a mere woman—swelled up fit to blow his gaskets,then all the gas went out of him. His ear beards, however, still hadenough zip left to flutter like butterflies. Yes, Trillium dear. Ilove only you. Please marry me at your earliest convenience.     Well, Grandmamma, Trillium said with a highly self-satisfied air, itworks. And just like you said, Earthmen meant nothing once I knew weVenus women had our own men in our power.     Those crewmen there, Grandmamma President said, seem to be proofenough that we Venus women no longer radiate any threat to Earth'stranquility.     Yes, ma'am, O'Rielly sure felt like proof of something all of a sudden.Worse than the hangover from that crap game with Venus vino. He lookedaway from Trillium and took a look at Callahan. Old guy looked awayfrom Grandmamma President like he was packing the second biggestheadache in history.     Hmmmm, yes, Madame President of Earth observed. Reactions agreeperfectly with the psychoanalytical research project we have beenconducting on the subject of the Venus female influence. MadamePresident of Venus, congratulations on your victory!     Long may the superior sex reign on Venus too! We shall be delighted toreceive an Ambassadoress to discuss a new trade treaty at your earliestconvenience.     Thank you for cancelling the old trade agreements at the psychologicalmoment, Grandmamma President said cordially. What with thecommunications mixup, we managed to have the scenes on these panelsbroadcast throughout all Venus. When the rug went out from under thetop man, the tide really turned in our favor. Now, Trillium, you takeover Dimmy's credentials.     The Ambassadorial Suite, too, Madame President of Earth saidgraciously. Anything else now, Berta?     I should like, Grandmamma President Berta said charmingly, thatMr. O'Rielly and Mr. Callahan be suitably rewarded for assisting ourrevolution better than they knew.     Of course, Madame President of Earth was delighted to oblige. Nodoubt Captain Hatwoody knows what reward would satisfy their needsbest.     The Madame Presidents switched to a private circuit, Trillium draggedDimdooly off somewhere and the Old Woman eyed O'Rielly and Callahan.Especially she eyed Callahan, like running chilled drills through hisold conniving brain. I award the pair of you five minutes leisurebefore returning to your stations.     Oh, well, O'Rielly muttered, once he and Callahan were safely beyondearshot, could have been rewarded worse, I suppose.     What you expect for being flimflammed by a foreign dame, the rings ofSaturn? Lucky we ain't programmed to be hung, shot and thrown to thecrows for breakfast. Callahan's old pick-and-shovel face wore a littlegrin like the cat that nobody could prove ate the canary.     You—I mean, that Earth guy a hundred twenty-five years ago, O'Riellysaid in sudden thought. If Venus dames wanted to be loved so bad, whydid Trillium's Grandmamma let him go?     Venus guys wasn't so busy playing war all the time, Callahan mumbled,like to himself, they'd of found out the answer centuries ago. Yep,guess our boy was the only guy on Earth or Venus to find out and live.Dames bossing both planets now, though, his old secret won't be onemuch longer. Venus dames could of let it out centuries ago themselvesbut didn't, just to spite Earth probably. Later, was part of organizingto take over Venus, I guess.     O'Rielly still had memories of the way he had felt about Trilliumbefore her revolution. All right, Callahan, why did 'our boy' leaveGrandmamma?     Yes, ma'am, Callahan sighed like he hadn't heard a word O'Riellysaid, you could sweet-talk 'em, kiss 'em and hold 'em tighter'nBilly-be-damned. And that's all.     I'm not sure, O'Rielly said, what you mean by, 'that's all.'     Anybody ever seen anybody but a Venus guy come built with ear beards?Course not.     But I thought our boy was wearing the best fakes ever.     Ain't nothing can match the natural growed-on variety, no, ma'am.Venus guy kisses a Venus dame, his beards grabs her roundst the ears.     So what?     Tickles 'em, boy, tickles 'em!   ","Captain Hatwoody is the commander of the ship that ferries between Earth and Venus. She is a stern, efficient Earth woman with a vocal disdain for men. Behind her back, the men of her crew refer to her as “the Old Woman.” Ambassador Dimdooly is a Venusian who works as the right-hand man of the President of Venus. Similar to Hatwoody’s disgust for men, Ambassador Dimdooly harbors a deep-seated misogyny. Both characters’ innate sexism is reflected in the social orders of their individual planets and are the result of over one-hundred years of conflict. Captain Hatwoody plays gracious host to Ambassador Dimdooly when he visits the ship, even referring to him as “Excellency.” However, their tensions are revealed when together they inspect Burner Four after visiting O’Rielly in his watch room. They each make snarky comments to each other about the inferiority of the others’ respective gender. Their attitudes are reflected later during the confrontational meeting between the presidents of Earth and Venus in Captain Hatwoody’s office. These two characters’ interactions are essential in highlighting the gender conflict that explodes at the story’s end when both Earth and Venusian women solidify their rule over their respective planets."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     QUEST OF THIG     By BASIL WELLS     Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering     HORDE. He had blasted across trackless space     to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on     Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beachover the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubbyship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across theheaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisinglyaround at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; andstarted toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefullybecause of the lesser gravitation.     Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha hewas well above the average in height—but his body was thick andpowerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his featureswere regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes werea curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he woreno garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support hisrod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.     The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to thelittle-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down towait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was tobring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried spacecruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature'smentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether aplanet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.     Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of themall only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in everyrespect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelopemade of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.     The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of aleafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was coveredwith baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metaland wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.     Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing'sstupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polishedmetal at the reflection of himself!     The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precioustime. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across theintervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clampedacross the mouth and neck of the stranger....  Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that hadground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigiddesolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he wasgoing stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of thatshiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feeblyhe had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn'tdared touch the machine since.     For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had neverbeen further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promisedhis wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself ona trailer tour of the      West     that very summer. Since that promise, hecould not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches andbe-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up outof his subconscious. Yet he      had     to write at least three novelets anda fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the greatadventure—or the trip was off.     So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headedfor his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out asalable yarn....     Hey! he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside theroad. What's the trouble?     Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of thestranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speechand his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The handclamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side ofhis head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more.  There it is, announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the capturedEarthman to the metal deck-plates. It is a male of the species thatmust have built the cities we saw as we landed.     He resembles Thig, announced Kam. But for the strange covering hewears he might be Thig.     Thig will be this creature! announced Torp. With a psychic relay wewill transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge tothe brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world withoutarousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore thetwo inner planets.     You are the commander, said Thig. But I wish this beast did not wearthese clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the useof our limbs so.     Do not question the word of your commander, growled Torp, swellingout his thick chest menacingly. It is for the good of our people thatyou disguise yourself as an Earthman.     For the good of the Horde, Thig intoned almost piously as he liftedTerry's body and headed for the laboratory.     Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefullycultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, theyknew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirelylacking in their early training and later life. They were trainedantlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Hordewere of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeelingrobots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,their love-life, their everything!     So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strappedon two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked toone another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon theirheads.     For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's braindry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthmanproved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stoppedcompletely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to hisbody and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his torturedbrain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet.     There is nothing more to learn, he informed his impassive comrades.Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My newbody must return to its barbaric household before undue attention isaroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleamingbaubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly.     An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed andpainless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space shipand set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path runninginland to his home.     Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhoodmemories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the placewhere Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure thatold 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance ofthat episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in hispocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach!     He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot onthe sagging boards the screen door burst open and three littleEarth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that hisacquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward fromaround his heart.     Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of thedead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Menhad no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the otherprimitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understandingthe emotions that swept through his acquired memory.     Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood chokedachingly up into his throat.     Lew, dear, Ellen was asking, where have you been all day? I calledup at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know thatSaddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for Reversed Revolversand three other editors asked for shorts soon.  Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn, grunted Thig, and gasped.     For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly hadhe acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciouslyadopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better thisway, he realized—more natural.     Sorry I was late, he said, digging into his pocket for theglittering baubles, but I was poking around on the beach where we usedto hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothingbut a handful of these.     He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,unbelieving, to his arm.     Why, Lew, she gasped, they're worth a fortune! We can buy that newtrailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west rightaway.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys!     Uh huh, agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savagesand gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely hehoped that the west had reformed.     I saved some kraut and weiners, Ellen said. Get washed up while I'mwarming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some fromthe Eskoes. Want coffee, too?     Mmmmmm, came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin.  Home again, whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weekslater and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She kneltbeside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it.     The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful, she wenton as they climbed the steps, but nowhere was there any place asbeautiful as our own little strip of sky and water.     Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from theexposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray carand the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their livingquarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in thechaos of his cool Orthan brain.     Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellowsand report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary forceto wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could belanded. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for theHordes?     Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of thedead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For threemonths he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificedfor reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the headyglory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He hadexperienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue againstthe wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abruptdivision of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborerthought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertaintyadded zest to every day's life.     The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual tothe Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add tothe progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthancivilization had remained static, its energies directed into certainwell-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vastmechanical hives.     There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen hadcaught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneaththem. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in luridred the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush andcactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the sonof Ellen and the man he had destroyed.     Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the betterof his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them toblast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down theroad toward the beach.     The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshlybut they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to thedoor and called after him.     Hurry home, dear, she said. I'll have a bite ready in about an hour.     He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and shewould have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort ofperson when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of ahand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound.     Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through theautumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west thatlived no longer. He mentally titled it: Rustlers' Riot and blockedin the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of thecareless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to besapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would neverbe written, but he toyed with the idea.     So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted fromthe unquestioning worship of the Horde!  You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once.     I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation.     But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort?     Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking.     Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten.     Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha.     Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.     The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them.     Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet.     Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde.     No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde.     Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered.     Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig.  The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of hisweapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thigsuddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A suddenreversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivellingabout full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed downupon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of thedecomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked.     Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foulcorruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicatedmatter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his ownHorde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulledfor the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward thecontrol blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into thenarrowed icy eyes of his commander.     He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against hisskull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waitedstupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and allthe struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboyyarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon.     Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlesslytoward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torpwould ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weaponupon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow....  Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of ahammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. Hewas in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap ofbruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked uponhis skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killedhim with those savage blows upon the head.     Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of hisancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he nowowed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficientlyused the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in hisunconscious body.     Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the controlroom. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodiesthrough the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wonderedwhy he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take culturesof his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsiblefor his sudden madness.     The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Associationof memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rackbeneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of theweapon. He tugged it free.     In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the decktoward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torpscuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalledout into a senseless whinny.     Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black lengthof the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and staredfull into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned therewatching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bittenlips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face andchest. He was a madman!     The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, andnow the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had allserved to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes ofthe Orthan.     So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant madstare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped overthe skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength thatvictory had given him to drive him along.     He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thoughtsobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. Afterall, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinkingof while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all.     He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log andread the last few nervously scrawled lines:       Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease thatstrikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existentthere. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad anddestroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.Already I feel the insidious virus of....       And there his writing ended abruptly.     Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for theplanet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship'spath she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of dangeron 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message.     Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one ofa half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship'shull, and cut free from the mother vessel.     He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets drivinghim from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his newbody was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of theemotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many monthsbefore, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his.        Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of therockets driving him from the parent ship.        He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of thegreat exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was noregret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his firstexistence.     He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of themonotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heartthrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting dayshe had spent on his three month trip over Earth.     He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with atiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. Therocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutchingthe ship echoed through the hull-plates.     He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched theroundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusionthat all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of hisrockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience thatcrowded his mind.     He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first timehe had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleysbelow. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outerspace.     He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slightdifferences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingerstrembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He saida brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt verydeeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memorieswere hot, bitter pains.  Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, heheaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde'screation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of theWest. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry andnow, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family.     The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would bea knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Herdreams and happiness must never be shattered.     The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlinesof Long Island in the growing twilight.     A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about acowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write aboutthem....     He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that!   ","Three aliens from the planet Ortha, Thig, Kam and their Commander, Torp, have landed on Long Island to see if Earth is viable for the Orthans to take over. Thig captures a passing man, an author named Lewis Terry, and brings him back to the spaceship, where Torp decides that Thig should impersonate Terry to learn more about Earth. Terry’s knowledge is transferred to Thig, a process that kills Terry and arms Thig with with all of his memories. He is given plastic surgery to look like Terry, and he goes to live with Terry’s family. He is greeted by Terry’s three young children and his wife, Ellen; the children’s affection and Ellen’s kiss lead to sensations that confuse but excite Thig. The story then jumps ahead 12 weeks to when they return from their vacation, Thig having experienced many new emotions and sensations and having become very attached to Terry’s family. He knows that he must report to his Orthan colleagues, but has misgivings about doing so. Upon his arrival back to the ship, he tells Torp that Earth is ideal for their purposes, and Torp commends him and says he’ll recommend that Ortha take it over and eradicate the humans. Thig suggests that they instead disarm and exile the humans, and train them in the ways of Ortha. Torp responds angrily that they don’t need to waste their time with anyone outside the Orthan “Horde”. He asks Kam to check his blood for disease. Thig realizes that he loves Ellen and wants to protect her and the earthlings and says as much to Kam, who attempts to subdue him. After a struggle over Kam’s blaster, Thig kills him. Torp sees what he has done and flies into the type of rage Orthans don’t ascribe to, bludgeoning Thig until he thinks he is dead. Thig takes a blaster from a case above him and kills Torp. He reads in the ship log that Torp has written that Earth is not viable, because it infected Thig with a disease that led to him killing Kam and made it necessary for Torp to kill him. Thig puts the ship on autopilot toward Ortha, takes one of the small auxiliary ships, and heads back to Earth. He experiences many emotions, and regrets how callous he was when he first arrived on Earth and captured Lewis Terry. He vows to live as Terry in repayment to his family, and thinks knowing that Ellen doesn’t really love him, Thig, will be his punishment while he strives to make her happy. As he heads toward Long Island, the idea for a story develops in his mind. This one is about a cowboy that visits other worlds, worlds like the ones Thig has seen. He thinks maybe he could write this, and then reminds himself to remember that he is Lewis Terry now. "
"Who is Thig and what happens to him throughout the story? </s>     QUEST OF THIG     By BASIL WELLS     Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering     HORDE. He had blasted across trackless space     to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on     Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beachover the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubbyship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across theheaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisinglyaround at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; andstarted toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefullybecause of the lesser gravitation.     Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha hewas well above the average in height—but his body was thick andpowerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his featureswere regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes werea curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he woreno garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support hisrod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.     The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to thelittle-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down towait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was tobring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried spacecruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature'smentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether aplanet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.     Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of themall only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in everyrespect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelopemade of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.     The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of aleafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was coveredwith baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metaland wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.     Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing'sstupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polishedmetal at the reflection of himself!     The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precioustime. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across theintervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clampedacross the mouth and neck of the stranger....  Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that hadground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigiddesolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he wasgoing stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of thatshiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feeblyhe had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn'tdared touch the machine since.     For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had neverbeen further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promisedhis wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself ona trailer tour of the      West     that very summer. Since that promise, hecould not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches andbe-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up outof his subconscious. Yet he      had     to write at least three novelets anda fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the greatadventure—or the trip was off.     So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headedfor his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out asalable yarn....     Hey! he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside theroad. What's the trouble?     Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of thestranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speechand his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The handclamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side ofhis head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more.  There it is, announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the capturedEarthman to the metal deck-plates. It is a male of the species thatmust have built the cities we saw as we landed.     He resembles Thig, announced Kam. But for the strange covering hewears he might be Thig.     Thig will be this creature! announced Torp. With a psychic relay wewill transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge tothe brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world withoutarousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore thetwo inner planets.     You are the commander, said Thig. But I wish this beast did not wearthese clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the useof our limbs so.     Do not question the word of your commander, growled Torp, swellingout his thick chest menacingly. It is for the good of our people thatyou disguise yourself as an Earthman.     For the good of the Horde, Thig intoned almost piously as he liftedTerry's body and headed for the laboratory.     Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefullycultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, theyknew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirelylacking in their early training and later life. They were trainedantlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Hordewere of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeelingrobots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,their love-life, their everything!     So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strappedon two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked toone another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon theirheads.     For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's braindry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthmanproved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stoppedcompletely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to hisbody and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his torturedbrain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet.     There is nothing more to learn, he informed his impassive comrades.Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My newbody must return to its barbaric household before undue attention isaroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleamingbaubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly.     An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed andpainless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space shipand set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path runninginland to his home.     Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhoodmemories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the placewhere Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure thatold 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance ofthat episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in hispocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach!     He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot onthe sagging boards the screen door burst open and three littleEarth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that hisacquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward fromaround his heart.     Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of thedead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Menhad no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the otherprimitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understandingthe emotions that swept through his acquired memory.     Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood chokedachingly up into his throat.     Lew, dear, Ellen was asking, where have you been all day? I calledup at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know thatSaddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for Reversed Revolversand three other editors asked for shorts soon.  Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn, grunted Thig, and gasped.     For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly hadhe acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciouslyadopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better thisway, he realized—more natural.     Sorry I was late, he said, digging into his pocket for theglittering baubles, but I was poking around on the beach where we usedto hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothingbut a handful of these.     He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,unbelieving, to his arm.     Why, Lew, she gasped, they're worth a fortune! We can buy that newtrailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west rightaway.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys!     Uh huh, agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savagesand gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely hehoped that the west had reformed.     I saved some kraut and weiners, Ellen said. Get washed up while I'mwarming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some fromthe Eskoes. Want coffee, too?     Mmmmmm, came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin.  Home again, whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weekslater and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She kneltbeside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it.     The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful, she wenton as they climbed the steps, but nowhere was there any place asbeautiful as our own little strip of sky and water.     Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from theexposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray carand the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their livingquarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in thechaos of his cool Orthan brain.     Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellowsand report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary forceto wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could belanded. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for theHordes?     Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of thedead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For threemonths he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificedfor reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the headyglory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He hadexperienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue againstthe wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abruptdivision of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborerthought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertaintyadded zest to every day's life.     The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual tothe Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add tothe progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthancivilization had remained static, its energies directed into certainwell-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vastmechanical hives.     There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen hadcaught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneaththem. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in luridred the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush andcactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the sonof Ellen and the man he had destroyed.     Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the betterof his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them toblast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down theroad toward the beach.     The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshlybut they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to thedoor and called after him.     Hurry home, dear, she said. I'll have a bite ready in about an hour.     He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and shewould have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort ofperson when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of ahand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound.     Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through theautumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west thatlived no longer. He mentally titled it: Rustlers' Riot and blockedin the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of thecareless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to besapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would neverbe written, but he toyed with the idea.     So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted fromthe unquestioning worship of the Horde!  You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once.     I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation.     But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort?     Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking.     Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten.     Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha.     Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.     The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them.     Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet.     Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde.     No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde.     Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered.     Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig.  The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of hisweapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thigsuddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A suddenreversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivellingabout full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed downupon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of thedecomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked.     Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foulcorruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicatedmatter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his ownHorde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulledfor the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward thecontrol blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into thenarrowed icy eyes of his commander.     He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against hisskull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waitedstupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and allthe struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboyyarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon.     Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlesslytoward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torpwould ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weaponupon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow....  Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of ahammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. Hewas in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap ofbruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked uponhis skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killedhim with those savage blows upon the head.     Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of hisancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he nowowed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficientlyused the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in hisunconscious body.     Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the controlroom. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodiesthrough the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wonderedwhy he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take culturesof his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsiblefor his sudden madness.     The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Associationof memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rackbeneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of theweapon. He tugged it free.     In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the decktoward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torpscuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalledout into a senseless whinny.     Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black lengthof the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and staredfull into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned therewatching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bittenlips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face andchest. He was a madman!     The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, andnow the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had allserved to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes ofthe Orthan.     So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant madstare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped overthe skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength thatvictory had given him to drive him along.     He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thoughtsobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. Afterall, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinkingof while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all.     He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log andread the last few nervously scrawled lines:       Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease thatstrikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existentthere. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad anddestroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.Already I feel the insidious virus of....       And there his writing ended abruptly.     Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for theplanet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship'spath she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of dangeron 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message.     Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one ofa half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship'shull, and cut free from the mother vessel.     He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets drivinghim from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his newbody was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of theemotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many monthsbefore, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his.        Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of therockets driving him from the parent ship.        He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of thegreat exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was noregret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his firstexistence.     He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of themonotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heartthrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting dayshe had spent on his three month trip over Earth.     He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with atiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. Therocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutchingthe ship echoed through the hull-plates.     He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched theroundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusionthat all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of hisrockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience thatcrowded his mind.     He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first timehe had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleysbelow. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outerspace.     He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slightdifferences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingerstrembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He saida brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt verydeeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memorieswere hot, bitter pains.  Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, heheaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde'screation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of theWest. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry andnow, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family.     The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would bea knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Herdreams and happiness must never be shattered.     The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlinesof Long Island in the growing twilight.     A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about acowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write aboutthem....     He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that!   ","Thig is the protagonist of the story, a native of the planet Ortha. He is described as shorter than an average human man (though tall for an Orthan man), and thick-bodied with well-developed muscles, average-to-large facial features, and reddish brown eyes. At the beginning of the story, he and two other Orthans, Kam and Torp, are on a mission to find planets considered viable for the Orthans to take over. Thig kidnaps a human man, Lewis Terry, and the Orthans transfer his memories to Thig and surgically alter him to look like Terry. Thig assumes his identity and joins his family posing as Terry. He begins to feel new sensations and emotions around Terry’s wife, Ellen, and their kids, and travels with them on a three-month vacation during which he learns what it feels like to be human and to care for a family. When they return and he must make his report to the other Orthans, he truthfully reports that Earth would be ideal to take over but has second thoughts when Torp says he’ll recommend that they conquer Earth and decimate the population. When his pleas to consider just disarming and exiling the humans are met with scorn, Thig becomes angry and ultimately realizes that he loves Ellen and wants to go back to save Earth. He kills both of his Orthan colleagues and sends the ship back toward Ortha as he takes an auxiliary ship back to Long Island. Along the way, he experiences many emotions including regret for his former callousness and taking Lewis Terry away from his family. Instead of the robotic being who initially exhibited coldness and indifference at the beginning of the story, he now experiences remorse and selflessness as he decides to give Ellen and the kids the life they deserve even though he’ll always know who he is and what he has done. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     QUEST OF THIG     By BASIL WELLS     Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering     HORDE. He had blasted across trackless space     to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on     Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beachover the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubbyship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across theheaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisinglyaround at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; andstarted toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefullybecause of the lesser gravitation.     Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha hewas well above the average in height—but his body was thick andpowerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his featureswere regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes werea curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he woreno garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support hisrod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.     The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to thelittle-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down towait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was tobring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried spacecruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature'smentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether aplanet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.     Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of themall only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in everyrespect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelopemade of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.     The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of aleafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was coveredwith baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metaland wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.     Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing'sstupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polishedmetal at the reflection of himself!     The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precioustime. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across theintervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clampedacross the mouth and neck of the stranger....  Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that hadground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigiddesolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he wasgoing stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of thatshiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feeblyhe had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn'tdared touch the machine since.     For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had neverbeen further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promisedhis wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself ona trailer tour of the      West     that very summer. Since that promise, hecould not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches andbe-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up outof his subconscious. Yet he      had     to write at least three novelets anda fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the greatadventure—or the trip was off.     So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headedfor his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out asalable yarn....     Hey! he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside theroad. What's the trouble?     Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of thestranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speechand his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The handclamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side ofhis head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more.  There it is, announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the capturedEarthman to the metal deck-plates. It is a male of the species thatmust have built the cities we saw as we landed.     He resembles Thig, announced Kam. But for the strange covering hewears he might be Thig.     Thig will be this creature! announced Torp. With a psychic relay wewill transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge tothe brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world withoutarousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore thetwo inner planets.     You are the commander, said Thig. But I wish this beast did not wearthese clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the useof our limbs so.     Do not question the word of your commander, growled Torp, swellingout his thick chest menacingly. It is for the good of our people thatyou disguise yourself as an Earthman.     For the good of the Horde, Thig intoned almost piously as he liftedTerry's body and headed for the laboratory.     Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefullycultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, theyknew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirelylacking in their early training and later life. They were trainedantlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Hordewere of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeelingrobots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,their love-life, their everything!     So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strappedon two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked toone another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon theirheads.     For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's braindry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthmanproved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stoppedcompletely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to hisbody and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his torturedbrain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet.     There is nothing more to learn, he informed his impassive comrades.Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My newbody must return to its barbaric household before undue attention isaroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleamingbaubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly.     An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed andpainless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space shipand set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path runninginland to his home.     Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhoodmemories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the placewhere Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure thatold 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance ofthat episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in hispocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach!     He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot onthe sagging boards the screen door burst open and three littleEarth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that hisacquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward fromaround his heart.     Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of thedead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Menhad no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the otherprimitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understandingthe emotions that swept through his acquired memory.     Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood chokedachingly up into his throat.     Lew, dear, Ellen was asking, where have you been all day? I calledup at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know thatSaddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for Reversed Revolversand three other editors asked for shorts soon.  Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn, grunted Thig, and gasped.     For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly hadhe acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciouslyadopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better thisway, he realized—more natural.     Sorry I was late, he said, digging into his pocket for theglittering baubles, but I was poking around on the beach where we usedto hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothingbut a handful of these.     He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,unbelieving, to his arm.     Why, Lew, she gasped, they're worth a fortune! We can buy that newtrailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west rightaway.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys!     Uh huh, agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savagesand gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely hehoped that the west had reformed.     I saved some kraut and weiners, Ellen said. Get washed up while I'mwarming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some fromthe Eskoes. Want coffee, too?     Mmmmmm, came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin.  Home again, whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weekslater and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She kneltbeside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it.     The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful, she wenton as they climbed the steps, but nowhere was there any place asbeautiful as our own little strip of sky and water.     Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from theexposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray carand the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their livingquarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in thechaos of his cool Orthan brain.     Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellowsand report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary forceto wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could belanded. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for theHordes?     Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of thedead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For threemonths he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificedfor reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the headyglory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He hadexperienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue againstthe wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abruptdivision of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborerthought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertaintyadded zest to every day's life.     The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual tothe Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add tothe progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthancivilization had remained static, its energies directed into certainwell-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vastmechanical hives.     There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen hadcaught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneaththem. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in luridred the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush andcactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the sonof Ellen and the man he had destroyed.     Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the betterof his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them toblast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down theroad toward the beach.     The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshlybut they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to thedoor and called after him.     Hurry home, dear, she said. I'll have a bite ready in about an hour.     He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and shewould have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort ofperson when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of ahand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound.     Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through theautumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west thatlived no longer. He mentally titled it: Rustlers' Riot and blockedin the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of thecareless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to besapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would neverbe written, but he toyed with the idea.     So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted fromthe unquestioning worship of the Horde!  You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once.     I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation.     But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort?     Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking.     Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten.     Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha.     Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.     The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them.     Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet.     Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde.     No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde.     Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered.     Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig.  The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of hisweapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thigsuddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A suddenreversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivellingabout full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed downupon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of thedecomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked.     Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foulcorruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicatedmatter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his ownHorde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulledfor the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward thecontrol blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into thenarrowed icy eyes of his commander.     He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against hisskull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waitedstupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and allthe struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboyyarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon.     Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlesslytoward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torpwould ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weaponupon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow....  Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of ahammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. Hewas in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap ofbruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked uponhis skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killedhim with those savage blows upon the head.     Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of hisancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he nowowed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficientlyused the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in hisunconscious body.     Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the controlroom. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodiesthrough the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wonderedwhy he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take culturesof his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsiblefor his sudden madness.     The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Associationof memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rackbeneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of theweapon. He tugged it free.     In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the decktoward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torpscuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalledout into a senseless whinny.     Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black lengthof the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and staredfull into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned therewatching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bittenlips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face andchest. He was a madman!     The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, andnow the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had allserved to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes ofthe Orthan.     So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant madstare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped overthe skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength thatvictory had given him to drive him along.     He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thoughtsobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. Afterall, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinkingof while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all.     He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log andread the last few nervously scrawled lines:       Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease thatstrikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existentthere. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad anddestroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.Already I feel the insidious virus of....       And there his writing ended abruptly.     Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for theplanet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship'spath she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of dangeron 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message.     Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one ofa half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship'shull, and cut free from the mother vessel.     He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets drivinghim from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his newbody was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of theemotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many monthsbefore, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his.        Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of therockets driving him from the parent ship.        He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of thegreat exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was noregret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his firstexistence.     He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of themonotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heartthrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting dayshe had spent on his three month trip over Earth.     He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with atiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. Therocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutchingthe ship echoed through the hull-plates.     He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched theroundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusionthat all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of hisrockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience thatcrowded his mind.     He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first timehe had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleysbelow. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outerspace.     He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slightdifferences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingerstrembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He saida brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt verydeeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memorieswere hot, bitter pains.  Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, heheaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde'screation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of theWest. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry andnow, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family.     The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would bea knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Herdreams and happiness must never be shattered.     The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlinesof Long Island in the growing twilight.     A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about acowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write aboutthem....     He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that!   ","The story is set in multiple locations, including Long Island, New York, an Orthan spaceship and smaller auxiliary ship, parts of the American West, and outer space. The ship from Ortha lands on Long Island in New York, and this is where Thig captures Lewis Terry and takes him to the Orthans’ spaceship, before settling in with his family, posing as Terry. This area of Long Island is near the beach and the sound, and is described as lush and green. The Terry family lives in a small grey house that is somewhat run down. While we don’t travel out west on the Terry family vacation, we do experience bits of it in Thig’s memory, including the Grand Canyon in Arizona and unspecified desert terrain. The story then takes us back to the ship, and a small laboratory aboard the ship, and then inside a smaller ship as it heads back to Long Island. "
"How do the ways of Ortha differ from those Thig discovers on Earth? </s>     QUEST OF THIG     By BASIL WELLS     Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering     HORDE. He had blasted across trackless space     to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on     Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beachover the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubbyship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across theheaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisinglyaround at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; andstarted toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefullybecause of the lesser gravitation.     Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha hewas well above the average in height—but his body was thick andpowerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his featureswere regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes werea curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he woreno garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support hisrod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.     The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to thelittle-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down towait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was tobring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried spacecruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature'smentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether aplanet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.     Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of themall only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in everyrespect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelopemade of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.     The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of aleafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was coveredwith baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metaland wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.     Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing'sstupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polishedmetal at the reflection of himself!     The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precioustime. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across theintervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clampedacross the mouth and neck of the stranger....  Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that hadground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigiddesolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he wasgoing stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of thatshiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feeblyhe had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn'tdared touch the machine since.     For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had neverbeen further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promisedhis wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself ona trailer tour of the      West     that very summer. Since that promise, hecould not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches andbe-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up outof his subconscious. Yet he      had     to write at least three novelets anda fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the greatadventure—or the trip was off.     So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headedfor his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out asalable yarn....     Hey! he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside theroad. What's the trouble?     Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of thestranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speechand his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The handclamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side ofhis head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more.  There it is, announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the capturedEarthman to the metal deck-plates. It is a male of the species thatmust have built the cities we saw as we landed.     He resembles Thig, announced Kam. But for the strange covering hewears he might be Thig.     Thig will be this creature! announced Torp. With a psychic relay wewill transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge tothe brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world withoutarousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore thetwo inner planets.     You are the commander, said Thig. But I wish this beast did not wearthese clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the useof our limbs so.     Do not question the word of your commander, growled Torp, swellingout his thick chest menacingly. It is for the good of our people thatyou disguise yourself as an Earthman.     For the good of the Horde, Thig intoned almost piously as he liftedTerry's body and headed for the laboratory.     Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefullycultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, theyknew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirelylacking in their early training and later life. They were trainedantlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Hordewere of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeelingrobots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,their love-life, their everything!     So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strappedon two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked toone another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon theirheads.     For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's braindry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthmanproved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stoppedcompletely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to hisbody and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his torturedbrain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet.     There is nothing more to learn, he informed his impassive comrades.Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My newbody must return to its barbaric household before undue attention isaroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleamingbaubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly.     An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed andpainless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space shipand set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path runninginland to his home.     Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhoodmemories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the placewhere Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure thatold 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance ofthat episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in hispocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach!     He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot onthe sagging boards the screen door burst open and three littleEarth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that hisacquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward fromaround his heart.     Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of thedead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Menhad no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the otherprimitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understandingthe emotions that swept through his acquired memory.     Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood chokedachingly up into his throat.     Lew, dear, Ellen was asking, where have you been all day? I calledup at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know thatSaddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for Reversed Revolversand three other editors asked for shorts soon.  Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn, grunted Thig, and gasped.     For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly hadhe acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciouslyadopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better thisway, he realized—more natural.     Sorry I was late, he said, digging into his pocket for theglittering baubles, but I was poking around on the beach where we usedto hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothingbut a handful of these.     He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,unbelieving, to his arm.     Why, Lew, she gasped, they're worth a fortune! We can buy that newtrailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west rightaway.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys!     Uh huh, agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savagesand gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely hehoped that the west had reformed.     I saved some kraut and weiners, Ellen said. Get washed up while I'mwarming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some fromthe Eskoes. Want coffee, too?     Mmmmmm, came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin.  Home again, whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weekslater and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She kneltbeside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it.     The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful, she wenton as they climbed the steps, but nowhere was there any place asbeautiful as our own little strip of sky and water.     Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from theexposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray carand the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their livingquarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in thechaos of his cool Orthan brain.     Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellowsand report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary forceto wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could belanded. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for theHordes?     Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of thedead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For threemonths he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificedfor reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the headyglory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He hadexperienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue againstthe wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abruptdivision of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborerthought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertaintyadded zest to every day's life.     The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual tothe Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add tothe progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthancivilization had remained static, its energies directed into certainwell-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vastmechanical hives.     There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen hadcaught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneaththem. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in luridred the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush andcactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the sonof Ellen and the man he had destroyed.     Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the betterof his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them toblast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down theroad toward the beach.     The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshlybut they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to thedoor and called after him.     Hurry home, dear, she said. I'll have a bite ready in about an hour.     He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and shewould have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort ofperson when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of ahand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound.     Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through theautumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west thatlived no longer. He mentally titled it: Rustlers' Riot and blockedin the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of thecareless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to besapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would neverbe written, but he toyed with the idea.     So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted fromthe unquestioning worship of the Horde!  You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once.     I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation.     But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort?     Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking.     Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten.     Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha.     Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.     The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them.     Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet.     Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde.     No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde.     Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered.     Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig.  The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of hisweapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thigsuddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A suddenreversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivellingabout full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed downupon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of thedecomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked.     Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foulcorruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicatedmatter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his ownHorde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulledfor the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward thecontrol blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into thenarrowed icy eyes of his commander.     He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against hisskull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waitedstupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and allthe struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboyyarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon.     Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlesslytoward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torpwould ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weaponupon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow....  Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of ahammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. Hewas in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap ofbruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked uponhis skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killedhim with those savage blows upon the head.     Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of hisancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he nowowed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficientlyused the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in hisunconscious body.     Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the controlroom. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodiesthrough the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wonderedwhy he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take culturesof his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsiblefor his sudden madness.     The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Associationof memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rackbeneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of theweapon. He tugged it free.     In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the decktoward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torpscuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalledout into a senseless whinny.     Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black lengthof the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and staredfull into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned therewatching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bittenlips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face andchest. He was a madman!     The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, andnow the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had allserved to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes ofthe Orthan.     So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant madstare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped overthe skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength thatvictory had given him to drive him along.     He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thoughtsobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. Afterall, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinkingof while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all.     He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log andread the last few nervously scrawled lines:       Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease thatstrikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existentthere. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad anddestroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.Already I feel the insidious virus of....       And there his writing ended abruptly.     Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for theplanet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship'spath she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of dangeron 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message.     Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one ofa half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship'shull, and cut free from the mother vessel.     He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets drivinghim from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his newbody was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of theemotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many monthsbefore, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his.        Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of therockets driving him from the parent ship.        He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of thegreat exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was noregret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his firstexistence.     He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of themonotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heartthrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting dayshe had spent on his three month trip over Earth.     He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with atiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. Therocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutchingthe ship echoed through the hull-plates.     He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched theroundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusionthat all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of hisrockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience thatcrowded his mind.     He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first timehe had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleysbelow. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outerspace.     He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slightdifferences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingerstrembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He saida brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt verydeeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memorieswere hot, bitter pains.  Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, heheaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde'screation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of theWest. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry andnow, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family.     The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would bea knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Herdreams and happiness must never be shattered.     The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlinesof Long Island in the growing twilight.     A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about acowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write aboutthem....     He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that!   ","The society on Ortha has discarded what they consider to be primal or barbaric tendencies and customs. Their children are raised in laboratories never knowing their parents and are not shown love or affection. They are taught to value loyalty to the Orthan “Hordes” over everything, and to believe that they are entitled to anything in the universe that they desire, with no regard to those outside the Hordes. They don’t have mates or have sex, though they do walk around naked. Free thought and primal urges are discouraged, and Orthan society has attempted to filter out any behavior they consider to be barbaric in favor of a robotic, obedient populace. By contrast, Thig discovers that humans feel the full gamut of emotions, think for themselves, and feel empathy rather than the dispassionate callousness Ortha demands. "
"Who is Ellen and how does she affect Thig and his choices? </s>     QUEST OF THIG     By BASIL WELLS     Thig of Ortha was the vanguard of the conquering     HORDE. He had blasted across trackless space     to subdue a defenseless world—only to meet on     Earth emotions that were more deadly than weapons.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1942.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Thig carefully smoothed the dark sand and seaweed of the lonely beachover the metal lid of the flexible ringed tunnel that linked the grubbyship from another planet with the upper air. He looked out across theheaving waters of the Sound toward Connecticut. He stared appraisinglyaround at the luxuriant green growth of foliage further inland; andstarted toward the little stretch of trees and brush, walking carefullybecause of the lesser gravitation.     Thig was shorter than the average Earthman—although on Ortha hewas well above the average in height—but his body was thick andpowerfully muscled. His skull was well-shaped and large; his featureswere regular, perhaps a trifle oversize, and his hair and eyes werea curiously matching blend of reddish brown. Oddest of all, he woreno garments, other than the necessary belt and straps to support hisrod-like weapon of white metal and his pouches for food and specimens.     The Orthan entered the narrow strip of trees and crossed to thelittle-used highway on the other side. Here he patiently sat down towait for an Earthman or an Earthwoman to pass. His task now was tobring a native, intact if possible, back to the carefully buried spacecruiser where his two fellows and himself would drain the creature'smentality of all its knowledge. In this way they could learn whether aplanet was suited for colonization by later swarms of Orthans.     Already they had charted over a hundred celestial bodies but of themall only three had proven worthy of consideration. This latest planet,however, 72-P-3 on the chart, appeared to be an ideal world in everyrespect. Sunlight, plenty of water and a dense atmospheric envelopemade of 72-P-3 a paradise among planets.     The explorer from another world crouched into the concealment of aleafy shrub. A creature was approaching. Its squat body was coveredwith baggy strips of bluish cloth and it carried a jointed rod of metaland wood in its paw. It walked upright as did the men of Ortha.     Thig's cold eyes opened a trifle wider as he stared into the thing'sstupid face. It was as though he was looking into a bit of polishedmetal at the reflection of himself!     The Earthman was opposite now and he must waste no more precioustime. The mighty muscles of the Orthan sent him hurtling across theintervening space in two prodigious bounds, and his hands clampedacross the mouth and neck of the stranger....  Lewis Terry was going fishing. For a week the typewriter mill that hadground out a thousand assorted yarns of the untamed West and the frigiddesolation of the Northwoods had been silent. Lewis wondered if he wasgoing stale. He had sat every day for eight hours in front of thatshiny-buttoned bane of the typist, but there were no results. Feeblyhe had punched a key two days ago and a $ sign had appeared. He hadn'tdared touch the machine since.     For Mr. Terry, that hard-hitting writer of two-gun action, had neverbeen further west of Long Island than Elizabeth, and he had promisedhis wife, Ellen, that he would take the three children and herself ona trailer tour of the      West     that very summer. Since that promise, hecould not write a word. Visions of whooping red-skinned Apaches andbe-chapped outlaws raiding his little trailer home kept rolling up outof his subconscious. Yet he      had     to write at least three novelets anda fistful of short stories in the next two weeks to finance the greatadventure—or the trip was off.     So Lewis left the weathered old cottage in the early dawn and headedfor his tubby old boat at the landing in an attempt to work out asalable yarn....     Hey! he shouted as a naked man sprang out of the bushes beside theroad. What's the trouble?     Then he had no time for further speech, the massive arms of thestranger had wound around him and two hamlike hands shut off his speechand his wind. He fought futilely against trained muscles. The handclamping his throat relaxed for a moment and hacked along the side ofhis head. Blackness flooded the brain of Lewis, and he knew no more.  There it is, announced Thig, dropping the limp body of the capturedEarthman to the metal deck-plates. It is a male of the species thatmust have built the cities we saw as we landed.     He resembles Thig, announced Kam. But for the strange covering hewears he might be Thig.     Thig will be this creature! announced Torp. With a psychic relay wewill transfer the Earthman's memories and meager store of knowledge tothe brain of Thig! He can then go out and scout this world withoutarousing suspicion. While he is gone, I will take Kam and explore thetwo inner planets.     You are the commander, said Thig. But I wish this beast did not wearthese clumsy sheathing upon his body. On Ortha we do not hamper the useof our limbs so.     Do not question the word of your commander, growled Torp, swellingout his thick chest menacingly. It is for the good of our people thatyou disguise yourself as an Earthman.     For the good of the Horde, Thig intoned almost piously as he liftedTerry's body and headed for the laboratory.     Service for the Horde was all that the men of Ortha knew. Carefullycultured and brought to life in the laboratories of their Horde, theyknew neither father nor mother. Affection and love were entirelylacking in their early training and later life. They were trainedantlike from childhood that only the growth and power of the Hordewere of any moment. Men and women alike toiled and died like unfeelingrobots of flesh and bone for the Horde. The Horde was their religion,their love-life, their everything!     So it was that the bodies of the Earthman and the Orthan were strappedon two parallel tables of chill metal and the twin helmets, linked toone another by the intricacies of the psychic relay, put upon theirheads.     For ten hours or more the droning hum of the relay sucked Terry's braindry of knowledge. The shock upon the nervous system of the Earthmanproved too violent and his heart faltered after a time and stoppedcompletely. Twice, with subtle drugs they restored pseudo-life to hisbody and kept the electrical impulses throbbing from his torturedbrain, but after the third suspension of life Thig removed his helmet.     There is nothing more to learn, he informed his impassive comrades.Now, let us get on with the plastic surgery that is required. My newbody must return to its barbaric household before undue attention isaroused. And when I return I will take along some of the gleamingbaubles we found on the red planet—these people value them highly.     An hour later, his scars and altered cartilage already healed andpainless, Thig again scraped sand over the entrance to the space shipand set out along the moonlit beach toward the nearest path runninginland to his home.     Memory was laying the country bare about him, Terry's own childhoodmemories of this particular section of Long Island. Here was the placewhere Jake and Ted had helped him dig for the buried treasure thatold 'Notch-ear' Beggs had told them so exactly about. Remembrance ofthat episode gave Thig an idea about the little lump of jewels in hispocket. He had found them in a chest along the beach!     He was coming up on the porch now and at the sound of his foot onthe sagging boards the screen door burst open and three littleEarth-creatures were hugging at his legs. An odd sensation, that hisacquired memories labeled as pleasure, sent a warm glow upward fromaround his heart.     Then he saw the slender red-haired shape of a woman, the mate of thedead man he knew, and confusion struck his well-trained brain. Menhad no mates on Ortha, sex had been overthrown with all the otherprimitive impulses of barbarism; so he was incapable of understandingthe emotions that swept through his acquired memory.     Unsteadily he took her in his arms and felt her warm lips pressed,trembling, against his own. That same hot wave of pulsing blood chokedachingly up into his throat.     Lew, dear, Ellen was asking, where have you been all day? I calledup at the landing but you were not there. I wanted to let you know thatSaddlebag Publications sent a check for $50 for Reversed Revolversand three other editors asked for shorts soon.  Shoulda got a hundred bucks for that yarn, grunted Thig, and gasped.     For the moment he had been Lewis Terry and not Thig! So thoroughly hadhe acquired the knowledge of Terry that he found himself unconsciouslyadopting the thinking and mannerism of the other. All the better thisway, he realized—more natural.     Sorry I was late, he said, digging into his pocket for theglittering baubles, but I was poking around on the beach where we usedto hunt treasure and I found an old chest. Inside it I found nothingbut a handful of these.     He flashed the jewels in front of Ellen's startled eyes and she clung,unbelieving, to his arm.     Why, Lew, she gasped, they're worth a fortune! We can buy that newtrailer now and have a rebuilt motor in the car. We can go west rightaway.... Hollywood, the Grand Canyon, cowboys!     Uh huh, agreed the pseudo Lewis, memories of the ferocious savagesand gunmen of his stories rendering him acutely unhappy. Sincerely hehoped that the west had reformed.     I saved some kraut and weiners, Ellen said. Get washed up while I'mwarming them up. Kids ate all the bread so I had to borrow some fromthe Eskoes. Want coffee, too?     Mmmmmm, came from the depths of the chipped white wash-basin.  Home again, whispered Ellen as she stood beside Thig twelve weekslater and gazed tearfully at the weathered little gray house. She kneltbeside the front stoop and reached for the key hidden beneath it.     The west was wonderful; tremendous, vast and beautiful, she wenton as they climbed the steps, but nowhere was there any place asbeautiful as our own little strip of sky and water.     Thig sank into a dusty old swing that hung on creaking chains from theexposed rafters of the porch roof. He looked down at the dusty gray carand the bulbous silvery bulk of the trailer that had been their livingquarters for almost three months. Strange thoughts were afloat in thechaos of his cool Orthan brain.     Tonight or tomorrow night at the latest he must contact his two fellowsand report that Earth was a planetary paradise. No other world,including Ortha, was so well-favored and rich. An expeditionary forceto wipe the grotesque civilizations of Earth out of existence would,of course, be necessary before the first units of new Hordes could belanded. And there Thig balked. Why must they destroy these people,imperfect though their civilization might be, to make room for theHordes?     Thig tried to tell himself that it was the transmitted thoughts of thedead Earthman that made him feel so, but he was not too sure. For threemonths he had lived with people who loved, hated, wept and sacrificedfor reasons that he had never known existed. He had learned the headyglory of thinking for himself and making his own decisions. He hadexperienced the primitive joy of matching his wits and tongue againstthe wits of other unpredictable human beings. There was no abruptdivision of men and women into definite classes of endeavor. A laborerthought the same thoughts that a governor might think. Uncertaintyadded zest to every day's life.     The Orthan had come to question the sole devotion of the individual tothe Horde to the exclusion of all other interests. What, he wondered,would one new world—or a hundred—populated by the Hordes add tothe progress of humanity? For a hundred thousand years the Orthancivilization had remained static, its energies directed into certainwell-defined channels. They were mindless bees maintaining their vastmechanical hives.     There was that moment on the brink of the Grand Canyon when Ellen hadcaught his arm breathlessly at all the beauty spread away there beneaththem. There were mornings in the desert when the sun painted in luridred the peaks above the harsh black-and-whites of the sagebrush andcactus slopes. There was the little boy, his body burning with fever,who nestled trustingly against his tense man's body and slept—the sonof Ellen and the man he had destroyed.     Thig groaned. He was a weakling to let sentimentality so get the betterof his judgment. He would go now to the space ship and urge them toblast off for Ortha. He sprang off the porch and strode away down theroad toward the beach.     The children ran to him; wanted to go along. He sent them away harshlybut they smiled and waved their brown little hands. Ellen came to thedoor and called after him.     Hurry home, dear, she said. I'll have a bite ready in about an hour.     He dared not say anything, for his voice would have broken and shewould have known something was wrong. She was a very wise sort ofperson when something was troubling him. He waved his stubby paw of ahand to show that he had heard, and blindly hurried toward the Sound.     Oddly enough, as he hurried away along the narrow path through theautumn woods, his mind busied itself with a new epic of the west thatlived no longer. He mentally titled it: Rustlers' Riot and blockedin the outlines of his plot. One section of his brain was that of thecareless author of gunslinging yarns, a section that seemed to besapping the life from his own brain. He knew that the story would neverbe written, but he toyed with the idea.     So far had Thig the emotionless, robot-being from Ortha drifted fromthe unquestioning worship of the Horde!  You have done well, announced Torp when Thig had completed his reporton the resources and temperatures of various sections of Terra. We nowhave located three worlds fit for colonization and so we will return toOrtha at once.     I will recommend the conquest of this planet, 72-P-3 at once and thecomplete destruction of all biped life upon it. The mental aberrationsof the barbaric natives might lead to endless complications if theywere permitted to exist outside our ordered way of life. I imagine thatthree circuits of the planet about its primary should prove sufficientfor the purposes of complete liquidation.     But why, asked Thig slowly, could we not disarm all the natives andexile them on one of the less desirable continents, Antarctica forexample or Siberia? They are primitive humans even as our race was oncea race of primitives. It is not our duty to help to attain our owndegree of knowledge and comfort?     Only the good of the Horde matters! shouted Torp angrily. Shall arace of feeble-witted beasts, such as these Earthmen, stand in the wayof a superior race? We want their world, and so we will take it. TheLaw of the Horde states that all the universe is ours for the taking.     Let us get back to Ortha at once, then, gritted out Thig savagely.Never again do I wish to set foot upon the soil of this mad planet.There are forces at work upon Earth that we of Ortha have longforgotten.     Check the blood of Thig for disease, Kam, ordered Torp shortly. Hiswords are highly irrational. Some form of fever perhaps native to thisworld. While you examine him I will blast off for Ortha.     Thig followed Kam into the tiny laboratory and found a seat beside thesquat scientist's desk. His eyes roamed over the familiar instrumentsand gauges, each in its own precise position in the cases along thewalls. His gaze lingered longest on the stubby black ugliness ofa decomposition blaster in its rack close to the deck. A blast ofthe invisible radiations from that weapon's hot throat and flesh orvegetable fiber rotted into flaky ashes.     The ship trembled beneath their feet; it tore free from the feebleclutch of the sand about it, and they were rocketing skyward. Thig'sbroad fingers bit deep into the unyielding metal of his chair. Suddenlyhe knew that he must go back to Earth, back to Ellen and the childrenof the man he had helped destroy. He loved Ellen, and nothing muststand between them! The Hordes of Ortha must find some other world, anempty world—this planet was not for them.     Turn back! he cried wildly. I must go back to Earth. There is awoman there, helpless and alone, who needs me! The Horde does not needthis planet.     Kam eyed him coldly and lifted a shining hypodermic syringe from itscase. He approached Thig warily, aware that disease often made a maniacof the finest members of the Horde.     No human being is more important than the Horde, he stated baldly.This woman of whom you speak is merely one unit of the millions wemust eliminate for the good of the Horde.     Then it was that Thig went berserk. His fists slashed into the thickjaw of the scientist and his fingers ripped at the hard cords overlyingthe Orthan's vital throat tubes. His fingers and thumb gouged deep intoKam's startled throat and choked off any cry for assistance before itcould be uttered.     Kam's hand swept down to the holster swung from his intricate harnessand dragged his blaster from it. Thig's other hand clamped over his andfor long moments they swayed there, locked together in silent deadlystruggle. The fate of a world hung in the balance as Kam's other handfought against that lone arm of Thig.  The scales swung in favor of Kam. Slowly the flaring snout of hisweapon tilted upward until it reached the level of Thig's waist. Thigsuddenly released his grip and dragged his enemy toward him. A suddenreversal of pressure on Kam's gun hand sent the weapon swivellingabout full upon its owner's thick torso. Thig's fingers pressed downupon Kam's button finger, down upon the stud set into the grip of thedecomposition blaster, and Kam's muscles turned to water. He shrieked.     Before Thig's eyes half of his comrade's body sloughed away into foulcorruption that swiftly gave way to hardened blobs of dessicatedmatter. Horror for what he had done—that he had slain one of his ownHorde—made his limbs move woodenly. All of his thoughts were dulledfor the moment. Painfully slow, he turned his body around toward thecontrol blister, turned around on leaden feet, to look full into thenarrowed icy eyes of his commander.     He saw the heavy barrel of the blaster slashing down against hisskull but he could not swing a fraction of an inch out of the way.His body seemed paralyzed. This was the end, he thought as he waitedstupidly for the blow to fall, the end for Ellen and the kids and allthe struggling races of Earth. He would never write another cowboyyarn—they would all be dead anyhow soon.     Then a thunderclap exploded against his head and he dropped endlesslytoward the deck. Blows rained against his skull. He wondered if Torpwould ever cease to hammer at him and turn the deadly ray of the weaponupon him. Blood throbbed and pounded with every blow....  Bam, Bam, Bam, the blood pounded in his ears. Like repeated blows of ahammer they shook his booming head. No longer was Torp above him. Hewas in the corner of the laboratory, a crumpled blood-smeared heap ofbruised flesh and bone. He was unfettered and the blood was caked uponhis skull and in his matted hair. Torp must have thought he had killedhim with those savage blows upon the head.     Even Torp, thought Thig ruefully, gave way to the primitive rage of hisancestors at times; but to that very bit of unconscious atavism he nowowed his life. A cool-headed robot of an Orthan would have efficientlyused the blaster to destroy any possibility of remaining life in hisunconscious body.     Thig rolled slowly over so that his eye found the door into the controlroom. Torp would be coming back again to dispose of their bodiesthrough the refuse lock. Already the body of Kam was gone. He wonderedwhy he had been left until last. Perhaps Torp wished to take culturesof his blood and tissues to determine whether a disease was responsiblefor his sudden madness.     The cases of fragile instruments were just above his head. Associationof memories brought him the flash of the heavy blaster in its rackbeneath them. His hand went up and felt the welcome hardness of theweapon. He tugged it free.     In a moment he was on his knees crawling across the plates of the decktoward the door. Halfway across the floor he collapsed on his face,the metal of the gun making a harsh clang. He heard the feet of Torpscuffle out of silence and a choked cry in the man's throat squalledout into a senseless whinny.     Thig raised himself up on a quivering elbow and slid the black lengthof the blaster in front of him. His eyes sought the doorway and staredfull into the glaring vacant orbs of his commander. Torp leaned therewatching him, his breath gurgling brokenly through his deep-bittenlips. The clawing marks of nails, fingernails, furrowed his face andchest. He was a madman!     The deadly attack of Thig; his own violent avenging of Kam's death, andnow the apparent return of the man he had killed come to life had allserved to jolt his rigidly trained brain from its accustomed groove.The shock had been too much for the established thought-processes ofthe Orthan.     So Thig shot him where he stood, mercifully, before that vacant madstare set him, too, to gibbering and shrieking. Then he stepped overthe skeleton-thing that had been Torp, using the new strength thatvictory had given him to drive him along.     He had saved a world's civilization from extinction! The thoughtsobered him; yet, somehow, he was pleased that he had done so. Afterall, it had been the Earthwoman and the children he had been thinkingof while he battled Kam, a selfish desire to protect them all.     He went to the desk where Torp had been writing in the ship's log andread the last few nervously scrawled lines:       Planet 72-P-3 unfit for colonization. Some pernicious disease thatstrikes at the brain centers and causes violent insanity is existentthere. Thig, just returned from a survey of the planet, went mad anddestroyed Kam. In turn I was forced to slay him. But it is not ended.Already I feel the insidious virus of....       And there his writing ended abruptly.     Thig nodded. That would do it. He set the automatic pilot for theplanet Ortha. Unless a rogue asteroid or a comet crossed the ship'spath she would return safely to Ortha with that mute warning of dangeron 72-P-3. The body of Torp would help to confirm his final message.     Then Thig crossed the cabin to the auxiliary life boat there, one ofa half-dozen space ships in miniature nested within the great ship'shull, and cut free from the mother vessel.     He flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of the rockets drivinghim from the parent ship. The sensation of free flight against his newbody was strangely exhilerating and heady. It was the newest of theemotions he had experienced on Earth since that day, so many monthsbefore, when he had felt the warmness of Ellen's lips tight against his.        Thig flipped the drive lever, felt the thrumming of therockets driving him from the parent ship.        He swung about to the port, watched the flaming drive-rockets of thegreat exploratory ship hurl it toward far-away Ortha, and there was noregret in his mind that he was not returning to the planet of his firstexistence.     He thought of the dull greys and blacks of his planet, of themonotonous routine of existence that had once been his—and his heartthrilled to the memories of the starry nights and perfect exciting dayshe had spent on his three month trip over Earth.     He made a brief salute to the existence he had known, turned with atiny sigh, and his fingers made brief adjustments in the controls. Therocket-thrum deepened, and the thin whistle of tenuous air clutchingthe ship echoed through the hull-plates.     He thought of many things in those few moments. He watched theroundness of Earth flatten out, then take on the cup-like illusionthat all planets had for an incoming ship. He reduced the drive of hisrockets to a mere whisper, striving to control the impatience thatcrowded his mind.     He shivered suddenly, remembering his utter callousness the first timehe had sent a space ship whipping down toward the hills and valleysbelow. And there was a sickness within him when he fully realized that,despite his acquired memory and traits, he was an alien from outerspace.     He fingered the tiny scars that had completely obliterated the slightdifferences in his appearance from an Earthman's, and his fingerstrembled a bit, as he bent and stared through the vision port. He saida brief prayer in his heart to a God whose presence he now felt verydeeply. There were tears in the depths of his eyes, then, and memorieswere hot, bitter pains.  Earth was not far below him. As he let gravity suck him earthward, heheaved a gasp of relief. He was no longer Thig, a creature of a Horde'screation, but Lewis Terry, writer of lurid gun-smoking tales of theWest. He must remember that always. He had destroyed the real Terry andnow, for the rest of his life, he must make up to the dead man's family.     The knowledge that Ellen's love was not really meant for him would bea knife twisting in his heart but for her sake he must endure it. Herdreams and happiness must never be shattered.     The bulge of Earth was flattening out now and he could see the outlinesof Long Island in the growing twilight.     A new plot was growing in the brain of Lewis Terry, a yarn about acowboy suddenly transported to another world. He smiled ironically.He had seen those other worlds. Perhaps some day he would write aboutthem....     He was Lewis Terry! He must remember that!   ","Ellen is the wife of Lewis Terry, and she is described as slender with red hair. When Thig assumes Terry’s identity, some of the first sensations he experiences result from Ellen kissing him. On their travels throughout the American West, Thig bonds with her and with her children. He learns to understand new experiences and emotions throughout his time with Ellen, and he observes that she seems to know how he’s feeling without him telling her. When Thig ultimately realizes that he wants to go back to Earth, it is because he loves Ellen and wants to save her and humanity. It is Ellen he thinks about as he returns to Earth and feels the sting of regret that he killed her husband, and decides to spend the rest of her life making it up to her. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     GRIFTERS' ASTEROID     By H. L. GOLD     Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever     to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought!     Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them     five buckos for a glass of water—and got it!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently.     We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage!     What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton.     Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once.     In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon.     Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously.     Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more.     He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick!     Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey.     Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly.     Strangers, eh? he asked at last.     Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy,      La-anagoYergis     , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics.     Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading?     Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days.     Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked.     We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble.     Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off.     Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos.     Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey.     Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser.     Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver.     The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides—     Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You—        You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen!        Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—?  The round face of the barkeeper had assumed an aggrieved expression.     Folks are always thinkin' the other feller's out to do 'em, he said,shaking his head. Lemme explain about the water here. It's bitteras some kinds of sin before it's purified. Have to bring it in withbuckets and make it sweet. That takes time and labor. Waddya think—Iwas chargin' feller critters for water just out of devilment? I chargebecause I gotta.     Friend, said Harvey, taking out a wallet and counting off eightfive-bucko bills, here is your money. What's fair is fair, and youhave put a different complexion on what seemed at first to be anunconscionable interjection of a middleman between Nature and man'sthirst.     The saloon man removed his dirty apron and came around the bar.     If that's an apology, I accept it. Now the mayor'll discuss fillingyour tanks. That's me. I'm also justice of the peace, officialrecorder, fire chief....     And chief of police, no doubt, said Harvey jocosely.     Nope. That's my son, Jed. Angus Johnson's my name. Folks here justcall me Chief. I run this town, and run it right. How much water willyou need?     Joe estimated quickly. About seventy-five liters, if we go on halfrations, he answered. He waited apprehensively.     Let's say ten buckos a liter, the mayor said. On account of thequantity, I'm able to quote a bargain price. Shucks, boys, it hurts memore to charge for water than it does for you to pay. I just got to,that's all.     The mayor gestured to the native, who shuffled out to the tanks withthem. The planetoid man worked the pump while the mayor intentlywatched the crude level-gauge, crying Stop! when it registered theproper amount. Then Johnson rubbed his thumb on his index finger andwetted his lips expectantly.     Harvey bravely counted off the bills. He asked: But what are we todo about replenishing our battery fluid? Ten buckos a liter would bepreposterous. We simply can't afford it.     Johnson's response almost floored them. Who said anything aboutcharging you for battery water? You can have all you want for nothing.It's just the purified stuff that comes so high.     After giving them directions that would take them to the free-waterpool, the ponderous factotum of Planetoid 42 shook hands and headedback to the saloon. His six-armed assistant followed him inside.     Now do you see, my hot-tempered colleague? said Harvey as he and Joepicked up buckets that hung on the tank. Johnson, as I saw instantly,is the victim of a difficult environment, and must charge accordingly.     Just the same, Joe griped, paying for water isn't something you canget used to in ten minutes.     In the fragile forest, they soon came across a stream that sprang fromthe igneous soil and splashed into the small pond whose contents,according to the mayor, was theirs for the asking. They filled theirbuckets and hauled them to the ship, then returned for more.  It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine ona bright surface off to the left. The figure, 750, with the bucko signin front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keepinga faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went toinvestigate.     Among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender moundthat was unmistakably a buried pipe.     What's this doing here? Harvey asked, puzzled. I thought Johnson hadto transport water in pails.     Wonder where it leads to, Joe said uneasily.     It leads      to     the saloon, said Harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing thepipe back toward the spaceport. What I am concerned with is where itleads      from     .     Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion ofscrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burstinto the open—before a clear, sparkling pool.     Mutely, Harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water.     I am growing suspicious, he said in a rigidly controlled voice.     But Joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water andtasting it.     Sweet! he snarled.     They rushed back to the first pool, where Joe again tasted a sample.His mouth went wry. Bitter! He uses only one pool, the sweet one! Theonly thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor'sconscience.     The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on, saidHarvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. Joseph, the good-natured artist inme has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until wehave had the best of this colonial con-man! Watch your cues from thispoint hence.     Fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. But at the door theystopped and their fists unclenched.     Thought you gents were leaving, the mayor called out, seeing themfrozen in the doorway. Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed.Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City.     You don't need any more, said Harvey, dismayed.     Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hairand held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously beenborn and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would havekept him down near the general dimensions of a man.     He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his ownhand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again whenhis fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressedone.     Pleased to meet you, piped a voice that had never known a denseatmosphere.     The pursuit of vengeance, Harvey realized, had taken a quick andunpleasant turn. Something shrewd was called for....     Joseph! he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. Don't youfeel well?     Even before the others could turn to him, Joe's practiced eyes weregently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his featuresdrooping like a bloodhound's.     Bring him in here! Johnson cried. I mean, get him away! He's comingdown with asteroid fever!     Of course, replied Harvey calmly. Any fool knows the first symptomsof the disease that once scourged the universe.     What do you mean,      once     ? demanded Johnson. I come down with itevery year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get himout of here!     In good time. He can't be moved immediately.     Then he'll be here for months!     Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor andhis gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathein tiny, uncontaminating gasps.     You'll find everything you want in the back room, Johnson saidfrantically, sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suctioncups—     Relics of the past, Harvey stated. One medication is all modern manrequires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever.     What's that? asked the mayor without conviction.     Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-handrocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. He returned within afew minutes, carrying a bottle.  Joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowlycrossing and uncrossing. Harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly,put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink.When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partnerdrink until most of the liquid was gone. Then he stepped back andwaited for the inevitable result.     Joe's performance was better than ever. He lay supine for severalmoments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomedto perpetual wryness. Slowly, however, he sat up and his featuresstraightened out.     Are—are you all right? asked the mayor anxiously.     Much better, said Joe in a weak voice.     Maybe you need another dose, Harvey suggested.     Joe recoiled. I'm fine now! he cried, and sprang off the bar to proveit.     Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face,and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse.     Well, I'll be hanged! Johnson ejaculated.           La-anago Yergis     never fails, my friend, Harvey explained. Byactual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-threeminutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caughtthis one before it grew formidable.     The mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. If youdon't charge too much, he said warily, I might think of buying some.     We do not sell this unbelievable remedy, Harvey replied with dignity.It sells itself.     'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a wholecase, said Johnson.     That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared withthe vast loss of time and strength the fever involves.     How much? asked the mayor unhappily.     For you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundredbuckos.     Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression ofdoing so. F-four hundred, he offered.     Not a red cent less than four seventy-five, Harvey said flatly.     Make it four fifty, quavered Johnson.     I dislike haggling, said Harvey.     The final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos andfifty redsents. Magnanimously, Harvey added: And we will include,      gratis     , an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of Mercurianhandicraftsmanship.     Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. No tricks now. I want a taste ofthat stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me.     Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. Themayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. The ensuingminute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle whichthe man gradually won.     There ain't no words for that taste, he gulped when it was safe totalk again.     Medicine, Harvey propounded, should taste like medicine. To Joe hesaid: Come, my esteemed colleague. We must perform the sacred task towhich we have dedicated ourselves.     With Joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed theclearing and entered the ship. As soon as they were inside, Joe droppedhis murderous silence and cried:     What kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of thatsnake oil?     That was not poison, Harvey contradicted quietly. It was      La-anagoYergis     extract, plus.     Plus what—arsenic?     Now, Joseph! Consider my quandary when I came back here to manufactureour specific for all known ailments, with the intention of sellingyonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods—an entire case,mind you. Was I to mix the extract with the water for which we had beenswindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit havebeen, then? No; I had to use the bitter free water, of course.     But why use it on me? Joe demanded furiously.     Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. Did Johnson ask totaste it, or did he not? One must look ahead, Joseph. I had to producethe same      medicine     that we will now manufacture. Thus, you were aguinea pig for a splendid cause.     Okay, okay, Joe said. But you shoulda charged him more.     Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of whichthat swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables hepossesses. We could not be content with less.     Well, we're starting all right, admitted Joe. How about that thingwith six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off?     Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively.     I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity.Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him.At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with ourstreamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolicsuckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on theaudio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendousfigure to the zoo!  Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carriedthe case of medicine to the saloon. The mayor had already cleared aplace of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put itdown carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gavehim, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. It must have been atleast as good as the first; he gagged.     That's the stuff, all right, he said, swallowing hard. He countedout the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariouslybalanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his painat paying for it. Then he glanced out to see the position of Jupiter,and asked: You gents eaten yet? The restaurant's open now.     Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking aboutfood at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry.     It's only water we were short of, Harvey said apprehensively. We'vegot rations back at the ship.           H-mph!      the mayor grunted. Powdered concentrates. Compressed pap.Suit yourselves. We treat our stomachs better here. And you're welcometo our hospitality.     Your hospitality, said Harvey, depends on the prices you charge.     Well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying, answeredthe mayor promptly. What's more, the kind of dinner I serve here youcan't get anywhere else for any price.     Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He sawnone.     Let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, Joe, he said guardedly.     Johnson immediately fell into the role of mine host.     Come right in, gents, he invited. Right into the dining room.     He seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more orless private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was littlechance of company.     Genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen withtwo menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins,silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails,which were on the house. Then he stood by for orders.     Harvey and Joe studied the menu critically. The prices werephenomenally low. When they glanced up at Johnson in perplexity, hegrinned, bowed and asked: Everything satisfactory, gents?     Quite, said Harvey. We shall order.     For an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, theculinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. And the servicewas as extraordinary as the meal itself. With four hands, Genius playeddeftly upon a pair of mellow Venusian      viotars     , using his other twohands for waiting on the table.     We absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen, Harveywhispered excitedly when Johnson and the native were both in thekitchen, attending to the next course. He would make any societyhostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sumto women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire.     Think of a fast one fast, Joe agreed. You're right.     But I dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often,complained Harvey. I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honestmerchant. This dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet I estimateour check at a mere bucko twenty redsents.     The mayor's appearance prevented them from continuing the discussion.     It's been a great honor, gents, he said. Ain't often I havevisitors, and I like the best, like you two gents.     As if on cue, Genius came out and put the check down between Joe andHarvey. Harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished ina yelp of horror.     What the devil is this? he shouted.—How do you arrive at thisfantastic, idiotic figure—      three hundred and twenty-eight buckos     !  Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius; he simply put on the table,not a fingerbowl, but a magnifying glass. With one of his thirtyfingers he pointed politely to the bottom of the menu.     Harvey focused on the microscopic print, and his face went pasty withrage. The minute note read: Services and entertainment, 327 buckos 80redsents.     You can go to hell! Joe growled. We won't pay it!     Johnson sighed ponderously. I was afraid you'd act like that, he saidwith regret. He pulled a tin badge out of his rear pocket, pinned it onhis vest, and twisted his holstered gun into view. Afraid I'll have toask the sheriff to take over.     Johnson, the sheriff, collected the money, and Johnson, therestaurateur, pocketed it. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped Joe the sign toremain calm.     My friend, he said to the mayor, and his tones took on aschoolmasterish severity, your long absence from Earth has perhapsmade you forget those elements of human wisdom that have entered thefolk-lore of your native planet. Such as, for example: 'It is follyto kill a goose that lays golden eggs,' and 'Penny wise is poundfoolish.'     I don't get the connection, objected Johnson.     Well, by obliging us to pay such a high price for your dinner, you putout of your reach the chance of profiting from a really substantialdeal. My partner and I were prepared to make you a sizable offer forthe peculiar creature you call Genius. But by reducing our funds theway you have—     Who said I wanted to sell him? the mayor interrupted. He rubbed hisfingers together and asked disinterestedly: What were you going tooffer, anyhow?     It doesn't matter any longer, Harvey said with elaboratecarelessness. Perhaps you wouldn't have accepted it, anyway.     That's right, Johnson came back emphatically. But what would youroffer have been which I would have turned down?     Which one? The one we were going to make, or the one we can make now?     Either one. It don't make no difference. Genius is too valuable tosell.     Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money wouldtempt you!     Nope. But how much did you say?     Ah, then you will consider releasing Genius!     Well, I'll tell you something, said the mayor confidentially. Whenyou've got one thing, you've got one thing. But when you've got money,it's the same as having a lot of things. Because, if you've got money,you can buy this and that and this and that and—     This and that, concluded Joe. We'll give you five hundred buckos.     Now, gents! Johnson remonstrated. Why, six hundred would hardly—     You haven't left us much money, Harvey put in.     The mayor frowned. All right, we'll split the difference. Make itfive-fifty.     Harvey was quick to pay out, for this was a genuine windfall. Then hestood up and admired the astonishing possession he had so inexpensivelyacquired.     I really hate to deprive you of this unique creature, he said toJohnson. I should imagine you will be rather lonely, with only yourfilial mammoth to keep you company.     I sure will, Johnson confessed glumly. I got pretty attached toGenius, and I'm going to miss him something awful.     Harvey forcibly removed his eyes from the native, who was clearing offthe table almost all at once.     My friend, he said, we take your only solace, it is true, but in hisplace we can offer something no less amazing and instructive.     The mayor's hand went protectively to his pocket. What is it? heasked with the suspicion of a man who has seen human nature at itsworst and expects nothing better.     Joseph, get our most prized belonging from the communications room ofthe ship, Harvey instructed. To Johnson he explained: You must seethe wondrous instrument before its value can be appreciated. My partnerwill soon have it here for your astonishment.     Joe's face grew as glum as Johnson's had been. Aw, Harv, heprotested, do we have to sell it? And right when I thought we weregetting the key!     We must not be selfish, my boy, Harvey said nobly. We have had ourchance; now we must relinquish Fate to the hands of a man who mighthave more success than we. Go, Joseph. Bring it here.     Unwillingly, Joe turned and shuffled out.  On a larger and heavier world than Planetoid 42, Johnson's curiositywould probably have had weight and mass. He was bursting withquestions, but he was obviously afraid they would cost him money. Forhis part, Harvey allowed that curiosity to grow like a Venusian amoebauntil Joe came in, lugging a radio.     Is that what you were talking about? the mayor snorted. What makesyou think I want a radio? I came here to get away from singers andpolitical speech-makers.     Do not jump to hasty conclusions, Harvey cautioned. Another word,and I shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had,with the sole exceptions of Joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventorof this absolutely awe-inspiring device.     I ain't in the market for a radio, Johnson said stubbornly.     Harvey nodded in relief. We have attempted to repay our host, Joseph.He has spurned our generosity. We have now the chance to continue ourstudy, which I am positive will soon reward us with the key to anenormous fortune.     Well, that's no plating off our bow, Joe grunted. I'm glad he didturn it down. I hated to give it up after working on it for three wholeyears.     He picked up the radio and began walking toward the door.     Now, hold on! the mayor cried. I ain't      saying     I'll buy, but whatis it I'm turning down?     Joe returned and set the instrument down on the bar. His facesorrowful, Harvey fondly stroked the scarred plasticoid cabinet.     To make a long story, Mr. Johnson, he said, Joseph and I were amongthe chosen few who knew the famous Doctor Dean intimately. Just beforehis tragic death, you will recall, Dean allegedly went insane. Hebanged his fist on the bar. I have said it before, and I repeat again,that was a malicious lie, spread by the doctor's enemies to discredithis greatest invention—this fourth dimensional radio!     This what? Johnson blurted out.     In simple terms, clarified Harvey, the ingenious doctor discoveredthat the yawning chasm between the dimensions could be bridged byenergy of all quanta. There has never been any question that theinhabitants of the super-dimension would be far more civilized thanourselves. Consequently, the man who could tap their knowledge wouldfind himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science!     The mayor looked respectfully at the silent box on the bar.     And this thing gets broadcasts from the fourth dimension?     It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied DoctorDean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact.     The mayor put his hands in his pockets, unswiveled one hip and staredthoughtfully at the battered cabinet.     Well, let's say it picks up fourth dimensional broadcasts, heconceded. But how could you understand what they're saying? Folks upthere wouldn't talk our language.     Again Harvey smashed his fist down. Do you dare to repeat the scurvylie that broke Dean's spirit and drove him to suicide?     Johnson recoiled. No—no,      of course not     . I mean, being up here, Inaturally couldn't get all the details.     Naturally, Harvey agreed, mollified. I'm sorry I lost my temper.But it is a matter of record that the doctor proved the broadcastsemanating from the super-dimension were in English! Why should that beso difficult to believe? Is it impossible that at one time there wascommunication between the dimensions, that the super-beings admiredour language and adopted it in all its beauty, adding to it their ownhyper-scientific trimmings?     Why, I don't know, Johnson said in confusion.     For three years, Joseph and I lost sleep and hair, trying to detectthe simple key that would translate the somewhat metamorphosedbroadcasts into our primitive English. It eluded us. Even the doctorfailed. But that was understandable; a sensitive soul like his couldstand only so much. And the combination of ridicule and failure tosolve the mystery caused him to take his own life.     Johnson winced. Is that what you want to unload on me?     For a very good reason, sir. Patience is the virtue that will berewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. A man whocould devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously aperson with unusual patience.     Yeah, the mayor said grudgingly, I ain't exactly flighty.     Therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem!     Johnson asked skeptically: How about a sample first?  Harvey turned a knob on the face of the scarred radio. After severalsqueals of spatial figures, a smooth voice began:     There are omnious pleajes of moby-hailegs in sonmirand which,howgraismon, are notch to be donfured miss ellasellabell in either orboth hagasanipaj, by all means. This does not refly, on the brotherman, nat or mizzafil saces are denuded by this ossifaligo....     Harvey switched off the set determinedly.     Wait a minute! Johnson begged. I almost got it then!     I dislike being commercial, said Harvey, but this astounding devicestill belongs to us. Would we not be foolish to let you discover theclue before purchasing the right to do so?     The mayor nodded indecisively, looking at the radio with agonizedlonging. How much do you want? he asked unhappily.     One thousand buckos, and no haggling. I am not in the mood.     Johnson opened his mouth to argue; then, seeing Harvey's set features,paid with the worst possible grace.     Don't you think we ought to tell him about the batteries, Harv? Joeasked.     What about the batteries? demanded Johnson with deadly calm.     A very small matter, Harvey said airily. You see, we have beenanalyzing these broadcasts for three years. In that time, of course,the batteries are bound to weaken. I estimate these should last notless than one Terrestrial month, at the very least.     What do I do then?     Harvey shrugged. Special batteries are required, which I see Josephhas by chance brought along. For the batteries, the only ones of theirkind left in the system, I ask only what they cost—one hundred andninety-nine buckos, no more and, on the other hand, no less.     Johnson was breathing hard, and his hand hovered dangerously near hisgun. But he paid the amount Harvey wanted.     Moreover, he actually shook hands when the two panacea purveyorscollected their six-armed prize and said goodbye. Before they wereoutside, however, he had turned on the radio and was listening tenselyto a woman's highly cultured, though rather angry voice, saying:     Oh, you hannaforge are all beasa-taga-sanimort. If you rue amount it,how do you respench a pure woman to ansver go-samak—     I'll get it! they heard Johnson mutter.     Then the sound of giant feet crossing the barroom floor reached theirears, and a shrill question: What's that, Papa?     A fortune, Jed! Those fakers are damned fools, selling us a thinglike—     Joe gazed at Harvey admiringly. Another one sold? Harv, that spielpulls them in like an ether storm!     Together with the remarkable planetoid man, they reached the ship.Above them, dark, tumbling shapes blotted out the stars and silentlymoved on. Joe opened the gangway door.     Come on in, pal, he said to Genius. We're shoving off.     The planetoid man grinned foolishly. Can't go arong with you, he saidwith an apologetic manner. I rike to, but pressure fratten me out if Igo.     What in solar blazes are you talking about? Harvey asked.     I grow up on pranetoid, Genius explained. On big pranet, too muchpressure for me.     The two salesmen looked narrowly at each other.     Did Johnson know that when he sold you? Joe snarled.     Oh, sure. The silly grin became wider than ever. Peopre from Earthbuy me rots of times. I never reave pranetoid, though.     Joseph, Harvey said ominously, that slick colonist has put one overupon us. What is our customary procedure in that event?     We tear him apart, Joe replied between his teeth.     Not Mister Johnson, advised Genius. Have gun and badge. He shoot youfirst and then rock you up in prison.     Harvey paused, his ominous air vanishing. True. There is also thefact, Joseph, that when he discovers the scrambled rectifier inthe radio we sold him, he will have been paid back in full for hisregrettable dishonesty.  Unwillingly, Joe agreed. While Genius retreated to a safe distance,they entered the ship and blasted off. Within a few minutes theautomatic steering pilot had maneuvered them above the plane of theasteroid belt.     I got kind of dizzy, Joe said, there were so many deals back andforth. How much did we make on the sucker?     A goodly amount, I wager, Harvey responded. He took out a pencil andpaper. Medicine, 469.50; radio, 1,000; batteries, 199. Total—let'ssee—1668 buckos and 50 redsents. A goodly sum, as I told you.     He emptied his pockets of money, spread it out on the astrogation tableand began counting. Finished, he looked up, troubled.     How much did we have when we landed, Joseph?     Exactly 1668 buckos, Joe answered promptly.     I can't understand it, said Harvey. Instead of double our capital,we now have only 1668 buckos and 50 redsents!     Feverishly, he returned to his pencil and paper.     Drinking water, 790; battery water, free; meal, 328; planetoid man,550. Total: 1668 buckos! He stared at the figures. We paid out almostas much as we took in, he said bitterly. Despite our intensiveefforts, we made the absurd sum of fifty redsents.     Why, the dirty crook! Joe growled.     But after a few moments of sad reflection, Harvey became philosophical.Perhaps, Joseph, we are more fortunate than we realize. We were,after all, completely in Johnson's power. The more I ponder, the moreI believe we were lucky to escape. And, anyhow, we did make fiftyredsents on the swindler. A moral victory, my boy.     Joe, who had been sunk desparingly into a chair, now stood up slowlyand asked: Remember that bottle-opener we gave him?     Certainly, Harvey explained. What about it?     How much did it cost us?     Harvey's eyebrows puckered. Suddenly he started laughing. You'reright, Joseph. We paid forty-six redsents for it on Venus. So, afterall that transacting of business, we made four redsents!     Four redsents, hell! Joe snapped. That was the sales tax!     He glared; then a smile lifted his mouth. You remember those yokels onMars' Flatlands, and the way they worshipped gold?           Goldbricks!      Harvey said succinctly.     Grinning, Joe set the robot-controls for Mars.   ","Joe and Harvey land on Planetoid 42 and enter a bar. They see Genius, an incredible looking creature with six limbs, and immediately become interested in him. They tell the bartender, Johnson, that they’re very thirsty, so he sells them each eight glasses of water, and they guzzle them down. Harvey and Joe are horrified to find out that the water is highly expensive. Johnson explains that the water must be purified. When the pair leaves, they find a pipe in a small pond and realize that Johnson has undoubtedly swindled them. The sweet water is readily available and it is transported directly to the saloon via this pipe. Harvey and Joe head back to the bar. Joe comes down with a sudden illness, and it’s clear that this is a con the men use all the time. Johnson recognizes that Joe has asteroid fever and becomes frightened. Harvey explains that the only medication that will provide an instant cure is the one they happen to be selling: La-anago Yergis.Joe is instantly cured once Harvey pours the special liquid into his mouth. Johnson is flabbergasted and wants to purchase an entire case. While in the privacy of their ship, Joe and Harvey discuss their joint desire to purchase Genius. They believe they could make a fortune off of him if they featured him in an exhibit. Johnson accepts the fake solution and informs Harvey and Joe that his restaurant is open. After looking at the menu, the men are astounded at the low prices. However, they soon find out that they have been taken advantage of when they receive a bill for a very large sum of money. They learn that the fine print they missed on the menu explains the charge. When Joe tells Johnson they won’t pay the bill, Johnson reminds them that he is in fact the Sheriff as well as the saloon owner and the mayor. Harvey requests to purchase Genius, and Johnson agrees. In a last ditch effort to recoup some more money, Harvey brings up an invention they have on their ship that Johnson must see. Joe brings back a radio that was supposedly created by a famous doctor. It is special because it broadcasts from the fourth dimension. They convince Johnson that he is the perfect person to make sense of the garbled transmissions. Johnson pays extra for the special batteries it takes.Just as Harvey and Joe make it back to the ship with Genius, the creature informs them that he cannot leave the planet because another planet’s pressure would squish him to death. And yes, he admits, Johnson was fully aware of this fact when he sold him. When Harvey does the math involved in the various exchanges of goods, he realizes that after all that time and the several cons they engaged in, he and Joe made a measly four cents. The men take off on their ship and head to Mars. "
"Describe the relationship between Harvey and Joe. </s>     GRIFTERS' ASTEROID     By H. L. GOLD     Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever     to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought!     Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them     five buckos for a glass of water—and got it!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently.     We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage!     What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton.     Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once.     In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon.     Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously.     Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more.     He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick!     Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey.     Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly.     Strangers, eh? he asked at last.     Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy,      La-anagoYergis     , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics.     Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading?     Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days.     Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked.     We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble.     Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off.     Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos.     Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey.     Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser.     Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver.     The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides—     Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You—        You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen!        Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—?  The round face of the barkeeper had assumed an aggrieved expression.     Folks are always thinkin' the other feller's out to do 'em, he said,shaking his head. Lemme explain about the water here. It's bitteras some kinds of sin before it's purified. Have to bring it in withbuckets and make it sweet. That takes time and labor. Waddya think—Iwas chargin' feller critters for water just out of devilment? I chargebecause I gotta.     Friend, said Harvey, taking out a wallet and counting off eightfive-bucko bills, here is your money. What's fair is fair, and youhave put a different complexion on what seemed at first to be anunconscionable interjection of a middleman between Nature and man'sthirst.     The saloon man removed his dirty apron and came around the bar.     If that's an apology, I accept it. Now the mayor'll discuss fillingyour tanks. That's me. I'm also justice of the peace, officialrecorder, fire chief....     And chief of police, no doubt, said Harvey jocosely.     Nope. That's my son, Jed. Angus Johnson's my name. Folks here justcall me Chief. I run this town, and run it right. How much water willyou need?     Joe estimated quickly. About seventy-five liters, if we go on halfrations, he answered. He waited apprehensively.     Let's say ten buckos a liter, the mayor said. On account of thequantity, I'm able to quote a bargain price. Shucks, boys, it hurts memore to charge for water than it does for you to pay. I just got to,that's all.     The mayor gestured to the native, who shuffled out to the tanks withthem. The planetoid man worked the pump while the mayor intentlywatched the crude level-gauge, crying Stop! when it registered theproper amount. Then Johnson rubbed his thumb on his index finger andwetted his lips expectantly.     Harvey bravely counted off the bills. He asked: But what are we todo about replenishing our battery fluid? Ten buckos a liter would bepreposterous. We simply can't afford it.     Johnson's response almost floored them. Who said anything aboutcharging you for battery water? You can have all you want for nothing.It's just the purified stuff that comes so high.     After giving them directions that would take them to the free-waterpool, the ponderous factotum of Planetoid 42 shook hands and headedback to the saloon. His six-armed assistant followed him inside.     Now do you see, my hot-tempered colleague? said Harvey as he and Joepicked up buckets that hung on the tank. Johnson, as I saw instantly,is the victim of a difficult environment, and must charge accordingly.     Just the same, Joe griped, paying for water isn't something you canget used to in ten minutes.     In the fragile forest, they soon came across a stream that sprang fromthe igneous soil and splashed into the small pond whose contents,according to the mayor, was theirs for the asking. They filled theirbuckets and hauled them to the ship, then returned for more.  It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine ona bright surface off to the left. The figure, 750, with the bucko signin front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keepinga faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went toinvestigate.     Among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender moundthat was unmistakably a buried pipe.     What's this doing here? Harvey asked, puzzled. I thought Johnson hadto transport water in pails.     Wonder where it leads to, Joe said uneasily.     It leads      to     the saloon, said Harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing thepipe back toward the spaceport. What I am concerned with is where itleads      from     .     Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion ofscrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burstinto the open—before a clear, sparkling pool.     Mutely, Harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water.     I am growing suspicious, he said in a rigidly controlled voice.     But Joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water andtasting it.     Sweet! he snarled.     They rushed back to the first pool, where Joe again tasted a sample.His mouth went wry. Bitter! He uses only one pool, the sweet one! Theonly thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor'sconscience.     The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on, saidHarvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. Joseph, the good-natured artist inme has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until wehave had the best of this colonial con-man! Watch your cues from thispoint hence.     Fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. But at the door theystopped and their fists unclenched.     Thought you gents were leaving, the mayor called out, seeing themfrozen in the doorway. Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed.Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City.     You don't need any more, said Harvey, dismayed.     Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hairand held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously beenborn and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would havekept him down near the general dimensions of a man.     He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his ownhand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again whenhis fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressedone.     Pleased to meet you, piped a voice that had never known a denseatmosphere.     The pursuit of vengeance, Harvey realized, had taken a quick andunpleasant turn. Something shrewd was called for....     Joseph! he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. Don't youfeel well?     Even before the others could turn to him, Joe's practiced eyes weregently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his featuresdrooping like a bloodhound's.     Bring him in here! Johnson cried. I mean, get him away! He's comingdown with asteroid fever!     Of course, replied Harvey calmly. Any fool knows the first symptomsof the disease that once scourged the universe.     What do you mean,      once     ? demanded Johnson. I come down with itevery year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get himout of here!     In good time. He can't be moved immediately.     Then he'll be here for months!     Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor andhis gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathein tiny, uncontaminating gasps.     You'll find everything you want in the back room, Johnson saidfrantically, sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suctioncups—     Relics of the past, Harvey stated. One medication is all modern manrequires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever.     What's that? asked the mayor without conviction.     Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-handrocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. He returned within afew minutes, carrying a bottle.  Joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowlycrossing and uncrossing. Harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly,put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink.When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partnerdrink until most of the liquid was gone. Then he stepped back andwaited for the inevitable result.     Joe's performance was better than ever. He lay supine for severalmoments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomedto perpetual wryness. Slowly, however, he sat up and his featuresstraightened out.     Are—are you all right? asked the mayor anxiously.     Much better, said Joe in a weak voice.     Maybe you need another dose, Harvey suggested.     Joe recoiled. I'm fine now! he cried, and sprang off the bar to proveit.     Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face,and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse.     Well, I'll be hanged! Johnson ejaculated.           La-anago Yergis     never fails, my friend, Harvey explained. Byactual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-threeminutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caughtthis one before it grew formidable.     The mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. If youdon't charge too much, he said warily, I might think of buying some.     We do not sell this unbelievable remedy, Harvey replied with dignity.It sells itself.     'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a wholecase, said Johnson.     That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared withthe vast loss of time and strength the fever involves.     How much? asked the mayor unhappily.     For you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundredbuckos.     Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression ofdoing so. F-four hundred, he offered.     Not a red cent less than four seventy-five, Harvey said flatly.     Make it four fifty, quavered Johnson.     I dislike haggling, said Harvey.     The final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos andfifty redsents. Magnanimously, Harvey added: And we will include,      gratis     , an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of Mercurianhandicraftsmanship.     Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. No tricks now. I want a taste ofthat stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me.     Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. Themayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. The ensuingminute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle whichthe man gradually won.     There ain't no words for that taste, he gulped when it was safe totalk again.     Medicine, Harvey propounded, should taste like medicine. To Joe hesaid: Come, my esteemed colleague. We must perform the sacred task towhich we have dedicated ourselves.     With Joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed theclearing and entered the ship. As soon as they were inside, Joe droppedhis murderous silence and cried:     What kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of thatsnake oil?     That was not poison, Harvey contradicted quietly. It was      La-anagoYergis     extract, plus.     Plus what—arsenic?     Now, Joseph! Consider my quandary when I came back here to manufactureour specific for all known ailments, with the intention of sellingyonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods—an entire case,mind you. Was I to mix the extract with the water for which we had beenswindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit havebeen, then? No; I had to use the bitter free water, of course.     But why use it on me? Joe demanded furiously.     Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. Did Johnson ask totaste it, or did he not? One must look ahead, Joseph. I had to producethe same      medicine     that we will now manufacture. Thus, you were aguinea pig for a splendid cause.     Okay, okay, Joe said. But you shoulda charged him more.     Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of whichthat swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables hepossesses. We could not be content with less.     Well, we're starting all right, admitted Joe. How about that thingwith six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off?     Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively.     I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity.Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him.At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with ourstreamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolicsuckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on theaudio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendousfigure to the zoo!  Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carriedthe case of medicine to the saloon. The mayor had already cleared aplace of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put itdown carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gavehim, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. It must have been atleast as good as the first; he gagged.     That's the stuff, all right, he said, swallowing hard. He countedout the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariouslybalanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his painat paying for it. Then he glanced out to see the position of Jupiter,and asked: You gents eaten yet? The restaurant's open now.     Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking aboutfood at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry.     It's only water we were short of, Harvey said apprehensively. We'vegot rations back at the ship.           H-mph!      the mayor grunted. Powdered concentrates. Compressed pap.Suit yourselves. We treat our stomachs better here. And you're welcometo our hospitality.     Your hospitality, said Harvey, depends on the prices you charge.     Well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying, answeredthe mayor promptly. What's more, the kind of dinner I serve here youcan't get anywhere else for any price.     Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He sawnone.     Let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, Joe, he said guardedly.     Johnson immediately fell into the role of mine host.     Come right in, gents, he invited. Right into the dining room.     He seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more orless private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was littlechance of company.     Genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen withtwo menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins,silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails,which were on the house. Then he stood by for orders.     Harvey and Joe studied the menu critically. The prices werephenomenally low. When they glanced up at Johnson in perplexity, hegrinned, bowed and asked: Everything satisfactory, gents?     Quite, said Harvey. We shall order.     For an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, theculinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. And the servicewas as extraordinary as the meal itself. With four hands, Genius playeddeftly upon a pair of mellow Venusian      viotars     , using his other twohands for waiting on the table.     We absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen, Harveywhispered excitedly when Johnson and the native were both in thekitchen, attending to the next course. He would make any societyhostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sumto women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire.     Think of a fast one fast, Joe agreed. You're right.     But I dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often,complained Harvey. I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honestmerchant. This dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet I estimateour check at a mere bucko twenty redsents.     The mayor's appearance prevented them from continuing the discussion.     It's been a great honor, gents, he said. Ain't often I havevisitors, and I like the best, like you two gents.     As if on cue, Genius came out and put the check down between Joe andHarvey. Harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished ina yelp of horror.     What the devil is this? he shouted.—How do you arrive at thisfantastic, idiotic figure—      three hundred and twenty-eight buckos     !  Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius; he simply put on the table,not a fingerbowl, but a magnifying glass. With one of his thirtyfingers he pointed politely to the bottom of the menu.     Harvey focused on the microscopic print, and his face went pasty withrage. The minute note read: Services and entertainment, 327 buckos 80redsents.     You can go to hell! Joe growled. We won't pay it!     Johnson sighed ponderously. I was afraid you'd act like that, he saidwith regret. He pulled a tin badge out of his rear pocket, pinned it onhis vest, and twisted his holstered gun into view. Afraid I'll have toask the sheriff to take over.     Johnson, the sheriff, collected the money, and Johnson, therestaurateur, pocketed it. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped Joe the sign toremain calm.     My friend, he said to the mayor, and his tones took on aschoolmasterish severity, your long absence from Earth has perhapsmade you forget those elements of human wisdom that have entered thefolk-lore of your native planet. Such as, for example: 'It is follyto kill a goose that lays golden eggs,' and 'Penny wise is poundfoolish.'     I don't get the connection, objected Johnson.     Well, by obliging us to pay such a high price for your dinner, you putout of your reach the chance of profiting from a really substantialdeal. My partner and I were prepared to make you a sizable offer forthe peculiar creature you call Genius. But by reducing our funds theway you have—     Who said I wanted to sell him? the mayor interrupted. He rubbed hisfingers together and asked disinterestedly: What were you going tooffer, anyhow?     It doesn't matter any longer, Harvey said with elaboratecarelessness. Perhaps you wouldn't have accepted it, anyway.     That's right, Johnson came back emphatically. But what would youroffer have been which I would have turned down?     Which one? The one we were going to make, or the one we can make now?     Either one. It don't make no difference. Genius is too valuable tosell.     Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money wouldtempt you!     Nope. But how much did you say?     Ah, then you will consider releasing Genius!     Well, I'll tell you something, said the mayor confidentially. Whenyou've got one thing, you've got one thing. But when you've got money,it's the same as having a lot of things. Because, if you've got money,you can buy this and that and this and that and—     This and that, concluded Joe. We'll give you five hundred buckos.     Now, gents! Johnson remonstrated. Why, six hundred would hardly—     You haven't left us much money, Harvey put in.     The mayor frowned. All right, we'll split the difference. Make itfive-fifty.     Harvey was quick to pay out, for this was a genuine windfall. Then hestood up and admired the astonishing possession he had so inexpensivelyacquired.     I really hate to deprive you of this unique creature, he said toJohnson. I should imagine you will be rather lonely, with only yourfilial mammoth to keep you company.     I sure will, Johnson confessed glumly. I got pretty attached toGenius, and I'm going to miss him something awful.     Harvey forcibly removed his eyes from the native, who was clearing offthe table almost all at once.     My friend, he said, we take your only solace, it is true, but in hisplace we can offer something no less amazing and instructive.     The mayor's hand went protectively to his pocket. What is it? heasked with the suspicion of a man who has seen human nature at itsworst and expects nothing better.     Joseph, get our most prized belonging from the communications room ofthe ship, Harvey instructed. To Johnson he explained: You must seethe wondrous instrument before its value can be appreciated. My partnerwill soon have it here for your astonishment.     Joe's face grew as glum as Johnson's had been. Aw, Harv, heprotested, do we have to sell it? And right when I thought we weregetting the key!     We must not be selfish, my boy, Harvey said nobly. We have had ourchance; now we must relinquish Fate to the hands of a man who mighthave more success than we. Go, Joseph. Bring it here.     Unwillingly, Joe turned and shuffled out.  On a larger and heavier world than Planetoid 42, Johnson's curiositywould probably have had weight and mass. He was bursting withquestions, but he was obviously afraid they would cost him money. Forhis part, Harvey allowed that curiosity to grow like a Venusian amoebauntil Joe came in, lugging a radio.     Is that what you were talking about? the mayor snorted. What makesyou think I want a radio? I came here to get away from singers andpolitical speech-makers.     Do not jump to hasty conclusions, Harvey cautioned. Another word,and I shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had,with the sole exceptions of Joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventorof this absolutely awe-inspiring device.     I ain't in the market for a radio, Johnson said stubbornly.     Harvey nodded in relief. We have attempted to repay our host, Joseph.He has spurned our generosity. We have now the chance to continue ourstudy, which I am positive will soon reward us with the key to anenormous fortune.     Well, that's no plating off our bow, Joe grunted. I'm glad he didturn it down. I hated to give it up after working on it for three wholeyears.     He picked up the radio and began walking toward the door.     Now, hold on! the mayor cried. I ain't      saying     I'll buy, but whatis it I'm turning down?     Joe returned and set the instrument down on the bar. His facesorrowful, Harvey fondly stroked the scarred plasticoid cabinet.     To make a long story, Mr. Johnson, he said, Joseph and I were amongthe chosen few who knew the famous Doctor Dean intimately. Just beforehis tragic death, you will recall, Dean allegedly went insane. Hebanged his fist on the bar. I have said it before, and I repeat again,that was a malicious lie, spread by the doctor's enemies to discredithis greatest invention—this fourth dimensional radio!     This what? Johnson blurted out.     In simple terms, clarified Harvey, the ingenious doctor discoveredthat the yawning chasm between the dimensions could be bridged byenergy of all quanta. There has never been any question that theinhabitants of the super-dimension would be far more civilized thanourselves. Consequently, the man who could tap their knowledge wouldfind himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science!     The mayor looked respectfully at the silent box on the bar.     And this thing gets broadcasts from the fourth dimension?     It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied DoctorDean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact.     The mayor put his hands in his pockets, unswiveled one hip and staredthoughtfully at the battered cabinet.     Well, let's say it picks up fourth dimensional broadcasts, heconceded. But how could you understand what they're saying? Folks upthere wouldn't talk our language.     Again Harvey smashed his fist down. Do you dare to repeat the scurvylie that broke Dean's spirit and drove him to suicide?     Johnson recoiled. No—no,      of course not     . I mean, being up here, Inaturally couldn't get all the details.     Naturally, Harvey agreed, mollified. I'm sorry I lost my temper.But it is a matter of record that the doctor proved the broadcastsemanating from the super-dimension were in English! Why should that beso difficult to believe? Is it impossible that at one time there wascommunication between the dimensions, that the super-beings admiredour language and adopted it in all its beauty, adding to it their ownhyper-scientific trimmings?     Why, I don't know, Johnson said in confusion.     For three years, Joseph and I lost sleep and hair, trying to detectthe simple key that would translate the somewhat metamorphosedbroadcasts into our primitive English. It eluded us. Even the doctorfailed. But that was understandable; a sensitive soul like his couldstand only so much. And the combination of ridicule and failure tosolve the mystery caused him to take his own life.     Johnson winced. Is that what you want to unload on me?     For a very good reason, sir. Patience is the virtue that will berewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. A man whocould devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously aperson with unusual patience.     Yeah, the mayor said grudgingly, I ain't exactly flighty.     Therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem!     Johnson asked skeptically: How about a sample first?  Harvey turned a knob on the face of the scarred radio. After severalsqueals of spatial figures, a smooth voice began:     There are omnious pleajes of moby-hailegs in sonmirand which,howgraismon, are notch to be donfured miss ellasellabell in either orboth hagasanipaj, by all means. This does not refly, on the brotherman, nat or mizzafil saces are denuded by this ossifaligo....     Harvey switched off the set determinedly.     Wait a minute! Johnson begged. I almost got it then!     I dislike being commercial, said Harvey, but this astounding devicestill belongs to us. Would we not be foolish to let you discover theclue before purchasing the right to do so?     The mayor nodded indecisively, looking at the radio with agonizedlonging. How much do you want? he asked unhappily.     One thousand buckos, and no haggling. I am not in the mood.     Johnson opened his mouth to argue; then, seeing Harvey's set features,paid with the worst possible grace.     Don't you think we ought to tell him about the batteries, Harv? Joeasked.     What about the batteries? demanded Johnson with deadly calm.     A very small matter, Harvey said airily. You see, we have beenanalyzing these broadcasts for three years. In that time, of course,the batteries are bound to weaken. I estimate these should last notless than one Terrestrial month, at the very least.     What do I do then?     Harvey shrugged. Special batteries are required, which I see Josephhas by chance brought along. For the batteries, the only ones of theirkind left in the system, I ask only what they cost—one hundred andninety-nine buckos, no more and, on the other hand, no less.     Johnson was breathing hard, and his hand hovered dangerously near hisgun. But he paid the amount Harvey wanted.     Moreover, he actually shook hands when the two panacea purveyorscollected their six-armed prize and said goodbye. Before they wereoutside, however, he had turned on the radio and was listening tenselyto a woman's highly cultured, though rather angry voice, saying:     Oh, you hannaforge are all beasa-taga-sanimort. If you rue amount it,how do you respench a pure woman to ansver go-samak—     I'll get it! they heard Johnson mutter.     Then the sound of giant feet crossing the barroom floor reached theirears, and a shrill question: What's that, Papa?     A fortune, Jed! Those fakers are damned fools, selling us a thinglike—     Joe gazed at Harvey admiringly. Another one sold? Harv, that spielpulls them in like an ether storm!     Together with the remarkable planetoid man, they reached the ship.Above them, dark, tumbling shapes blotted out the stars and silentlymoved on. Joe opened the gangway door.     Come on in, pal, he said to Genius. We're shoving off.     The planetoid man grinned foolishly. Can't go arong with you, he saidwith an apologetic manner. I rike to, but pressure fratten me out if Igo.     What in solar blazes are you talking about? Harvey asked.     I grow up on pranetoid, Genius explained. On big pranet, too muchpressure for me.     The two salesmen looked narrowly at each other.     Did Johnson know that when he sold you? Joe snarled.     Oh, sure. The silly grin became wider than ever. Peopre from Earthbuy me rots of times. I never reave pranetoid, though.     Joseph, Harvey said ominously, that slick colonist has put one overupon us. What is our customary procedure in that event?     We tear him apart, Joe replied between his teeth.     Not Mister Johnson, advised Genius. Have gun and badge. He shoot youfirst and then rock you up in prison.     Harvey paused, his ominous air vanishing. True. There is also thefact, Joseph, that when he discovers the scrambled rectifier inthe radio we sold him, he will have been paid back in full for hisregrettable dishonesty.  Unwillingly, Joe agreed. While Genius retreated to a safe distance,they entered the ship and blasted off. Within a few minutes theautomatic steering pilot had maneuvered them above the plane of theasteroid belt.     I got kind of dizzy, Joe said, there were so many deals back andforth. How much did we make on the sucker?     A goodly amount, I wager, Harvey responded. He took out a pencil andpaper. Medicine, 469.50; radio, 1,000; batteries, 199. Total—let'ssee—1668 buckos and 50 redsents. A goodly sum, as I told you.     He emptied his pockets of money, spread it out on the astrogation tableand began counting. Finished, he looked up, troubled.     How much did we have when we landed, Joseph?     Exactly 1668 buckos, Joe answered promptly.     I can't understand it, said Harvey. Instead of double our capital,we now have only 1668 buckos and 50 redsents!     Feverishly, he returned to his pencil and paper.     Drinking water, 790; battery water, free; meal, 328; planetoid man,550. Total: 1668 buckos! He stared at the figures. We paid out almostas much as we took in, he said bitterly. Despite our intensiveefforts, we made the absurd sum of fifty redsents.     Why, the dirty crook! Joe growled.     But after a few moments of sad reflection, Harvey became philosophical.Perhaps, Joseph, we are more fortunate than we realize. We were,after all, completely in Johnson's power. The more I ponder, the moreI believe we were lucky to escape. And, anyhow, we did make fiftyredsents on the swindler. A moral victory, my boy.     Joe, who had been sunk desparingly into a chair, now stood up slowlyand asked: Remember that bottle-opener we gave him?     Certainly, Harvey explained. What about it?     How much did it cost us?     Harvey's eyebrows puckered. Suddenly he started laughing. You'reright, Joseph. We paid forty-six redsents for it on Venus. So, afterall that transacting of business, we made four redsents!     Four redsents, hell! Joe snapped. That was the sales tax!     He glared; then a smile lifted his mouth. You remember those yokels onMars' Flatlands, and the way they worshipped gold?           Goldbricks!      Harvey said succinctly.     Grinning, Joe set the robot-controls for Mars.   ","Harvey and Joe are business partners and conmen. Although they are both important players in their various ruses, Harvey is definitely the brains behind the operation. Joe is willing to listen to Harvey’s instructions and play along in order to get money out of their victims. However, he is also a bit more hot-headed than his partner, and it’s up to Harvey to calm Joe down when he gets flustered because they are taken advantage of. When Joe finds out about the sweet water that Johnson lied about, he is instantly irate. Later, when Johnson tricks them into ordering loads of food at his restaurant, Joe is furious and threatens not to pay the bill. In both instances, Harvey recognizes that the pair was fooled fair and square and all they can do is accept the loss. It is obvious that the two have been working together for a long time because they are able to communicate using very few words and gestures. They both know their playbook of tricks, and it is easy for each of the men to tip the other off to their thoughts. After meeting Genius, Harvey and Joe immediately agree that they should try and acquire the creature. Both men are money-minded and they see dollar signs when they lay their eyes on an alien as peculiar as him. When the duo wants to sell their medicine, Joe pretends to come down with symptoms of asteroid fever, and Harvey doesn’t miss a beat. Within moments he asks Joe if he’s feeling okay and goes to fetch the fake panacea that they peddle. "
"What is the significance of Genius? </s>     GRIFTERS' ASTEROID     By H. L. GOLD     Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever     to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought!     Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them     five buckos for a glass of water—and got it!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently.     We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage!     What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton.     Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once.     In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon.     Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously.     Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more.     He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick!     Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey.     Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly.     Strangers, eh? he asked at last.     Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy,      La-anagoYergis     , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics.     Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading?     Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days.     Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked.     We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble.     Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off.     Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos.     Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey.     Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser.     Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver.     The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides—     Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You—        You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen!        Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—?  The round face of the barkeeper had assumed an aggrieved expression.     Folks are always thinkin' the other feller's out to do 'em, he said,shaking his head. Lemme explain about the water here. It's bitteras some kinds of sin before it's purified. Have to bring it in withbuckets and make it sweet. That takes time and labor. Waddya think—Iwas chargin' feller critters for water just out of devilment? I chargebecause I gotta.     Friend, said Harvey, taking out a wallet and counting off eightfive-bucko bills, here is your money. What's fair is fair, and youhave put a different complexion on what seemed at first to be anunconscionable interjection of a middleman between Nature and man'sthirst.     The saloon man removed his dirty apron and came around the bar.     If that's an apology, I accept it. Now the mayor'll discuss fillingyour tanks. That's me. I'm also justice of the peace, officialrecorder, fire chief....     And chief of police, no doubt, said Harvey jocosely.     Nope. That's my son, Jed. Angus Johnson's my name. Folks here justcall me Chief. I run this town, and run it right. How much water willyou need?     Joe estimated quickly. About seventy-five liters, if we go on halfrations, he answered. He waited apprehensively.     Let's say ten buckos a liter, the mayor said. On account of thequantity, I'm able to quote a bargain price. Shucks, boys, it hurts memore to charge for water than it does for you to pay. I just got to,that's all.     The mayor gestured to the native, who shuffled out to the tanks withthem. The planetoid man worked the pump while the mayor intentlywatched the crude level-gauge, crying Stop! when it registered theproper amount. Then Johnson rubbed his thumb on his index finger andwetted his lips expectantly.     Harvey bravely counted off the bills. He asked: But what are we todo about replenishing our battery fluid? Ten buckos a liter would bepreposterous. We simply can't afford it.     Johnson's response almost floored them. Who said anything aboutcharging you for battery water? You can have all you want for nothing.It's just the purified stuff that comes so high.     After giving them directions that would take them to the free-waterpool, the ponderous factotum of Planetoid 42 shook hands and headedback to the saloon. His six-armed assistant followed him inside.     Now do you see, my hot-tempered colleague? said Harvey as he and Joepicked up buckets that hung on the tank. Johnson, as I saw instantly,is the victim of a difficult environment, and must charge accordingly.     Just the same, Joe griped, paying for water isn't something you canget used to in ten minutes.     In the fragile forest, they soon came across a stream that sprang fromthe igneous soil and splashed into the small pond whose contents,according to the mayor, was theirs for the asking. They filled theirbuckets and hauled them to the ship, then returned for more.  It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine ona bright surface off to the left. The figure, 750, with the bucko signin front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keepinga faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went toinvestigate.     Among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender moundthat was unmistakably a buried pipe.     What's this doing here? Harvey asked, puzzled. I thought Johnson hadto transport water in pails.     Wonder where it leads to, Joe said uneasily.     It leads      to     the saloon, said Harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing thepipe back toward the spaceport. What I am concerned with is where itleads      from     .     Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion ofscrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burstinto the open—before a clear, sparkling pool.     Mutely, Harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water.     I am growing suspicious, he said in a rigidly controlled voice.     But Joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water andtasting it.     Sweet! he snarled.     They rushed back to the first pool, where Joe again tasted a sample.His mouth went wry. Bitter! He uses only one pool, the sweet one! Theonly thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor'sconscience.     The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on, saidHarvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. Joseph, the good-natured artist inme has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until wehave had the best of this colonial con-man! Watch your cues from thispoint hence.     Fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. But at the door theystopped and their fists unclenched.     Thought you gents were leaving, the mayor called out, seeing themfrozen in the doorway. Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed.Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City.     You don't need any more, said Harvey, dismayed.     Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hairand held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously beenborn and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would havekept him down near the general dimensions of a man.     He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his ownhand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again whenhis fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressedone.     Pleased to meet you, piped a voice that had never known a denseatmosphere.     The pursuit of vengeance, Harvey realized, had taken a quick andunpleasant turn. Something shrewd was called for....     Joseph! he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. Don't youfeel well?     Even before the others could turn to him, Joe's practiced eyes weregently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his featuresdrooping like a bloodhound's.     Bring him in here! Johnson cried. I mean, get him away! He's comingdown with asteroid fever!     Of course, replied Harvey calmly. Any fool knows the first symptomsof the disease that once scourged the universe.     What do you mean,      once     ? demanded Johnson. I come down with itevery year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get himout of here!     In good time. He can't be moved immediately.     Then he'll be here for months!     Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor andhis gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathein tiny, uncontaminating gasps.     You'll find everything you want in the back room, Johnson saidfrantically, sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suctioncups—     Relics of the past, Harvey stated. One medication is all modern manrequires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever.     What's that? asked the mayor without conviction.     Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-handrocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. He returned within afew minutes, carrying a bottle.  Joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowlycrossing and uncrossing. Harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly,put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink.When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partnerdrink until most of the liquid was gone. Then he stepped back andwaited for the inevitable result.     Joe's performance was better than ever. He lay supine for severalmoments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomedto perpetual wryness. Slowly, however, he sat up and his featuresstraightened out.     Are—are you all right? asked the mayor anxiously.     Much better, said Joe in a weak voice.     Maybe you need another dose, Harvey suggested.     Joe recoiled. I'm fine now! he cried, and sprang off the bar to proveit.     Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face,and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse.     Well, I'll be hanged! Johnson ejaculated.           La-anago Yergis     never fails, my friend, Harvey explained. Byactual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-threeminutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caughtthis one before it grew formidable.     The mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. If youdon't charge too much, he said warily, I might think of buying some.     We do not sell this unbelievable remedy, Harvey replied with dignity.It sells itself.     'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a wholecase, said Johnson.     That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared withthe vast loss of time and strength the fever involves.     How much? asked the mayor unhappily.     For you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundredbuckos.     Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression ofdoing so. F-four hundred, he offered.     Not a red cent less than four seventy-five, Harvey said flatly.     Make it four fifty, quavered Johnson.     I dislike haggling, said Harvey.     The final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos andfifty redsents. Magnanimously, Harvey added: And we will include,      gratis     , an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of Mercurianhandicraftsmanship.     Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. No tricks now. I want a taste ofthat stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me.     Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. Themayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. The ensuingminute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle whichthe man gradually won.     There ain't no words for that taste, he gulped when it was safe totalk again.     Medicine, Harvey propounded, should taste like medicine. To Joe hesaid: Come, my esteemed colleague. We must perform the sacred task towhich we have dedicated ourselves.     With Joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed theclearing and entered the ship. As soon as they were inside, Joe droppedhis murderous silence and cried:     What kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of thatsnake oil?     That was not poison, Harvey contradicted quietly. It was      La-anagoYergis     extract, plus.     Plus what—arsenic?     Now, Joseph! Consider my quandary when I came back here to manufactureour specific for all known ailments, with the intention of sellingyonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods—an entire case,mind you. Was I to mix the extract with the water for which we had beenswindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit havebeen, then? No; I had to use the bitter free water, of course.     But why use it on me? Joe demanded furiously.     Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. Did Johnson ask totaste it, or did he not? One must look ahead, Joseph. I had to producethe same      medicine     that we will now manufacture. Thus, you were aguinea pig for a splendid cause.     Okay, okay, Joe said. But you shoulda charged him more.     Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of whichthat swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables hepossesses. We could not be content with less.     Well, we're starting all right, admitted Joe. How about that thingwith six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off?     Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively.     I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity.Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him.At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with ourstreamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolicsuckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on theaudio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendousfigure to the zoo!  Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carriedthe case of medicine to the saloon. The mayor had already cleared aplace of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put itdown carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gavehim, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. It must have been atleast as good as the first; he gagged.     That's the stuff, all right, he said, swallowing hard. He countedout the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariouslybalanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his painat paying for it. Then he glanced out to see the position of Jupiter,and asked: You gents eaten yet? The restaurant's open now.     Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking aboutfood at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry.     It's only water we were short of, Harvey said apprehensively. We'vegot rations back at the ship.           H-mph!      the mayor grunted. Powdered concentrates. Compressed pap.Suit yourselves. We treat our stomachs better here. And you're welcometo our hospitality.     Your hospitality, said Harvey, depends on the prices you charge.     Well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying, answeredthe mayor promptly. What's more, the kind of dinner I serve here youcan't get anywhere else for any price.     Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He sawnone.     Let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, Joe, he said guardedly.     Johnson immediately fell into the role of mine host.     Come right in, gents, he invited. Right into the dining room.     He seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more orless private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was littlechance of company.     Genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen withtwo menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins,silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails,which were on the house. Then he stood by for orders.     Harvey and Joe studied the menu critically. The prices werephenomenally low. When they glanced up at Johnson in perplexity, hegrinned, bowed and asked: Everything satisfactory, gents?     Quite, said Harvey. We shall order.     For an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, theculinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. And the servicewas as extraordinary as the meal itself. With four hands, Genius playeddeftly upon a pair of mellow Venusian      viotars     , using his other twohands for waiting on the table.     We absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen, Harveywhispered excitedly when Johnson and the native were both in thekitchen, attending to the next course. He would make any societyhostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sumto women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire.     Think of a fast one fast, Joe agreed. You're right.     But I dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often,complained Harvey. I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honestmerchant. This dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet I estimateour check at a mere bucko twenty redsents.     The mayor's appearance prevented them from continuing the discussion.     It's been a great honor, gents, he said. Ain't often I havevisitors, and I like the best, like you two gents.     As if on cue, Genius came out and put the check down between Joe andHarvey. Harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished ina yelp of horror.     What the devil is this? he shouted.—How do you arrive at thisfantastic, idiotic figure—      three hundred and twenty-eight buckos     !  Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius; he simply put on the table,not a fingerbowl, but a magnifying glass. With one of his thirtyfingers he pointed politely to the bottom of the menu.     Harvey focused on the microscopic print, and his face went pasty withrage. The minute note read: Services and entertainment, 327 buckos 80redsents.     You can go to hell! Joe growled. We won't pay it!     Johnson sighed ponderously. I was afraid you'd act like that, he saidwith regret. He pulled a tin badge out of his rear pocket, pinned it onhis vest, and twisted his holstered gun into view. Afraid I'll have toask the sheriff to take over.     Johnson, the sheriff, collected the money, and Johnson, therestaurateur, pocketed it. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped Joe the sign toremain calm.     My friend, he said to the mayor, and his tones took on aschoolmasterish severity, your long absence from Earth has perhapsmade you forget those elements of human wisdom that have entered thefolk-lore of your native planet. Such as, for example: 'It is follyto kill a goose that lays golden eggs,' and 'Penny wise is poundfoolish.'     I don't get the connection, objected Johnson.     Well, by obliging us to pay such a high price for your dinner, you putout of your reach the chance of profiting from a really substantialdeal. My partner and I were prepared to make you a sizable offer forthe peculiar creature you call Genius. But by reducing our funds theway you have—     Who said I wanted to sell him? the mayor interrupted. He rubbed hisfingers together and asked disinterestedly: What were you going tooffer, anyhow?     It doesn't matter any longer, Harvey said with elaboratecarelessness. Perhaps you wouldn't have accepted it, anyway.     That's right, Johnson came back emphatically. But what would youroffer have been which I would have turned down?     Which one? The one we were going to make, or the one we can make now?     Either one. It don't make no difference. Genius is too valuable tosell.     Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money wouldtempt you!     Nope. But how much did you say?     Ah, then you will consider releasing Genius!     Well, I'll tell you something, said the mayor confidentially. Whenyou've got one thing, you've got one thing. But when you've got money,it's the same as having a lot of things. Because, if you've got money,you can buy this and that and this and that and—     This and that, concluded Joe. We'll give you five hundred buckos.     Now, gents! Johnson remonstrated. Why, six hundred would hardly—     You haven't left us much money, Harvey put in.     The mayor frowned. All right, we'll split the difference. Make itfive-fifty.     Harvey was quick to pay out, for this was a genuine windfall. Then hestood up and admired the astonishing possession he had so inexpensivelyacquired.     I really hate to deprive you of this unique creature, he said toJohnson. I should imagine you will be rather lonely, with only yourfilial mammoth to keep you company.     I sure will, Johnson confessed glumly. I got pretty attached toGenius, and I'm going to miss him something awful.     Harvey forcibly removed his eyes from the native, who was clearing offthe table almost all at once.     My friend, he said, we take your only solace, it is true, but in hisplace we can offer something no less amazing and instructive.     The mayor's hand went protectively to his pocket. What is it? heasked with the suspicion of a man who has seen human nature at itsworst and expects nothing better.     Joseph, get our most prized belonging from the communications room ofthe ship, Harvey instructed. To Johnson he explained: You must seethe wondrous instrument before its value can be appreciated. My partnerwill soon have it here for your astonishment.     Joe's face grew as glum as Johnson's had been. Aw, Harv, heprotested, do we have to sell it? And right when I thought we weregetting the key!     We must not be selfish, my boy, Harvey said nobly. We have had ourchance; now we must relinquish Fate to the hands of a man who mighthave more success than we. Go, Joseph. Bring it here.     Unwillingly, Joe turned and shuffled out.  On a larger and heavier world than Planetoid 42, Johnson's curiositywould probably have had weight and mass. He was bursting withquestions, but he was obviously afraid they would cost him money. Forhis part, Harvey allowed that curiosity to grow like a Venusian amoebauntil Joe came in, lugging a radio.     Is that what you were talking about? the mayor snorted. What makesyou think I want a radio? I came here to get away from singers andpolitical speech-makers.     Do not jump to hasty conclusions, Harvey cautioned. Another word,and I shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had,with the sole exceptions of Joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventorof this absolutely awe-inspiring device.     I ain't in the market for a radio, Johnson said stubbornly.     Harvey nodded in relief. We have attempted to repay our host, Joseph.He has spurned our generosity. We have now the chance to continue ourstudy, which I am positive will soon reward us with the key to anenormous fortune.     Well, that's no plating off our bow, Joe grunted. I'm glad he didturn it down. I hated to give it up after working on it for three wholeyears.     He picked up the radio and began walking toward the door.     Now, hold on! the mayor cried. I ain't      saying     I'll buy, but whatis it I'm turning down?     Joe returned and set the instrument down on the bar. His facesorrowful, Harvey fondly stroked the scarred plasticoid cabinet.     To make a long story, Mr. Johnson, he said, Joseph and I were amongthe chosen few who knew the famous Doctor Dean intimately. Just beforehis tragic death, you will recall, Dean allegedly went insane. Hebanged his fist on the bar. I have said it before, and I repeat again,that was a malicious lie, spread by the doctor's enemies to discredithis greatest invention—this fourth dimensional radio!     This what? Johnson blurted out.     In simple terms, clarified Harvey, the ingenious doctor discoveredthat the yawning chasm between the dimensions could be bridged byenergy of all quanta. There has never been any question that theinhabitants of the super-dimension would be far more civilized thanourselves. Consequently, the man who could tap their knowledge wouldfind himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science!     The mayor looked respectfully at the silent box on the bar.     And this thing gets broadcasts from the fourth dimension?     It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied DoctorDean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact.     The mayor put his hands in his pockets, unswiveled one hip and staredthoughtfully at the battered cabinet.     Well, let's say it picks up fourth dimensional broadcasts, heconceded. But how could you understand what they're saying? Folks upthere wouldn't talk our language.     Again Harvey smashed his fist down. Do you dare to repeat the scurvylie that broke Dean's spirit and drove him to suicide?     Johnson recoiled. No—no,      of course not     . I mean, being up here, Inaturally couldn't get all the details.     Naturally, Harvey agreed, mollified. I'm sorry I lost my temper.But it is a matter of record that the doctor proved the broadcastsemanating from the super-dimension were in English! Why should that beso difficult to believe? Is it impossible that at one time there wascommunication between the dimensions, that the super-beings admiredour language and adopted it in all its beauty, adding to it their ownhyper-scientific trimmings?     Why, I don't know, Johnson said in confusion.     For three years, Joseph and I lost sleep and hair, trying to detectthe simple key that would translate the somewhat metamorphosedbroadcasts into our primitive English. It eluded us. Even the doctorfailed. But that was understandable; a sensitive soul like his couldstand only so much. And the combination of ridicule and failure tosolve the mystery caused him to take his own life.     Johnson winced. Is that what you want to unload on me?     For a very good reason, sir. Patience is the virtue that will berewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. A man whocould devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously aperson with unusual patience.     Yeah, the mayor said grudgingly, I ain't exactly flighty.     Therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem!     Johnson asked skeptically: How about a sample first?  Harvey turned a knob on the face of the scarred radio. After severalsqueals of spatial figures, a smooth voice began:     There are omnious pleajes of moby-hailegs in sonmirand which,howgraismon, are notch to be donfured miss ellasellabell in either orboth hagasanipaj, by all means. This does not refly, on the brotherman, nat or mizzafil saces are denuded by this ossifaligo....     Harvey switched off the set determinedly.     Wait a minute! Johnson begged. I almost got it then!     I dislike being commercial, said Harvey, but this astounding devicestill belongs to us. Would we not be foolish to let you discover theclue before purchasing the right to do so?     The mayor nodded indecisively, looking at the radio with agonizedlonging. How much do you want? he asked unhappily.     One thousand buckos, and no haggling. I am not in the mood.     Johnson opened his mouth to argue; then, seeing Harvey's set features,paid with the worst possible grace.     Don't you think we ought to tell him about the batteries, Harv? Joeasked.     What about the batteries? demanded Johnson with deadly calm.     A very small matter, Harvey said airily. You see, we have beenanalyzing these broadcasts for three years. In that time, of course,the batteries are bound to weaken. I estimate these should last notless than one Terrestrial month, at the very least.     What do I do then?     Harvey shrugged. Special batteries are required, which I see Josephhas by chance brought along. For the batteries, the only ones of theirkind left in the system, I ask only what they cost—one hundred andninety-nine buckos, no more and, on the other hand, no less.     Johnson was breathing hard, and his hand hovered dangerously near hisgun. But he paid the amount Harvey wanted.     Moreover, he actually shook hands when the two panacea purveyorscollected their six-armed prize and said goodbye. Before they wereoutside, however, he had turned on the radio and was listening tenselyto a woman's highly cultured, though rather angry voice, saying:     Oh, you hannaforge are all beasa-taga-sanimort. If you rue amount it,how do you respench a pure woman to ansver go-samak—     I'll get it! they heard Johnson mutter.     Then the sound of giant feet crossing the barroom floor reached theirears, and a shrill question: What's that, Papa?     A fortune, Jed! Those fakers are damned fools, selling us a thinglike—     Joe gazed at Harvey admiringly. Another one sold? Harv, that spielpulls them in like an ether storm!     Together with the remarkable planetoid man, they reached the ship.Above them, dark, tumbling shapes blotted out the stars and silentlymoved on. Joe opened the gangway door.     Come on in, pal, he said to Genius. We're shoving off.     The planetoid man grinned foolishly. Can't go arong with you, he saidwith an apologetic manner. I rike to, but pressure fratten me out if Igo.     What in solar blazes are you talking about? Harvey asked.     I grow up on pranetoid, Genius explained. On big pranet, too muchpressure for me.     The two salesmen looked narrowly at each other.     Did Johnson know that when he sold you? Joe snarled.     Oh, sure. The silly grin became wider than ever. Peopre from Earthbuy me rots of times. I never reave pranetoid, though.     Joseph, Harvey said ominously, that slick colonist has put one overupon us. What is our customary procedure in that event?     We tear him apart, Joe replied between his teeth.     Not Mister Johnson, advised Genius. Have gun and badge. He shoot youfirst and then rock you up in prison.     Harvey paused, his ominous air vanishing. True. There is also thefact, Joseph, that when he discovers the scrambled rectifier inthe radio we sold him, he will have been paid back in full for hisregrettable dishonesty.  Unwillingly, Joe agreed. While Genius retreated to a safe distance,they entered the ship and blasted off. Within a few minutes theautomatic steering pilot had maneuvered them above the plane of theasteroid belt.     I got kind of dizzy, Joe said, there were so many deals back andforth. How much did we make on the sucker?     A goodly amount, I wager, Harvey responded. He took out a pencil andpaper. Medicine, 469.50; radio, 1,000; batteries, 199. Total—let'ssee—1668 buckos and 50 redsents. A goodly sum, as I told you.     He emptied his pockets of money, spread it out on the astrogation tableand began counting. Finished, he looked up, troubled.     How much did we have when we landed, Joseph?     Exactly 1668 buckos, Joe answered promptly.     I can't understand it, said Harvey. Instead of double our capital,we now have only 1668 buckos and 50 redsents!     Feverishly, he returned to his pencil and paper.     Drinking water, 790; battery water, free; meal, 328; planetoid man,550. Total: 1668 buckos! He stared at the figures. We paid out almostas much as we took in, he said bitterly. Despite our intensiveefforts, we made the absurd sum of fifty redsents.     Why, the dirty crook! Joe growled.     But after a few moments of sad reflection, Harvey became philosophical.Perhaps, Joseph, we are more fortunate than we realize. We were,after all, completely in Johnson's power. The more I ponder, the moreI believe we were lucky to escape. And, anyhow, we did make fiftyredsents on the swindler. A moral victory, my boy.     Joe, who had been sunk desparingly into a chair, now stood up slowlyand asked: Remember that bottle-opener we gave him?     Certainly, Harvey explained. What about it?     How much did it cost us?     Harvey's eyebrows puckered. Suddenly he started laughing. You'reright, Joseph. We paid forty-six redsents for it on Venus. So, afterall that transacting of business, we made four redsents!     Four redsents, hell! Joe snapped. That was the sales tax!     He glared; then a smile lifted his mouth. You remember those yokels onMars' Flatlands, and the way they worshipped gold?           Goldbricks!      Harvey said succinctly.     Grinning, Joe set the robot-controls for Mars.   ","Genius is an important character because he is used to illustrate just how brilliant Johnson is. The man is clearly intelligent because he has positioned himself as the sheriff, the barman, and the mayor of Planetoid 42. He also makes money by fooling gullible outsiders into paying high prices for water and food. However, his idea to sell Genius over and over again is perhaps the most shrewd. His asking price for the remarkable creature is in the 600s, much more than he’s able to charge for water or dishes at his restaurant. Johnson pretends that he’s attached to Genius and would hate to see him go, yet he cannot turn down the incredible sum of money. Each time Genius is sold to naive buyers, he ends up making his way right back to Johnson’s bar, and Johnson profits all of the money. Genius cannot leave the planet because the pressure in other habitats is too much for his unique body to handle. If one of the buyers insisted on bringing him aboard their ship, he would turn up dead and useless to them anyway. Therefore, they always send the poor creature back to Johnson and lose out on their plans to make loads of money off of him. "
"How does Johnson demonstrate that he's a formidable opponent to Joe and Harvey? </s>     GRIFTERS' ASTEROID     By H. L. GOLD     Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever     to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought!     Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them     five buckos for a glass of water—and got it!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently.     We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage!     What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton.     Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once.     In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon.     Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously.     Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more.     He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick!     Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey.     Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly.     Strangers, eh? he asked at last.     Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy,      La-anagoYergis     , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics.     Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading?     Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days.     Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked.     We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble.     Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off.     Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos.     Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey.     Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser.     Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver.     The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides—     Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You—        You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen!        Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—?  The round face of the barkeeper had assumed an aggrieved expression.     Folks are always thinkin' the other feller's out to do 'em, he said,shaking his head. Lemme explain about the water here. It's bitteras some kinds of sin before it's purified. Have to bring it in withbuckets and make it sweet. That takes time and labor. Waddya think—Iwas chargin' feller critters for water just out of devilment? I chargebecause I gotta.     Friend, said Harvey, taking out a wallet and counting off eightfive-bucko bills, here is your money. What's fair is fair, and youhave put a different complexion on what seemed at first to be anunconscionable interjection of a middleman between Nature and man'sthirst.     The saloon man removed his dirty apron and came around the bar.     If that's an apology, I accept it. Now the mayor'll discuss fillingyour tanks. That's me. I'm also justice of the peace, officialrecorder, fire chief....     And chief of police, no doubt, said Harvey jocosely.     Nope. That's my son, Jed. Angus Johnson's my name. Folks here justcall me Chief. I run this town, and run it right. How much water willyou need?     Joe estimated quickly. About seventy-five liters, if we go on halfrations, he answered. He waited apprehensively.     Let's say ten buckos a liter, the mayor said. On account of thequantity, I'm able to quote a bargain price. Shucks, boys, it hurts memore to charge for water than it does for you to pay. I just got to,that's all.     The mayor gestured to the native, who shuffled out to the tanks withthem. The planetoid man worked the pump while the mayor intentlywatched the crude level-gauge, crying Stop! when it registered theproper amount. Then Johnson rubbed his thumb on his index finger andwetted his lips expectantly.     Harvey bravely counted off the bills. He asked: But what are we todo about replenishing our battery fluid? Ten buckos a liter would bepreposterous. We simply can't afford it.     Johnson's response almost floored them. Who said anything aboutcharging you for battery water? You can have all you want for nothing.It's just the purified stuff that comes so high.     After giving them directions that would take them to the free-waterpool, the ponderous factotum of Planetoid 42 shook hands and headedback to the saloon. His six-armed assistant followed him inside.     Now do you see, my hot-tempered colleague? said Harvey as he and Joepicked up buckets that hung on the tank. Johnson, as I saw instantly,is the victim of a difficult environment, and must charge accordingly.     Just the same, Joe griped, paying for water isn't something you canget used to in ten minutes.     In the fragile forest, they soon came across a stream that sprang fromthe igneous soil and splashed into the small pond whose contents,according to the mayor, was theirs for the asking. They filled theirbuckets and hauled them to the ship, then returned for more.  It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine ona bright surface off to the left. The figure, 750, with the bucko signin front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keepinga faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went toinvestigate.     Among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender moundthat was unmistakably a buried pipe.     What's this doing here? Harvey asked, puzzled. I thought Johnson hadto transport water in pails.     Wonder where it leads to, Joe said uneasily.     It leads      to     the saloon, said Harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing thepipe back toward the spaceport. What I am concerned with is where itleads      from     .     Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion ofscrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burstinto the open—before a clear, sparkling pool.     Mutely, Harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water.     I am growing suspicious, he said in a rigidly controlled voice.     But Joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water andtasting it.     Sweet! he snarled.     They rushed back to the first pool, where Joe again tasted a sample.His mouth went wry. Bitter! He uses only one pool, the sweet one! Theonly thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor'sconscience.     The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on, saidHarvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. Joseph, the good-natured artist inme has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until wehave had the best of this colonial con-man! Watch your cues from thispoint hence.     Fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. But at the door theystopped and their fists unclenched.     Thought you gents were leaving, the mayor called out, seeing themfrozen in the doorway. Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed.Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City.     You don't need any more, said Harvey, dismayed.     Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hairand held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously beenborn and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would havekept him down near the general dimensions of a man.     He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his ownhand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again whenhis fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressedone.     Pleased to meet you, piped a voice that had never known a denseatmosphere.     The pursuit of vengeance, Harvey realized, had taken a quick andunpleasant turn. Something shrewd was called for....     Joseph! he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. Don't youfeel well?     Even before the others could turn to him, Joe's practiced eyes weregently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his featuresdrooping like a bloodhound's.     Bring him in here! Johnson cried. I mean, get him away! He's comingdown with asteroid fever!     Of course, replied Harvey calmly. Any fool knows the first symptomsof the disease that once scourged the universe.     What do you mean,      once     ? demanded Johnson. I come down with itevery year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get himout of here!     In good time. He can't be moved immediately.     Then he'll be here for months!     Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor andhis gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathein tiny, uncontaminating gasps.     You'll find everything you want in the back room, Johnson saidfrantically, sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suctioncups—     Relics of the past, Harvey stated. One medication is all modern manrequires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever.     What's that? asked the mayor without conviction.     Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-handrocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. He returned within afew minutes, carrying a bottle.  Joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowlycrossing and uncrossing. Harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly,put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink.When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partnerdrink until most of the liquid was gone. Then he stepped back andwaited for the inevitable result.     Joe's performance was better than ever. He lay supine for severalmoments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomedto perpetual wryness. Slowly, however, he sat up and his featuresstraightened out.     Are—are you all right? asked the mayor anxiously.     Much better, said Joe in a weak voice.     Maybe you need another dose, Harvey suggested.     Joe recoiled. I'm fine now! he cried, and sprang off the bar to proveit.     Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face,and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse.     Well, I'll be hanged! Johnson ejaculated.           La-anago Yergis     never fails, my friend, Harvey explained. Byactual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-threeminutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caughtthis one before it grew formidable.     The mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. If youdon't charge too much, he said warily, I might think of buying some.     We do not sell this unbelievable remedy, Harvey replied with dignity.It sells itself.     'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a wholecase, said Johnson.     That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared withthe vast loss of time and strength the fever involves.     How much? asked the mayor unhappily.     For you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundredbuckos.     Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression ofdoing so. F-four hundred, he offered.     Not a red cent less than four seventy-five, Harvey said flatly.     Make it four fifty, quavered Johnson.     I dislike haggling, said Harvey.     The final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos andfifty redsents. Magnanimously, Harvey added: And we will include,      gratis     , an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of Mercurianhandicraftsmanship.     Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. No tricks now. I want a taste ofthat stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me.     Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. Themayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. The ensuingminute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle whichthe man gradually won.     There ain't no words for that taste, he gulped when it was safe totalk again.     Medicine, Harvey propounded, should taste like medicine. To Joe hesaid: Come, my esteemed colleague. We must perform the sacred task towhich we have dedicated ourselves.     With Joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed theclearing and entered the ship. As soon as they were inside, Joe droppedhis murderous silence and cried:     What kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of thatsnake oil?     That was not poison, Harvey contradicted quietly. It was      La-anagoYergis     extract, plus.     Plus what—arsenic?     Now, Joseph! Consider my quandary when I came back here to manufactureour specific for all known ailments, with the intention of sellingyonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods—an entire case,mind you. Was I to mix the extract with the water for which we had beenswindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit havebeen, then? No; I had to use the bitter free water, of course.     But why use it on me? Joe demanded furiously.     Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. Did Johnson ask totaste it, or did he not? One must look ahead, Joseph. I had to producethe same      medicine     that we will now manufacture. Thus, you were aguinea pig for a splendid cause.     Okay, okay, Joe said. But you shoulda charged him more.     Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of whichthat swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables hepossesses. We could not be content with less.     Well, we're starting all right, admitted Joe. How about that thingwith six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off?     Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively.     I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity.Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him.At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with ourstreamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolicsuckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on theaudio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendousfigure to the zoo!  Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carriedthe case of medicine to the saloon. The mayor had already cleared aplace of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put itdown carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gavehim, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. It must have been atleast as good as the first; he gagged.     That's the stuff, all right, he said, swallowing hard. He countedout the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariouslybalanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his painat paying for it. Then he glanced out to see the position of Jupiter,and asked: You gents eaten yet? The restaurant's open now.     Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking aboutfood at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry.     It's only water we were short of, Harvey said apprehensively. We'vegot rations back at the ship.           H-mph!      the mayor grunted. Powdered concentrates. Compressed pap.Suit yourselves. We treat our stomachs better here. And you're welcometo our hospitality.     Your hospitality, said Harvey, depends on the prices you charge.     Well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying, answeredthe mayor promptly. What's more, the kind of dinner I serve here youcan't get anywhere else for any price.     Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He sawnone.     Let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, Joe, he said guardedly.     Johnson immediately fell into the role of mine host.     Come right in, gents, he invited. Right into the dining room.     He seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more orless private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was littlechance of company.     Genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen withtwo menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins,silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails,which were on the house. Then he stood by for orders.     Harvey and Joe studied the menu critically. The prices werephenomenally low. When they glanced up at Johnson in perplexity, hegrinned, bowed and asked: Everything satisfactory, gents?     Quite, said Harvey. We shall order.     For an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, theculinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. And the servicewas as extraordinary as the meal itself. With four hands, Genius playeddeftly upon a pair of mellow Venusian      viotars     , using his other twohands for waiting on the table.     We absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen, Harveywhispered excitedly when Johnson and the native were both in thekitchen, attending to the next course. He would make any societyhostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sumto women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire.     Think of a fast one fast, Joe agreed. You're right.     But I dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often,complained Harvey. I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honestmerchant. This dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet I estimateour check at a mere bucko twenty redsents.     The mayor's appearance prevented them from continuing the discussion.     It's been a great honor, gents, he said. Ain't often I havevisitors, and I like the best, like you two gents.     As if on cue, Genius came out and put the check down between Joe andHarvey. Harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished ina yelp of horror.     What the devil is this? he shouted.—How do you arrive at thisfantastic, idiotic figure—      three hundred and twenty-eight buckos     !  Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius; he simply put on the table,not a fingerbowl, but a magnifying glass. With one of his thirtyfingers he pointed politely to the bottom of the menu.     Harvey focused on the microscopic print, and his face went pasty withrage. The minute note read: Services and entertainment, 327 buckos 80redsents.     You can go to hell! Joe growled. We won't pay it!     Johnson sighed ponderously. I was afraid you'd act like that, he saidwith regret. He pulled a tin badge out of his rear pocket, pinned it onhis vest, and twisted his holstered gun into view. Afraid I'll have toask the sheriff to take over.     Johnson, the sheriff, collected the money, and Johnson, therestaurateur, pocketed it. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped Joe the sign toremain calm.     My friend, he said to the mayor, and his tones took on aschoolmasterish severity, your long absence from Earth has perhapsmade you forget those elements of human wisdom that have entered thefolk-lore of your native planet. Such as, for example: 'It is follyto kill a goose that lays golden eggs,' and 'Penny wise is poundfoolish.'     I don't get the connection, objected Johnson.     Well, by obliging us to pay such a high price for your dinner, you putout of your reach the chance of profiting from a really substantialdeal. My partner and I were prepared to make you a sizable offer forthe peculiar creature you call Genius. But by reducing our funds theway you have—     Who said I wanted to sell him? the mayor interrupted. He rubbed hisfingers together and asked disinterestedly: What were you going tooffer, anyhow?     It doesn't matter any longer, Harvey said with elaboratecarelessness. Perhaps you wouldn't have accepted it, anyway.     That's right, Johnson came back emphatically. But what would youroffer have been which I would have turned down?     Which one? The one we were going to make, or the one we can make now?     Either one. It don't make no difference. Genius is too valuable tosell.     Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money wouldtempt you!     Nope. But how much did you say?     Ah, then you will consider releasing Genius!     Well, I'll tell you something, said the mayor confidentially. Whenyou've got one thing, you've got one thing. But when you've got money,it's the same as having a lot of things. Because, if you've got money,you can buy this and that and this and that and—     This and that, concluded Joe. We'll give you five hundred buckos.     Now, gents! Johnson remonstrated. Why, six hundred would hardly—     You haven't left us much money, Harvey put in.     The mayor frowned. All right, we'll split the difference. Make itfive-fifty.     Harvey was quick to pay out, for this was a genuine windfall. Then hestood up and admired the astonishing possession he had so inexpensivelyacquired.     I really hate to deprive you of this unique creature, he said toJohnson. I should imagine you will be rather lonely, with only yourfilial mammoth to keep you company.     I sure will, Johnson confessed glumly. I got pretty attached toGenius, and I'm going to miss him something awful.     Harvey forcibly removed his eyes from the native, who was clearing offthe table almost all at once.     My friend, he said, we take your only solace, it is true, but in hisplace we can offer something no less amazing and instructive.     The mayor's hand went protectively to his pocket. What is it? heasked with the suspicion of a man who has seen human nature at itsworst and expects nothing better.     Joseph, get our most prized belonging from the communications room ofthe ship, Harvey instructed. To Johnson he explained: You must seethe wondrous instrument before its value can be appreciated. My partnerwill soon have it here for your astonishment.     Joe's face grew as glum as Johnson's had been. Aw, Harv, heprotested, do we have to sell it? And right when I thought we weregetting the key!     We must not be selfish, my boy, Harvey said nobly. We have had ourchance; now we must relinquish Fate to the hands of a man who mighthave more success than we. Go, Joseph. Bring it here.     Unwillingly, Joe turned and shuffled out.  On a larger and heavier world than Planetoid 42, Johnson's curiositywould probably have had weight and mass. He was bursting withquestions, but he was obviously afraid they would cost him money. Forhis part, Harvey allowed that curiosity to grow like a Venusian amoebauntil Joe came in, lugging a radio.     Is that what you were talking about? the mayor snorted. What makesyou think I want a radio? I came here to get away from singers andpolitical speech-makers.     Do not jump to hasty conclusions, Harvey cautioned. Another word,and I shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had,with the sole exceptions of Joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventorof this absolutely awe-inspiring device.     I ain't in the market for a radio, Johnson said stubbornly.     Harvey nodded in relief. We have attempted to repay our host, Joseph.He has spurned our generosity. We have now the chance to continue ourstudy, which I am positive will soon reward us with the key to anenormous fortune.     Well, that's no plating off our bow, Joe grunted. I'm glad he didturn it down. I hated to give it up after working on it for three wholeyears.     He picked up the radio and began walking toward the door.     Now, hold on! the mayor cried. I ain't      saying     I'll buy, but whatis it I'm turning down?     Joe returned and set the instrument down on the bar. His facesorrowful, Harvey fondly stroked the scarred plasticoid cabinet.     To make a long story, Mr. Johnson, he said, Joseph and I were amongthe chosen few who knew the famous Doctor Dean intimately. Just beforehis tragic death, you will recall, Dean allegedly went insane. Hebanged his fist on the bar. I have said it before, and I repeat again,that was a malicious lie, spread by the doctor's enemies to discredithis greatest invention—this fourth dimensional radio!     This what? Johnson blurted out.     In simple terms, clarified Harvey, the ingenious doctor discoveredthat the yawning chasm between the dimensions could be bridged byenergy of all quanta. There has never been any question that theinhabitants of the super-dimension would be far more civilized thanourselves. Consequently, the man who could tap their knowledge wouldfind himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science!     The mayor looked respectfully at the silent box on the bar.     And this thing gets broadcasts from the fourth dimension?     It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied DoctorDean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact.     The mayor put his hands in his pockets, unswiveled one hip and staredthoughtfully at the battered cabinet.     Well, let's say it picks up fourth dimensional broadcasts, heconceded. But how could you understand what they're saying? Folks upthere wouldn't talk our language.     Again Harvey smashed his fist down. Do you dare to repeat the scurvylie that broke Dean's spirit and drove him to suicide?     Johnson recoiled. No—no,      of course not     . I mean, being up here, Inaturally couldn't get all the details.     Naturally, Harvey agreed, mollified. I'm sorry I lost my temper.But it is a matter of record that the doctor proved the broadcastsemanating from the super-dimension were in English! Why should that beso difficult to believe? Is it impossible that at one time there wascommunication between the dimensions, that the super-beings admiredour language and adopted it in all its beauty, adding to it their ownhyper-scientific trimmings?     Why, I don't know, Johnson said in confusion.     For three years, Joseph and I lost sleep and hair, trying to detectthe simple key that would translate the somewhat metamorphosedbroadcasts into our primitive English. It eluded us. Even the doctorfailed. But that was understandable; a sensitive soul like his couldstand only so much. And the combination of ridicule and failure tosolve the mystery caused him to take his own life.     Johnson winced. Is that what you want to unload on me?     For a very good reason, sir. Patience is the virtue that will berewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. A man whocould devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously aperson with unusual patience.     Yeah, the mayor said grudgingly, I ain't exactly flighty.     Therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem!     Johnson asked skeptically: How about a sample first?  Harvey turned a knob on the face of the scarred radio. After severalsqueals of spatial figures, a smooth voice began:     There are omnious pleajes of moby-hailegs in sonmirand which,howgraismon, are notch to be donfured miss ellasellabell in either orboth hagasanipaj, by all means. This does not refly, on the brotherman, nat or mizzafil saces are denuded by this ossifaligo....     Harvey switched off the set determinedly.     Wait a minute! Johnson begged. I almost got it then!     I dislike being commercial, said Harvey, but this astounding devicestill belongs to us. Would we not be foolish to let you discover theclue before purchasing the right to do so?     The mayor nodded indecisively, looking at the radio with agonizedlonging. How much do you want? he asked unhappily.     One thousand buckos, and no haggling. I am not in the mood.     Johnson opened his mouth to argue; then, seeing Harvey's set features,paid with the worst possible grace.     Don't you think we ought to tell him about the batteries, Harv? Joeasked.     What about the batteries? demanded Johnson with deadly calm.     A very small matter, Harvey said airily. You see, we have beenanalyzing these broadcasts for three years. In that time, of course,the batteries are bound to weaken. I estimate these should last notless than one Terrestrial month, at the very least.     What do I do then?     Harvey shrugged. Special batteries are required, which I see Josephhas by chance brought along. For the batteries, the only ones of theirkind left in the system, I ask only what they cost—one hundred andninety-nine buckos, no more and, on the other hand, no less.     Johnson was breathing hard, and his hand hovered dangerously near hisgun. But he paid the amount Harvey wanted.     Moreover, he actually shook hands when the two panacea purveyorscollected their six-armed prize and said goodbye. Before they wereoutside, however, he had turned on the radio and was listening tenselyto a woman's highly cultured, though rather angry voice, saying:     Oh, you hannaforge are all beasa-taga-sanimort. If you rue amount it,how do you respench a pure woman to ansver go-samak—     I'll get it! they heard Johnson mutter.     Then the sound of giant feet crossing the barroom floor reached theirears, and a shrill question: What's that, Papa?     A fortune, Jed! Those fakers are damned fools, selling us a thinglike—     Joe gazed at Harvey admiringly. Another one sold? Harv, that spielpulls them in like an ether storm!     Together with the remarkable planetoid man, they reached the ship.Above them, dark, tumbling shapes blotted out the stars and silentlymoved on. Joe opened the gangway door.     Come on in, pal, he said to Genius. We're shoving off.     The planetoid man grinned foolishly. Can't go arong with you, he saidwith an apologetic manner. I rike to, but pressure fratten me out if Igo.     What in solar blazes are you talking about? Harvey asked.     I grow up on pranetoid, Genius explained. On big pranet, too muchpressure for me.     The two salesmen looked narrowly at each other.     Did Johnson know that when he sold you? Joe snarled.     Oh, sure. The silly grin became wider than ever. Peopre from Earthbuy me rots of times. I never reave pranetoid, though.     Joseph, Harvey said ominously, that slick colonist has put one overupon us. What is our customary procedure in that event?     We tear him apart, Joe replied between his teeth.     Not Mister Johnson, advised Genius. Have gun and badge. He shoot youfirst and then rock you up in prison.     Harvey paused, his ominous air vanishing. True. There is also thefact, Joseph, that when he discovers the scrambled rectifier inthe radio we sold him, he will have been paid back in full for hisregrettable dishonesty.  Unwillingly, Joe agreed. While Genius retreated to a safe distance,they entered the ship and blasted off. Within a few minutes theautomatic steering pilot had maneuvered them above the plane of theasteroid belt.     I got kind of dizzy, Joe said, there were so many deals back andforth. How much did we make on the sucker?     A goodly amount, I wager, Harvey responded. He took out a pencil andpaper. Medicine, 469.50; radio, 1,000; batteries, 199. Total—let'ssee—1668 buckos and 50 redsents. A goodly sum, as I told you.     He emptied his pockets of money, spread it out on the astrogation tableand began counting. Finished, he looked up, troubled.     How much did we have when we landed, Joseph?     Exactly 1668 buckos, Joe answered promptly.     I can't understand it, said Harvey. Instead of double our capital,we now have only 1668 buckos and 50 redsents!     Feverishly, he returned to his pencil and paper.     Drinking water, 790; battery water, free; meal, 328; planetoid man,550. Total: 1668 buckos! He stared at the figures. We paid out almostas much as we took in, he said bitterly. Despite our intensiveefforts, we made the absurd sum of fifty redsents.     Why, the dirty crook! Joe growled.     But after a few moments of sad reflection, Harvey became philosophical.Perhaps, Joseph, we are more fortunate than we realize. We were,after all, completely in Johnson's power. The more I ponder, the moreI believe we were lucky to escape. And, anyhow, we did make fiftyredsents on the swindler. A moral victory, my boy.     Joe, who had been sunk desparingly into a chair, now stood up slowlyand asked: Remember that bottle-opener we gave him?     Certainly, Harvey explained. What about it?     How much did it cost us?     Harvey's eyebrows puckered. Suddenly he started laughing. You'reright, Joseph. We paid forty-six redsents for it on Venus. So, afterall that transacting of business, we made four redsents!     Four redsents, hell! Joe snapped. That was the sales tax!     He glared; then a smile lifted his mouth. You remember those yokels onMars' Flatlands, and the way they worshipped gold?           Goldbricks!      Harvey said succinctly.     Grinning, Joe set the robot-controls for Mars.   ","Joe and Harvey are professional conmen, so they are quite good at swindling innocent victims. They make their money by peddling a fake panacea called La-anago Yergis. The men regularly partake in an act where Joe falls ill and Harvey has to come to his rescue with the extract. Although Johnson falls for this trick and purchases an entire case of the medicine, he also does a great job of getting Harvey and Joe back. At the end of the story, the opposing sides come out basically even in terms of financial gains. Johnson first demonstrates that he can take advantage of Harvey and Joe when he gives them each eight glasses of water before letting them know that he charges a lot for each glass. The men say they’re thirsty, so he is happy to give them as much as they’d like to drink. Although Johnson says that the water costs so much because it must be specially purified, the truth is that he has access to an entire body of water and there really isn’t any reason to charge so much.Later, Johnson convinces Harvey and Joe that they’re hungry enough to sit down at his restaurant even though neither one had even mentioned food. He allows them to order their food and believe that they’re getting an incredible deal until he tells them about the fine print on the menu. Harvey and Joe are forced to fork over hundreds of dollars for their meal, and when they threaten to walk out, Johnson reminds them that he is the sheriff on Planetoid 42, and he has the power to arrest them. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     GRIFTERS' ASTEROID     By H. L. GOLD     Harvey and Joe were the slickest con-men ever     to gyp a space-lane sucker. Or so they thought!     Angus Johnson knew differently. He charged them     five buckos for a glass of water—and got it!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Characteristically, Harvey Ellsworth tried to maintain his dignity,though his parched tongue was almost hanging out. But Joe Mallon, withno dignity to maintain, lurched across the rubbish-strewn patch of landthat had been termed a spaceport. When Harvey staggered pontificallyinto the battered metalloy saloon—the only one on Planetoid 42—histall, gangling partner was already stumbling out, mouthing somethingincoherent. They met in the doorway, violently.     We're delirious! Joe cried. It's a mirage!     What is? asked Harvey through a mouthful of cotton.     Joe reeled aside, and Harvey saw what had upset his partner. He stared,speechless for once.     In their hectic voyages from planet to planet, the pair of panaceapurveyors had encountered the usual strange life-forms. But never hadthey seen anything like the amazing creature in that colonial saloon.     Paying no attention to them, it was carrying a case of liquor in twohands, six siphons in two others, and a broom and dustpan in theremaining pair. The bartender, a big man resembling the plumpishHarvey in build, was leaning negligently on the counter, ordering thisimpossible being to fill the partly-emptied bottles, squeeze fruitjuice and sweep the floor, all of which the native did simultaneously.     Nonsense, Harvey croaked uncertainly. We have seen enough queerthings to know there are always more.     He led the way inside. Through thirst-cracked lips he rasped:Water—quick!     Without a word, the bartender reached under the counter, brought outtwo glasses of water. The interplanetary con-men drank noisily, askedfor more, until they had drunk eight glasses. Meanwhile, the bartenderhad taken out eight jiggers and filled them with whiskey.     Harvey and Joe were breathing hard from having gulped the water sofast, but they were beginning to revive. They noticed the bartender'simpersonal eyes studying them shrewdly.     Strangers, eh? he asked at last.     Solar salesmen, my colonial friend, Harvey answered in his usuallush manner. We purvey that renowned Martian remedy,      La-anagoYergis     , the formula for which was recently discovered by ourselves inthe ancient ruined city of La-anago. Medical science is unanimous inproclaiming this magic medicine the sole panacea in the entire historyof therapeutics.     Yeah? said the bartender disinterestedly, polishing the chaserglasses without washing them. Where you heading?     Out of Mars for Ganymede. Our condenser broke down, and we've gonewithout water for five ghastly days.     Got a mechanic around this dumping ground you call a port? Joe asked.     We did. He came near starving and moved on to Titan. Ships don't landhere unless they're in trouble.     Then where's the water lead-in? We'll fill up and push off.     Mayor takes care of that, replied the saloon owner. If you gents'refinished at the bar, your drinks'll be forty buckos.     Harvey grinned puzzledly. We didn't take any whiskey.     Might as well. Water's five buckos a glass. Liquor's free with everychaser.     Harvey's eyes bulged. Joe gulped. That—that's robbery! the lanky manmanaged to get out in a thin quaver.     The barkeeper shrugged. When there ain't many customers, you gottamake more on each one. Besides—     Besides nothing! Joe roared, finding his voice again. You dirtycrook—robbing poor spacemen! You—        You dirty crook! Joe roared. Robbing honest spacemen!        Harvey nudged him warningly. Easy, my boy, easy. He turned to thebartender apologetically. Don't mind my friend. His adrenal glands aresometimes overactive. You were going to say—?  The round face of the barkeeper had assumed an aggrieved expression.     Folks are always thinkin' the other feller's out to do 'em, he said,shaking his head. Lemme explain about the water here. It's bitteras some kinds of sin before it's purified. Have to bring it in withbuckets and make it sweet. That takes time and labor. Waddya think—Iwas chargin' feller critters for water just out of devilment? I chargebecause I gotta.     Friend, said Harvey, taking out a wallet and counting off eightfive-bucko bills, here is your money. What's fair is fair, and youhave put a different complexion on what seemed at first to be anunconscionable interjection of a middleman between Nature and man'sthirst.     The saloon man removed his dirty apron and came around the bar.     If that's an apology, I accept it. Now the mayor'll discuss fillingyour tanks. That's me. I'm also justice of the peace, officialrecorder, fire chief....     And chief of police, no doubt, said Harvey jocosely.     Nope. That's my son, Jed. Angus Johnson's my name. Folks here justcall me Chief. I run this town, and run it right. How much water willyou need?     Joe estimated quickly. About seventy-five liters, if we go on halfrations, he answered. He waited apprehensively.     Let's say ten buckos a liter, the mayor said. On account of thequantity, I'm able to quote a bargain price. Shucks, boys, it hurts memore to charge for water than it does for you to pay. I just got to,that's all.     The mayor gestured to the native, who shuffled out to the tanks withthem. The planetoid man worked the pump while the mayor intentlywatched the crude level-gauge, crying Stop! when it registered theproper amount. Then Johnson rubbed his thumb on his index finger andwetted his lips expectantly.     Harvey bravely counted off the bills. He asked: But what are we todo about replenishing our battery fluid? Ten buckos a liter would bepreposterous. We simply can't afford it.     Johnson's response almost floored them. Who said anything aboutcharging you for battery water? You can have all you want for nothing.It's just the purified stuff that comes so high.     After giving them directions that would take them to the free-waterpool, the ponderous factotum of Planetoid 42 shook hands and headedback to the saloon. His six-armed assistant followed him inside.     Now do you see, my hot-tempered colleague? said Harvey as he and Joepicked up buckets that hung on the tank. Johnson, as I saw instantly,is the victim of a difficult environment, and must charge accordingly.     Just the same, Joe griped, paying for water isn't something you canget used to in ten minutes.     In the fragile forest, they soon came across a stream that sprang fromthe igneous soil and splashed into the small pond whose contents,according to the mayor, was theirs for the asking. They filled theirbuckets and hauled them to the ship, then returned for more.  It was on the sixth trip that Joe caught a glimpse of Jupiter-shine ona bright surface off to the left. The figure, 750, with the bucko signin front of it, was still doing acrobatics inside his skull and keepinga faint suspicion alive in him. So he called Harvey and they went toinvestigate.     Among the skimpy ground-crawling vines, they saw a long slender moundthat was unmistakably a buried pipe.     What's this doing here? Harvey asked, puzzled. I thought Johnson hadto transport water in pails.     Wonder where it leads to, Joe said uneasily.     It leads      to     the saloon, said Harvey, his eyes rapidly tracing thepipe back toward the spaceport. What I am concerned with is where itleads      from     .     Five minutes later, panting heavily from the unaccustomed exertion ofscrambling through the tangle of planetorial undergrowth, they burstinto the open—before a clear, sparkling pool.     Mutely, Harvey pointed out a pipe-end jutting under the water.     I am growing suspicious, he said in a rigidly controlled voice.     But Joe was already on his knees, scooping up a handful of water andtasting it.     Sweet! he snarled.     They rushed back to the first pool, where Joe again tasted a sample.His mouth went wry. Bitter! He uses only one pool, the sweet one! Theonly thing that needs purifying around here is that blasted mayor'sconscience.     The asteroidal Poobah has tricked us with a slick come-on, saidHarvey slowly. His eyes grew cold. Joseph, the good-natured artist inme has become a hard and merciless avenger. I shall not rest until wehave had the best of this colonial con-man! Watch your cues from thispoint hence.     Fists clenched, the two returned to the saloon. But at the door theystopped and their fists unclenched.     Thought you gents were leaving, the mayor called out, seeing themfrozen in the doorway. Glad you didn't. Now you can meet my son, Jed.Him and me are the whole Earthman population of Johnson City.     You don't need any more, said Harvey, dismayed.     Johnson's eight-foot son, topped by a massive roof of sun-bleached hairand held up by a foundation that seemed immovable, had obviously beenborn and raised in low gravity. For any decent-sized world would havekept him down near the general dimensions of a man.     He held out an acre of palm. Harvey studied it worriedly, put his ownhand somewhere on it, swallowed as it closed, then breathed again whenhis fingers were released in five units instead of a single compressedone.     Pleased to meet you, piped a voice that had never known a denseatmosphere.     The pursuit of vengeance, Harvey realized, had taken a quick andunpleasant turn. Something shrewd was called for....     Joseph! he exclaimed, looking at his partner in alarm. Don't youfeel well?     Even before the others could turn to him, Joe's practiced eyes weregently crossing. He sagged against the door frame, all his featuresdrooping like a bloodhound's.     Bring him in here! Johnson cried. I mean, get him away! He's comingdown with asteroid fever!     Of course, replied Harvey calmly. Any fool knows the first symptomsof the disease that once scourged the universe.     What do you mean,      once     ? demanded Johnson. I come down with itevery year, and I ain't hankering to have it in an off-season. Get himout of here!     In good time. He can't be moved immediately.     Then he'll be here for months!     Harvey helped Joe to the counter and lifted him up on it. The mayor andhis gigantic offspring were cowering across the room, trying to breathein tiny, uncontaminating gasps.     You'll find everything you want in the back room, Johnson saidfrantically, sulfopyridine, mustard plasters, rubs, inhalers, suctioncups—     Relics of the past, Harvey stated. One medication is all modern manrequires to combat the dread menace, asteroid fever.     What's that? asked the mayor without conviction.     Instead of replying, Harvey hurried outside to the ungainly second-handrocket ship in the center of the shabby spaceport. He returned within afew minutes, carrying a bottle.  Joe was still stretched out on the bar, panting, his eyes slowlycrossing and uncrossing. Harvey lifted the patient's head tenderly,put the bottle to his lips and tilted it until he was forced to drink.When Joe tried to pull away, Harvey was inexorable. He made his partnerdrink until most of the liquid was gone. Then he stepped back andwaited for the inevitable result.     Joe's performance was better than ever. He lay supine for severalmoments, his face twisted into an expression that seemed doomedto perpetual wryness. Slowly, however, he sat up and his featuresstraightened out.     Are—are you all right? asked the mayor anxiously.     Much better, said Joe in a weak voice.     Maybe you need another dose, Harvey suggested.     Joe recoiled. I'm fine now! he cried, and sprang off the bar to proveit.     Astonished, Johnson and his son drew closer. They searched Joe's face,and then the mayor timidly felt his pulse.     Well, I'll be hanged! Johnson ejaculated.           La-anago Yergis     never fails, my friend, Harvey explained. Byactual test, it conquers asteroid fever in from four to twenty-threeminutes, depending on the severity of the attack. Luckily, we caughtthis one before it grew formidable.     The mayor's eyes became clouded mirrors of an inward conflict. If youdon't charge too much, he said warily, I might think of buying some.     We do not sell this unbelievable remedy, Harvey replied with dignity.It sells itself.     'Course, I'd expect a considerable reduction if I bought a wholecase, said Johnson.     That would be the smallest investment you could make, compared withthe vast loss of time and strength the fever involves.     How much? asked the mayor unhappily.     For you, since you have taken us in so hospitably, a mere five hundredbuckos.     Johnson did not actually stagger back, but he gave the impression ofdoing so. F-four hundred, he offered.     Not a red cent less than four seventy-five, Harvey said flatly.     Make it four fifty, quavered Johnson.     I dislike haggling, said Harvey.     The final price, however, was four hundred and sixty-nine buckos andfifty redsents. Magnanimously, Harvey added: And we will include,      gratis     , an elegant bottle-opener, a superb product of Mercurianhandicraftsmanship.     Johnson stabbed out a warning finger. No tricks now. I want a taste ofthat stuff. You're not switching some worthless junk on me.     Harvey took a glass from the bar and poured him a generous sample. Themayor sniffed it, grimaced, then threw it down his gullet. The ensuingminute saw a grim battle between a man and his stomach, a battle whichthe man gradually won.     There ain't no words for that taste, he gulped when it was safe totalk again.     Medicine, Harvey propounded, should taste like medicine. To Joe hesaid: Come, my esteemed colleague. We must perform the sacred task towhich we have dedicated ourselves.     With Joe stumbling along behind, he left the saloon, crossed theclearing and entered the ship. As soon as they were inside, Joe droppedhis murderous silence and cried:     What kind of a dirty trick was that, giving me poison instead of thatsnake oil?     That was not poison, Harvey contradicted quietly. It was      La-anagoYergis     extract, plus.     Plus what—arsenic?     Now, Joseph! Consider my quandary when I came back here to manufactureour specific for all known ailments, with the intention of sellingyonder asteroidal tin-horn a bill of medical goods—an entire case,mind you. Was I to mix the extract with the water for which we had beenswindled to the tune of ten buckos a liter? Where would our profit havebeen, then? No; I had to use the bitter free water, of course.     But why use it on me? Joe demanded furiously.     Harvey looked reprovingly at his gangling partner. Did Johnson ask totaste it, or did he not? One must look ahead, Joseph. I had to producethe same      medicine     that we will now manufacture. Thus, you were aguinea pig for a splendid cause.     Okay, okay, Joe said. But you shoulda charged him more.     Joseph, I promise you that we shall get back every redsent of whichthat swindler cheated us, besides whatever other funds or valuables hepossesses. We could not be content with less.     Well, we're starting all right, admitted Joe. How about that thingwith six arms? He looks like a valuable. Can't we grab him off?     Harvey stopped filling bottles and looked up pensively.     I have every hope of luring away the profitable monstrosity.Apparently you have also surmised the fortune we could make with him.At first I purpose to exhibit him on our interplanetary tours with ourstreamlined panacea; he would be a spectacular attraction for bucolicsuckers. Later, a brief period of demonstrating his abilities on theaudio-visiphone. Then our triumph—we shall sell him at a stupendousfigure to the zoo!  Joe was still dazed by that monetary vista when he and Harvey carriedthe case of medicine to the saloon. The mayor had already cleared aplace of honor in the cluttered back room, where he told them to put itdown carefully. Then he took the elaborate bottle-opener Harvey gavehim, reverently uncorked a bottle and sampled it. It must have been atleast as good as the first; he gagged.     That's the stuff, all right, he said, swallowing hard. He countedout the money into Harvey's hand, at a moderate rate that precariouslybalanced between his pleasure at getting the fever remedy and his painat paying for it. Then he glanced out to see the position of Jupiter,and asked: You gents eaten yet? The restaurant's open now.     Harvey and Joe looked at each other. They hadn't been thinking aboutfood at all, but suddenly they realized that they were hungry.     It's only water we were short of, Harvey said apprehensively. We'vegot rations back at the ship.           H-mph!      the mayor grunted. Powdered concentrates. Compressed pap.Suit yourselves. We treat our stomachs better here. And you're welcometo our hospitality.     Your hospitality, said Harvey, depends on the prices you charge.     Well, if that's what's worrying you, you can stop worrying, answeredthe mayor promptly. What's more, the kind of dinner I serve here youcan't get anywhere else for any price.     Swiftly, Harvey conned the possibilities of being bilked again. He sawnone.     Let's take a look at the menu, anyhow, Joe, he said guardedly.     Johnson immediately fell into the role of mine host.     Come right in, gents, he invited. Right into the dining room.     He seated them at a table, which a rope tied between posts made more orless private, though nobody else was in the saloon and there was littlechance of company.     Genius, the six-armed native, appeared from the dingy kitchen withtwo menus in one hand, two glasses of water in another, plus napkins,silverware, a pitcher, plates, saucers, cups, and their cocktails,which were on the house. Then he stood by for orders.     Harvey and Joe studied the menu critically. The prices werephenomenally low. When they glanced up at Johnson in perplexity, hegrinned, bowed and asked: Everything satisfactory, gents?     Quite, said Harvey. We shall order.     For an hour they were served amazing dishes, both fresh and canned, theculinary wealth of this planetoid and all the system. And the servicewas as extraordinary as the meal itself. With four hands, Genius playeddeftly upon a pair of mellow Venusian      viotars     , using his other twohands for waiting on the table.     We absolutely must purchase this incredible specimen, Harveywhispered excitedly when Johnson and the native were both in thekitchen, attending to the next course. He would make any societyhostess's season a riotous success, which should be worth a great sumto women like Mrs. van Schuyler-Morgan, merely for his hire.     Think of a fast one fast, Joe agreed. You're right.     But I dislike having to revise my opinion of a man so often,complained Harvey. I wish Johnson would stay either swindler or honestmerchant. This dinner is worth as least twenty buckos, yet I estimateour check at a mere bucko twenty redsents.     The mayor's appearance prevented them from continuing the discussion.     It's been a great honor, gents, he said. Ain't often I havevisitors, and I like the best, like you two gents.     As if on cue, Genius came out and put the check down between Joe andHarvey. Harvey picked it up negligently, but his casual air vanished ina yelp of horror.     What the devil is this? he shouted.—How do you arrive at thisfantastic, idiotic figure—      three hundred and twenty-eight buckos     !  Johnson didn't answer. Neither did Genius; he simply put on the table,not a fingerbowl, but a magnifying glass. With one of his thirtyfingers he pointed politely to the bottom of the menu.     Harvey focused on the microscopic print, and his face went pasty withrage. The minute note read: Services and entertainment, 327 buckos 80redsents.     You can go to hell! Joe growled. We won't pay it!     Johnson sighed ponderously. I was afraid you'd act like that, he saidwith regret. He pulled a tin badge out of his rear pocket, pinned it onhis vest, and twisted his holstered gun into view. Afraid I'll have toask the sheriff to take over.     Johnson, the sheriff, collected the money, and Johnson, therestaurateur, pocketed it. Meanwhile, Harvey tipped Joe the sign toremain calm.     My friend, he said to the mayor, and his tones took on aschoolmasterish severity, your long absence from Earth has perhapsmade you forget those elements of human wisdom that have entered thefolk-lore of your native planet. Such as, for example: 'It is follyto kill a goose that lays golden eggs,' and 'Penny wise is poundfoolish.'     I don't get the connection, objected Johnson.     Well, by obliging us to pay such a high price for your dinner, you putout of your reach the chance of profiting from a really substantialdeal. My partner and I were prepared to make you a sizable offer forthe peculiar creature you call Genius. But by reducing our funds theway you have—     Who said I wanted to sell him? the mayor interrupted. He rubbed hisfingers together and asked disinterestedly: What were you going tooffer, anyhow?     It doesn't matter any longer, Harvey said with elaboratecarelessness. Perhaps you wouldn't have accepted it, anyway.     That's right, Johnson came back emphatically. But what would youroffer have been which I would have turned down?     Which one? The one we were going to make, or the one we can make now?     Either one. It don't make no difference. Genius is too valuable tosell.     Oh, come now, Mr. Johnson. Don't tell me no amount of money wouldtempt you!     Nope. But how much did you say?     Ah, then you will consider releasing Genius!     Well, I'll tell you something, said the mayor confidentially. Whenyou've got one thing, you've got one thing. But when you've got money,it's the same as having a lot of things. Because, if you've got money,you can buy this and that and this and that and—     This and that, concluded Joe. We'll give you five hundred buckos.     Now, gents! Johnson remonstrated. Why, six hundred would hardly—     You haven't left us much money, Harvey put in.     The mayor frowned. All right, we'll split the difference. Make itfive-fifty.     Harvey was quick to pay out, for this was a genuine windfall. Then hestood up and admired the astonishing possession he had so inexpensivelyacquired.     I really hate to deprive you of this unique creature, he said toJohnson. I should imagine you will be rather lonely, with only yourfilial mammoth to keep you company.     I sure will, Johnson confessed glumly. I got pretty attached toGenius, and I'm going to miss him something awful.     Harvey forcibly removed his eyes from the native, who was clearing offthe table almost all at once.     My friend, he said, we take your only solace, it is true, but in hisplace we can offer something no less amazing and instructive.     The mayor's hand went protectively to his pocket. What is it? heasked with the suspicion of a man who has seen human nature at itsworst and expects nothing better.     Joseph, get our most prized belonging from the communications room ofthe ship, Harvey instructed. To Johnson he explained: You must seethe wondrous instrument before its value can be appreciated. My partnerwill soon have it here for your astonishment.     Joe's face grew as glum as Johnson's had been. Aw, Harv, heprotested, do we have to sell it? And right when I thought we weregetting the key!     We must not be selfish, my boy, Harvey said nobly. We have had ourchance; now we must relinquish Fate to the hands of a man who mighthave more success than we. Go, Joseph. Bring it here.     Unwillingly, Joe turned and shuffled out.  On a larger and heavier world than Planetoid 42, Johnson's curiositywould probably have had weight and mass. He was bursting withquestions, but he was obviously afraid they would cost him money. Forhis part, Harvey allowed that curiosity to grow like a Venusian amoebauntil Joe came in, lugging a radio.     Is that what you were talking about? the mayor snorted. What makesyou think I want a radio? I came here to get away from singers andpolitical speech-makers.     Do not jump to hasty conclusions, Harvey cautioned. Another word,and I shall refuse you the greatest opportunity any man has ever had,with the sole exceptions of Joseph, myself and the unfortunate inventorof this absolutely awe-inspiring device.     I ain't in the market for a radio, Johnson said stubbornly.     Harvey nodded in relief. We have attempted to repay our host, Joseph.He has spurned our generosity. We have now the chance to continue ourstudy, which I am positive will soon reward us with the key to anenormous fortune.     Well, that's no plating off our bow, Joe grunted. I'm glad he didturn it down. I hated to give it up after working on it for three wholeyears.     He picked up the radio and began walking toward the door.     Now, hold on! the mayor cried. I ain't      saying     I'll buy, but whatis it I'm turning down?     Joe returned and set the instrument down on the bar. His facesorrowful, Harvey fondly stroked the scarred plasticoid cabinet.     To make a long story, Mr. Johnson, he said, Joseph and I were amongthe chosen few who knew the famous Doctor Dean intimately. Just beforehis tragic death, you will recall, Dean allegedly went insane. Hebanged his fist on the bar. I have said it before, and I repeat again,that was a malicious lie, spread by the doctor's enemies to discredithis greatest invention—this fourth dimensional radio!     This what? Johnson blurted out.     In simple terms, clarified Harvey, the ingenious doctor discoveredthat the yawning chasm between the dimensions could be bridged byenergy of all quanta. There has never been any question that theinhabitants of the super-dimension would be far more civilized thanourselves. Consequently, the man who could tap their knowledge wouldfind himself in possession of a powerful, undreamt-of science!     The mayor looked respectfully at the silent box on the bar.     And this thing gets broadcasts from the fourth dimension?     It does, Mr. Johnson! Only charlatans like those who envied DoctorDean's magnificent accomplishments could deny that fact.     The mayor put his hands in his pockets, unswiveled one hip and staredthoughtfully at the battered cabinet.     Well, let's say it picks up fourth dimensional broadcasts, heconceded. But how could you understand what they're saying? Folks upthere wouldn't talk our language.     Again Harvey smashed his fist down. Do you dare to repeat the scurvylie that broke Dean's spirit and drove him to suicide?     Johnson recoiled. No—no,      of course not     . I mean, being up here, Inaturally couldn't get all the details.     Naturally, Harvey agreed, mollified. I'm sorry I lost my temper.But it is a matter of record that the doctor proved the broadcastsemanating from the super-dimension were in English! Why should that beso difficult to believe? Is it impossible that at one time there wascommunication between the dimensions, that the super-beings admiredour language and adopted it in all its beauty, adding to it their ownhyper-scientific trimmings?     Why, I don't know, Johnson said in confusion.     For three years, Joseph and I lost sleep and hair, trying to detectthe simple key that would translate the somewhat metamorphosedbroadcasts into our primitive English. It eluded us. Even the doctorfailed. But that was understandable; a sensitive soul like his couldstand only so much. And the combination of ridicule and failure tosolve the mystery caused him to take his own life.     Johnson winced. Is that what you want to unload on me?     For a very good reason, sir. Patience is the virtue that will berewarded with the key to these fourth dimensional broadcasts. A man whocould devote his life to improving this lonely worldlet is obviously aperson with unusual patience.     Yeah, the mayor said grudgingly, I ain't exactly flighty.     Therefore, you are the man who could unravel the problem!     Johnson asked skeptically: How about a sample first?  Harvey turned a knob on the face of the scarred radio. After severalsqueals of spatial figures, a smooth voice began:     There are omnious pleajes of moby-hailegs in sonmirand which,howgraismon, are notch to be donfured miss ellasellabell in either orboth hagasanipaj, by all means. This does not refly, on the brotherman, nat or mizzafil saces are denuded by this ossifaligo....     Harvey switched off the set determinedly.     Wait a minute! Johnson begged. I almost got it then!     I dislike being commercial, said Harvey, but this astounding devicestill belongs to us. Would we not be foolish to let you discover theclue before purchasing the right to do so?     The mayor nodded indecisively, looking at the radio with agonizedlonging. How much do you want? he asked unhappily.     One thousand buckos, and no haggling. I am not in the mood.     Johnson opened his mouth to argue; then, seeing Harvey's set features,paid with the worst possible grace.     Don't you think we ought to tell him about the batteries, Harv? Joeasked.     What about the batteries? demanded Johnson with deadly calm.     A very small matter, Harvey said airily. You see, we have beenanalyzing these broadcasts for three years. In that time, of course,the batteries are bound to weaken. I estimate these should last notless than one Terrestrial month, at the very least.     What do I do then?     Harvey shrugged. Special batteries are required, which I see Josephhas by chance brought along. For the batteries, the only ones of theirkind left in the system, I ask only what they cost—one hundred andninety-nine buckos, no more and, on the other hand, no less.     Johnson was breathing hard, and his hand hovered dangerously near hisgun. But he paid the amount Harvey wanted.     Moreover, he actually shook hands when the two panacea purveyorscollected their six-armed prize and said goodbye. Before they wereoutside, however, he had turned on the radio and was listening tenselyto a woman's highly cultured, though rather angry voice, saying:     Oh, you hannaforge are all beasa-taga-sanimort. If you rue amount it,how do you respench a pure woman to ansver go-samak—     I'll get it! they heard Johnson mutter.     Then the sound of giant feet crossing the barroom floor reached theirears, and a shrill question: What's that, Papa?     A fortune, Jed! Those fakers are damned fools, selling us a thinglike—     Joe gazed at Harvey admiringly. Another one sold? Harv, that spielpulls them in like an ether storm!     Together with the remarkable planetoid man, they reached the ship.Above them, dark, tumbling shapes blotted out the stars and silentlymoved on. Joe opened the gangway door.     Come on in, pal, he said to Genius. We're shoving off.     The planetoid man grinned foolishly. Can't go arong with you, he saidwith an apologetic manner. I rike to, but pressure fratten me out if Igo.     What in solar blazes are you talking about? Harvey asked.     I grow up on pranetoid, Genius explained. On big pranet, too muchpressure for me.     The two salesmen looked narrowly at each other.     Did Johnson know that when he sold you? Joe snarled.     Oh, sure. The silly grin became wider than ever. Peopre from Earthbuy me rots of times. I never reave pranetoid, though.     Joseph, Harvey said ominously, that slick colonist has put one overupon us. What is our customary procedure in that event?     We tear him apart, Joe replied between his teeth.     Not Mister Johnson, advised Genius. Have gun and badge. He shoot youfirst and then rock you up in prison.     Harvey paused, his ominous air vanishing. True. There is also thefact, Joseph, that when he discovers the scrambled rectifier inthe radio we sold him, he will have been paid back in full for hisregrettable dishonesty.  Unwillingly, Joe agreed. While Genius retreated to a safe distance,they entered the ship and blasted off. Within a few minutes theautomatic steering pilot had maneuvered them above the plane of theasteroid belt.     I got kind of dizzy, Joe said, there were so many deals back andforth. How much did we make on the sucker?     A goodly amount, I wager, Harvey responded. He took out a pencil andpaper. Medicine, 469.50; radio, 1,000; batteries, 199. Total—let'ssee—1668 buckos and 50 redsents. A goodly sum, as I told you.     He emptied his pockets of money, spread it out on the astrogation tableand began counting. Finished, he looked up, troubled.     How much did we have when we landed, Joseph?     Exactly 1668 buckos, Joe answered promptly.     I can't understand it, said Harvey. Instead of double our capital,we now have only 1668 buckos and 50 redsents!     Feverishly, he returned to his pencil and paper.     Drinking water, 790; battery water, free; meal, 328; planetoid man,550. Total: 1668 buckos! He stared at the figures. We paid out almostas much as we took in, he said bitterly. Despite our intensiveefforts, we made the absurd sum of fifty redsents.     Why, the dirty crook! Joe growled.     But after a few moments of sad reflection, Harvey became philosophical.Perhaps, Joseph, we are more fortunate than we realize. We were,after all, completely in Johnson's power. The more I ponder, the moreI believe we were lucky to escape. And, anyhow, we did make fiftyredsents on the swindler. A moral victory, my boy.     Joe, who had been sunk desparingly into a chair, now stood up slowlyand asked: Remember that bottle-opener we gave him?     Certainly, Harvey explained. What about it?     How much did it cost us?     Harvey's eyebrows puckered. Suddenly he started laughing. You'reright, Joseph. We paid forty-six redsents for it on Venus. So, afterall that transacting of business, we made four redsents!     Four redsents, hell! Joe snapped. That was the sales tax!     He glared; then a smile lifted his mouth. You remember those yokels onMars' Flatlands, and the way they worshipped gold?           Goldbricks!      Harvey said succinctly.     Grinning, Joe set the robot-controls for Mars.   ","Planetoid 42 is a place without much to offer besides a port. It is heavily polluted, covered in plants that are similar to vines, and boasts only one saloon. It is home to only two humans, Johnson and his son Jeb, and Genius, a fantastic creature with six limbs that is unlike anything Joe and Harvey have ever seen before. The planet has gravity, which made it possible for Jed to grow to eight feet tall. Genius is also able to thrive on Planetoid 42 while he would perish on other planets with more gravity. Although Johnson says that the water must be purified so it doesn’t taste bitter, the truth is that there’s a large pool with sweet water on the planet. Johnson insists that he has to charge a lot of money for water in part because he has very few customers. The planet is mostly deserted and people only show up to his bar if they’re in trouble.Johnson makes the rules because he is in charge of everything. He is the sheriff, fire chief, mayor, justice of the peace, and restaurateur. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE     WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A     CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS     IN THE GARDEN     BY R. A. LAFFERTY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure.     The chordata discerner read      Positive     over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body?     Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only.     Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now.     Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark.     There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results.     The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read      Positive     when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly.     The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did      not     have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a      difference     , themachine insisted.     It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply.     And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read      Positive     on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read      Positive     on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read      Positive     on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test.     So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests.     Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell      me     light.     So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned.  Scan the remainder of the world, Steiner, said Stark, and the restof us will get some sleep. If you find no other spot then we will godown on that one the next time it is in position under us, in abouttwelve hours.     You don't want to visit any of the other areas first? Somewhere awayfrom the thoughtful creature?     No. The rest of the world may be dangerous. There must be a reasonthat thought is in one spot only. If we find no others then we will godown boldly and visit this.     So they all, except Steiner, went off to their bunks then: Stark, theCaptain; Gregory Gilbert, the executive officer; Wolfgang Langweilig,the engineer; Casper Craig, super-cargo, tycoon and 51% owner of theLittle Probe, and F. R. Briton, S.J., a Jesuit priest who was linguistand checker champion of the craft.     Dawn did not come to the moon-town. The Little Probe hovered stationaryin the light and the moon-town came up under the dawn. Then the Probewent down to visit whatever was there.     There's no town, said Steiner. Not a building. Yet we're on thetrack of the minds. There's nothing but a meadow and some boscage, asort of fountain or pool, and four streams coming out of it.     Keep on towards the minds, said Stark. They're our target.     Not a building, not two sticks or stones placed together. That lookslike an Earth-type sheep there. And that looks like an Earth-lion,I'm almost afraid to say. And those two ... why, they could well beEarth-people. But with a difference. Where is that bright light comingfrom?     I don't know, but they're right in the middle of it. Land here. We'llgo to meet them at once. Timidity has never been an efficacious toolwith us.     Well, they were people. And one could only wish that all people werelike them. There was a man and a woman, and they were clothed eitherin very bright garments or in no garments at all, but only in a verybright light.     Talk to them, Father Briton, said Stark. You are the linguist.     Howdy, said the priest.     He may or may not have been understood, but the two of them smiled athim, so he went on.     Father Briton from Philadelphia, he said, on detached service. Andyou, my good man, what is your handle, your monicker, your tag?     Ha-Adamah, said the man.     And your daughter, or niece?     It may be that the shining man frowned momentarily at this; but thewoman smiled, proving that she was human.     The woman is named Hawwah, said the man. The sheep is named sheep,the lion is named lion, the horse is named horse and the hoolock isnamed hoolock.     I understand. It is possible that this could go on and on. How is itthat you use the English tongue?     I have only one tongue; but it is given to us to be understood by all;by the eagle, by the squirrel, by the ass, by the English.     We happen to be bloody Yankees, but we use a borrowed tongue. Youwouldn't have a drink on you for a tubful of thirsty travellers, wouldyou?     The fountain.     Ah—I see.  But the crew all drank of the fountain to be sociable. It was water,but water that excelled, cool and with all its original bubbles likethe first water ever made.     What do you make of them? asked Stark.     Human, said Steiner. It may even be that they are a little more thanhuman. I don't understand that light that surrounds them. And they seemto be clothed, as it were, in dignity.     And very little else, said Father Briton, though that light trickdoes serve a purpose. But I'm not sure they'd pass in Philadelphia.     Talk to them again, said Stark. You're the linguist.     That isn't necessary here, Captain. Talk to them yourself.     Are there any other people here? Stark asked the man.     The two of us. Man and woman.     But are there any others?     How would there be any others? What other kind of people could therebe than man and woman?     But is there more than one man or woman?     How could there be more than one of anything?     The captain was a little puzzled by this, but he went on doggedly:Ha-Adamah, what do you think that we are? Are we not people?     You are not anything till I name you. But I will name you and thenyou can be. You are named Captain. He is named Priest. He is namedEngineer. He is named Flunky.     Thanks a lot, said Steiner.     But are we not people? persisted Captain Stark.     No. We are the people. There are no people but two. How could there beother people?     And the damnest thing about it, muttered Langweilig, is, how are yougoing to prove him wrong? But it does give you a small feeling.     Can we have something to eat? asked the Captain.     Pick from the trees, said Ha-Adamah, and then it may be that youwill want to sleep on the grass. Being not of human nature (which doesnot need sleep or rest), it may be that you require respite. But youare free to enjoy the garden and its fruits.     We will, said Captain Stark.     They wandered about the place, but they were uneasy. There were theanimals. The lion and lioness were enough to make one cautious, thoughthey offered no harm. The two bears had a puzzling look, as though theywanted either to frolic with you or to mangle you.     If there are only two people here, said Casper Craig, then it may bethat the rest of the world is not dangerous at all. It looked fertilewherever we scanned it, though not so fertile as this central bit. Andthose rocks would bear examining.     Flecked with gold, and possibly with something else, said Stark. Avery promising site.     And everything grows here, added Steiner. Those are Earth-fruits andI never saw finer. I've tasted the grapes and plums and pears. The figsand dates are superb, the quince is as flavorsome as a quince can be,the cherries are excellent. And I never did taste such oranges. But Ihaven't yet tried the— and he stopped.     If you're thinking what I'm afraid to think, said Gilbert, then itwill be the test at least: whether we're having a pleasant dream orwhether this is reality. Go ahead and eat one.     I won't be the first to eat one. You eat.     Ask him first. You ask him.     Ha-Adamah, is it allowed to eat the apples?     Certainly. Eat. It is the finest fruit in the garden.  Well, the analogy breaks down there, said Stark. I was almostbeginning to believe in the thing. But if it isn't that, then what.Father Briton, you are the linguist, but in Hebrew does not Ha-Adamahand Hawwah mean—?     Of course they do. You know that as well as I.     I was never a believer. But would it be possible for the exact sameproposition to maintain here as on Earth?     All things are possible.     And it was then that Ha-Adamah, the shining man, gave a wild cry: No,no. Do not approach it. It is not allowed to eat of that one!     It was the pomegranate tree, and he was warning Langweilig away from it.     Once more, Father, said Stark, you should be the authority; but doesnot the idea that it was the apple that was forbidden go back only to amedieval painting?     It does. The name of the fruit is not mentioned in Genesis. In Hebrewexegesis, however, the pomegranate is usually indicated.     I thought so. Question the man further, Father. This is tooincredible.     It is a little odd. Adam, old man, how long have you been here?     Forever less six days is the answer that has been given to me. I neverdid understand the answer, however.     And have you gotten no older in all that time?     I do not understand what 'older' is. I am as I have been from thebeginning.     And do you think that you will ever die?     To die I do not understand. I am taught that it is a property offallen nature to die, and that does not pertain to me or mine.     And are you completely happy here?     Perfectly happy according to my preternatural state. But I am taughtthat it might be possible to lose that happiness, and then to seek itvainly through all the ages. I am taught that sickness and ageing andeven death could come if this happiness were ever lost. I am taughtthat on at least one other unfortunate world it has actually been lost.     Do you consider yourself a knowledgeable man?     Yes, since I am the only man, and knowledge is natural to man. But Iam further blessed. I have a preternatural intellect.     Then Stark cut in once more: There must be some one question you couldask him, Father. Some way to settle it. I am becoming nearly convinced.     Yes, there is a question that will settle it. Adam, old man, how abouta game of checkers?     This is hardly the time for clowning, said Stark.     I'm not clowning, Captain. How about it, Adam? I'll give you choice ofcolors and first move.     No. It would be no contest. I have a preternatural intellect.     Well, I beat a barber who was champion of Germantown. And I beat thechampion of Morgan County, Tennessee, which is the hottest checkercenter on Earth. I've played against, and beaten, machines. But Inever played a preternatural mind. Let's just set up the board, Adam,and have a go at it.     No. It would be no contest. I would not like to humble you.  They were there for three days. They were delighted with the place.It was a world with everything, and it seemed to have only twoinhabitants. They went everywhere except into the big cave.     What is there, Adam? asked Captain Stark.     The great serpent lives there. I would not disturb him. He has longbeen cranky because plans he had for us did not materialize. But weare taught that should ever evil come to us, which it cannot if wepersevere, it will come by him.     They learned no more of the real nature of the sphere in their timethere. Yet all but one of them were convinced of the reality when theyleft. And they talked of it as they took off.     A crowd would laugh if told of it, said Stark, but not many wouldlaugh if they had actually seen the place, or them. I am not a gullibleman, but I am convinced of this: that this is a pristine and pure worldand that ours and all the others we have visited are fallen worlds.Here are the prototypes of our first parents before their fall. Theyare garbed in light and innocence, and they have the happiness thatwe have been seeking for centuries. It would be a crime if anyonedisturbed that happiness.     I too am convinced, said Steiner. It is Paradise itself, where thelion lies down with the lamb, and where the serpent has not prevailed.It would be the darkest of crimes if we or others should play the partof the serpent, and intrude and spoil.     I am probably the most skeptical man in the world, said Casper Craigthe tycoon, but I do believe my eyes. I have been there and seen it.It is indeed an unspoiled Paradise; and it would be a crime calling tothe wide heavens for vengeance for anyone to smirch in any way thatperfection.     So much for that. Now to business. Gilbert, take a gram: NinetyMillion Square Miles of Pristine Paradise for Sale or Lease. Farming,Ranching, exceptional opportunities for Horticulture. Gold, Silver,Iron, Earth-Type Fauna. Terms. Special Rates for Large SettlementParties. Write, Gram, or call in person at any of our planetary officesas listed below. Ask for Brochure—Eden Acres Unlimited.  Down in the great cave that Old Serpent, a two-legged one among whosenames were Snake-Oil Sam, spoke to his underlings:     It'll take them fourteen days to get back with the settlers. We'llhave time to overhaul the blasters. We haven't had any well-equippedsettlers for six weeks. It used to be we'd hardly have time to stripand slaughter and stow before there was another batch to take care of.     I think you'd better write me some new lines, said Adam. I feel likea goof saying those same ones to each bunch.     You are a goof, and therefore perfect for the part. I was in showbusiness long enough to know never to change a line too soon. I didchange Adam and Eve to Ha-Adamah and Hawwah, and the apple to thepomegranate. People aren't becoming any smarter—but they are becomingbetter researched, and they insist on authenticity.     This is still a perfect come-on here. There is something in humannature that cannot resist the idea of a Perfect Paradise. Folks willwhoop and holler to their neighbors to come in droves to spoil and marit. It isn't greed or the desire for new land so much—though that isstrong too. Mainly it is the feverish passion to befoul and poison whatis unspoiled. Fortunately I am sagacious enough to take advantage ofthis trait. And when you start to farm a new world on a shoestring youhave to acquire your equipment as you can.     He looked proudly around at the great cave with its mountains and tiersof materials, heavy machinery of all sorts, titanic crates of foodstuffspace-sealed; wheeled, tracked, propped, vaned and jetted vehicles; andpower packs to run a world.     He looked at the three dozen space ships stripped and stacked, and atthe rather large pile of bone-meal in one corner.     We will have to have another lion, said Eve. Bowser is getting old,and Marie-Yvette abuses him and gnaws his toes. And we do have to havea big-maned lion to lie down with the lamb.     I know it, Eve. The lion is a very important prop. Maybe one of thecrackpot settlers will bring a new lion.     And can't you mix another kind of shining paint? This itches. It'shell.     I'm working on it.  Casper Craig was still dictating the gram:     Amazing quality of longevity seemingly inherent in the locale. Climateideal. Daylight or half-light. All twenty-one hours from PlanetDelphina and from Sol. Pure water for all industrial purposes. Scenicand storied. Zoning and pre-settlement restrictions to insure congenialneighbors. A completely planned globular settlement in a near arm ofour own galaxy. Low taxes and liberal credit. Financing our specialty—     And you had better have an armed escort when you return, said FatherBriton.     Why in cosmos would we want an armed escort?     It's as phony as a seven-credit note!     You, a man of the cloth doubt it? And us ready skeptics convinced byour senses? Why do you doubt?     It is only the unbelieving who believe so easily in obvious frauds.Theologically unsound, dramaturgically weak, philologically impossible,zoologically rigged, salted conspicuously with gold and shot throughwith anachronisms. And moreover he was afraid to play me at checkers.     What?     If I have a preternatural intellect I wouldn't be afraid of a game ofcheckers with anyone. Yet there was an unusual mind there somewhere; itwas just that he chose not to make our acquaintance personally.     They looked at the priest thoughtfully.     But it was Paradise in one way, said Steiner at last.     How?     All the time we were there the woman did not speak.  ","The story describes the crew of a probe spaceship as it investigates an extraterrestrial world. The crew is made up of Stark, Gilbert, Steiner, Langweilig, Craig, and Briton—the captain, executive officer, crewmember, engineer, part-owner of the probe, and a Catholic priest respectively.From orbit, the crew scans the moon using various technological instruments. They discover abundant highly developed life forms including a small location of sentient life, possibly of extraordinary magnitude. They descend to the moon’s surface near the location of the sentient life. They discover a multitude of plants and animals that are found on Earth, also finding two individuals that appear to be human, Ha-Adamah and Hawwah.Their investigation of the surroundings bears a startling resemblance to the biblical story of Genesis. The crew is bewildered to consider that this may indeed be a new Garden of Eden which never fell into sin and was preserved as a perfect paradise.After remaining for a few days, the crew returns to their probe. They remark how immoral it would be to meddle such an unspoiled paradise, but nevertheless begin the process of advertising the world to potential colonizers who would indeed exploit the moon for profit.Surprisingly, it is revealed that back on the planet that the individuals that were merely posing as Ha-Adamah and Hawwah working with their boss, Snake-oil Sam, to deceive potential colonists, ambushing them upon arrival and confiscating their valuable supplies and equipment.Back on the probe Father Briton chides the rest of the crew that they had been taken in by an obvious ruse and to inform any potential colonists to prepare for armed resistance. The incredulous crew demands to know the reasoning behind his conclusion.  He casually says that besides what he contended were glaring inaccuracies, the fact that Ha-Adamah refused to play him in checkers despite claiming to have a preternaturally perfect intellect was all the proof he needed."
"Describe the story's characters and how they interact. </s>     IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE     WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A     CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS     IN THE GARDEN     BY R. A. LAFFERTY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure.     The chordata discerner read      Positive     over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body?     Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only.     Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now.     Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark.     There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results.     The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read      Positive     when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly.     The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did      not     have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a      difference     , themachine insisted.     It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply.     And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read      Positive     on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read      Positive     on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read      Positive     on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test.     So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests.     Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell      me     light.     So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned.  Scan the remainder of the world, Steiner, said Stark, and the restof us will get some sleep. If you find no other spot then we will godown on that one the next time it is in position under us, in abouttwelve hours.     You don't want to visit any of the other areas first? Somewhere awayfrom the thoughtful creature?     No. The rest of the world may be dangerous. There must be a reasonthat thought is in one spot only. If we find no others then we will godown boldly and visit this.     So they all, except Steiner, went off to their bunks then: Stark, theCaptain; Gregory Gilbert, the executive officer; Wolfgang Langweilig,the engineer; Casper Craig, super-cargo, tycoon and 51% owner of theLittle Probe, and F. R. Briton, S.J., a Jesuit priest who was linguistand checker champion of the craft.     Dawn did not come to the moon-town. The Little Probe hovered stationaryin the light and the moon-town came up under the dawn. Then the Probewent down to visit whatever was there.     There's no town, said Steiner. Not a building. Yet we're on thetrack of the minds. There's nothing but a meadow and some boscage, asort of fountain or pool, and four streams coming out of it.     Keep on towards the minds, said Stark. They're our target.     Not a building, not two sticks or stones placed together. That lookslike an Earth-type sheep there. And that looks like an Earth-lion,I'm almost afraid to say. And those two ... why, they could well beEarth-people. But with a difference. Where is that bright light comingfrom?     I don't know, but they're right in the middle of it. Land here. We'llgo to meet them at once. Timidity has never been an efficacious toolwith us.     Well, they were people. And one could only wish that all people werelike them. There was a man and a woman, and they were clothed eitherin very bright garments or in no garments at all, but only in a verybright light.     Talk to them, Father Briton, said Stark. You are the linguist.     Howdy, said the priest.     He may or may not have been understood, but the two of them smiled athim, so he went on.     Father Briton from Philadelphia, he said, on detached service. Andyou, my good man, what is your handle, your monicker, your tag?     Ha-Adamah, said the man.     And your daughter, or niece?     It may be that the shining man frowned momentarily at this; but thewoman smiled, proving that she was human.     The woman is named Hawwah, said the man. The sheep is named sheep,the lion is named lion, the horse is named horse and the hoolock isnamed hoolock.     I understand. It is possible that this could go on and on. How is itthat you use the English tongue?     I have only one tongue; but it is given to us to be understood by all;by the eagle, by the squirrel, by the ass, by the English.     We happen to be bloody Yankees, but we use a borrowed tongue. Youwouldn't have a drink on you for a tubful of thirsty travellers, wouldyou?     The fountain.     Ah—I see.  But the crew all drank of the fountain to be sociable. It was water,but water that excelled, cool and with all its original bubbles likethe first water ever made.     What do you make of them? asked Stark.     Human, said Steiner. It may even be that they are a little more thanhuman. I don't understand that light that surrounds them. And they seemto be clothed, as it were, in dignity.     And very little else, said Father Briton, though that light trickdoes serve a purpose. But I'm not sure they'd pass in Philadelphia.     Talk to them again, said Stark. You're the linguist.     That isn't necessary here, Captain. Talk to them yourself.     Are there any other people here? Stark asked the man.     The two of us. Man and woman.     But are there any others?     How would there be any others? What other kind of people could therebe than man and woman?     But is there more than one man or woman?     How could there be more than one of anything?     The captain was a little puzzled by this, but he went on doggedly:Ha-Adamah, what do you think that we are? Are we not people?     You are not anything till I name you. But I will name you and thenyou can be. You are named Captain. He is named Priest. He is namedEngineer. He is named Flunky.     Thanks a lot, said Steiner.     But are we not people? persisted Captain Stark.     No. We are the people. There are no people but two. How could there beother people?     And the damnest thing about it, muttered Langweilig, is, how are yougoing to prove him wrong? But it does give you a small feeling.     Can we have something to eat? asked the Captain.     Pick from the trees, said Ha-Adamah, and then it may be that youwill want to sleep on the grass. Being not of human nature (which doesnot need sleep or rest), it may be that you require respite. But youare free to enjoy the garden and its fruits.     We will, said Captain Stark.     They wandered about the place, but they were uneasy. There were theanimals. The lion and lioness were enough to make one cautious, thoughthey offered no harm. The two bears had a puzzling look, as though theywanted either to frolic with you or to mangle you.     If there are only two people here, said Casper Craig, then it may bethat the rest of the world is not dangerous at all. It looked fertilewherever we scanned it, though not so fertile as this central bit. Andthose rocks would bear examining.     Flecked with gold, and possibly with something else, said Stark. Avery promising site.     And everything grows here, added Steiner. Those are Earth-fruits andI never saw finer. I've tasted the grapes and plums and pears. The figsand dates are superb, the quince is as flavorsome as a quince can be,the cherries are excellent. And I never did taste such oranges. But Ihaven't yet tried the— and he stopped.     If you're thinking what I'm afraid to think, said Gilbert, then itwill be the test at least: whether we're having a pleasant dream orwhether this is reality. Go ahead and eat one.     I won't be the first to eat one. You eat.     Ask him first. You ask him.     Ha-Adamah, is it allowed to eat the apples?     Certainly. Eat. It is the finest fruit in the garden.  Well, the analogy breaks down there, said Stark. I was almostbeginning to believe in the thing. But if it isn't that, then what.Father Briton, you are the linguist, but in Hebrew does not Ha-Adamahand Hawwah mean—?     Of course they do. You know that as well as I.     I was never a believer. But would it be possible for the exact sameproposition to maintain here as on Earth?     All things are possible.     And it was then that Ha-Adamah, the shining man, gave a wild cry: No,no. Do not approach it. It is not allowed to eat of that one!     It was the pomegranate tree, and he was warning Langweilig away from it.     Once more, Father, said Stark, you should be the authority; but doesnot the idea that it was the apple that was forbidden go back only to amedieval painting?     It does. The name of the fruit is not mentioned in Genesis. In Hebrewexegesis, however, the pomegranate is usually indicated.     I thought so. Question the man further, Father. This is tooincredible.     It is a little odd. Adam, old man, how long have you been here?     Forever less six days is the answer that has been given to me. I neverdid understand the answer, however.     And have you gotten no older in all that time?     I do not understand what 'older' is. I am as I have been from thebeginning.     And do you think that you will ever die?     To die I do not understand. I am taught that it is a property offallen nature to die, and that does not pertain to me or mine.     And are you completely happy here?     Perfectly happy according to my preternatural state. But I am taughtthat it might be possible to lose that happiness, and then to seek itvainly through all the ages. I am taught that sickness and ageing andeven death could come if this happiness were ever lost. I am taughtthat on at least one other unfortunate world it has actually been lost.     Do you consider yourself a knowledgeable man?     Yes, since I am the only man, and knowledge is natural to man. But Iam further blessed. I have a preternatural intellect.     Then Stark cut in once more: There must be some one question you couldask him, Father. Some way to settle it. I am becoming nearly convinced.     Yes, there is a question that will settle it. Adam, old man, how abouta game of checkers?     This is hardly the time for clowning, said Stark.     I'm not clowning, Captain. How about it, Adam? I'll give you choice ofcolors and first move.     No. It would be no contest. I have a preternatural intellect.     Well, I beat a barber who was champion of Germantown. And I beat thechampion of Morgan County, Tennessee, which is the hottest checkercenter on Earth. I've played against, and beaten, machines. But Inever played a preternatural mind. Let's just set up the board, Adam,and have a go at it.     No. It would be no contest. I would not like to humble you.  They were there for three days. They were delighted with the place.It was a world with everything, and it seemed to have only twoinhabitants. They went everywhere except into the big cave.     What is there, Adam? asked Captain Stark.     The great serpent lives there. I would not disturb him. He has longbeen cranky because plans he had for us did not materialize. But weare taught that should ever evil come to us, which it cannot if wepersevere, it will come by him.     They learned no more of the real nature of the sphere in their timethere. Yet all but one of them were convinced of the reality when theyleft. And they talked of it as they took off.     A crowd would laugh if told of it, said Stark, but not many wouldlaugh if they had actually seen the place, or them. I am not a gullibleman, but I am convinced of this: that this is a pristine and pure worldand that ours and all the others we have visited are fallen worlds.Here are the prototypes of our first parents before their fall. Theyare garbed in light and innocence, and they have the happiness thatwe have been seeking for centuries. It would be a crime if anyonedisturbed that happiness.     I too am convinced, said Steiner. It is Paradise itself, where thelion lies down with the lamb, and where the serpent has not prevailed.It would be the darkest of crimes if we or others should play the partof the serpent, and intrude and spoil.     I am probably the most skeptical man in the world, said Casper Craigthe tycoon, but I do believe my eyes. I have been there and seen it.It is indeed an unspoiled Paradise; and it would be a crime calling tothe wide heavens for vengeance for anyone to smirch in any way thatperfection.     So much for that. Now to business. Gilbert, take a gram: NinetyMillion Square Miles of Pristine Paradise for Sale or Lease. Farming,Ranching, exceptional opportunities for Horticulture. Gold, Silver,Iron, Earth-Type Fauna. Terms. Special Rates for Large SettlementParties. Write, Gram, or call in person at any of our planetary officesas listed below. Ask for Brochure—Eden Acres Unlimited.  Down in the great cave that Old Serpent, a two-legged one among whosenames were Snake-Oil Sam, spoke to his underlings:     It'll take them fourteen days to get back with the settlers. We'llhave time to overhaul the blasters. We haven't had any well-equippedsettlers for six weeks. It used to be we'd hardly have time to stripand slaughter and stow before there was another batch to take care of.     I think you'd better write me some new lines, said Adam. I feel likea goof saying those same ones to each bunch.     You are a goof, and therefore perfect for the part. I was in showbusiness long enough to know never to change a line too soon. I didchange Adam and Eve to Ha-Adamah and Hawwah, and the apple to thepomegranate. People aren't becoming any smarter—but they are becomingbetter researched, and they insist on authenticity.     This is still a perfect come-on here. There is something in humannature that cannot resist the idea of a Perfect Paradise. Folks willwhoop and holler to their neighbors to come in droves to spoil and marit. It isn't greed or the desire for new land so much—though that isstrong too. Mainly it is the feverish passion to befoul and poison whatis unspoiled. Fortunately I am sagacious enough to take advantage ofthis trait. And when you start to farm a new world on a shoestring youhave to acquire your equipment as you can.     He looked proudly around at the great cave with its mountains and tiersof materials, heavy machinery of all sorts, titanic crates of foodstuffspace-sealed; wheeled, tracked, propped, vaned and jetted vehicles; andpower packs to run a world.     He looked at the three dozen space ships stripped and stacked, and atthe rather large pile of bone-meal in one corner.     We will have to have another lion, said Eve. Bowser is getting old,and Marie-Yvette abuses him and gnaws his toes. And we do have to havea big-maned lion to lie down with the lamb.     I know it, Eve. The lion is a very important prop. Maybe one of thecrackpot settlers will bring a new lion.     And can't you mix another kind of shining paint? This itches. It'shell.     I'm working on it.  Casper Craig was still dictating the gram:     Amazing quality of longevity seemingly inherent in the locale. Climateideal. Daylight or half-light. All twenty-one hours from PlanetDelphina and from Sol. Pure water for all industrial purposes. Scenicand storied. Zoning and pre-settlement restrictions to insure congenialneighbors. A completely planned globular settlement in a near arm ofour own galaxy. Low taxes and liberal credit. Financing our specialty—     And you had better have an armed escort when you return, said FatherBriton.     Why in cosmos would we want an armed escort?     It's as phony as a seven-credit note!     You, a man of the cloth doubt it? And us ready skeptics convinced byour senses? Why do you doubt?     It is only the unbelieving who believe so easily in obvious frauds.Theologically unsound, dramaturgically weak, philologically impossible,zoologically rigged, salted conspicuously with gold and shot throughwith anachronisms. And moreover he was afraid to play me at checkers.     What?     If I have a preternatural intellect I wouldn't be afraid of a game ofcheckers with anyone. Yet there was an unusual mind there somewhere; itwas just that he chose not to make our acquaintance personally.     They looked at the priest thoughtfully.     But it was Paradise in one way, said Steiner at last.     How?     All the time we were there the woman did not speak.  ","There are two main groups of characters: the crew of the Little Probe and the inhabitants of the “Garden” world.The crew of the Little Probe consist of Stark, the captain; Gilbert, the executive officer; Steiner, a generall crewmember “flunky”; Langweilig, the engineer; Craig, a businessman and part-owner of the ship; and Fr. Briton, priest, linguist, and checkers afficionado. Stark is the leader of the group, commanding the others to their various tasks. Craig is shown to be a shrewd entrepreneur who is most intent on reaping potential profit from the situation they find themselves in.On the moon lives Ha-Adamah and Hawwah who present themselves as archetypes of the biblical Adam and Eve. In reality, they are settlers, attempting to gather supplies to farm this world by stealing supplies from other settlers that they entice to world and then ambush. They are commanded by Snake-Oil Sam, a cynical, former showbusiness professional who runs the con.The two groups interact when the crew descends to the surface of the moon. Ha-Adamah describes his environment in casual but bewildering terms to his visitors. Briton, as a Catholic priest, is designated by the crew to be Ha-Adamah’s main interlocutor. Hawwah, notedly does not speak at all—a flourish to attempt to further depict the attractiveness of the world to their all-male visitors. The crew beside Briton are enamored by the environment of the moon and are totally taken in by the performance of their hosts. The story concludes with Briton chiding his crewmates for their gullibility. Although Briton perhaps had the most reason to believe the moon was divinely ordained, he saw through the charade without much difficulty."
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE     WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A     CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS     IN THE GARDEN     BY R. A. LAFFERTY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure.     The chordata discerner read      Positive     over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body?     Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only.     Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now.     Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark.     There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results.     The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read      Positive     when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly.     The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did      not     have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a      difference     , themachine insisted.     It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply.     And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read      Positive     on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read      Positive     on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read      Positive     on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test.     So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests.     Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell      me     light.     So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned.  Scan the remainder of the world, Steiner, said Stark, and the restof us will get some sleep. If you find no other spot then we will godown on that one the next time it is in position under us, in abouttwelve hours.     You don't want to visit any of the other areas first? Somewhere awayfrom the thoughtful creature?     No. The rest of the world may be dangerous. There must be a reasonthat thought is in one spot only. If we find no others then we will godown boldly and visit this.     So they all, except Steiner, went off to their bunks then: Stark, theCaptain; Gregory Gilbert, the executive officer; Wolfgang Langweilig,the engineer; Casper Craig, super-cargo, tycoon and 51% owner of theLittle Probe, and F. R. Briton, S.J., a Jesuit priest who was linguistand checker champion of the craft.     Dawn did not come to the moon-town. The Little Probe hovered stationaryin the light and the moon-town came up under the dawn. Then the Probewent down to visit whatever was there.     There's no town, said Steiner. Not a building. Yet we're on thetrack of the minds. There's nothing but a meadow and some boscage, asort of fountain or pool, and four streams coming out of it.     Keep on towards the minds, said Stark. They're our target.     Not a building, not two sticks or stones placed together. That lookslike an Earth-type sheep there. And that looks like an Earth-lion,I'm almost afraid to say. And those two ... why, they could well beEarth-people. But with a difference. Where is that bright light comingfrom?     I don't know, but they're right in the middle of it. Land here. We'llgo to meet them at once. Timidity has never been an efficacious toolwith us.     Well, they were people. And one could only wish that all people werelike them. There was a man and a woman, and they were clothed eitherin very bright garments or in no garments at all, but only in a verybright light.     Talk to them, Father Briton, said Stark. You are the linguist.     Howdy, said the priest.     He may or may not have been understood, but the two of them smiled athim, so he went on.     Father Briton from Philadelphia, he said, on detached service. Andyou, my good man, what is your handle, your monicker, your tag?     Ha-Adamah, said the man.     And your daughter, or niece?     It may be that the shining man frowned momentarily at this; but thewoman smiled, proving that she was human.     The woman is named Hawwah, said the man. The sheep is named sheep,the lion is named lion, the horse is named horse and the hoolock isnamed hoolock.     I understand. It is possible that this could go on and on. How is itthat you use the English tongue?     I have only one tongue; but it is given to us to be understood by all;by the eagle, by the squirrel, by the ass, by the English.     We happen to be bloody Yankees, but we use a borrowed tongue. Youwouldn't have a drink on you for a tubful of thirsty travellers, wouldyou?     The fountain.     Ah—I see.  But the crew all drank of the fountain to be sociable. It was water,but water that excelled, cool and with all its original bubbles likethe first water ever made.     What do you make of them? asked Stark.     Human, said Steiner. It may even be that they are a little more thanhuman. I don't understand that light that surrounds them. And they seemto be clothed, as it were, in dignity.     And very little else, said Father Briton, though that light trickdoes serve a purpose. But I'm not sure they'd pass in Philadelphia.     Talk to them again, said Stark. You're the linguist.     That isn't necessary here, Captain. Talk to them yourself.     Are there any other people here? Stark asked the man.     The two of us. Man and woman.     But are there any others?     How would there be any others? What other kind of people could therebe than man and woman?     But is there more than one man or woman?     How could there be more than one of anything?     The captain was a little puzzled by this, but he went on doggedly:Ha-Adamah, what do you think that we are? Are we not people?     You are not anything till I name you. But I will name you and thenyou can be. You are named Captain. He is named Priest. He is namedEngineer. He is named Flunky.     Thanks a lot, said Steiner.     But are we not people? persisted Captain Stark.     No. We are the people. There are no people but two. How could there beother people?     And the damnest thing about it, muttered Langweilig, is, how are yougoing to prove him wrong? But it does give you a small feeling.     Can we have something to eat? asked the Captain.     Pick from the trees, said Ha-Adamah, and then it may be that youwill want to sleep on the grass. Being not of human nature (which doesnot need sleep or rest), it may be that you require respite. But youare free to enjoy the garden and its fruits.     We will, said Captain Stark.     They wandered about the place, but they were uneasy. There were theanimals. The lion and lioness were enough to make one cautious, thoughthey offered no harm. The two bears had a puzzling look, as though theywanted either to frolic with you or to mangle you.     If there are only two people here, said Casper Craig, then it may bethat the rest of the world is not dangerous at all. It looked fertilewherever we scanned it, though not so fertile as this central bit. Andthose rocks would bear examining.     Flecked with gold, and possibly with something else, said Stark. Avery promising site.     And everything grows here, added Steiner. Those are Earth-fruits andI never saw finer. I've tasted the grapes and plums and pears. The figsand dates are superb, the quince is as flavorsome as a quince can be,the cherries are excellent. And I never did taste such oranges. But Ihaven't yet tried the— and he stopped.     If you're thinking what I'm afraid to think, said Gilbert, then itwill be the test at least: whether we're having a pleasant dream orwhether this is reality. Go ahead and eat one.     I won't be the first to eat one. You eat.     Ask him first. You ask him.     Ha-Adamah, is it allowed to eat the apples?     Certainly. Eat. It is the finest fruit in the garden.  Well, the analogy breaks down there, said Stark. I was almostbeginning to believe in the thing. But if it isn't that, then what.Father Briton, you are the linguist, but in Hebrew does not Ha-Adamahand Hawwah mean—?     Of course they do. You know that as well as I.     I was never a believer. But would it be possible for the exact sameproposition to maintain here as on Earth?     All things are possible.     And it was then that Ha-Adamah, the shining man, gave a wild cry: No,no. Do not approach it. It is not allowed to eat of that one!     It was the pomegranate tree, and he was warning Langweilig away from it.     Once more, Father, said Stark, you should be the authority; but doesnot the idea that it was the apple that was forbidden go back only to amedieval painting?     It does. The name of the fruit is not mentioned in Genesis. In Hebrewexegesis, however, the pomegranate is usually indicated.     I thought so. Question the man further, Father. This is tooincredible.     It is a little odd. Adam, old man, how long have you been here?     Forever less six days is the answer that has been given to me. I neverdid understand the answer, however.     And have you gotten no older in all that time?     I do not understand what 'older' is. I am as I have been from thebeginning.     And do you think that you will ever die?     To die I do not understand. I am taught that it is a property offallen nature to die, and that does not pertain to me or mine.     And are you completely happy here?     Perfectly happy according to my preternatural state. But I am taughtthat it might be possible to lose that happiness, and then to seek itvainly through all the ages. I am taught that sickness and ageing andeven death could come if this happiness were ever lost. I am taughtthat on at least one other unfortunate world it has actually been lost.     Do you consider yourself a knowledgeable man?     Yes, since I am the only man, and knowledge is natural to man. But Iam further blessed. I have a preternatural intellect.     Then Stark cut in once more: There must be some one question you couldask him, Father. Some way to settle it. I am becoming nearly convinced.     Yes, there is a question that will settle it. Adam, old man, how abouta game of checkers?     This is hardly the time for clowning, said Stark.     I'm not clowning, Captain. How about it, Adam? I'll give you choice ofcolors and first move.     No. It would be no contest. I have a preternatural intellect.     Well, I beat a barber who was champion of Germantown. And I beat thechampion of Morgan County, Tennessee, which is the hottest checkercenter on Earth. I've played against, and beaten, machines. But Inever played a preternatural mind. Let's just set up the board, Adam,and have a go at it.     No. It would be no contest. I would not like to humble you.  They were there for three days. They were delighted with the place.It was a world with everything, and it seemed to have only twoinhabitants. They went everywhere except into the big cave.     What is there, Adam? asked Captain Stark.     The great serpent lives there. I would not disturb him. He has longbeen cranky because plans he had for us did not materialize. But weare taught that should ever evil come to us, which it cannot if wepersevere, it will come by him.     They learned no more of the real nature of the sphere in their timethere. Yet all but one of them were convinced of the reality when theyleft. And they talked of it as they took off.     A crowd would laugh if told of it, said Stark, but not many wouldlaugh if they had actually seen the place, or them. I am not a gullibleman, but I am convinced of this: that this is a pristine and pure worldand that ours and all the others we have visited are fallen worlds.Here are the prototypes of our first parents before their fall. Theyare garbed in light and innocence, and they have the happiness thatwe have been seeking for centuries. It would be a crime if anyonedisturbed that happiness.     I too am convinced, said Steiner. It is Paradise itself, where thelion lies down with the lamb, and where the serpent has not prevailed.It would be the darkest of crimes if we or others should play the partof the serpent, and intrude and spoil.     I am probably the most skeptical man in the world, said Casper Craigthe tycoon, but I do believe my eyes. I have been there and seen it.It is indeed an unspoiled Paradise; and it would be a crime calling tothe wide heavens for vengeance for anyone to smirch in any way thatperfection.     So much for that. Now to business. Gilbert, take a gram: NinetyMillion Square Miles of Pristine Paradise for Sale or Lease. Farming,Ranching, exceptional opportunities for Horticulture. Gold, Silver,Iron, Earth-Type Fauna. Terms. Special Rates for Large SettlementParties. Write, Gram, or call in person at any of our planetary officesas listed below. Ask for Brochure—Eden Acres Unlimited.  Down in the great cave that Old Serpent, a two-legged one among whosenames were Snake-Oil Sam, spoke to his underlings:     It'll take them fourteen days to get back with the settlers. We'llhave time to overhaul the blasters. We haven't had any well-equippedsettlers for six weeks. It used to be we'd hardly have time to stripand slaughter and stow before there was another batch to take care of.     I think you'd better write me some new lines, said Adam. I feel likea goof saying those same ones to each bunch.     You are a goof, and therefore perfect for the part. I was in showbusiness long enough to know never to change a line too soon. I didchange Adam and Eve to Ha-Adamah and Hawwah, and the apple to thepomegranate. People aren't becoming any smarter—but they are becomingbetter researched, and they insist on authenticity.     This is still a perfect come-on here. There is something in humannature that cannot resist the idea of a Perfect Paradise. Folks willwhoop and holler to their neighbors to come in droves to spoil and marit. It isn't greed or the desire for new land so much—though that isstrong too. Mainly it is the feverish passion to befoul and poison whatis unspoiled. Fortunately I am sagacious enough to take advantage ofthis trait. And when you start to farm a new world on a shoestring youhave to acquire your equipment as you can.     He looked proudly around at the great cave with its mountains and tiersof materials, heavy machinery of all sorts, titanic crates of foodstuffspace-sealed; wheeled, tracked, propped, vaned and jetted vehicles; andpower packs to run a world.     He looked at the three dozen space ships stripped and stacked, and atthe rather large pile of bone-meal in one corner.     We will have to have another lion, said Eve. Bowser is getting old,and Marie-Yvette abuses him and gnaws his toes. And we do have to havea big-maned lion to lie down with the lamb.     I know it, Eve. The lion is a very important prop. Maybe one of thecrackpot settlers will bring a new lion.     And can't you mix another kind of shining paint? This itches. It'shell.     I'm working on it.  Casper Craig was still dictating the gram:     Amazing quality of longevity seemingly inherent in the locale. Climateideal. Daylight or half-light. All twenty-one hours from PlanetDelphina and from Sol. Pure water for all industrial purposes. Scenicand storied. Zoning and pre-settlement restrictions to insure congenialneighbors. A completely planned globular settlement in a near arm ofour own galaxy. Low taxes and liberal credit. Financing our specialty—     And you had better have an armed escort when you return, said FatherBriton.     Why in cosmos would we want an armed escort?     It's as phony as a seven-credit note!     You, a man of the cloth doubt it? And us ready skeptics convinced byour senses? Why do you doubt?     It is only the unbelieving who believe so easily in obvious frauds.Theologically unsound, dramaturgically weak, philologically impossible,zoologically rigged, salted conspicuously with gold and shot throughwith anachronisms. And moreover he was afraid to play me at checkers.     What?     If I have a preternatural intellect I wouldn't be afraid of a game ofcheckers with anyone. Yet there was an unusual mind there somewhere; itwas just that he chose not to make our acquaintance personally.     They looked at the priest thoughtfully.     But it was Paradise in one way, said Steiner at last.     How?     All the time we were there the woman did not speak.  ","The story takes place on an unnamed extraterrestrial moon and a small probe that is visiting the moon to investigate its suitability for development. The moon is an earthlike environment that appears to be a perfect paradise in every respect. The land is fertile, the wild animals are domesticated, and there is an abundance of fruit to eat and minerals to potentially harvest. The description of the world that the crew receives depicts it as a true Eden—a perfect paradise. Also on the moon is a massive cave, from where the inhabitants of the moon store their stolen goods and prepare to ambush unsuspecting potential settlers. "
"How do religion and religious faith contribute to the story? </s>     IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE     WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A     CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS     IN THE GARDEN     BY R. A. LAFFERTY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure.     The chordata discerner read      Positive     over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body?     Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only.     Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now.     Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark.     There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results.     The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read      Positive     when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly.     The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did      not     have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a      difference     , themachine insisted.     It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply.     And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read      Positive     on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read      Positive     on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read      Positive     on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test.     So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests.     Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell      me     light.     So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned.  Scan the remainder of the world, Steiner, said Stark, and the restof us will get some sleep. If you find no other spot then we will godown on that one the next time it is in position under us, in abouttwelve hours.     You don't want to visit any of the other areas first? Somewhere awayfrom the thoughtful creature?     No. The rest of the world may be dangerous. There must be a reasonthat thought is in one spot only. If we find no others then we will godown boldly and visit this.     So they all, except Steiner, went off to their bunks then: Stark, theCaptain; Gregory Gilbert, the executive officer; Wolfgang Langweilig,the engineer; Casper Craig, super-cargo, tycoon and 51% owner of theLittle Probe, and F. R. Briton, S.J., a Jesuit priest who was linguistand checker champion of the craft.     Dawn did not come to the moon-town. The Little Probe hovered stationaryin the light and the moon-town came up under the dawn. Then the Probewent down to visit whatever was there.     There's no town, said Steiner. Not a building. Yet we're on thetrack of the minds. There's nothing but a meadow and some boscage, asort of fountain or pool, and four streams coming out of it.     Keep on towards the minds, said Stark. They're our target.     Not a building, not two sticks or stones placed together. That lookslike an Earth-type sheep there. And that looks like an Earth-lion,I'm almost afraid to say. And those two ... why, they could well beEarth-people. But with a difference. Where is that bright light comingfrom?     I don't know, but they're right in the middle of it. Land here. We'llgo to meet them at once. Timidity has never been an efficacious toolwith us.     Well, they were people. And one could only wish that all people werelike them. There was a man and a woman, and they were clothed eitherin very bright garments or in no garments at all, but only in a verybright light.     Talk to them, Father Briton, said Stark. You are the linguist.     Howdy, said the priest.     He may or may not have been understood, but the two of them smiled athim, so he went on.     Father Briton from Philadelphia, he said, on detached service. Andyou, my good man, what is your handle, your monicker, your tag?     Ha-Adamah, said the man.     And your daughter, or niece?     It may be that the shining man frowned momentarily at this; but thewoman smiled, proving that she was human.     The woman is named Hawwah, said the man. The sheep is named sheep,the lion is named lion, the horse is named horse and the hoolock isnamed hoolock.     I understand. It is possible that this could go on and on. How is itthat you use the English tongue?     I have only one tongue; but it is given to us to be understood by all;by the eagle, by the squirrel, by the ass, by the English.     We happen to be bloody Yankees, but we use a borrowed tongue. Youwouldn't have a drink on you for a tubful of thirsty travellers, wouldyou?     The fountain.     Ah—I see.  But the crew all drank of the fountain to be sociable. It was water,but water that excelled, cool and with all its original bubbles likethe first water ever made.     What do you make of them? asked Stark.     Human, said Steiner. It may even be that they are a little more thanhuman. I don't understand that light that surrounds them. And they seemto be clothed, as it were, in dignity.     And very little else, said Father Briton, though that light trickdoes serve a purpose. But I'm not sure they'd pass in Philadelphia.     Talk to them again, said Stark. You're the linguist.     That isn't necessary here, Captain. Talk to them yourself.     Are there any other people here? Stark asked the man.     The two of us. Man and woman.     But are there any others?     How would there be any others? What other kind of people could therebe than man and woman?     But is there more than one man or woman?     How could there be more than one of anything?     The captain was a little puzzled by this, but he went on doggedly:Ha-Adamah, what do you think that we are? Are we not people?     You are not anything till I name you. But I will name you and thenyou can be. You are named Captain. He is named Priest. He is namedEngineer. He is named Flunky.     Thanks a lot, said Steiner.     But are we not people? persisted Captain Stark.     No. We are the people. There are no people but two. How could there beother people?     And the damnest thing about it, muttered Langweilig, is, how are yougoing to prove him wrong? But it does give you a small feeling.     Can we have something to eat? asked the Captain.     Pick from the trees, said Ha-Adamah, and then it may be that youwill want to sleep on the grass. Being not of human nature (which doesnot need sleep or rest), it may be that you require respite. But youare free to enjoy the garden and its fruits.     We will, said Captain Stark.     They wandered about the place, but they were uneasy. There were theanimals. The lion and lioness were enough to make one cautious, thoughthey offered no harm. The two bears had a puzzling look, as though theywanted either to frolic with you or to mangle you.     If there are only two people here, said Casper Craig, then it may bethat the rest of the world is not dangerous at all. It looked fertilewherever we scanned it, though not so fertile as this central bit. Andthose rocks would bear examining.     Flecked with gold, and possibly with something else, said Stark. Avery promising site.     And everything grows here, added Steiner. Those are Earth-fruits andI never saw finer. I've tasted the grapes and plums and pears. The figsand dates are superb, the quince is as flavorsome as a quince can be,the cherries are excellent. And I never did taste such oranges. But Ihaven't yet tried the— and he stopped.     If you're thinking what I'm afraid to think, said Gilbert, then itwill be the test at least: whether we're having a pleasant dream orwhether this is reality. Go ahead and eat one.     I won't be the first to eat one. You eat.     Ask him first. You ask him.     Ha-Adamah, is it allowed to eat the apples?     Certainly. Eat. It is the finest fruit in the garden.  Well, the analogy breaks down there, said Stark. I was almostbeginning to believe in the thing. But if it isn't that, then what.Father Briton, you are the linguist, but in Hebrew does not Ha-Adamahand Hawwah mean—?     Of course they do. You know that as well as I.     I was never a believer. But would it be possible for the exact sameproposition to maintain here as on Earth?     All things are possible.     And it was then that Ha-Adamah, the shining man, gave a wild cry: No,no. Do not approach it. It is not allowed to eat of that one!     It was the pomegranate tree, and he was warning Langweilig away from it.     Once more, Father, said Stark, you should be the authority; but doesnot the idea that it was the apple that was forbidden go back only to amedieval painting?     It does. The name of the fruit is not mentioned in Genesis. In Hebrewexegesis, however, the pomegranate is usually indicated.     I thought so. Question the man further, Father. This is tooincredible.     It is a little odd. Adam, old man, how long have you been here?     Forever less six days is the answer that has been given to me. I neverdid understand the answer, however.     And have you gotten no older in all that time?     I do not understand what 'older' is. I am as I have been from thebeginning.     And do you think that you will ever die?     To die I do not understand. I am taught that it is a property offallen nature to die, and that does not pertain to me or mine.     And are you completely happy here?     Perfectly happy according to my preternatural state. But I am taughtthat it might be possible to lose that happiness, and then to seek itvainly through all the ages. I am taught that sickness and ageing andeven death could come if this happiness were ever lost. I am taughtthat on at least one other unfortunate world it has actually been lost.     Do you consider yourself a knowledgeable man?     Yes, since I am the only man, and knowledge is natural to man. But Iam further blessed. I have a preternatural intellect.     Then Stark cut in once more: There must be some one question you couldask him, Father. Some way to settle it. I am becoming nearly convinced.     Yes, there is a question that will settle it. Adam, old man, how abouta game of checkers?     This is hardly the time for clowning, said Stark.     I'm not clowning, Captain. How about it, Adam? I'll give you choice ofcolors and first move.     No. It would be no contest. I have a preternatural intellect.     Well, I beat a barber who was champion of Germantown. And I beat thechampion of Morgan County, Tennessee, which is the hottest checkercenter on Earth. I've played against, and beaten, machines. But Inever played a preternatural mind. Let's just set up the board, Adam,and have a go at it.     No. It would be no contest. I would not like to humble you.  They were there for three days. They were delighted with the place.It was a world with everything, and it seemed to have only twoinhabitants. They went everywhere except into the big cave.     What is there, Adam? asked Captain Stark.     The great serpent lives there. I would not disturb him. He has longbeen cranky because plans he had for us did not materialize. But weare taught that should ever evil come to us, which it cannot if wepersevere, it will come by him.     They learned no more of the real nature of the sphere in their timethere. Yet all but one of them were convinced of the reality when theyleft. And they talked of it as they took off.     A crowd would laugh if told of it, said Stark, but not many wouldlaugh if they had actually seen the place, or them. I am not a gullibleman, but I am convinced of this: that this is a pristine and pure worldand that ours and all the others we have visited are fallen worlds.Here are the prototypes of our first parents before their fall. Theyare garbed in light and innocence, and they have the happiness thatwe have been seeking for centuries. It would be a crime if anyonedisturbed that happiness.     I too am convinced, said Steiner. It is Paradise itself, where thelion lies down with the lamb, and where the serpent has not prevailed.It would be the darkest of crimes if we or others should play the partof the serpent, and intrude and spoil.     I am probably the most skeptical man in the world, said Casper Craigthe tycoon, but I do believe my eyes. I have been there and seen it.It is indeed an unspoiled Paradise; and it would be a crime calling tothe wide heavens for vengeance for anyone to smirch in any way thatperfection.     So much for that. Now to business. Gilbert, take a gram: NinetyMillion Square Miles of Pristine Paradise for Sale or Lease. Farming,Ranching, exceptional opportunities for Horticulture. Gold, Silver,Iron, Earth-Type Fauna. Terms. Special Rates for Large SettlementParties. Write, Gram, or call in person at any of our planetary officesas listed below. Ask for Brochure—Eden Acres Unlimited.  Down in the great cave that Old Serpent, a two-legged one among whosenames were Snake-Oil Sam, spoke to his underlings:     It'll take them fourteen days to get back with the settlers. We'llhave time to overhaul the blasters. We haven't had any well-equippedsettlers for six weeks. It used to be we'd hardly have time to stripand slaughter and stow before there was another batch to take care of.     I think you'd better write me some new lines, said Adam. I feel likea goof saying those same ones to each bunch.     You are a goof, and therefore perfect for the part. I was in showbusiness long enough to know never to change a line too soon. I didchange Adam and Eve to Ha-Adamah and Hawwah, and the apple to thepomegranate. People aren't becoming any smarter—but they are becomingbetter researched, and they insist on authenticity.     This is still a perfect come-on here. There is something in humannature that cannot resist the idea of a Perfect Paradise. Folks willwhoop and holler to their neighbors to come in droves to spoil and marit. It isn't greed or the desire for new land so much—though that isstrong too. Mainly it is the feverish passion to befoul and poison whatis unspoiled. Fortunately I am sagacious enough to take advantage ofthis trait. And when you start to farm a new world on a shoestring youhave to acquire your equipment as you can.     He looked proudly around at the great cave with its mountains and tiersof materials, heavy machinery of all sorts, titanic crates of foodstuffspace-sealed; wheeled, tracked, propped, vaned and jetted vehicles; andpower packs to run a world.     He looked at the three dozen space ships stripped and stacked, and atthe rather large pile of bone-meal in one corner.     We will have to have another lion, said Eve. Bowser is getting old,and Marie-Yvette abuses him and gnaws his toes. And we do have to havea big-maned lion to lie down with the lamb.     I know it, Eve. The lion is a very important prop. Maybe one of thecrackpot settlers will bring a new lion.     And can't you mix another kind of shining paint? This itches. It'shell.     I'm working on it.  Casper Craig was still dictating the gram:     Amazing quality of longevity seemingly inherent in the locale. Climateideal. Daylight or half-light. All twenty-one hours from PlanetDelphina and from Sol. Pure water for all industrial purposes. Scenicand storied. Zoning and pre-settlement restrictions to insure congenialneighbors. A completely planned globular settlement in a near arm ofour own galaxy. Low taxes and liberal credit. Financing our specialty—     And you had better have an armed escort when you return, said FatherBriton.     Why in cosmos would we want an armed escort?     It's as phony as a seven-credit note!     You, a man of the cloth doubt it? And us ready skeptics convinced byour senses? Why do you doubt?     It is only the unbelieving who believe so easily in obvious frauds.Theologically unsound, dramaturgically weak, philologically impossible,zoologically rigged, salted conspicuously with gold and shot throughwith anachronisms. And moreover he was afraid to play me at checkers.     What?     If I have a preternatural intellect I wouldn't be afraid of a game ofcheckers with anyone. Yet there was an unusual mind there somewhere; itwas just that he chose not to make our acquaintance personally.     They looked at the priest thoughtfully.     But it was Paradise in one way, said Steiner at last.     How?     All the time we were there the woman did not speak.  ","Christianity is a central component of the story. The heart of the narrative revolves around the description of the world as a replica of the biblical Garden of Eden. The author goes into extensive detail regarding the aspects of the garden and its inhabitants and how they conform to aspects of the Genesis narrative and how it was understood by religious analysis. It is heavily suggested that here, the Serpent did not succeed in convincing man to sin and fall from grace as was the case in the biblical narrative. As a result, Ha-Adamah and Hawwah (the Hebrew names for Adam and Eve) remain clothed in light and still enjoy the preternatural gifts of creation including a highly advanced intellect, immortality and even an illuminated appearance.It is revealed that this depiction is a deception on the part of the moon’s inhabitants. Interestingly, the 4 non-believers on the crew are the most ready to believe that the state of affairs on the planet is indeed supernatural. It is only the clever priest who possesses faith, but employs the skepticism necessary to see through the fraud."
"How is human fallenness explored as a theme? </s>     IT WAS A DULL, ROUTINE LITTLE     WORLD. IT DIDN'T EVEN HAVE A     CITY. EVERYTHING IT HAD WAS     IN THE GARDEN     BY R. A. LAFFERTY     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The protozoic recorder chirped like a bird. Not only would there belife traces on that little moon, but it would be a lively place. Sothey skipped several steps in the procedure.     The chordata discerner read      Positive     over most of the surface. Therewas spinal fluid on that orb, rivers of it. So again they omittedseveral tests and went to the cognition scanner. Would it show Thoughton the body?     Naturally they did not get results at once, nor did they expect to; itrequired a fine adjustment. But they were disappointed that they foundnothing for several hours as they hovered high over the rotation. Thenit came—clearly and definitely, but from quite a small location only.     Limited, said Steiner, as though within a pale. As though there werebut one city, if that is its form. Shall we follow the rest of thesurface to find another, or concentrate on this? It'll be twelve hoursbefore it's back in our ken if we let it go now.     Let's lock on this one and finish the scan. Then we can do the rest ofthe world to make sure we've missed nothing, said Stark.     There was one more test to run, one very tricky and difficult ofanalysis, that with the Extraordinary Perception Locator. This wasdesigned simply to locate a source of superior thought. But this mightbe so varied or so unfamiliar that often both the machine and thedesigner of it were puzzled as to how to read the results.     The E. P. Locator had been designed by Glaser. But when the Locatorhad refused to read      Positive     when turned on the inventor himself,bad blood developed between machine and man. Glaser knew that he hadextraordinary perception. He was a much honored man in his field. Hetold the machine so heatedly.     The machine replied, with such warmth that its relays chattered, thatGlaser did      not     have extraordinary perception; he had only ordinaryperception to an extraordinary degree. There is a      difference     , themachine insisted.     It was for this reason that Glaser used that model no more, but builtothers more amenable. And it was for this reason also that the ownersof Little Probe had acquired the original machine so cheaply.     And there was no denying that the Extraordinary Perception Locator (orEppel) was a contrary machine. On Earth it had read      Positive     on anumber of crack-pots, including Waxey Sax, a jazz tootler who could noteven read music. But it had also read      Positive     on ninety per cent ofthe acknowledged superior minds of the Earth. In space it had been asound guide to the unusual intelligences encountered. Yet on Suzuki-Miit had read      Positive     on a two-inch-long worm, only one of them out ofbillions. For the countless identical worms no trace of anything at allwas shown by the test.     So it was with mixed expectations that Steiner locked onto the areaand got a flick. He then narrowed to a smaller area (apparently oneindividual, though this could not be certain) and got very definiteaction. Eppel was busy. The machine had a touch of the ham in it, andassumed an air of importance when it ran these tests.     Finally it signaled the result, the most exasperating result it everproduces: the single orange light. It was the equivalent of the shrugof the shoulders in a man. They called it the You tell      me     light.     So among the intelligences there was at least one that might beextraordinary, though possibly in a crackpot way. It is good to beforewarned.  Scan the remainder of the world, Steiner, said Stark, and the restof us will get some sleep. If you find no other spot then we will godown on that one the next time it is in position under us, in abouttwelve hours.     You don't want to visit any of the other areas first? Somewhere awayfrom the thoughtful creature?     No. The rest of the world may be dangerous. There must be a reasonthat thought is in one spot only. If we find no others then we will godown boldly and visit this.     So they all, except Steiner, went off to their bunks then: Stark, theCaptain; Gregory Gilbert, the executive officer; Wolfgang Langweilig,the engineer; Casper Craig, super-cargo, tycoon and 51% owner of theLittle Probe, and F. R. Briton, S.J., a Jesuit priest who was linguistand checker champion of the craft.     Dawn did not come to the moon-town. The Little Probe hovered stationaryin the light and the moon-town came up under the dawn. Then the Probewent down to visit whatever was there.     There's no town, said Steiner. Not a building. Yet we're on thetrack of the minds. There's nothing but a meadow and some boscage, asort of fountain or pool, and four streams coming out of it.     Keep on towards the minds, said Stark. They're our target.     Not a building, not two sticks or stones placed together. That lookslike an Earth-type sheep there. And that looks like an Earth-lion,I'm almost afraid to say. And those two ... why, they could well beEarth-people. But with a difference. Where is that bright light comingfrom?     I don't know, but they're right in the middle of it. Land here. We'llgo to meet them at once. Timidity has never been an efficacious toolwith us.     Well, they were people. And one could only wish that all people werelike them. There was a man and a woman, and they were clothed eitherin very bright garments or in no garments at all, but only in a verybright light.     Talk to them, Father Briton, said Stark. You are the linguist.     Howdy, said the priest.     He may or may not have been understood, but the two of them smiled athim, so he went on.     Father Briton from Philadelphia, he said, on detached service. Andyou, my good man, what is your handle, your monicker, your tag?     Ha-Adamah, said the man.     And your daughter, or niece?     It may be that the shining man frowned momentarily at this; but thewoman smiled, proving that she was human.     The woman is named Hawwah, said the man. The sheep is named sheep,the lion is named lion, the horse is named horse and the hoolock isnamed hoolock.     I understand. It is possible that this could go on and on. How is itthat you use the English tongue?     I have only one tongue; but it is given to us to be understood by all;by the eagle, by the squirrel, by the ass, by the English.     We happen to be bloody Yankees, but we use a borrowed tongue. Youwouldn't have a drink on you for a tubful of thirsty travellers, wouldyou?     The fountain.     Ah—I see.  But the crew all drank of the fountain to be sociable. It was water,but water that excelled, cool and with all its original bubbles likethe first water ever made.     What do you make of them? asked Stark.     Human, said Steiner. It may even be that they are a little more thanhuman. I don't understand that light that surrounds them. And they seemto be clothed, as it were, in dignity.     And very little else, said Father Briton, though that light trickdoes serve a purpose. But I'm not sure they'd pass in Philadelphia.     Talk to them again, said Stark. You're the linguist.     That isn't necessary here, Captain. Talk to them yourself.     Are there any other people here? Stark asked the man.     The two of us. Man and woman.     But are there any others?     How would there be any others? What other kind of people could therebe than man and woman?     But is there more than one man or woman?     How could there be more than one of anything?     The captain was a little puzzled by this, but he went on doggedly:Ha-Adamah, what do you think that we are? Are we not people?     You are not anything till I name you. But I will name you and thenyou can be. You are named Captain. He is named Priest. He is namedEngineer. He is named Flunky.     Thanks a lot, said Steiner.     But are we not people? persisted Captain Stark.     No. We are the people. There are no people but two. How could there beother people?     And the damnest thing about it, muttered Langweilig, is, how are yougoing to prove him wrong? But it does give you a small feeling.     Can we have something to eat? asked the Captain.     Pick from the trees, said Ha-Adamah, and then it may be that youwill want to sleep on the grass. Being not of human nature (which doesnot need sleep or rest), it may be that you require respite. But youare free to enjoy the garden and its fruits.     We will, said Captain Stark.     They wandered about the place, but they were uneasy. There were theanimals. The lion and lioness were enough to make one cautious, thoughthey offered no harm. The two bears had a puzzling look, as though theywanted either to frolic with you or to mangle you.     If there are only two people here, said Casper Craig, then it may bethat the rest of the world is not dangerous at all. It looked fertilewherever we scanned it, though not so fertile as this central bit. Andthose rocks would bear examining.     Flecked with gold, and possibly with something else, said Stark. Avery promising site.     And everything grows here, added Steiner. Those are Earth-fruits andI never saw finer. I've tasted the grapes and plums and pears. The figsand dates are superb, the quince is as flavorsome as a quince can be,the cherries are excellent. And I never did taste such oranges. But Ihaven't yet tried the— and he stopped.     If you're thinking what I'm afraid to think, said Gilbert, then itwill be the test at least: whether we're having a pleasant dream orwhether this is reality. Go ahead and eat one.     I won't be the first to eat one. You eat.     Ask him first. You ask him.     Ha-Adamah, is it allowed to eat the apples?     Certainly. Eat. It is the finest fruit in the garden.  Well, the analogy breaks down there, said Stark. I was almostbeginning to believe in the thing. But if it isn't that, then what.Father Briton, you are the linguist, but in Hebrew does not Ha-Adamahand Hawwah mean—?     Of course they do. You know that as well as I.     I was never a believer. But would it be possible for the exact sameproposition to maintain here as on Earth?     All things are possible.     And it was then that Ha-Adamah, the shining man, gave a wild cry: No,no. Do not approach it. It is not allowed to eat of that one!     It was the pomegranate tree, and he was warning Langweilig away from it.     Once more, Father, said Stark, you should be the authority; but doesnot the idea that it was the apple that was forbidden go back only to amedieval painting?     It does. The name of the fruit is not mentioned in Genesis. In Hebrewexegesis, however, the pomegranate is usually indicated.     I thought so. Question the man further, Father. This is tooincredible.     It is a little odd. Adam, old man, how long have you been here?     Forever less six days is the answer that has been given to me. I neverdid understand the answer, however.     And have you gotten no older in all that time?     I do not understand what 'older' is. I am as I have been from thebeginning.     And do you think that you will ever die?     To die I do not understand. I am taught that it is a property offallen nature to die, and that does not pertain to me or mine.     And are you completely happy here?     Perfectly happy according to my preternatural state. But I am taughtthat it might be possible to lose that happiness, and then to seek itvainly through all the ages. I am taught that sickness and ageing andeven death could come if this happiness were ever lost. I am taughtthat on at least one other unfortunate world it has actually been lost.     Do you consider yourself a knowledgeable man?     Yes, since I am the only man, and knowledge is natural to man. But Iam further blessed. I have a preternatural intellect.     Then Stark cut in once more: There must be some one question you couldask him, Father. Some way to settle it. I am becoming nearly convinced.     Yes, there is a question that will settle it. Adam, old man, how abouta game of checkers?     This is hardly the time for clowning, said Stark.     I'm not clowning, Captain. How about it, Adam? I'll give you choice ofcolors and first move.     No. It would be no contest. I have a preternatural intellect.     Well, I beat a barber who was champion of Germantown. And I beat thechampion of Morgan County, Tennessee, which is the hottest checkercenter on Earth. I've played against, and beaten, machines. But Inever played a preternatural mind. Let's just set up the board, Adam,and have a go at it.     No. It would be no contest. I would not like to humble you.  They were there for three days. They were delighted with the place.It was a world with everything, and it seemed to have only twoinhabitants. They went everywhere except into the big cave.     What is there, Adam? asked Captain Stark.     The great serpent lives there. I would not disturb him. He has longbeen cranky because plans he had for us did not materialize. But weare taught that should ever evil come to us, which it cannot if wepersevere, it will come by him.     They learned no more of the real nature of the sphere in their timethere. Yet all but one of them were convinced of the reality when theyleft. And they talked of it as they took off.     A crowd would laugh if told of it, said Stark, but not many wouldlaugh if they had actually seen the place, or them. I am not a gullibleman, but I am convinced of this: that this is a pristine and pure worldand that ours and all the others we have visited are fallen worlds.Here are the prototypes of our first parents before their fall. Theyare garbed in light and innocence, and they have the happiness thatwe have been seeking for centuries. It would be a crime if anyonedisturbed that happiness.     I too am convinced, said Steiner. It is Paradise itself, where thelion lies down with the lamb, and where the serpent has not prevailed.It would be the darkest of crimes if we or others should play the partof the serpent, and intrude and spoil.     I am probably the most skeptical man in the world, said Casper Craigthe tycoon, but I do believe my eyes. I have been there and seen it.It is indeed an unspoiled Paradise; and it would be a crime calling tothe wide heavens for vengeance for anyone to smirch in any way thatperfection.     So much for that. Now to business. Gilbert, take a gram: NinetyMillion Square Miles of Pristine Paradise for Sale or Lease. Farming,Ranching, exceptional opportunities for Horticulture. Gold, Silver,Iron, Earth-Type Fauna. Terms. Special Rates for Large SettlementParties. Write, Gram, or call in person at any of our planetary officesas listed below. Ask for Brochure—Eden Acres Unlimited.  Down in the great cave that Old Serpent, a two-legged one among whosenames were Snake-Oil Sam, spoke to his underlings:     It'll take them fourteen days to get back with the settlers. We'llhave time to overhaul the blasters. We haven't had any well-equippedsettlers for six weeks. It used to be we'd hardly have time to stripand slaughter and stow before there was another batch to take care of.     I think you'd better write me some new lines, said Adam. I feel likea goof saying those same ones to each bunch.     You are a goof, and therefore perfect for the part. I was in showbusiness long enough to know never to change a line too soon. I didchange Adam and Eve to Ha-Adamah and Hawwah, and the apple to thepomegranate. People aren't becoming any smarter—but they are becomingbetter researched, and they insist on authenticity.     This is still a perfect come-on here. There is something in humannature that cannot resist the idea of a Perfect Paradise. Folks willwhoop and holler to their neighbors to come in droves to spoil and marit. It isn't greed or the desire for new land so much—though that isstrong too. Mainly it is the feverish passion to befoul and poison whatis unspoiled. Fortunately I am sagacious enough to take advantage ofthis trait. And when you start to farm a new world on a shoestring youhave to acquire your equipment as you can.     He looked proudly around at the great cave with its mountains and tiersof materials, heavy machinery of all sorts, titanic crates of foodstuffspace-sealed; wheeled, tracked, propped, vaned and jetted vehicles; andpower packs to run a world.     He looked at the three dozen space ships stripped and stacked, and atthe rather large pile of bone-meal in one corner.     We will have to have another lion, said Eve. Bowser is getting old,and Marie-Yvette abuses him and gnaws his toes. And we do have to havea big-maned lion to lie down with the lamb.     I know it, Eve. The lion is a very important prop. Maybe one of thecrackpot settlers will bring a new lion.     And can't you mix another kind of shining paint? This itches. It'shell.     I'm working on it.  Casper Craig was still dictating the gram:     Amazing quality of longevity seemingly inherent in the locale. Climateideal. Daylight or half-light. All twenty-one hours from PlanetDelphina and from Sol. Pure water for all industrial purposes. Scenicand storied. Zoning and pre-settlement restrictions to insure congenialneighbors. A completely planned globular settlement in a near arm ofour own galaxy. Low taxes and liberal credit. Financing our specialty—     And you had better have an armed escort when you return, said FatherBriton.     Why in cosmos would we want an armed escort?     It's as phony as a seven-credit note!     You, a man of the cloth doubt it? And us ready skeptics convinced byour senses? Why do you doubt?     It is only the unbelieving who believe so easily in obvious frauds.Theologically unsound, dramaturgically weak, philologically impossible,zoologically rigged, salted conspicuously with gold and shot throughwith anachronisms. And moreover he was afraid to play me at checkers.     What?     If I have a preternatural intellect I wouldn't be afraid of a game ofcheckers with anyone. Yet there was an unusual mind there somewhere; itwas just that he chose not to make our acquaintance personally.     They looked at the priest thoughtfully.     But it was Paradise in one way, said Steiner at last.     How?     All the time we were there the woman did not speak.  ","Human sinfulness and its collective fall from grace are referenced in several ways in the story. Ha-Adamah contrasts his world’s perfection with the fallenness that is apparent in the visitors. He claims to be free from the stain of original sin. He presents himself as perfectly happy and not subject to corruption, aging, or death. This is contrasted with Earth's humanity which was fated to “lose that happiness, and then to seek it vainly through all the ages.”The entire crew of the Little Probe agree on the unacceptability of spoiling a pristine world. Even so, they irresistibly and almost gleefully prepare to exploit the world’s riches.Snake-Oil Sam expounds upon this inclination. He claims that on top of the very real greed of the visitors they’ve deceived over the years, they are capitalizing on the human desire to despoil the unspoiled. This is a clear summation of concupiscence—the inclination for fallen humanity to tend toward sin. It is clear that Sam and his associates are just as fallen as the other individuals in the story, preying on others to further their own goals."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     Brightside     Crossing   by Alan E. Nourse    JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.”     Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it.     Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing.     The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.”     Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.”     “At perihelion?”     “Of course. When else?”     The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.”     “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded.     “The name is Claney,” said the stranger.     There was a silence. Then: “Claney?      Peter     Claney?”     “That’s right.”     Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man—      where have you been hiding?     We’ve been trying to contact you for months!”     “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.”     “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling.     Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.”     “But you’ve      got     to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need      details     . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—”     “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney.     “Of course we want to know. We      have     to know.”     “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.”     “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.”     Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the      planet     that whipped us, that and the      Sun     . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.”     “Never,” said Baron.     “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said.  I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared.     I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death.     But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission.     He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later.     I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him.     He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were.     “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?”     He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?”     I told him one-thirty-five.     “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?”     “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.”     “No, I mean      real     heat.”     Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.”     “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.”     “What trip?”     “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said.     I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?”     He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then,      nobody’s     gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.”     I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself.     It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust      how     hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it.     I wanted to be along.  The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore.     Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures.     Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around.     The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations.     Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like.     Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy.     It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test.     We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges.     The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?”     “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know.     “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.”     I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?”     “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.”     “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked.     “No. Are you worried?”     “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.”     The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.”     Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course.     “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west      could     be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.”     Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.”     The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—”     It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized.     But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO  2  , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide.     The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there.     Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.     He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about.     Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest.  “And that,” said Baron, finishing his drink and signalingthe waiter for another pair, “was your first big mistake.”     Peter Claney raised his eyebrows. “McIvers?”     “Of course.”     Claney shrugged, glanced at the small quiet tables aroundthem. “There are lots of bizarre personalities around a placelike this, and some of the best wouldn’t seem to be the mostreliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren’tour big problem right then.      Equipment     worried us first and      route     next.”     Baron nodded in agreement. “What kind of suits did youhave?”     “The best insulating suits ever made,” said Claney. “Eachone had an inner lining of a fiberglass modification, to avoidthe clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unitand oxygen storage which we recharged from the sledges everyeight hours. Outer layer carried a monomolecular chrome reflectingsurface that made us glitter like Christmas trees. Andwe had a half-inch dead-air space under positive pressure betweenthe two layers. Warning thermocouples, of course—at770 degrees, it wouldn’t take much time to fry us to cindersif the suits failed somewhere.”     “How about the Bugs?”     “They were insulated, too, but we weren’t counting onthem too much for protection.”     “You weren’t!” Baron exclaimed. “Why not?”     “We’d be in and out of them too much. They gave us mobilityand storage, but we knew we’d have to do a lot offorward work on foot.” Claney smiled bitterly. “Which meantthat we had an inch of fiberglass and a half-inch of dead airbetween us and a surface temperature where lead flowed likewater and zinc was almost at melting point and the pools ofsulfur in the shadows were boiling like oatmeal over a campfire.”     Baron licked his lips. His fingers stroked the cool, wet glassas he set it down on the tablecloth.     “Go on,” he said tautly. “You started on schedule?”     “Oh, yes,” said Claney, “we started on schedule, all right.We just didn’t quite end on schedule, that was all. But I’mgetting to that.”     He settled back in his chair and continued.  We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeastwith thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If wecould cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hitCenter exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closestapproach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part ofthe planet at the hottest it ever gets.     The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizonwhen we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every daythat Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day thesurface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the jobwas only half done—we would still have to travel anothertwo thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sandersonwas to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off.     That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross thoseseventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matterwhat terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous andtime-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knewthat.     The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we strippeddown for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, givingyou a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job ofdragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course prettyclosely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore aheadon foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?”     McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jackand I were planning to change around. We figured he couldtake the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.”     The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,Jack?”     Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—”     McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “Itdoesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Doesit make any difference?”     “I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flankPeter along with me. Right?”     “Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s goingto do the advance scouting?”     “It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the leadBug light as possible.”     Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped downto the frame and wheels.”     McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the      advance     work.You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—topick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort ofa hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout upahead?”     “That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major saidsharply.     “Charts! I’m talking about      detail     work. We don’t need toworry about the major topography. It’s the little faults youcan’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the chartsdown excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and workreconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan thearea closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.Then—”     “No dice,” the Major broke in.     “But why not? We could save ourselves days!”     “I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. Whenwe get to the Center, I want live men along with me. Thatmeans we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Anyclimber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one manalone—any time, any place.”     McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally hegave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.”     “Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.Got that?”     McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me andwe nodded, too.     “All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,let’s go.”     It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’llnever forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without abreak, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that thefirst few days would be the easiest and we were rested andfresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast ofthe Twilight Lab.     I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see theMajor and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tirestaking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,Stone dragged the sledges.     Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain onthe big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanicash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow forthe first twenty miles.     I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking outthe track the early research teams had made out into the edgeof Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’slittle outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. Wewere in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning tobite.     We didn’t      feel     the heat so much those first days out. We      saw     it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-fivedegrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watchedthat glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, andsome nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We pouredsweat as if we were in a superheated furnace.     We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep periodcame due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw upa light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventydegrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from theforward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,bulk gelatin, vitamins.     The Major measured water out with an iron hand, becausewe’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologistsand psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interestingreasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that ithappened to be so.     We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Oureyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around lookingat each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer wouldtaste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothersfor one ice-cold bottle of beer.     After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings atthe wheel. We were moving down into desolation that madeEarth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filledwith a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurousgases.     It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, butthe challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No onehad ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who hadtried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossedthe hardest way possible: overland, through anything the landcould throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible.     Yet we knew that even the land might have been conqueredbefore, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold beforeand won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The onlyworse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sunitself.     Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it wouldget us. That was the bargain.     I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we movedonto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south andeast. This range had shown no activity since the first landingon Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were activecones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; theirsides were shrouded with heavy ash.     We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across theface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The cratersrose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock andrubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissingfrom the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was graydust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and graniteash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacheroussurface for the Bug’s pillow tires.     I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by thesag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell itfrom an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground toa halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together withlight copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some moreuntil we were sure the surface would carry the machines. Itwas cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,at first.     Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed tothink so, too.     McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.He talked too much, while we were resting or while we weredriving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thinwith repetition. He took to making side trips from the routenow and then, never far, but a little further each time.     Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter witheach stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, butI figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensiveenough myself; I just managed to hide it better.     And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher inthe sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glarefilters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes achedconstantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at theend of an eight-hour trek.     But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver thepenultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had drivendown a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of ourroute and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when weheard a sharp cry through our earphones.     I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat andspotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from thetop of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering downthe gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousandhorrible pictures racing through our minds....     We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorgeand, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreckof a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort thathadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut inthe rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up themiddle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away weretwo insulated suits with white bones gleaming through thefiberglass helmets.     This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on      their     Brightside Crossing.  On the fifth driving period out, the terrain began to change.It looked the same, but every now and then it      felt     different.On two occasions I felt my wheels spin, with a howl of protestfrom my engine. Then, quite suddenly, the Bug gave a lurch;I gunned my motor and nothing happened.     I could see the dull gray stuff seeping up around the hubs,thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs asthe wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment thewheels gave and, a few minutes later, they chained me to thetractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked forall the world like thick gray mud, but it was a pit of moltenlead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash.     I picked my way more cautiously then. We were getting intoan area of recent surface activity; the surface was really treacherous.I caught myself wishing that the Major had okayedMcIvers’ scheme for an advanced scout; more dangerous forthe individual, maybe, but I was driving blind now and I didn’tlike it.     One error in judgment could sink us all, but I wasn’t thinkingmuch about the others. I was worried about      me     , plentyworried. I kept thinking, better McIvers should go than me.It wasn’t healthy thinking and I knew it, but I couldn’t get thethought out of my mind.     It was a grueling eight hours and we slept poorly. Back inthe Bug again, we moved still more slowly—edging out on abroad flat plateau, dodging a network of gaping surface cracks—windingback and forth in an effort to keep the machines onsolid rock. I couldn’t see far ahead, because of the yellow hazerising from the cracks, so I was almost on top of it when I sawa sharp cut ahead where the surface dropped six feet beyonda deep crack.     I let out a shout to halt the others; then I edged my Bugforward, peering at the cleft. It was deep and wide. I movedfifty yards to the left, then back to the right.     There was only one place that looked like a possible crossing;a long, narrow ledge of gray stuff that lay down acrossa section of the fault like a ramp. Even as I watched it, I couldfeel the surface crust under the Bug trembling and saw theledge shift over a few feet.  ","James Baron is planning a trek to Brightside Crossing on Mercury, a feat so far unaccomplished. Few had tried, and those that did died. All except for one. He is asked to wait at the Red Baron as someone wanted to see him at 8. He waits patiently and is rewarded with the company of Peter Claney, the man who made it back home. Claney instantly tells him to give up on the journey and stay on Earth. Baron asks for details about their trek and what went wrong, but Claney refuses to give him the details. Claney is an older man now with an epithelioma on his face. Although he came to warn him, he quickly learns that Baron may only listen if he hears the truth. So Claney recounts the story. Major Tom Mikuta recruited Claney, Jack Stone, and Ted McIvers to join him. They were to adventure to the Brightside Crossing at perihelion, a more dangerous journey. Temperatures reached up to 770 degrees Fahrenheit at perihelion, but Mikuta was an all-or-nothing man. Stone arrived on Mercury first, soon followed by Mikuta and Claney. McIvers was the last to arrive and they left soon after with three Bugs and one tractor dragging the sledges. Stone was briefed by Sanderson, the head of the observatory, before they left, and the men pored over all images and maps of the Crossing before beginning. Despite their high-tech spacesuits and general gadgets, the giant sun still got to them. They were constantly thirsty and hot, and their skin itched and burned. They drove for eight hours, then slept for five. They needed to travel 70 miles a day. It would take 30 days to reach the Center, and then another 30 to reach the pick-up spot. The journey quickly took a toll on Stone, who was the most apprehensive of the bunch. He retreats into himself, while McIvers chatters nonstop to fill the silence. Tension grew among the crew, especially as McIvers put himself at risk by adventuring away from them. Claney lead the gang in his Bug, while McIvers and Mikuta flanked him. Stone was in the very back. If Claney saw something suspicious or unsafe, they would investigate on foot before continuing in their equipment. As they travel, they got closer to the Sun, which appeared to be twice as big as it did on Earth. Several drives into their journey, McIvers discovered something truly terrible on one of his forrays. He screamed into the intercom, alerting the others who quickly rushed after him. He stood there, pointing below. There lay a broken, older Bug and two corpses. Wyatt and Carpenter, the original discoverers. They continued on with disheartened spirits until Claney reached a cleft. There was no way to cross it, except for a very small and dangerous ledge. The cleft slowly began to crumble under their Bugs and they’re left in a very precarious position. "
"Who is McIvers, and what happens to him throughout the story? </s>     Brightside     Crossing   by Alan E. Nourse    JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.”     Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it.     Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing.     The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.”     Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.”     “At perihelion?”     “Of course. When else?”     The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.”     “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded.     “The name is Claney,” said the stranger.     There was a silence. Then: “Claney?      Peter     Claney?”     “That’s right.”     Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man—      where have you been hiding?     We’ve been trying to contact you for months!”     “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.”     “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling.     Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.”     “But you’ve      got     to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need      details     . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—”     “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney.     “Of course we want to know. We      have     to know.”     “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.”     “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.”     Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the      planet     that whipped us, that and the      Sun     . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.”     “Never,” said Baron.     “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said.  I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared.     I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death.     But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission.     He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later.     I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him.     He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were.     “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?”     He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?”     I told him one-thirty-five.     “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?”     “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.”     “No, I mean      real     heat.”     Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.”     “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.”     “What trip?”     “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said.     I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?”     He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then,      nobody’s     gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.”     I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself.     It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust      how     hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it.     I wanted to be along.  The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore.     Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures.     Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around.     The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations.     Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like.     Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy.     It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test.     We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges.     The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?”     “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know.     “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.”     I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?”     “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.”     “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked.     “No. Are you worried?”     “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.”     The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.”     Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course.     “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west      could     be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.”     Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.”     The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—”     It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized.     But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO  2  , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide.     The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there.     Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.     He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about.     Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest.  “And that,” said Baron, finishing his drink and signalingthe waiter for another pair, “was your first big mistake.”     Peter Claney raised his eyebrows. “McIvers?”     “Of course.”     Claney shrugged, glanced at the small quiet tables aroundthem. “There are lots of bizarre personalities around a placelike this, and some of the best wouldn’t seem to be the mostreliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren’tour big problem right then.      Equipment     worried us first and      route     next.”     Baron nodded in agreement. “What kind of suits did youhave?”     “The best insulating suits ever made,” said Claney. “Eachone had an inner lining of a fiberglass modification, to avoidthe clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unitand oxygen storage which we recharged from the sledges everyeight hours. Outer layer carried a monomolecular chrome reflectingsurface that made us glitter like Christmas trees. Andwe had a half-inch dead-air space under positive pressure betweenthe two layers. Warning thermocouples, of course—at770 degrees, it wouldn’t take much time to fry us to cindersif the suits failed somewhere.”     “How about the Bugs?”     “They were insulated, too, but we weren’t counting onthem too much for protection.”     “You weren’t!” Baron exclaimed. “Why not?”     “We’d be in and out of them too much. They gave us mobilityand storage, but we knew we’d have to do a lot offorward work on foot.” Claney smiled bitterly. “Which meantthat we had an inch of fiberglass and a half-inch of dead airbetween us and a surface temperature where lead flowed likewater and zinc was almost at melting point and the pools ofsulfur in the shadows were boiling like oatmeal over a campfire.”     Baron licked his lips. His fingers stroked the cool, wet glassas he set it down on the tablecloth.     “Go on,” he said tautly. “You started on schedule?”     “Oh, yes,” said Claney, “we started on schedule, all right.We just didn’t quite end on schedule, that was all. But I’mgetting to that.”     He settled back in his chair and continued.  We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeastwith thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If wecould cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hitCenter exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closestapproach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part ofthe planet at the hottest it ever gets.     The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizonwhen we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every daythat Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day thesurface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the jobwas only half done—we would still have to travel anothertwo thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sandersonwas to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off.     That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross thoseseventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matterwhat terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous andtime-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knewthat.     The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we strippeddown for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, givingyou a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job ofdragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course prettyclosely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore aheadon foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?”     McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jackand I were planning to change around. We figured he couldtake the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.”     The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,Jack?”     Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—”     McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “Itdoesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Doesit make any difference?”     “I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flankPeter along with me. Right?”     “Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s goingto do the advance scouting?”     “It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the leadBug light as possible.”     Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped downto the frame and wheels.”     McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the      advance     work.You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—topick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort ofa hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout upahead?”     “That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major saidsharply.     “Charts! I’m talking about      detail     work. We don’t need toworry about the major topography. It’s the little faults youcan’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the chartsdown excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and workreconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan thearea closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.Then—”     “No dice,” the Major broke in.     “But why not? We could save ourselves days!”     “I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. Whenwe get to the Center, I want live men along with me. Thatmeans we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Anyclimber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one manalone—any time, any place.”     McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally hegave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.”     “Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.Got that?”     McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me andwe nodded, too.     “All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,let’s go.”     It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’llnever forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without abreak, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that thefirst few days would be the easiest and we were rested andfresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast ofthe Twilight Lab.     I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see theMajor and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tirestaking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,Stone dragged the sledges.     Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain onthe big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanicash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow forthe first twenty miles.     I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking outthe track the early research teams had made out into the edgeof Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’slittle outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. Wewere in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning tobite.     We didn’t      feel     the heat so much those first days out. We      saw     it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-fivedegrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watchedthat glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, andsome nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We pouredsweat as if we were in a superheated furnace.     We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep periodcame due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw upa light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventydegrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from theforward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,bulk gelatin, vitamins.     The Major measured water out with an iron hand, becausewe’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologistsand psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interestingreasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that ithappened to be so.     We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Oureyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around lookingat each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer wouldtaste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothersfor one ice-cold bottle of beer.     After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings atthe wheel. We were moving down into desolation that madeEarth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filledwith a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurousgases.     It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, butthe challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No onehad ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who hadtried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossedthe hardest way possible: overland, through anything the landcould throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible.     Yet we knew that even the land might have been conqueredbefore, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold beforeand won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The onlyworse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sunitself.     Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it wouldget us. That was the bargain.     I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we movedonto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south andeast. This range had shown no activity since the first landingon Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were activecones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; theirsides were shrouded with heavy ash.     We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across theface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The cratersrose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock andrubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissingfrom the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was graydust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and graniteash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacheroussurface for the Bug’s pillow tires.     I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by thesag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell itfrom an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground toa halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together withlight copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some moreuntil we were sure the surface would carry the machines. Itwas cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,at first.     Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed tothink so, too.     McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.He talked too much, while we were resting or while we weredriving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thinwith repetition. He took to making side trips from the routenow and then, never far, but a little further each time.     Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter witheach stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, butI figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensiveenough myself; I just managed to hide it better.     And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher inthe sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glarefilters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes achedconstantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at theend of an eight-hour trek.     But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver thepenultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had drivendown a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of ourroute and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when weheard a sharp cry through our earphones.     I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat andspotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from thetop of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering downthe gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousandhorrible pictures racing through our minds....     We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorgeand, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreckof a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort thathadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut inthe rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up themiddle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away weretwo insulated suits with white bones gleaming through thefiberglass helmets.     This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on      their     Brightside Crossing.  On the fifth driving period out, the terrain began to change.It looked the same, but every now and then it      felt     different.On two occasions I felt my wheels spin, with a howl of protestfrom my engine. Then, quite suddenly, the Bug gave a lurch;I gunned my motor and nothing happened.     I could see the dull gray stuff seeping up around the hubs,thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs asthe wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment thewheels gave and, a few minutes later, they chained me to thetractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked forall the world like thick gray mud, but it was a pit of moltenlead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash.     I picked my way more cautiously then. We were getting intoan area of recent surface activity; the surface was really treacherous.I caught myself wishing that the Major had okayedMcIvers’ scheme for an advanced scout; more dangerous forthe individual, maybe, but I was driving blind now and I didn’tlike it.     One error in judgment could sink us all, but I wasn’t thinkingmuch about the others. I was worried about      me     , plentyworried. I kept thinking, better McIvers should go than me.It wasn’t healthy thinking and I knew it, but I couldn’t get thethought out of my mind.     It was a grueling eight hours and we slept poorly. Back inthe Bug again, we moved still more slowly—edging out on abroad flat plateau, dodging a network of gaping surface cracks—windingback and forth in an effort to keep the machines onsolid rock. I couldn’t see far ahead, because of the yellow hazerising from the cracks, so I was almost on top of it when I sawa sharp cut ahead where the surface dropped six feet beyonda deep crack.     I let out a shout to halt the others; then I edged my Bugforward, peering at the cleft. It was deep and wide. I movedfifty yards to the left, then back to the right.     There was only one place that looked like a possible crossing;a long, narrow ledge of gray stuff that lay down acrossa section of the fault like a ramp. Even as I watched it, I couldfeel the surface crust under the Bug trembling and saw theledge shift over a few feet.  ","From the get-go, Claney is clear in his obvious mistrust of McIvers and his preceding reputation. Late to Mercury, he arrives ready to explore. With long, gray hair and paradoxically drowsy yet alert eyes, McIvers’ constant movement and chatter get on his colleague’s nerves. McIvers is a famous climber known for pushing the boundaries and being a daredevil. After his arrival on Mercury, he and the crew soon set out for their treacherous journey to the Brightside Crossing. He switches spots with Stone, so he would have control of a Bug. He also asks to explore four or five miles ahead of the rest of the crew to see if it’s dangerous footing ahead. Mikuta quickly shuts him down. McIvers talks nonstop through the intercoms or when they’re supposed to be resting. As well, he disobeys Mikuta’s orders and occasionally drifts off from the rest of the group, discovering things as he goes. He never drifts far enough to receive any real punishment, though he does get farther away every time. During one of his side-explorations, he discovers a wrecked Bug and two corpses belonging to Wyatt and Carpenter, the previous explorers of the Brightside Crossing. With this shocking find, he returns to the crew in silence. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     Brightside     Crossing   by Alan E. Nourse    JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.”     Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it.     Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing.     The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.”     Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.”     “At perihelion?”     “Of course. When else?”     The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.”     “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded.     “The name is Claney,” said the stranger.     There was a silence. Then: “Claney?      Peter     Claney?”     “That’s right.”     Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man—      where have you been hiding?     We’ve been trying to contact you for months!”     “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.”     “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling.     Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.”     “But you’ve      got     to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need      details     . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—”     “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney.     “Of course we want to know. We      have     to know.”     “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.”     “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.”     Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the      planet     that whipped us, that and the      Sun     . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.”     “Never,” said Baron.     “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said.  I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared.     I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death.     But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission.     He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later.     I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him.     He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were.     “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?”     He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?”     I told him one-thirty-five.     “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?”     “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.”     “No, I mean      real     heat.”     Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.”     “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.”     “What trip?”     “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said.     I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?”     He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then,      nobody’s     gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.”     I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself.     It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust      how     hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it.     I wanted to be along.  The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore.     Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures.     Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around.     The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations.     Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like.     Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy.     It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test.     We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges.     The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?”     “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know.     “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.”     I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?”     “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.”     “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked.     “No. Are you worried?”     “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.”     The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.”     Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course.     “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west      could     be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.”     Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.”     The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—”     It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized.     But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO  2  , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide.     The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there.     Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.     He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about.     Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest.  “And that,” said Baron, finishing his drink and signalingthe waiter for another pair, “was your first big mistake.”     Peter Claney raised his eyebrows. “McIvers?”     “Of course.”     Claney shrugged, glanced at the small quiet tables aroundthem. “There are lots of bizarre personalities around a placelike this, and some of the best wouldn’t seem to be the mostreliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren’tour big problem right then.      Equipment     worried us first and      route     next.”     Baron nodded in agreement. “What kind of suits did youhave?”     “The best insulating suits ever made,” said Claney. “Eachone had an inner lining of a fiberglass modification, to avoidthe clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unitand oxygen storage which we recharged from the sledges everyeight hours. Outer layer carried a monomolecular chrome reflectingsurface that made us glitter like Christmas trees. Andwe had a half-inch dead-air space under positive pressure betweenthe two layers. Warning thermocouples, of course—at770 degrees, it wouldn’t take much time to fry us to cindersif the suits failed somewhere.”     “How about the Bugs?”     “They were insulated, too, but we weren’t counting onthem too much for protection.”     “You weren’t!” Baron exclaimed. “Why not?”     “We’d be in and out of them too much. They gave us mobilityand storage, but we knew we’d have to do a lot offorward work on foot.” Claney smiled bitterly. “Which meantthat we had an inch of fiberglass and a half-inch of dead airbetween us and a surface temperature where lead flowed likewater and zinc was almost at melting point and the pools ofsulfur in the shadows were boiling like oatmeal over a campfire.”     Baron licked his lips. His fingers stroked the cool, wet glassas he set it down on the tablecloth.     “Go on,” he said tautly. “You started on schedule?”     “Oh, yes,” said Claney, “we started on schedule, all right.We just didn’t quite end on schedule, that was all. But I’mgetting to that.”     He settled back in his chair and continued.  We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeastwith thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If wecould cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hitCenter exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closestapproach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part ofthe planet at the hottest it ever gets.     The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizonwhen we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every daythat Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day thesurface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the jobwas only half done—we would still have to travel anothertwo thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sandersonwas to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off.     That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross thoseseventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matterwhat terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous andtime-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knewthat.     The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we strippeddown for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, givingyou a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job ofdragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course prettyclosely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore aheadon foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?”     McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jackand I were planning to change around. We figured he couldtake the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.”     The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,Jack?”     Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—”     McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “Itdoesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Doesit make any difference?”     “I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flankPeter along with me. Right?”     “Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s goingto do the advance scouting?”     “It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the leadBug light as possible.”     Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped downto the frame and wheels.”     McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the      advance     work.You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—topick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort ofa hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout upahead?”     “That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major saidsharply.     “Charts! I’m talking about      detail     work. We don’t need toworry about the major topography. It’s the little faults youcan’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the chartsdown excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and workreconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan thearea closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.Then—”     “No dice,” the Major broke in.     “But why not? We could save ourselves days!”     “I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. Whenwe get to the Center, I want live men along with me. Thatmeans we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Anyclimber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one manalone—any time, any place.”     McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally hegave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.”     “Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.Got that?”     McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me andwe nodded, too.     “All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,let’s go.”     It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’llnever forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without abreak, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that thefirst few days would be the easiest and we were rested andfresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast ofthe Twilight Lab.     I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see theMajor and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tirestaking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,Stone dragged the sledges.     Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain onthe big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanicash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow forthe first twenty miles.     I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking outthe track the early research teams had made out into the edgeof Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’slittle outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. Wewere in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning tobite.     We didn’t      feel     the heat so much those first days out. We      saw     it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-fivedegrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watchedthat glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, andsome nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We pouredsweat as if we were in a superheated furnace.     We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep periodcame due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw upa light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventydegrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from theforward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,bulk gelatin, vitamins.     The Major measured water out with an iron hand, becausewe’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologistsand psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interestingreasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that ithappened to be so.     We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Oureyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around lookingat each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer wouldtaste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothersfor one ice-cold bottle of beer.     After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings atthe wheel. We were moving down into desolation that madeEarth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filledwith a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurousgases.     It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, butthe challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No onehad ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who hadtried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossedthe hardest way possible: overland, through anything the landcould throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible.     Yet we knew that even the land might have been conqueredbefore, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold beforeand won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The onlyworse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sunitself.     Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it wouldget us. That was the bargain.     I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we movedonto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south andeast. This range had shown no activity since the first landingon Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were activecones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; theirsides were shrouded with heavy ash.     We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across theface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The cratersrose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock andrubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissingfrom the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was graydust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and graniteash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacheroussurface for the Bug’s pillow tires.     I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by thesag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell itfrom an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground toa halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together withlight copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some moreuntil we were sure the surface would carry the machines. Itwas cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,at first.     Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed tothink so, too.     McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.He talked too much, while we were resting or while we weredriving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thinwith repetition. He took to making side trips from the routenow and then, never far, but a little further each time.     Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter witheach stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, butI figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensiveenough myself; I just managed to hide it better.     And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher inthe sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glarefilters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes achedconstantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at theend of an eight-hour trek.     But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver thepenultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had drivendown a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of ourroute and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when weheard a sharp cry through our earphones.     I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat andspotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from thetop of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering downthe gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousandhorrible pictures racing through our minds....     We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorgeand, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreckof a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort thathadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut inthe rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up themiddle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away weretwo insulated suits with white bones gleaming through thefiberglass helmets.     This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on      their     Brightside Crossing.  On the fifth driving period out, the terrain began to change.It looked the same, but every now and then it      felt     different.On two occasions I felt my wheels spin, with a howl of protestfrom my engine. Then, quite suddenly, the Bug gave a lurch;I gunned my motor and nothing happened.     I could see the dull gray stuff seeping up around the hubs,thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs asthe wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment thewheels gave and, a few minutes later, they chained me to thetractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked forall the world like thick gray mud, but it was a pit of moltenlead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash.     I picked my way more cautiously then. We were getting intoan area of recent surface activity; the surface was really treacherous.I caught myself wishing that the Major had okayedMcIvers’ scheme for an advanced scout; more dangerous forthe individual, maybe, but I was driving blind now and I didn’tlike it.     One error in judgment could sink us all, but I wasn’t thinkingmuch about the others. I was worried about      me     , plentyworried. I kept thinking, better McIvers should go than me.It wasn’t healthy thinking and I knew it, but I couldn’t get thethought out of my mind.     It was a grueling eight hours and we slept poorly. Back inthe Bug again, we moved still more slowly—edging out on abroad flat plateau, dodging a network of gaping surface cracks—windingback and forth in an effort to keep the machines onsolid rock. I couldn’t see far ahead, because of the yellow hazerising from the cracks, so I was almost on top of it when I sawa sharp cut ahead where the surface dropped six feet beyonda deep crack.     I let out a shout to halt the others; then I edged my Bugforward, peering at the cleft. It was deep and wide. I movedfifty yards to the left, then back to the right.     There was only one place that looked like a possible crossing;a long, narrow ledge of gray stuff that lay down acrossa section of the fault like a ramp. Even as I watched it, I couldfeel the surface crust under the Bug trembling and saw theledge shift over a few feet.  ","Brightside Crossing by Alan E. Nourse mostly takes place on the surface of Mercury.  The main characters begin in an observatory equipped to support human life as well as do research on the planet itself. However, they quickly move on in their journey to cross the Brightside at perihelion. Full of craters, gorges, and cracked land, the planet’s surface is incredibly dangerous to travel on. Sulfurous, hot winds blow across the planet. Beyond the towering, rocky spears and jagged gorges lay yellow valleys and flatlands. The gas beneath the surface of the planet can cause volcanic-like eruptions. This gas can also imply rise up from the core and poison the atmosphere around it. Gray dust caused by years of erosion rested atop every surface. Mercury is an incredibly hot planet, being the nearest to the sun, and the surface reflects that. "
"What is the significance of the Brightside Crossing? </s>     Brightside     Crossing   by Alan E. Nourse    JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.”     Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it.     Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing.     The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.”     Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.”     “At perihelion?”     “Of course. When else?”     The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.”     “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded.     “The name is Claney,” said the stranger.     There was a silence. Then: “Claney?      Peter     Claney?”     “That’s right.”     Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man—      where have you been hiding?     We’ve been trying to contact you for months!”     “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.”     “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling.     Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.”     “But you’ve      got     to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need      details     . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—”     “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney.     “Of course we want to know. We      have     to know.”     “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.”     “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.”     Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the      planet     that whipped us, that and the      Sun     . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.”     “Never,” said Baron.     “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said.  I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared.     I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death.     But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission.     He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later.     I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him.     He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were.     “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?”     He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?”     I told him one-thirty-five.     “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?”     “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.”     “No, I mean      real     heat.”     Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.”     “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.”     “What trip?”     “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said.     I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?”     He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then,      nobody’s     gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.”     I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself.     It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust      how     hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it.     I wanted to be along.  The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore.     Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures.     Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around.     The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations.     Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like.     Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy.     It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test.     We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges.     The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?”     “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know.     “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.”     I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?”     “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.”     “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked.     “No. Are you worried?”     “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.”     The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.”     Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course.     “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west      could     be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.”     Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.”     The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—”     It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized.     But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO  2  , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide.     The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there.     Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.     He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about.     Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest.  “And that,” said Baron, finishing his drink and signalingthe waiter for another pair, “was your first big mistake.”     Peter Claney raised his eyebrows. “McIvers?”     “Of course.”     Claney shrugged, glanced at the small quiet tables aroundthem. “There are lots of bizarre personalities around a placelike this, and some of the best wouldn’t seem to be the mostreliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren’tour big problem right then.      Equipment     worried us first and      route     next.”     Baron nodded in agreement. “What kind of suits did youhave?”     “The best insulating suits ever made,” said Claney. “Eachone had an inner lining of a fiberglass modification, to avoidthe clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unitand oxygen storage which we recharged from the sledges everyeight hours. Outer layer carried a monomolecular chrome reflectingsurface that made us glitter like Christmas trees. Andwe had a half-inch dead-air space under positive pressure betweenthe two layers. Warning thermocouples, of course—at770 degrees, it wouldn’t take much time to fry us to cindersif the suits failed somewhere.”     “How about the Bugs?”     “They were insulated, too, but we weren’t counting onthem too much for protection.”     “You weren’t!” Baron exclaimed. “Why not?”     “We’d be in and out of them too much. They gave us mobilityand storage, but we knew we’d have to do a lot offorward work on foot.” Claney smiled bitterly. “Which meantthat we had an inch of fiberglass and a half-inch of dead airbetween us and a surface temperature where lead flowed likewater and zinc was almost at melting point and the pools ofsulfur in the shadows were boiling like oatmeal over a campfire.”     Baron licked his lips. His fingers stroked the cool, wet glassas he set it down on the tablecloth.     “Go on,” he said tautly. “You started on schedule?”     “Oh, yes,” said Claney, “we started on schedule, all right.We just didn’t quite end on schedule, that was all. But I’mgetting to that.”     He settled back in his chair and continued.  We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeastwith thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If wecould cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hitCenter exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closestapproach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part ofthe planet at the hottest it ever gets.     The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizonwhen we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every daythat Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day thesurface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the jobwas only half done—we would still have to travel anothertwo thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sandersonwas to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off.     That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross thoseseventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matterwhat terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous andtime-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knewthat.     The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we strippeddown for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, givingyou a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job ofdragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course prettyclosely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore aheadon foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?”     McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jackand I were planning to change around. We figured he couldtake the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.”     The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,Jack?”     Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—”     McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “Itdoesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Doesit make any difference?”     “I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flankPeter along with me. Right?”     “Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s goingto do the advance scouting?”     “It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the leadBug light as possible.”     Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped downto the frame and wheels.”     McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the      advance     work.You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—topick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort ofa hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout upahead?”     “That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major saidsharply.     “Charts! I’m talking about      detail     work. We don’t need toworry about the major topography. It’s the little faults youcan’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the chartsdown excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and workreconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan thearea closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.Then—”     “No dice,” the Major broke in.     “But why not? We could save ourselves days!”     “I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. Whenwe get to the Center, I want live men along with me. Thatmeans we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Anyclimber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one manalone—any time, any place.”     McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally hegave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.”     “Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.Got that?”     McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me andwe nodded, too.     “All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,let’s go.”     It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’llnever forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without abreak, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that thefirst few days would be the easiest and we were rested andfresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast ofthe Twilight Lab.     I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see theMajor and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tirestaking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,Stone dragged the sledges.     Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain onthe big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanicash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow forthe first twenty miles.     I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking outthe track the early research teams had made out into the edgeof Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’slittle outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. Wewere in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning tobite.     We didn’t      feel     the heat so much those first days out. We      saw     it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-fivedegrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watchedthat glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, andsome nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We pouredsweat as if we were in a superheated furnace.     We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep periodcame due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw upa light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventydegrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from theforward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,bulk gelatin, vitamins.     The Major measured water out with an iron hand, becausewe’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologistsand psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interestingreasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that ithappened to be so.     We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Oureyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around lookingat each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer wouldtaste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothersfor one ice-cold bottle of beer.     After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings atthe wheel. We were moving down into desolation that madeEarth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filledwith a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurousgases.     It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, butthe challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No onehad ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who hadtried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossedthe hardest way possible: overland, through anything the landcould throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible.     Yet we knew that even the land might have been conqueredbefore, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold beforeand won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The onlyworse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sunitself.     Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it wouldget us. That was the bargain.     I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we movedonto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south andeast. This range had shown no activity since the first landingon Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were activecones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; theirsides were shrouded with heavy ash.     We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across theface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The cratersrose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock andrubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissingfrom the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was graydust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and graniteash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacheroussurface for the Bug’s pillow tires.     I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by thesag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell itfrom an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground toa halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together withlight copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some moreuntil we were sure the surface would carry the machines. Itwas cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,at first.     Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed tothink so, too.     McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.He talked too much, while we were resting or while we weredriving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thinwith repetition. He took to making side trips from the routenow and then, never far, but a little further each time.     Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter witheach stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, butI figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensiveenough myself; I just managed to hide it better.     And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher inthe sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glarefilters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes achedconstantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at theend of an eight-hour trek.     But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver thepenultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had drivendown a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of ourroute and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when weheard a sharp cry through our earphones.     I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat andspotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from thetop of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering downthe gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousandhorrible pictures racing through our minds....     We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorgeand, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreckof a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort thathadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut inthe rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up themiddle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away weretwo insulated suits with white bones gleaming through thefiberglass helmets.     This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on      their     Brightside Crossing.  On the fifth driving period out, the terrain began to change.It looked the same, but every now and then it      felt     different.On two occasions I felt my wheels spin, with a howl of protestfrom my engine. Then, quite suddenly, the Bug gave a lurch;I gunned my motor and nothing happened.     I could see the dull gray stuff seeping up around the hubs,thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs asthe wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment thewheels gave and, a few minutes later, they chained me to thetractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked forall the world like thick gray mud, but it was a pit of moltenlead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash.     I picked my way more cautiously then. We were getting intoan area of recent surface activity; the surface was really treacherous.I caught myself wishing that the Major had okayedMcIvers’ scheme for an advanced scout; more dangerous forthe individual, maybe, but I was driving blind now and I didn’tlike it.     One error in judgment could sink us all, but I wasn’t thinkingmuch about the others. I was worried about      me     , plentyworried. I kept thinking, better McIvers should go than me.It wasn’t healthy thinking and I knew it, but I couldn’t get thethought out of my mind.     It was a grueling eight hours and we slept poorly. Back inthe Bug again, we moved still more slowly—edging out on abroad flat plateau, dodging a network of gaping surface cracks—windingback and forth in an effort to keep the machines onsolid rock. I couldn’t see far ahead, because of the yellow hazerising from the cracks, so I was almost on top of it when I sawa sharp cut ahead where the surface dropped six feet beyonda deep crack.     I let out a shout to halt the others; then I edged my Bugforward, peering at the cleft. It was deep and wide. I movedfifty yards to the left, then back to the right.     There was only one place that looked like a possible crossing;a long, narrow ledge of gray stuff that lay down acrossa section of the fault like a ramp. Even as I watched it, I couldfeel the surface crust under the Bug trembling and saw theledge shift over a few feet.  ","The Brightside Crossing is an undiscovered portion of Mercury. It is the closest planet to the sun, and the Brightside is the surface that is face-to-face with the surface of the sun most of the time, thanks to Mercury’s quick orbit. It is an incredibly dangerous area of Mercury, with temperatures reaching up to 770 degrees Fahrenheit, possibly more. Because of the difficult atmosphere, the presence of dangerous gases, treacherous landscape, and the heat, the Brightside Crossing remained undiscovered and uninhabitable for hundreds of years. Major Tom Mikuta decided to follow in the footsteps of Wyatt and Carpenter and take on the challenge. The promise of power and discovery draws the main characters forward, as well as the idea of being the first. Mikuta claims that if he were to make the crossing, Mercury would be his. The challenge of the Brightside Crossing is the origin of their desire."
"Who is Jack Stone, and what happens to him throughout the story? </s>     Brightside     Crossing   by Alan E. Nourse    JAMES BARON was not pleased to hear that he had hada visitor when he reached the Red Lion that evening. Hehad no stomach for mysteries, vast or trifling, and therewere pressing things to think about at this time. Yet the doormanhad flagged him as he came in from the street: “A thousandpardons, Mr. Baron. The gentleman—he would leave noname. He said you’d want to see him. He will be back byeight.”     Now Baron drummed his fingers on the table top, staringabout the quiet lounge. Street trade was discouraged at theRed Lion, gently but persuasively; the patrons were few innumber. Across to the right was a group that Baron knewvaguely—Andean climbers, or at least two of them were. Overnear the door he recognized old Balmer, who had mappedthe first passage to the core of Vulcan Crater on Venus. Baronreturned his smile with a nod. Then he settled back andwaited impatiently for the intruder who demanded his timewithout justifying it.     Presently a small, grizzled man crossed the room and satdown at Baron’s table. He was short and wiry. His face heldno key to his age—he might have been thirty or a thousand—buthe looked weary and immensely ugly. His cheeks andforehead were twisted and brown, with scars that were stillhealing.     The stranger said, “I’m glad you waited. I’ve heard you’replanning to attempt the Brightside.”     Baron stared at the man for a moment. “I see you can readtelecasts,” he said coldly. “The news was correct. We are goingto make a Brightside Crossing.”     “At perihelion?”     “Of course. When else?”     The grizzled man searched Baron’s face for a momentwithout expression. Then he said slowly, “No, I’m afraid you’renot going to make the Crossing.”     “Say, who are you, if you don’t mind?” Baron demanded.     “The name is Claney,” said the stranger.     There was a silence. Then: “Claney?      Peter     Claney?”     “That’s right.”     Baron’s eyes were wide with excitement, all trace of angergone. “Great balls of fire, man—      where have you been hiding?     We’ve been trying to contact you for months!”     “I know. I was hoping you’d quit looking and chuck thewhole idea.”     “Quit looking!” Baron bent forward over the table. “Myfriend, we’d given up hope, but we’ve never quit looking.Here, have a drink. There’s so much you can tell us.” Hisfingers were trembling.     Peter Claney shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything youwant to hear.”     “But you’ve      got     to. You’re the only man on Earth who’sattempted a Brightside Crossing and lived through it! And thestory you cleared for the news—it was nothing. We need      details     . Where did your equipment fall down? Where did youmiscalculate? What were the trouble spots?” Baron jabbed afinger at Claney’s face. “That, for instance—epithelioma?Why? What was wrong with your glass? Your filters? We’vegot to know those things. If you can tell us, we can makeit across where your attempt failed—”     “You want to know why we failed?” asked Claney.     “Of course we want to know. We      have     to know.”     “It’s simple. We failed because it can’t be done. We couldn’tdo it and neither can you. No human beings will ever crossthe Brightside alive, not if they try for centuries.”     “Nonsense,” Baron declared. “We will.”     Claney shrugged. “I was there. I know what I’m saying. Youcan blame the equipment or the men—there were flaws inboth quarters—but we just didn’t know what we were fighting.It was the      planet     that whipped us, that and the      Sun     . They’llwhip you, too, if you try it.”     “Never,” said Baron.     “Let me tell you,” Peter Claney said.  I’d been interested in the Brightside for almost as long asI can remember (Claney said). I guess I was about ten whenWyatt and Carpenter made the last attempt—that was in 2082,I think. I followed the news stories like a tri-V serial and thenI was heartbroken when they just disappeared.     I know now that they were a pair of idiots, starting off withoutproper equipment, with practically no knowledge of surfaceconditions, without any charts—they couldn’t have madea hundred miles—but I didn’t know that then and it was aterrible tragedy. After that, I followed Sanderson’s work in theTwilight Lab up there and began to get Brightside into myblood, sure as death.     But it was Mikuta’s idea to attempt a Crossing. Did you everknow Tom Mikuta? I don’t suppose you did. No, not Japanese—Polish-American.He was a major in the Interplanetary Servicefor some years and hung onto the title after he gave uphis commission.     He was with Armstrong on Mars during his Service days,did a good deal of the original mapping and surveying forthe Colony there. I first met him on Venus; we spent fiveyears together up there doing some of the nastiest exploringsince the Matto Grasso. Then he made the attempt on VulcanCrater that paved the way for Balmer a few years later.     I’d always liked the Major—he was big and quiet and cool,the sort of guy who always had things figured a little furtherahead than anyone else and always knew what to do in a tightplace. Too many men in this game are all nerve and luck,with no judgment. The Major had both. He also had the kindof personality that could take a crew of wild men andmake them work like a well-oiled machine across a thousandmiles of Venus jungle. I liked him and I trusted him.     He contacted me in New York and he was very casual atfirst. We spent an evening here at the Red Lion, talking aboutold times; he told me about the Vulcan business, and how he’dbeen out to see Sanderson and the Twilight Lab on Mercury,and how he preferred a hot trek to a cold one any day of theyear—and then he wanted to know what I’d been doing sinceVenus and what my plans were.     “No particular plans,” I told him. “Why?”     He looked me over. “How much do you weigh, Peter?”     I told him one-thirty-five.     “That much!” he said. “Well, there can’t be much fat onyou, at any rate. How do you take heat?”     “You should know,” I said. “Venus was no icebox.”     “No, I mean      real     heat.”     Then I began to get it. “You’re planning a trip.”     “That’s right. A hot trip.” He grinned at me. “Might bedangerous, too.”     “What trip?”     “Brightside of Mercury,” the Major said.     I whistled cautiously. “At aphelion?”     He threw his head back. “Why try a Crossing at aphelion?What have you done then? Four thousand miles of butcherousheat, just to have some joker come along, use your data anddrum you out of the glory by crossing at perihelion forty-fourdays later? No, thanks. I want the Brightside without any nonsenseabout it.” He leaned across me eagerly. “I want to makea Crossing at perihelion and I want to cross on the surface. Ifa man can do that, he’s got Mercury. Until then,      nobody’s     gotMercury. I want Mercury—but I’ll need help getting it.”     I’d thought of it a thousand times and never dared considerit. Nobody had, since Wyatt and Carpenter disappeared. Mercuryturns on its axis in the same time that it wheels aroundthe Sun, which means that the Brightside is always facing in.That makes the Brightside of Mercury at perihelion the hottestplace in the Solar System, with one single exception: thesurface of the Sun itself.     It would be a hellish trek. Only a few men had ever learnedjust      how     hellish and they never came back to tell about it. Itwas a real hell’s Crossing, but someday, I thought, somebodywould cross it.     I wanted to be along.  The Twilight Lab, near the northern pole of Mercury, was theobvious jumping-off place. The setup there wasn’t very extensive—arocket landing, the labs and quarters for Sanderson’screw sunk deep into the crust, and the tower that housedthe Solar ’scope that Sanderson had built up there ten yearsbefore.     Twilight Lab wasn’t particularly interested in the Brightside,of course—the Sun was Sanderson’s baby and he’d pickedMercury as the closest chunk of rock to the Sun that couldhold his observatory. He’d chosen a good location, too. OnMercury, the Brightside temperature hits 770° F. at perihelionand the Darkside runs pretty constant at -410° F. No permanentinstallation with a human crew could survive at eitherextreme. But with Mercury’s wobble, the twilight zone betweenBrightside and Darkside offers something closer to survivaltemperatures.     Sanderson built the Lab up near the pole, where the zoneis about five miles wide, so the temperature only varies 50 to60 degrees with the libration. The Solar ’scope could take thatmuch change and they’d get good clear observation of the Sunfor about seventy out of the eighty-eight days it takes the planetto wheel around.     The Major was counting on Sanderson knowing somethingabout Mercury as well as the Sun when we camped at the Labto make final preparations.     Sanderson did. He thought we’d lost our minds and he saidso, but he gave us all the help he could. He spent a weekbriefing Jack Stone, the third member of our party, who hadarrived with the supplies and equipment a few days earlier.Poor Jack met us at the rocket landing almost bawling, Sandersonhad given him such a gloomy picture of what Brightsidewas like.     Stone was a youngster—hardly twenty-five, I’d say—buthe’d been with the Major at Vulcan and had begged to jointhis trek. I had a funny feeling that Jack really didn’t care forexploring too much, but he thought Mikuta was God, followedhim around like a puppy.     It didn’t matter to me as long as he knew what he was gettingin for. You don’t go asking people in this game why they do it—they’reliable to get awfully uneasy and none of them canever give you an answer that makes sense. Anyway, Stone hadborrowed three men from the Lab, and had the supplies andequipment all lined up when we got there, ready to checkand test.     We dug right in. With plenty of funds—tri-V money andsome government cash the Major had talked his way around—ourequipment was new and good. Mikuta had done the designingand testing himself, with a big assist from Sanderson.We had four Bugs, three of them the light pillow-tire models,with special lead-cooled cut-in engines when the heat set in,and one heavy-duty tractor model for pulling the sledges.     The Major went over them like a kid at the circus. Then hesaid, “Have you heard anything from McIvers?”     “Who’s he?” Stone wanted to know.     “He’ll be joining us. He’s a good man—got quite a namefor climbing, back home.” The Major turned to me. “You’veprobably heard of him.”     I’d heard plenty of stories about Ted McIvers and I wasn’ttoo happy to hear that he was joining us. “Kind of a daredevil,isn’t he?”     “Maybe. He’s lucky and skillful. Where do you draw theline? We’ll need plenty of both.”     “Have you ever worked with him?” I asked.     “No. Are you worried?”     “Not exactly. But Brightside is no place to count on luck.”     The Major laughed. “I don’t think we need to worry aboutMcIvers. We understood each other when I talked up thetrip to him and we’re going to need each other too much todo any fooling around.” He turned back to the supply list.“Meanwhile, let’s get this stuff listed and packed. We’ll needto cut weight sharply and our time is short. Sanderson sayswe should leave in three days.”     Two days later, McIvers hadn’t arrived. The Major didn’tsay much about it. Stone was getting edgy and so was I. Wespent the second day studying charts of the Brightside, such asthey were. The best available were pretty poor, taken from sofar out that the detail dissolved into blurs on blow-up. Theyshowed the biggest ranges of peaks and craters and faults, andthat was all. Still, we could use them to plan a broad outlineof our course.     “This range here,” the Major said as we crowded aroundthe board, “is largely inactive, according to Sanderson. Butthese to the south and west      could     be active. Seismographtracings suggest a lot of activity in that region, getting worsedown toward the equator—not only volcanic, but sub-surfaceshifting.”     Stone nodded. “Sanderson told me there was probably constantsurface activity.”     The Major shrugged. “Well, it’s treacherous, there’s nodoubt of it. But the only way to avoid it is to travel over thePole, which would lose us days and offer us no guarantee ofless activity to the west. Now we might avoid some if we couldfind a pass through this range and cut sharp east—”     It seemed that the more we considered the problem, thefurther we got from a solution. We knew there were activevolcanoes on the Brightside—even on the Darkside, thoughsurface activity there was pretty much slowed down andlocalized.     But there were problems of atmosphere on Brightside, aswell. There was an atmosphere and a constant atmosphericflow from Brightside to Darkside. Not much—the lighter gaseshad reached escape velocity and disappeared from Brightsidemillennia ago—but there was CO  2  , and nitrogen, and traces ofother heavier gases. There was also an abundance of sulfurvapor, as well as carbon disulfide and sulfur dioxide.     The atmospheric tide moved toward the Darkside, where itcondensed, carrying enough volcanic ash with it for Sandersonto estimate the depth and nature of the surface upheavals onBrightside from his samplings. The trick was to find a passagethat avoided those upheavals as far as possible. But in the finalanalysis, we were barely scraping the surface. The only waywe would find out what was happening where was to be there.     Finally, on the third day, McIvers blew in on a freightrocket from Venus. He’d missed the ship that the Major andI had taken by a few hours, and had conned his way to Venusin hopes of getting a hop from there. He didn’t seem too upsetabout it, as though this were his usual way of doing things andhe couldn’t see why everyone should get so excited.     He was a tall, rangy man with long, wavy hair prematurelygray, and the sort of eyes that looked like a climber’s—half-closed,sleepy, almost indolent, but capable of abrupt alertness.And he never stood still; he was always moving, always doingsomething with his hands, or talking, or pacing about.     Evidently the Major decided not to press the issue of hisarrival. There was still work to do, and an hour later we wererunning the final tests on the pressure suits. That evening,Stone and McIvers were thick as thieves, and everything wasset for an early departure after we got some rest.  “And that,” said Baron, finishing his drink and signalingthe waiter for another pair, “was your first big mistake.”     Peter Claney raised his eyebrows. “McIvers?”     “Of course.”     Claney shrugged, glanced at the small quiet tables aroundthem. “There are lots of bizarre personalities around a placelike this, and some of the best wouldn’t seem to be the mostreliable at first glance. Anyway, personality problems weren’tour big problem right then.      Equipment     worried us first and      route     next.”     Baron nodded in agreement. “What kind of suits did youhave?”     “The best insulating suits ever made,” said Claney. “Eachone had an inner lining of a fiberglass modification, to avoidthe clumsiness of asbestos, and carried the refrigerating unitand oxygen storage which we recharged from the sledges everyeight hours. Outer layer carried a monomolecular chrome reflectingsurface that made us glitter like Christmas trees. Andwe had a half-inch dead-air space under positive pressure betweenthe two layers. Warning thermocouples, of course—at770 degrees, it wouldn’t take much time to fry us to cindersif the suits failed somewhere.”     “How about the Bugs?”     “They were insulated, too, but we weren’t counting onthem too much for protection.”     “You weren’t!” Baron exclaimed. “Why not?”     “We’d be in and out of them too much. They gave us mobilityand storage, but we knew we’d have to do a lot offorward work on foot.” Claney smiled bitterly. “Which meantthat we had an inch of fiberglass and a half-inch of dead airbetween us and a surface temperature where lead flowed likewater and zinc was almost at melting point and the pools ofsulfur in the shadows were boiling like oatmeal over a campfire.”     Baron licked his lips. His fingers stroked the cool, wet glassas he set it down on the tablecloth.     “Go on,” he said tautly. “You started on schedule?”     “Oh, yes,” said Claney, “we started on schedule, all right.We just didn’t quite end on schedule, that was all. But I’mgetting to that.”     He settled back in his chair and continued.  We jumped off from Twilight on a course due southeastwith thirty days to make it to the Center of Brightside. If wecould cross an average of seventy miles a day, we could hitCenter exactly at perihelion, the point of Mercury’s closestapproach to the Sun—which made Center the hottest part ofthe planet at the hottest it ever gets.     The Sun was already huge and yellow over the horizonwhen we started, twice the size it appears on Earth. Every daythat Sun would grow bigger and whiter, and every day thesurface would get hotter. But once we reached Center, the jobwas only half done—we would still have to travel anothertwo thousand miles to the opposite twilight zone. Sandersonwas to meet us on the other side in the Laboratory’s scout ship,approximately sixty days from the time we jumped off.     That was the plan, in outline. It was up to us to cross thoseseventy miles a day, no matter how hot it became, no matterwhat terrain we had to cross. Detours would be dangerous andtime-consuming. Delays could cost us our lives. We all knewthat.     The Major briefed us on details an hour before we left.“Peter, you’ll take the lead Bug, the small one we strippeddown for you. Stone and I will flank you on either side, givingyou a hundred-yard lead. McIvers, you’ll have the job ofdragging the sledges, so we’ll have to direct your course prettyclosely. Peter’s job is to pick the passage at any given point.If there’s any doubt of safe passage, we’ll all explore aheadon foot before we risk the Bugs. Got that?”     McIvers and Stone exchanged glances. McIvers said: “Jackand I were planning to change around. We figured he couldtake the sledges. That would give me a little more mobility.”     The Major looked up sharply at Stone. “Do you buy that,Jack?”     Stone shrugged. “I don’t mind. Mac wanted—”     McIvers made an impatient gesture with his hands. “Itdoesn’t matter. I just feel better when I’m on the move. Doesit make any difference?”     “I guess it doesn’t,” said the Major. “Then you’ll flankPeter along with me. Right?”     “Sure, sure.” McIvers pulled at his lower lip. “Who’s goingto do the advance scouting?”     “It sounds like I am,” I cut in. “We want to keep the leadBug light as possible.”     Mikuta nodded. “That’s right. Peter’s Bug is stripped downto the frame and wheels.”     McIvers shook his head. “No, I mean the      advance     work.You need somebody out ahead—four or five miles, at least—topick up the big flaws and active surface changes, don’t you?”He stared at the Major. “I mean, how can we tell what sort ofa hole we may be moving into, unless we have a scout upahead?”     “That’s what we have the charts for,” the Major saidsharply.     “Charts! I’m talking about      detail     work. We don’t need toworry about the major topography. It’s the little faults youcan’t see on the pictures that can kill us.” He tossed the chartsdown excitedly. “Look, let me take a Bug out ahead and workreconnaissance, keep five, maybe ten miles ahead of the column.I can stay on good solid ground, of course, but scan thearea closely and radio back to Peter where to avoid the flaws.Then—”     “No dice,” the Major broke in.     “But why not? We could save ourselves days!”     “I don’t care what we could save. We stay together. Whenwe get to the Center, I want live men along with me. Thatmeans we stay within easy sight of each other at all times. Anyclimber knows that everybody is safer in a party than one manalone—any time, any place.”     McIvers stared at him, his cheeks an angry red. Finally hegave a sullen nod. “Okay. If you say so.”     “Well, I say so and I mean it. I don’t want any fancy stuff.We’re going to hit Center together, and finish the Crossing together.Got that?”     McIvers nodded. Mikuta then looked at Stone and me andwe nodded, too.     “All right,” he said slowly. “Now that we’ve got it straight,let’s go.”     It was hot. If I forget everything else about that trek, I’llnever forget that huge yellow Sun glaring down, without abreak, hotter and hotter with every mile. We knew that thefirst few days would be the easiest and we were rested andfresh when we started down the long ragged gorge southeast ofthe Twilight Lab.     I moved out first; back over my shoulder, I could see theMajor and McIvers crawling out behind me, their pillow tirestaking the rugged floor of the gorge smoothly. Behind them,Stone dragged the sledges.     Even at only 30 per cent Earth gravity they were a strain onthe big tractor, until the ski-blades bit into the fluffy volcanicash blanketing the valley. We even had a path to follow forthe first twenty miles.     I kept my eyes pasted to the big polaroid binocs, picking outthe track the early research teams had made out into the edgeof Brightside. But in a couple of hours we rumbled past Sanderson’slittle outpost observatory and the tracks stopped. Wewere in virgin territory and already the Sun was beginning tobite.     We didn’t      feel     the heat so much those first days out. We      saw     it. The refrig units kept our skins at a nice comfortable seventy-fivedegrees Fahrenheit inside our suits, but our eyes watchedthat glaring Sun and the baked yellow rocks going past, andsome nerve pathways got twisted up, somehow. We pouredsweat as if we were in a superheated furnace.     We drove eight hours and slept five. When a sleep periodcame due, we pulled the Bugs together into a square, threw upa light aluminum sun-shield and lay out in the dust and rocks.The sun-shield cut the temperature down sixty or seventydegrees, for whatever help that was. And then we ate from theforward sledge—sucking through tubes—protein, carbohydrates,bulk gelatin, vitamins.     The Major measured water out with an iron hand, becausewe’d have drunk ourselves into nephritis in a week otherwise.We were constantly, unceasingly thirsty. Ask the physiologistsand psychiatrists why—they can give you have a dozen interestingreasons—but all we knew, or cared about, was that ithappened to be so.     We didn’t sleep the first few stops, as a consequence. Oureyes burned in spite of the filters and we had roaring headaches,but we couldn’t sleep them off. We sat around lookingat each other. Then McIvers would say how good a beer wouldtaste, and off we’d go. We’d have murdered our grandmothersfor one ice-cold bottle of beer.     After a few driving periods, I began to get my bearings atthe wheel. We were moving down into desolation that madeEarth’s old Death Valley look like a Japanese rose garden.Huge sun-baked cracks opened up in the floor of the gorge,with black cliffs jutting up on either side; the air was filledwith a barely visible yellowish mist of sulfur and sulfurousgases.     It was a hot, barren hole, no place for any man to go, butthe challenge was so powerful you could almost feel it. No onehad ever crossed this land before and escaped. Those who hadtried it had been cruelly punished, but the land was still there,so it had to be crossed. Not the easy way. It had to be crossedthe hardest way possible: overland, through anything the landcould throw up to us, at the most difficult time possible.     Yet we knew that even the land might have been conqueredbefore, except for that Sun. We’d fought absolute cold beforeand won. We’d never fought heat like this and won. The onlyworse heat in the Solar System was the surface of the Sunitself.     Brightside was worth trying for. We would get it or it wouldget us. That was the bargain.     I learned a lot about Mercury those first few driving periods.The gorge petered out after a hundred miles and we movedonto the slope of a range of ragged craters that ran south andeast. This range had shown no activity since the first landingon Mercury forty years before, but beyond it there were activecones. Yellow fumes rose from the craters constantly; theirsides were shrouded with heavy ash.     We couldn’t detect a wind, but we knew there was a hot,sulfurous breeze sweeping in great continental tides across theface of the planet. Not enough for erosion, though. The cratersrose up out of jagged gorges, huge towering spears of rock andrubble. Below were the vast yellow flatlands, smoking and hissingfrom the gases beneath the crust. Over everything was graydust—silicates and salts, pumice and limestone and graniteash, filling crevices and declivities—offering a soft, treacheroussurface for the Bug’s pillow tires.     I learned to read the ground, to tell a covered fault by thesag of the dust; I learned to spot a passable crack, and tell itfrom an impassable cut. Time after time the Bugs ground toa halt while we explored a passage on foot, tied together withlight copper cable, digging, advancing, digging some moreuntil we were sure the surface would carry the machines. Itwas cruel work; we slept in exhaustion. But it went smoothly,at first.     Too smoothly, it seemed to me, and the others seemed tothink so, too.     McIvers’ restlessness was beginning to grate on our nerves.He talked too much, while we were resting or while we weredriving; wisecracks, witticisms, unfunny jokes that wore thinwith repetition. He took to making side trips from the routenow and then, never far, but a little further each time.     Jack Stone reacted quite the opposite; he grew quieter witheach stop, more reserved and apprehensive. I didn’t like it, butI figured that it would pass off after a while. I was apprehensiveenough myself; I just managed to hide it better.     And every mile the Sun got bigger and whiter and higher inthe sky and hotter. Without our ultra-violet screens and glarefilters we would have been blinded; as it was our eyes achedconstantly and the skin on our faces itched and tingled at theend of an eight-hour trek.     But it took one of those side trips of McIvers’ to deliver thepenultimate blow to our already fraying nerves. He had drivendown a side-branch of a long canyon running off west of ourroute and was almost out of sight in a cloud of ash when weheard a sharp cry through our earphones.     I wheeled my Bug around with my heart in my throat andspotted him through the binocs, waving frantically from thetop of his machine. The Major and I took off, lumbering downthe gulch after him as fast as the Bugs could go, with a thousandhorrible pictures racing through our minds....     We found him standing stock-still, pointing down the gorgeand, for once, he didn’t have anything to say. It was the wreckof a Bug; an old-fashioned half-track model of the sort thathadn’t been in use for years. It was wedged tight in a cut inthe rock, an axle broken, its casing split wide open up themiddle, half-buried in a rock slide. A dozen feet away weretwo insulated suits with white bones gleaming through thefiberglass helmets.     This was as far as Wyatt and Carpenter had gotten on      their     Brightside Crossing.  On the fifth driving period out, the terrain began to change.It looked the same, but every now and then it      felt     different.On two occasions I felt my wheels spin, with a howl of protestfrom my engine. Then, quite suddenly, the Bug gave a lurch;I gunned my motor and nothing happened.     I could see the dull gray stuff seeping up around the hubs,thick and tenacious, splattering around in steaming gobs asthe wheels spun. I knew what had happened the moment thewheels gave and, a few minutes later, they chained me to thetractor and dragged me back out of the mire. It looked forall the world like thick gray mud, but it was a pit of moltenlead, steaming under a soft layer of concealing ash.     I picked my way more cautiously then. We were getting intoan area of recent surface activity; the surface was really treacherous.I caught myself wishing that the Major had okayedMcIvers’ scheme for an advanced scout; more dangerous forthe individual, maybe, but I was driving blind now and I didn’tlike it.     One error in judgment could sink us all, but I wasn’t thinkingmuch about the others. I was worried about      me     , plentyworried. I kept thinking, better McIvers should go than me.It wasn’t healthy thinking and I knew it, but I couldn’t get thethought out of my mind.     It was a grueling eight hours and we slept poorly. Back inthe Bug again, we moved still more slowly—edging out on abroad flat plateau, dodging a network of gaping surface cracks—windingback and forth in an effort to keep the machines onsolid rock. I couldn’t see far ahead, because of the yellow hazerising from the cracks, so I was almost on top of it when I sawa sharp cut ahead where the surface dropped six feet beyonda deep crack.     I let out a shout to halt the others; then I edged my Bugforward, peering at the cleft. It was deep and wide. I movedfifty yards to the left, then back to the right.     There was only one place that looked like a possible crossing;a long, narrow ledge of gray stuff that lay down acrossa section of the fault like a ramp. Even as I watched it, I couldfeel the surface crust under the Bug trembling and saw theledge shift over a few feet.  ","Jack Stone arrives on the surface of Mercury around a week ahead of his partners. It’s revealed rather early on that Stone is not much of an explorer himself. His wits and genius make him an invaluable resource, but his heart wasn’t necessarily in the right place. Claney claims that Stone only came to follow Major Mikuta around, a man he deeply respected and admired. At barely 25 years old, Stone was the youngest member of the team. His experience with Mikuta at the Vulcan qualified him for the trek, or so he thought, and so he tagged along. His apprehension and anxiety about the trip are evident from the beginning. After Sanderson, the leader of an observatory on Mercury, explained how treacherous their journey was going to be, Stone almost cried. Once they begin their trek, Stone retreats further into himself. Jack’s job was to drag the sledges behind the rest of the crew. Possibly fed up by McIvers’ constant joking or tortured by the fear that he would be lost on this planet forever, Stone became a shell of himself. In the end, after McIvers discovered the corpses of the two discoverers that came before them, Wyatt and Carpenter, we can only assume that Stone’s fear and reservedness increased tremendously. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     DOUBLE TROUBLE     by CARL JACOBI     Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction     writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot     fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,     I was running in circles—especially since     Grannie became twins every now and then.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      We had left the offices of      Interstellar Voice     three days ago, Earthtime, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in thelead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place inthis desert as the trees.     Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, withonly a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form ofvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerfulwind that blew from all quarters.     As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.     This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hitit at its narrowest spot.     Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. It looks like therest of this God-forsaken moon, he said, 'ceptin for them sticks.     Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.     He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third dayon Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.  When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought shewas crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you'vemissed something. She's the author of      Lady of the Green Flames     ,      Lady of the Runaway Planet     ,      Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast     , andother works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when shelaid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only atransportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her fromvisiting her stage in person.     Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of      Interstellar Voice     on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had anothernovel in the state of embryo.     What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Granniehad met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followedher wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slatedto do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.     Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in theoffices of      Interstellar Voice     . And then I was shaking hands withAntlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.     Glad to meet you, he said cordially. I've just been trying topersuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric.     What's the Baldric? I had asked.     Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.     Will you believe me, sir, he said, when I tell you I've been outhere on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?     I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.     However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activitieshere at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'mnot up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the redplanet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrationsper second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reachesmiddle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their soundingapparatus, and the rush was on.     What do you mean?     Park leaned back. The rush to find more of the ore, he explained.But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.     There are two companies here, he continued,       Interstellar Voice     and      Larynx Incorporated     . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.However, the point is, between the properties of these two companiesstretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.     There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole treesand a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one hascrossed the Baldric without trouble.     What sort of trouble? Grannie Annie had demanded. And when AntlersPark stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, Fiddlesticks, I neversaw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour.  So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelerson foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment andsupplies.     I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. Andthen abruptly I saw something else.     A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet itdidn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature.     Look what I found, I yelled.     What I found, said the cockatoo in a very human voice.     Thunder, it talks, I said amazed.     Talks, repeated the bird, blinking its eyes.     The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its shortlegs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and wassketching a likeness of the creature.     Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silvercockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiterbegan to descend toward the horizon.     And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of ahigh ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we hadjust crossed.     Billy-boy, she said to me in a strange voice, look down there andtell me what you see.     I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me fromhead to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced aparty of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a blackdress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,another Earth man, and a Martian.       Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves!       A mirage! said Ezra Karn.     But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see thattheir lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened inawe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of GrannieAnnie, and she was replying in the most natural way.     Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared.     What do you make of it? I said in a hushed voice.     Grannie shook her head. Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinducedby some chemical radiations, she replied. Whatever it is, we'd betterwatch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead.     We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw norepetition of the mirage. The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, andthe sand seemed to grow more and more powdery.     For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposedto be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across theheavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it.     It's a kite, she nodded. There should be a car attached to itsomewhere.     She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later aswe topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slantingwindscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire whichslanted up into the sky to connect with the kite.     A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes laterGrannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions.     This is Jimmy Baker, she said. He manages      Larynx Incorporated     , andhe's the real reason we're here.     I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sandgoggles could not conceal.     I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie, he said. Ifanybody can help me, you can.     Grannie's eyes glittered. Trouble with the mine laborers? shequestioned.  Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as weheaded back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on anelectric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently theseadjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for thecar's ability to move in any direction.     If I weren't a realist, I'd say that      Larynx Incorporated     has beenbewitched, he began slowly. We pay our men high wages and give themexcellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health andspirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them.     Red Spot Fever? Grannie looked at him curiously.     Jimmy Baker nodded. The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousnesson the part of the patient. Then they disappear.     He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.     They walk out into the Baldric, he continued, and nothing can stopthem. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon asthey realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyesare turned, they give us the slip.     But surely you must have some idea of where they go, Grannie said.     Baker lit a cigarette. There's all kinds of rumors, he replied, butnone of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrieahead of us.     I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended betweena rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation oftranslucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos wereperched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, butthey didn't move.     After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of      Larynx Incorporated     . As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face wasdrawn.     Mr. Baker, he said breathlessly, seventy-five workers at Shaft Fourhave headed out into the Baldric.     Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.     Shaft Four, eh? he repeated. That's our principal mine. If the feverspreads there, I'm licked.     He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. SilentXartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got hisnotebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remainedstanding.     Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself tothe bottle of Martian whiskey there.     There must be ways of stopping this, she said. Have you called inany physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send themen away until the plague has died down?     Baker shook his head. Three doctors from Callisto were here lastmonth. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company ischartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failureto produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose allrights.     A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. Aman's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said Okay andthrew off the switch.     The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric, he saidslowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.     Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where thatcorridor is at its widest, she said.     Baker looked up. That's right. We only began operations there acomparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix thatruns deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of      Interstellar Voice     , our rival, in a year.     Grannie nodded. I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run upthere, she said. But first I want to see your laboratory.     There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lowerlevel where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the lengthof the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and begandropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or fourWellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a smalldynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wireand other items.     The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and theMartian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began toroll down the ramp.  Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense theloneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense offoreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, anold woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anythinghappened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself andneither would her millions of readers.     Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.     Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet.     A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a longcorridor which ended at a staircase.     Let's look around, I said.     We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the secondfloor. Here were the general offices of      Larynx Incorporated     , andthrough glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines andreport tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore wasbeing packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end adoor to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back ina swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.     C'mon in, he said, seeing us. If you want a look at your friends,here they are.     He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent aslow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, thencoalesced into a three-dimensional scene.     It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from therear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standingdirectly behind them.     It's Mr. Baker's own invention, the operator said. An improvement onthe visiphone.     Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and itspassengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?     Sure. The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voiceentered the room. It stopped abruptly. The machine uses a lot ofpower, the operator said, and as yet we haven't got much.     The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappearedsomewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myselfposted of Grannie's movements.     Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. Whenwe returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face ofAntlers Park flashed on the screen.     Hello, he said in his friendly way. I see you arrived all right. IsMiss Flowers there?     Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four, I said. There'strouble up there. Red spot fever.     Fever, eh? repeated Park. That's a shame. Is there anything I cando?     Tell me, I said, has your company had any trouble with this plague?     A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to theother side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemistsgave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think ofit, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have anytrouble, I shouldn't either.     We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactlyan hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.     Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on theirconversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular arrayof flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.     There's an eyrie over there, Jimmy Baker was saying. We might aswell camp beside it.  Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across thetop of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got outof the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He wasdrawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there inthe visiscreen room, I watched him.     There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would makea few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to getthe proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotationlikenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Parktook form.     Ezra spoke over my shoulder. He's doing scenes for Grannie's newbook, he said. The old lady figures on using the events here for aplot.      Look at that damned nosy bird!          A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveyingcuriously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the birdscanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of theeyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its birdcompanions.     And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. Agroup of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking andmoving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world.     With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I sawthe image of Jimmy Baker.     The      real     Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at thisincredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. I've got it! she said.Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.They're Xartal's drawings!  Don't you see, the lady continued. Everything that Xartal put onpaper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoosare like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the powerof copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mentalimage of what they have seen. In other words their brains form apowerful photographic impression of the object. That impression isthen transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to commonfoci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brainvibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the lightfield to form what are apparently three-dimensional images.     The Larynx manager nodded slowly. I see, he said. But why don't thebirds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?     Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details andmade a greater impression on their brains, Grannie replied.     Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicateof Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and theimage of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.     Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.     Sorry, the operator said. I've used too much power already. Have togive the generators a chance to build it up again.     Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.     That explains something at any rate, the old prospector said. Buthow about that Red spot fever?     On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I openedit and found it contained the case histories of those men who had beenattacked by the strange malady.     Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient hadreceived the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but whilesleeping or lounging in the barracks.     Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp thatled to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a lowrectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.     Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In thosebunks some thirty men lay sleeping.     The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stoodthere, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walktoward that window.     Look here, he said.     Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dullmetal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The centralpart of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and asI seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.     All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-redrays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens toconcentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockworkserved a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lensslowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.     I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:     Turn it on!     The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, norwas Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at thecontrols was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.  Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd begetting sick of this blamed moon.     It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the cluesand facts to a logical conclusion.     Ezra, I said, we're going to drive out and meet them. There'ssomething screwy here.     Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clipthrough the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we sawanother car approaching.     It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in herprim way next to Antlers Park. Park said:     We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me tomy offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin.     He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it spedacross the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me.     Ezra! I yelled, swinging the car. That wasn't Grannie!      That was oneof those damned cockatoo images.     We've got to catch him.     The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw usfollowing. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead.     I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affairwith a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehiclewas drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with eachvariance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in.     The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glintedin his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round holeappeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head.     Heat gun! Ezra yelled.     Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out betweenthe flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. GrannieAnnie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives ofhundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a holeshattered our windscreen.     The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss ofspeed, I raced alongside.     The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he coulduse it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt andsent it coiling across the intervening space.     The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the onlything he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to ahalt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon freefrom his grasp.     What have you done with Miss Flowers? I demanded.     The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on thetrigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest.     Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees.  I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now thecountry began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to groupthemselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, asif to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetratethat wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths.     Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert beganagain. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard asgranite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distanceblack bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm ordoorway between.     I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off powerwith an exclamation of astonishment.     There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it wasGrannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing.     Grannie! I yelled. What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?     She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock.     Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers, she said, a twinkle in her eyes.I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot oftrouble. She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you.     She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deepgorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressingclose. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement.     Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line ofLarynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving downthe center of the gorge toward the entrance.     But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreenhad been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-likecontrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft ofbluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forthupon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian.     Ultra violet, Grannie Annie explained. The opposite end of thevibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red raysthat cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they'vereached Shaft Four.     Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners alwaysahead of us.     Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which ifworked successfully would see      Larynx Incorporated     become a far morepowerful exporting concern than      Interstellar Voice     . Antlers Parkdidn't want that.     It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynxbarracks.      For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot wasresponsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman onthis Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness.       Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park stroveto head her off before she reached Shaft Four.     He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal intothe Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from thelens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.     Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in JimmyBaker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie.  I listened to all this in silence. But, I said when she had finished,how did Park manage to have that image created and why did the minelaborers walk out into the Baldric when they contracted the fever?     Grannie Annie frowned. I'm not sure I can answer the first of thosequestions, she replied. You must remember Antlers Park has been onthis moon five years and during that time he must have acquaintedhimself with many of its secrets. Probably he learned long ago justwhat to do to make a cockatoo create a mental image.     As for the men going out into the Baldric, that was more of Park'sdiabolical work. In the walls of the barracks besides those lensbuttons were also miniature electro-hypnotic plates, with the mastercontrolling unit located in that valley. Park knew that when the minerswere in a drugged condition from the effects of the fever they wouldbe susceptible to the machine's lure.... And now, Billy-boy, are youcoming with me?     Coming with you? I repeated. Where?     The old lady lit a cigarette. Pluto maybe, she said. There's a penalcolony there, you know, and that ought to tie in nicely with a newcrime story. I can see it now ... prison break, stolen rocket ship,fugitives lurking in the interplanetary lanes....     Grannie, I laughed. You're incorrigible!   ","The mining for a precious ore called Acoustix has spurred colonization of Jupiter’s eighth moon by two mining companies called Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated. There is a barren desert landscape between the mining areas of the two companies that is called the Baldric. The only plant appears to be trees that have melon-shaped tops, and the only animal is a silver parrot-like bird that is capable of imitating human speech, and also of imitating human forms in a holographic-like manner.Grannie Annie (AKA Annabella C. Flowers) is a famous science fiction writer, who is travelling to the Baldric with her martian employee, Xartal, who takes detailed drawings that are the background research for her next novel. She is travelling in a party of four: herself, Xartal, Ezra Karn (old prospector), and the narrator (called Billy-boy by Grannie).Strange happenings are known to occur in the Baldric. They encounter a silver bird that repeats English words and creates what seems like a mirage of themselves projected in the distance which disappears as it comes closer. They do not know at the time, but the parrot has created this mirage based on viewing one of the lifelike drawings that Xartal is making of the group.They happen to run into Jimmy Baker, the manager of the Larynx Incorporated mining company, who is interested in Grannie’s help sorting out the root cause of his workers coming down with “red spot fever” which causes them to leave their work and walk into the Baldric, never to return. They travel to Larynx Incorporated’s offices with Jimmy, where he learns all of the workers from Shaft Four have left their posts due to the fever. Coincidentally, that is also their most productive ore location. Jimmy, Grannie, and Xartal take off to Shaft Four via the Baldric to investigate what is going on. During their travel, they break for camp near a flock of the birds and discover their ability to imitate human forms.Antlers Karn, the manager of Interstellar Voice, turns out to be a bad guy who ambushes Grannie’s camp. He is trying to sabotage Jimmy’s company by causing the red spot fever to stop them from capitalizing on a huge deposit of Acoustix they discovered in Shaft Four. He steals Jimmy’s car and kidnaps a mirage-version of Grannie. Billy and Ezra chase them down and discover Antlers has stranded their friends in a valley thirty miles away. Grannie has independently solved the mystery of the Red Spot Fever and sending her mirage with Antlers was part of her master plan. When Billy and Ezra return to her, Jimmy is projecting ultra-violet light onto a large group of the Shaft Four workers in a deep valley gorge. This counteracts the infra-red radiation that put them into a trance-like state that caused them to wander into the desert.Grannie, Jimmy, Xartal, Billy, and Ezra are triumphantly returning the workers to Shaft Four at the close of the story."
"What settings does the story take place in? </s>     DOUBLE TROUBLE     by CARL JACOBI     Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction     writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot     fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,     I was running in circles—especially since     Grannie became twins every now and then.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      We had left the offices of      Interstellar Voice     three days ago, Earthtime, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in thelead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place inthis desert as the trees.     Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, withonly a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form ofvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerfulwind that blew from all quarters.     As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.     This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hitit at its narrowest spot.     Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. It looks like therest of this God-forsaken moon, he said, 'ceptin for them sticks.     Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.     He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third dayon Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.  When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought shewas crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you'vemissed something. She's the author of      Lady of the Green Flames     ,      Lady of the Runaway Planet     ,      Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast     , andother works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when shelaid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only atransportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her fromvisiting her stage in person.     Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of      Interstellar Voice     on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had anothernovel in the state of embryo.     What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Granniehad met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followedher wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slatedto do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.     Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in theoffices of      Interstellar Voice     . And then I was shaking hands withAntlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.     Glad to meet you, he said cordially. I've just been trying topersuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric.     What's the Baldric? I had asked.     Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.     Will you believe me, sir, he said, when I tell you I've been outhere on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?     I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.     However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activitieshere at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'mnot up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the redplanet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrationsper second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reachesmiddle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their soundingapparatus, and the rush was on.     What do you mean?     Park leaned back. The rush to find more of the ore, he explained.But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.     There are two companies here, he continued,       Interstellar Voice     and      Larynx Incorporated     . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.However, the point is, between the properties of these two companiesstretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.     There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole treesand a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one hascrossed the Baldric without trouble.     What sort of trouble? Grannie Annie had demanded. And when AntlersPark stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, Fiddlesticks, I neversaw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour.  So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelerson foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment andsupplies.     I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. Andthen abruptly I saw something else.     A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet itdidn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature.     Look what I found, I yelled.     What I found, said the cockatoo in a very human voice.     Thunder, it talks, I said amazed.     Talks, repeated the bird, blinking its eyes.     The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its shortlegs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and wassketching a likeness of the creature.     Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silvercockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiterbegan to descend toward the horizon.     And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of ahigh ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we hadjust crossed.     Billy-boy, she said to me in a strange voice, look down there andtell me what you see.     I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me fromhead to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced aparty of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a blackdress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,another Earth man, and a Martian.       Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves!       A mirage! said Ezra Karn.     But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see thattheir lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened inawe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of GrannieAnnie, and she was replying in the most natural way.     Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared.     What do you make of it? I said in a hushed voice.     Grannie shook her head. Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinducedby some chemical radiations, she replied. Whatever it is, we'd betterwatch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead.     We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw norepetition of the mirage. The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, andthe sand seemed to grow more and more powdery.     For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposedto be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across theheavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it.     It's a kite, she nodded. There should be a car attached to itsomewhere.     She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later aswe topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slantingwindscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire whichslanted up into the sky to connect with the kite.     A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes laterGrannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions.     This is Jimmy Baker, she said. He manages      Larynx Incorporated     , andhe's the real reason we're here.     I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sandgoggles could not conceal.     I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie, he said. Ifanybody can help me, you can.     Grannie's eyes glittered. Trouble with the mine laborers? shequestioned.  Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as weheaded back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on anelectric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently theseadjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for thecar's ability to move in any direction.     If I weren't a realist, I'd say that      Larynx Incorporated     has beenbewitched, he began slowly. We pay our men high wages and give themexcellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health andspirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them.     Red Spot Fever? Grannie looked at him curiously.     Jimmy Baker nodded. The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousnesson the part of the patient. Then they disappear.     He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.     They walk out into the Baldric, he continued, and nothing can stopthem. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon asthey realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyesare turned, they give us the slip.     But surely you must have some idea of where they go, Grannie said.     Baker lit a cigarette. There's all kinds of rumors, he replied, butnone of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrieahead of us.     I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended betweena rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation oftranslucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos wereperched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, butthey didn't move.     After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of      Larynx Incorporated     . As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face wasdrawn.     Mr. Baker, he said breathlessly, seventy-five workers at Shaft Fourhave headed out into the Baldric.     Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.     Shaft Four, eh? he repeated. That's our principal mine. If the feverspreads there, I'm licked.     He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. SilentXartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got hisnotebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remainedstanding.     Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself tothe bottle of Martian whiskey there.     There must be ways of stopping this, she said. Have you called inany physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send themen away until the plague has died down?     Baker shook his head. Three doctors from Callisto were here lastmonth. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company ischartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failureto produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose allrights.     A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. Aman's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said Okay andthrew off the switch.     The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric, he saidslowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.     Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where thatcorridor is at its widest, she said.     Baker looked up. That's right. We only began operations there acomparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix thatruns deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of      Interstellar Voice     , our rival, in a year.     Grannie nodded. I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run upthere, she said. But first I want to see your laboratory.     There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lowerlevel where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the lengthof the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and begandropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or fourWellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a smalldynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wireand other items.     The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and theMartian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began toroll down the ramp.  Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense theloneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense offoreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, anold woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anythinghappened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself andneither would her millions of readers.     Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.     Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet.     A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a longcorridor which ended at a staircase.     Let's look around, I said.     We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the secondfloor. Here were the general offices of      Larynx Incorporated     , andthrough glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines andreport tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore wasbeing packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end adoor to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back ina swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.     C'mon in, he said, seeing us. If you want a look at your friends,here they are.     He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent aslow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, thencoalesced into a three-dimensional scene.     It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from therear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standingdirectly behind them.     It's Mr. Baker's own invention, the operator said. An improvement onthe visiphone.     Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and itspassengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?     Sure. The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voiceentered the room. It stopped abruptly. The machine uses a lot ofpower, the operator said, and as yet we haven't got much.     The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappearedsomewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myselfposted of Grannie's movements.     Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. Whenwe returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face ofAntlers Park flashed on the screen.     Hello, he said in his friendly way. I see you arrived all right. IsMiss Flowers there?     Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four, I said. There'strouble up there. Red spot fever.     Fever, eh? repeated Park. That's a shame. Is there anything I cando?     Tell me, I said, has your company had any trouble with this plague?     A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to theother side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemistsgave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think ofit, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have anytrouble, I shouldn't either.     We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactlyan hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.     Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on theirconversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular arrayof flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.     There's an eyrie over there, Jimmy Baker was saying. We might aswell camp beside it.  Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across thetop of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got outof the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He wasdrawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there inthe visiscreen room, I watched him.     There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would makea few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to getthe proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotationlikenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Parktook form.     Ezra spoke over my shoulder. He's doing scenes for Grannie's newbook, he said. The old lady figures on using the events here for aplot.      Look at that damned nosy bird!          A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveyingcuriously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the birdscanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of theeyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its birdcompanions.     And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. Agroup of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking andmoving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world.     With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I sawthe image of Jimmy Baker.     The      real     Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at thisincredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. I've got it! she said.Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.They're Xartal's drawings!  Don't you see, the lady continued. Everything that Xartal put onpaper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoosare like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the powerof copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mentalimage of what they have seen. In other words their brains form apowerful photographic impression of the object. That impression isthen transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to commonfoci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brainvibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the lightfield to form what are apparently three-dimensional images.     The Larynx manager nodded slowly. I see, he said. But why don't thebirds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?     Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details andmade a greater impression on their brains, Grannie replied.     Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicateof Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and theimage of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.     Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.     Sorry, the operator said. I've used too much power already. Have togive the generators a chance to build it up again.     Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.     That explains something at any rate, the old prospector said. Buthow about that Red spot fever?     On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I openedit and found it contained the case histories of those men who had beenattacked by the strange malady.     Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient hadreceived the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but whilesleeping or lounging in the barracks.     Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp thatled to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a lowrectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.     Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In thosebunks some thirty men lay sleeping.     The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stoodthere, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walktoward that window.     Look here, he said.     Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dullmetal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The centralpart of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and asI seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.     All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-redrays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens toconcentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockworkserved a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lensslowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.     I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:     Turn it on!     The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, norwas Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at thecontrols was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.  Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd begetting sick of this blamed moon.     It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the cluesand facts to a logical conclusion.     Ezra, I said, we're going to drive out and meet them. There'ssomething screwy here.     Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clipthrough the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we sawanother car approaching.     It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in herprim way next to Antlers Park. Park said:     We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me tomy offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin.     He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it spedacross the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me.     Ezra! I yelled, swinging the car. That wasn't Grannie!      That was oneof those damned cockatoo images.     We've got to catch him.     The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw usfollowing. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead.     I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affairwith a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehiclewas drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with eachvariance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in.     The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glintedin his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round holeappeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head.     Heat gun! Ezra yelled.     Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out betweenthe flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. GrannieAnnie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives ofhundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a holeshattered our windscreen.     The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss ofspeed, I raced alongside.     The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he coulduse it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt andsent it coiling across the intervening space.     The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the onlything he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to ahalt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon freefrom his grasp.     What have you done with Miss Flowers? I demanded.     The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on thetrigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest.     Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees.  I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now thecountry began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to groupthemselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, asif to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetratethat wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths.     Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert beganagain. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard asgranite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distanceblack bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm ordoorway between.     I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off powerwith an exclamation of astonishment.     There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it wasGrannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing.     Grannie! I yelled. What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?     She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock.     Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers, she said, a twinkle in her eyes.I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot oftrouble. She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you.     She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deepgorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressingclose. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement.     Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line ofLarynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving downthe center of the gorge toward the entrance.     But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreenhad been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-likecontrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft ofbluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forthupon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian.     Ultra violet, Grannie Annie explained. The opposite end of thevibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red raysthat cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they'vereached Shaft Four.     Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners alwaysahead of us.     Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which ifworked successfully would see      Larynx Incorporated     become a far morepowerful exporting concern than      Interstellar Voice     . Antlers Parkdidn't want that.     It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynxbarracks.      For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot wasresponsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman onthis Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness.       Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park stroveto head her off before she reached Shaft Four.     He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal intothe Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from thelens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.     Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in JimmyBaker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie.  I listened to all this in silence. But, I said when she had finished,how did Park manage to have that image created and why did the minelaborers walk out into the Baldric when they contracted the fever?     Grannie Annie frowned. I'm not sure I can answer the first of thosequestions, she replied. You must remember Antlers Park has been onthis moon five years and during that time he must have acquaintedhimself with many of its secrets. Probably he learned long ago justwhat to do to make a cockatoo create a mental image.     As for the men going out into the Baldric, that was more of Park'sdiabolical work. In the walls of the barracks besides those lensbuttons were also miniature electro-hypnotic plates, with the mastercontrolling unit located in that valley. Park knew that when the minerswere in a drugged condition from the effects of the fever they wouldbe susceptible to the machine's lure.... And now, Billy-boy, are youcoming with me?     Coming with you? I repeated. Where?     The old lady lit a cigarette. Pluto maybe, she said. There's a penalcolony there, you know, and that ought to tie in nicely with a newcrime story. I can see it now ... prison break, stolen rocket ship,fugitives lurking in the interplanetary lanes....     Grannie, I laughed. You're incorrigible!   ","In the buildings of Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated, two Acoustix ore mining companies on Jupiter’s eighth moon.The Baldric - the largely deserted space between the mining grounds of Interstellar Voice and Larynx Incorporated. It is a desert-like place with trees that are trunks with melon-shaped tops, and silver birds that can repeat English phrases as well as mimic human forms that appear like mirages. There is also a deep valley gorge within the desert and many eyries which seem similar to oases.There are several scenes aboard kite-propelled cars in the Baldric, as well as visiphone-like video feed of Jimmy’s car that is viewed from the offices of Larynx Incorporated.Shaft Four is one of the locations that Larynx Incorporated mines in on the border of the Baldric, which is talked about often, but is never actually visited by the main characters during the story."
"What was the relationship like between Jimmy and Grannie? </s>     DOUBLE TROUBLE     by CARL JACOBI     Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction     writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot     fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,     I was running in circles—especially since     Grannie became twins every now and then.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      We had left the offices of      Interstellar Voice     three days ago, Earthtime, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in thelead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place inthis desert as the trees.     Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, withonly a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form ofvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerfulwind that blew from all quarters.     As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.     This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hitit at its narrowest spot.     Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. It looks like therest of this God-forsaken moon, he said, 'ceptin for them sticks.     Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.     He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third dayon Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.  When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought shewas crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you'vemissed something. She's the author of      Lady of the Green Flames     ,      Lady of the Runaway Planet     ,      Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast     , andother works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when shelaid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only atransportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her fromvisiting her stage in person.     Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of      Interstellar Voice     on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had anothernovel in the state of embryo.     What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Granniehad met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followedher wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slatedto do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.     Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in theoffices of      Interstellar Voice     . And then I was shaking hands withAntlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.     Glad to meet you, he said cordially. I've just been trying topersuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric.     What's the Baldric? I had asked.     Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.     Will you believe me, sir, he said, when I tell you I've been outhere on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?     I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.     However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activitieshere at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'mnot up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the redplanet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrationsper second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reachesmiddle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their soundingapparatus, and the rush was on.     What do you mean?     Park leaned back. The rush to find more of the ore, he explained.But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.     There are two companies here, he continued,       Interstellar Voice     and      Larynx Incorporated     . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.However, the point is, between the properties of these two companiesstretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.     There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole treesand a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one hascrossed the Baldric without trouble.     What sort of trouble? Grannie Annie had demanded. And when AntlersPark stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, Fiddlesticks, I neversaw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour.  So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelerson foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment andsupplies.     I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. Andthen abruptly I saw something else.     A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet itdidn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature.     Look what I found, I yelled.     What I found, said the cockatoo in a very human voice.     Thunder, it talks, I said amazed.     Talks, repeated the bird, blinking its eyes.     The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its shortlegs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and wassketching a likeness of the creature.     Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silvercockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiterbegan to descend toward the horizon.     And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of ahigh ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we hadjust crossed.     Billy-boy, she said to me in a strange voice, look down there andtell me what you see.     I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me fromhead to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced aparty of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a blackdress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,another Earth man, and a Martian.       Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves!       A mirage! said Ezra Karn.     But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see thattheir lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened inawe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of GrannieAnnie, and she was replying in the most natural way.     Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared.     What do you make of it? I said in a hushed voice.     Grannie shook her head. Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinducedby some chemical radiations, she replied. Whatever it is, we'd betterwatch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead.     We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw norepetition of the mirage. The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, andthe sand seemed to grow more and more powdery.     For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposedto be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across theheavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it.     It's a kite, she nodded. There should be a car attached to itsomewhere.     She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later aswe topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slantingwindscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire whichslanted up into the sky to connect with the kite.     A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes laterGrannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions.     This is Jimmy Baker, she said. He manages      Larynx Incorporated     , andhe's the real reason we're here.     I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sandgoggles could not conceal.     I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie, he said. Ifanybody can help me, you can.     Grannie's eyes glittered. Trouble with the mine laborers? shequestioned.  Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as weheaded back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on anelectric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently theseadjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for thecar's ability to move in any direction.     If I weren't a realist, I'd say that      Larynx Incorporated     has beenbewitched, he began slowly. We pay our men high wages and give themexcellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health andspirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them.     Red Spot Fever? Grannie looked at him curiously.     Jimmy Baker nodded. The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousnesson the part of the patient. Then they disappear.     He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.     They walk out into the Baldric, he continued, and nothing can stopthem. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon asthey realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyesare turned, they give us the slip.     But surely you must have some idea of where they go, Grannie said.     Baker lit a cigarette. There's all kinds of rumors, he replied, butnone of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrieahead of us.     I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended betweena rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation oftranslucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos wereperched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, butthey didn't move.     After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of      Larynx Incorporated     . As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face wasdrawn.     Mr. Baker, he said breathlessly, seventy-five workers at Shaft Fourhave headed out into the Baldric.     Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.     Shaft Four, eh? he repeated. That's our principal mine. If the feverspreads there, I'm licked.     He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. SilentXartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got hisnotebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remainedstanding.     Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself tothe bottle of Martian whiskey there.     There must be ways of stopping this, she said. Have you called inany physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send themen away until the plague has died down?     Baker shook his head. Three doctors from Callisto were here lastmonth. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company ischartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failureto produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose allrights.     A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. Aman's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said Okay andthrew off the switch.     The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric, he saidslowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.     Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where thatcorridor is at its widest, she said.     Baker looked up. That's right. We only began operations there acomparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix thatruns deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of      Interstellar Voice     , our rival, in a year.     Grannie nodded. I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run upthere, she said. But first I want to see your laboratory.     There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lowerlevel where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the lengthof the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and begandropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or fourWellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a smalldynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wireand other items.     The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and theMartian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began toroll down the ramp.  Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense theloneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense offoreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, anold woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anythinghappened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself andneither would her millions of readers.     Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.     Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet.     A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a longcorridor which ended at a staircase.     Let's look around, I said.     We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the secondfloor. Here were the general offices of      Larynx Incorporated     , andthrough glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines andreport tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore wasbeing packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end adoor to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back ina swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.     C'mon in, he said, seeing us. If you want a look at your friends,here they are.     He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent aslow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, thencoalesced into a three-dimensional scene.     It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from therear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standingdirectly behind them.     It's Mr. Baker's own invention, the operator said. An improvement onthe visiphone.     Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and itspassengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?     Sure. The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voiceentered the room. It stopped abruptly. The machine uses a lot ofpower, the operator said, and as yet we haven't got much.     The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappearedsomewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myselfposted of Grannie's movements.     Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. Whenwe returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face ofAntlers Park flashed on the screen.     Hello, he said in his friendly way. I see you arrived all right. IsMiss Flowers there?     Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four, I said. There'strouble up there. Red spot fever.     Fever, eh? repeated Park. That's a shame. Is there anything I cando?     Tell me, I said, has your company had any trouble with this plague?     A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to theother side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemistsgave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think ofit, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have anytrouble, I shouldn't either.     We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactlyan hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.     Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on theirconversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular arrayof flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.     There's an eyrie over there, Jimmy Baker was saying. We might aswell camp beside it.  Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across thetop of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got outof the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He wasdrawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there inthe visiscreen room, I watched him.     There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would makea few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to getthe proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotationlikenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Parktook form.     Ezra spoke over my shoulder. He's doing scenes for Grannie's newbook, he said. The old lady figures on using the events here for aplot.      Look at that damned nosy bird!          A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveyingcuriously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the birdscanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of theeyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its birdcompanions.     And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. Agroup of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking andmoving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world.     With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I sawthe image of Jimmy Baker.     The      real     Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at thisincredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. I've got it! she said.Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.They're Xartal's drawings!  Don't you see, the lady continued. Everything that Xartal put onpaper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoosare like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the powerof copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mentalimage of what they have seen. In other words their brains form apowerful photographic impression of the object. That impression isthen transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to commonfoci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brainvibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the lightfield to form what are apparently three-dimensional images.     The Larynx manager nodded slowly. I see, he said. But why don't thebirds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?     Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details andmade a greater impression on their brains, Grannie replied.     Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicateof Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and theimage of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.     Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.     Sorry, the operator said. I've used too much power already. Have togive the generators a chance to build it up again.     Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.     That explains something at any rate, the old prospector said. Buthow about that Red spot fever?     On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I openedit and found it contained the case histories of those men who had beenattacked by the strange malady.     Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient hadreceived the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but whilesleeping or lounging in the barracks.     Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp thatled to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a lowrectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.     Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In thosebunks some thirty men lay sleeping.     The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stoodthere, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walktoward that window.     Look here, he said.     Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dullmetal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The centralpart of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and asI seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.     All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-redrays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens toconcentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockworkserved a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lensslowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.     I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:     Turn it on!     The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, norwas Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at thecontrols was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.  Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd begetting sick of this blamed moon.     It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the cluesand facts to a logical conclusion.     Ezra, I said, we're going to drive out and meet them. There'ssomething screwy here.     Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clipthrough the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we sawanother car approaching.     It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in herprim way next to Antlers Park. Park said:     We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me tomy offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin.     He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it spedacross the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me.     Ezra! I yelled, swinging the car. That wasn't Grannie!      That was oneof those damned cockatoo images.     We've got to catch him.     The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw usfollowing. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead.     I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affairwith a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehiclewas drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with eachvariance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in.     The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glintedin his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round holeappeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head.     Heat gun! Ezra yelled.     Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out betweenthe flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. GrannieAnnie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives ofhundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a holeshattered our windscreen.     The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss ofspeed, I raced alongside.     The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he coulduse it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt andsent it coiling across the intervening space.     The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the onlything he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to ahalt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon freefrom his grasp.     What have you done with Miss Flowers? I demanded.     The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on thetrigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest.     Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees.  I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now thecountry began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to groupthemselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, asif to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetratethat wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths.     Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert beganagain. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard asgranite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distanceblack bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm ordoorway between.     I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off powerwith an exclamation of astonishment.     There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it wasGrannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing.     Grannie! I yelled. What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?     She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock.     Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers, she said, a twinkle in her eyes.I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot oftrouble. She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you.     She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deepgorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressingclose. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement.     Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line ofLarynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving downthe center of the gorge toward the entrance.     But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreenhad been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-likecontrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft ofbluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forthupon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian.     Ultra violet, Grannie Annie explained. The opposite end of thevibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red raysthat cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they'vereached Shaft Four.     Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners alwaysahead of us.     Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which ifworked successfully would see      Larynx Incorporated     become a far morepowerful exporting concern than      Interstellar Voice     . Antlers Parkdidn't want that.     It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynxbarracks.      For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot wasresponsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman onthis Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness.       Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park stroveto head her off before she reached Shaft Four.     He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal intothe Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from thelens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.     Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in JimmyBaker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie.  I listened to all this in silence. But, I said when she had finished,how did Park manage to have that image created and why did the minelaborers walk out into the Baldric when they contracted the fever?     Grannie Annie frowned. I'm not sure I can answer the first of thosequestions, she replied. You must remember Antlers Park has been onthis moon five years and during that time he must have acquaintedhimself with many of its secrets. Probably he learned long ago justwhat to do to make a cockatoo create a mental image.     As for the men going out into the Baldric, that was more of Park'sdiabolical work. In the walls of the barracks besides those lensbuttons were also miniature electro-hypnotic plates, with the mastercontrolling unit located in that valley. Park knew that when the minerswere in a drugged condition from the effects of the fever they wouldbe susceptible to the machine's lure.... And now, Billy-boy, are youcoming with me?     Coming with you? I repeated. Where?     The old lady lit a cigarette. Pluto maybe, she said. There's a penalcolony there, you know, and that ought to tie in nicely with a newcrime story. I can see it now ... prison break, stolen rocket ship,fugitives lurking in the interplanetary lanes....     Grannie, I laughed. You're incorrigible!   ","Jimmy Baker is the manager of the Acoustix ore mining company called Larynx Incorporated on Jupiter’s eighth moon. Grannie Annie (AKA Annabella C. Flowers) is a famous science fiction writer, well known for her authentic background research for her novels. She is exploring the eighth moon of Jupiter for her newest novel.Jimmy has knowledge of Grannie’s work and is hoping she can help him solve the mystery of the Red Spot Fever with her excellent problem solving skills. Grannie does not appear to know Jimmy before their meeting in the Baldric. They have a cordial and collaborative relationship through the story that results in solving the mystery."
"What is the importance of Acoustix in the story? </s>     DOUBLE TROUBLE     by CARL JACOBI     Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction     writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot     fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,     I was running in circles—especially since     Grannie became twins every now and then.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      We had left the offices of      Interstellar Voice     three days ago, Earthtime, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in thelead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place inthis desert as the trees.     Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, withonly a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form ofvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerfulwind that blew from all quarters.     As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.     This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hitit at its narrowest spot.     Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. It looks like therest of this God-forsaken moon, he said, 'ceptin for them sticks.     Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.     He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third dayon Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.  When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought shewas crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you'vemissed something. She's the author of      Lady of the Green Flames     ,      Lady of the Runaway Planet     ,      Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast     , andother works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when shelaid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only atransportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her fromvisiting her stage in person.     Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of      Interstellar Voice     on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had anothernovel in the state of embryo.     What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Granniehad met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followedher wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slatedto do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.     Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in theoffices of      Interstellar Voice     . And then I was shaking hands withAntlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.     Glad to meet you, he said cordially. I've just been trying topersuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric.     What's the Baldric? I had asked.     Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.     Will you believe me, sir, he said, when I tell you I've been outhere on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?     I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.     However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activitieshere at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'mnot up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the redplanet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrationsper second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reachesmiddle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their soundingapparatus, and the rush was on.     What do you mean?     Park leaned back. The rush to find more of the ore, he explained.But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.     There are two companies here, he continued,       Interstellar Voice     and      Larynx Incorporated     . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.However, the point is, between the properties of these two companiesstretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.     There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole treesand a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one hascrossed the Baldric without trouble.     What sort of trouble? Grannie Annie had demanded. And when AntlersPark stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, Fiddlesticks, I neversaw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour.  So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelerson foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment andsupplies.     I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. Andthen abruptly I saw something else.     A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet itdidn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature.     Look what I found, I yelled.     What I found, said the cockatoo in a very human voice.     Thunder, it talks, I said amazed.     Talks, repeated the bird, blinking its eyes.     The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its shortlegs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and wassketching a likeness of the creature.     Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silvercockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiterbegan to descend toward the horizon.     And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of ahigh ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we hadjust crossed.     Billy-boy, she said to me in a strange voice, look down there andtell me what you see.     I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me fromhead to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced aparty of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a blackdress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,another Earth man, and a Martian.       Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves!       A mirage! said Ezra Karn.     But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see thattheir lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened inawe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of GrannieAnnie, and she was replying in the most natural way.     Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared.     What do you make of it? I said in a hushed voice.     Grannie shook her head. Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinducedby some chemical radiations, she replied. Whatever it is, we'd betterwatch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead.     We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw norepetition of the mirage. The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, andthe sand seemed to grow more and more powdery.     For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposedto be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across theheavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it.     It's a kite, she nodded. There should be a car attached to itsomewhere.     She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later aswe topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slantingwindscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire whichslanted up into the sky to connect with the kite.     A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes laterGrannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions.     This is Jimmy Baker, she said. He manages      Larynx Incorporated     , andhe's the real reason we're here.     I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sandgoggles could not conceal.     I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie, he said. Ifanybody can help me, you can.     Grannie's eyes glittered. Trouble with the mine laborers? shequestioned.  Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as weheaded back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on anelectric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently theseadjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for thecar's ability to move in any direction.     If I weren't a realist, I'd say that      Larynx Incorporated     has beenbewitched, he began slowly. We pay our men high wages and give themexcellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health andspirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them.     Red Spot Fever? Grannie looked at him curiously.     Jimmy Baker nodded. The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousnesson the part of the patient. Then they disappear.     He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.     They walk out into the Baldric, he continued, and nothing can stopthem. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon asthey realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyesare turned, they give us the slip.     But surely you must have some idea of where they go, Grannie said.     Baker lit a cigarette. There's all kinds of rumors, he replied, butnone of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrieahead of us.     I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended betweena rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation oftranslucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos wereperched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, butthey didn't move.     After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of      Larynx Incorporated     . As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face wasdrawn.     Mr. Baker, he said breathlessly, seventy-five workers at Shaft Fourhave headed out into the Baldric.     Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.     Shaft Four, eh? he repeated. That's our principal mine. If the feverspreads there, I'm licked.     He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. SilentXartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got hisnotebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remainedstanding.     Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself tothe bottle of Martian whiskey there.     There must be ways of stopping this, she said. Have you called inany physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send themen away until the plague has died down?     Baker shook his head. Three doctors from Callisto were here lastmonth. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company ischartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failureto produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose allrights.     A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. Aman's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said Okay andthrew off the switch.     The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric, he saidslowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.     Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where thatcorridor is at its widest, she said.     Baker looked up. That's right. We only began operations there acomparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix thatruns deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of      Interstellar Voice     , our rival, in a year.     Grannie nodded. I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run upthere, she said. But first I want to see your laboratory.     There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lowerlevel where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the lengthof the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and begandropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or fourWellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a smalldynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wireand other items.     The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and theMartian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began toroll down the ramp.  Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense theloneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense offoreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, anold woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anythinghappened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself andneither would her millions of readers.     Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.     Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet.     A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a longcorridor which ended at a staircase.     Let's look around, I said.     We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the secondfloor. Here were the general offices of      Larynx Incorporated     , andthrough glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines andreport tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore wasbeing packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end adoor to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back ina swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.     C'mon in, he said, seeing us. If you want a look at your friends,here they are.     He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent aslow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, thencoalesced into a three-dimensional scene.     It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from therear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standingdirectly behind them.     It's Mr. Baker's own invention, the operator said. An improvement onthe visiphone.     Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and itspassengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?     Sure. The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voiceentered the room. It stopped abruptly. The machine uses a lot ofpower, the operator said, and as yet we haven't got much.     The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappearedsomewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myselfposted of Grannie's movements.     Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. Whenwe returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face ofAntlers Park flashed on the screen.     Hello, he said in his friendly way. I see you arrived all right. IsMiss Flowers there?     Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four, I said. There'strouble up there. Red spot fever.     Fever, eh? repeated Park. That's a shame. Is there anything I cando?     Tell me, I said, has your company had any trouble with this plague?     A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to theother side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemistsgave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think ofit, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have anytrouble, I shouldn't either.     We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactlyan hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.     Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on theirconversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular arrayof flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.     There's an eyrie over there, Jimmy Baker was saying. We might aswell camp beside it.  Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across thetop of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got outof the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He wasdrawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there inthe visiscreen room, I watched him.     There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would makea few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to getthe proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotationlikenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Parktook form.     Ezra spoke over my shoulder. He's doing scenes for Grannie's newbook, he said. The old lady figures on using the events here for aplot.      Look at that damned nosy bird!          A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveyingcuriously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the birdscanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of theeyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its birdcompanions.     And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. Agroup of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking andmoving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world.     With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I sawthe image of Jimmy Baker.     The      real     Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at thisincredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. I've got it! she said.Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.They're Xartal's drawings!  Don't you see, the lady continued. Everything that Xartal put onpaper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoosare like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the powerof copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mentalimage of what they have seen. In other words their brains form apowerful photographic impression of the object. That impression isthen transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to commonfoci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brainvibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the lightfield to form what are apparently three-dimensional images.     The Larynx manager nodded slowly. I see, he said. But why don't thebirds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?     Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details andmade a greater impression on their brains, Grannie replied.     Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicateof Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and theimage of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.     Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.     Sorry, the operator said. I've used too much power already. Have togive the generators a chance to build it up again.     Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.     That explains something at any rate, the old prospector said. Buthow about that Red spot fever?     On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I openedit and found it contained the case histories of those men who had beenattacked by the strange malady.     Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient hadreceived the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but whilesleeping or lounging in the barracks.     Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp thatled to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a lowrectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.     Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In thosebunks some thirty men lay sleeping.     The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stoodthere, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walktoward that window.     Look here, he said.     Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dullmetal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The centralpart of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and asI seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.     All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-redrays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens toconcentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockworkserved a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lensslowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.     I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:     Turn it on!     The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, norwas Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at thecontrols was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.  Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd begetting sick of this blamed moon.     It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the cluesand facts to a logical conclusion.     Ezra, I said, we're going to drive out and meet them. There'ssomething screwy here.     Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clipthrough the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we sawanother car approaching.     It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in herprim way next to Antlers Park. Park said:     We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me tomy offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin.     He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it spedacross the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me.     Ezra! I yelled, swinging the car. That wasn't Grannie!      That was oneof those damned cockatoo images.     We've got to catch him.     The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw usfollowing. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead.     I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affairwith a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehiclewas drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with eachvariance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in.     The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glintedin his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round holeappeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head.     Heat gun! Ezra yelled.     Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out betweenthe flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. GrannieAnnie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives ofhundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a holeshattered our windscreen.     The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss ofspeed, I raced alongside.     The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he coulduse it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt andsent it coiling across the intervening space.     The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the onlything he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to ahalt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon freefrom his grasp.     What have you done with Miss Flowers? I demanded.     The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on thetrigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest.     Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees.  I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now thecountry began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to groupthemselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, asif to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetratethat wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths.     Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert beganagain. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard asgranite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distanceblack bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm ordoorway between.     I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off powerwith an exclamation of astonishment.     There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it wasGrannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing.     Grannie! I yelled. What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?     She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock.     Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers, she said, a twinkle in her eyes.I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot oftrouble. She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you.     She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deepgorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressingclose. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement.     Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line ofLarynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving downthe center of the gorge toward the entrance.     But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreenhad been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-likecontrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft ofbluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forthupon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian.     Ultra violet, Grannie Annie explained. The opposite end of thevibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red raysthat cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they'vereached Shaft Four.     Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners alwaysahead of us.     Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which ifworked successfully would see      Larynx Incorporated     become a far morepowerful exporting concern than      Interstellar Voice     . Antlers Parkdidn't want that.     It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynxbarracks.      For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot wasresponsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman onthis Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness.       Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park stroveto head her off before she reached Shaft Four.     He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal intothe Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from thelens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.     Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in JimmyBaker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie.  I listened to all this in silence. But, I said when she had finished,how did Park manage to have that image created and why did the minelaborers walk out into the Baldric when they contracted the fever?     Grannie Annie frowned. I'm not sure I can answer the first of thosequestions, she replied. You must remember Antlers Park has been onthis moon five years and during that time he must have acquaintedhimself with many of its secrets. Probably he learned long ago justwhat to do to make a cockatoo create a mental image.     As for the men going out into the Baldric, that was more of Park'sdiabolical work. In the walls of the barracks besides those lensbuttons were also miniature electro-hypnotic plates, with the mastercontrolling unit located in that valley. Park knew that when the minerswere in a drugged condition from the effects of the fever they wouldbe susceptible to the machine's lure.... And now, Billy-boy, are youcoming with me?     Coming with you? I repeated. Where?     The old lady lit a cigarette. Pluto maybe, she said. There's a penalcolony there, you know, and that ought to tie in nicely with a newcrime story. I can see it now ... prison break, stolen rocket ship,fugitives lurking in the interplanetary lanes....     Grannie, I laughed. You're incorrigible!   ","It is a precious, lightweight ore found on at least one of Jupiter’s moons (eighth moon) that is highly valuable on Mars, but of no value on Earth. Martians are able to speak out loud as Earthlings do by supersonically amplifying their thoughts. As Martians grow beyond middle age, they are no longer able to do this amplification without the assistance of the Acoustix ore. Thus, it is highly valuable to them.The ore is the only reason for colonization of Jupiter’s moons, and there are two main companies that mine it - Interstellar Voice, Larynx Incorporated. It becomes a source of greed, which causes the manager of Interstellar Voice (Antlers Karn) to attempt sabotage against the other company, serving as the main climax of the story."
"What is Red Spot Fever? </s>     DOUBLE TROUBLE     by CARL JACOBI     Grannie Annie, that waspish science-fiction     writer, was in a jam again. What with red-spot     fever, talking cockatoos and flagpole trees,     I was running in circles—especially since     Grannie became twins every now and then.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      We had left the offices of      Interstellar Voice     three days ago, Earthtime, and now as the immense disc of Jupiter flamed across the sky,entered the outer limits of the Baldric. Grannie Annie strode in thelead, her absurd long-skirted black dress looking as out of place inthis desert as the trees.     Flagpole trees. They rose straight up like enormous cat-tails, withonly a melon-shaped protuberance at the top to show they were a form ofvegetation. Everything else was blanketed by the sand and the powerfulwind that blew from all quarters.     As we reached the first of those trees, Grannie came to a halt.     This is the Baldric all right. If my calculations are right, we've hitit at its narrowest spot.     Ezra Karn took a greasy pipe from his lips and spat. It looks like therest of this God-forsaken moon, he said, 'ceptin for them sticks.     Xartal, the Martian illustrator, said nothing. He was like that,taciturn, speaking only when spoken to.     He could be excused this time, however, for this was only our third dayon Jupiter's Eighth Moon, and the country was still strange to us.  When Annabella C. Flowers, that renowned writer of science fiction,visiphoned me at Crater City, Mars, to meet her here, I had thought shewas crazy. But Miss Flowers, known to her friends as Grannie Annie,had always been mildly crazy. If you haven't read her books, you'vemissed something. She's the author of      Lady of the Green Flames     ,      Lady of the Runaway Planet     ,      Lady of the Crimson Space-Beast     , andother works of science fiction. Blood-and-thunder as these books are,however, they have one redeeming feature—authenticity of background.Grannie Annie was the original research digger-upper, and when shelaid the setting of a yarn on a star of the sixth magnitude, only atransportation-velocity of less than light could prevent her fromvisiting her stage in person.     Therefore when she asked me to meet her at the landing field of      Interstellar Voice     on Jupiter's Eighth Moon, I knew she had anothernovel in the state of embryo.     What I didn't expect was Ezra Karn. He was an old prospector Granniehad met, and he had become so attached to the authoress he now followedher wherever she went. As for Xartal, he was a Martian and was slatedto do the illustrations for Grannie's new book.     Five minutes after my ship had blasted down, the four of us met in theoffices of      Interstellar Voice     . And then I was shaking hands withAntlers Park, the manager of I. V. himself.     Glad to meet you, he said cordially. I've just been trying topersuade Miss Flowers not to attempt a trip into the Baldric.     What's the Baldric? I had asked.     Antlers Park flicked the ash from his cheroot and shrugged.     Will you believe me, sir, he said, when I tell you I've been outhere on this forsaken moon five years and don't rightly know myself?     I scowled at that; it didn't make sense.     However, as you perhaps know, the only reason for colonial activitieshere at all is because of the presence of an ore known as Acoustix.It's no use to the people of Earth but of untold value on Mars. I'mnot up on the scientific reasons, but it seems that life on the redplanet has developed with a supersonic method of vocal communication.The Martian speaks as the Earthman does, but he amplifies his thoughts'transmission by way of wave lengths as high as three million vibrationsper second. The trouble is that by the time the average Martian reachesmiddle age, his ability to produce those vibrations steadily decreases.Then it was found that this ore, Acoustix, revitalized their soundingapparatus, and the rush was on.     What do you mean?     Park leaned back. The rush to find more of the ore, he explained.But up until now this moon is the only place where it can be found.     There are two companies here, he continued,       Interstellar Voice     and      Larynx Incorporated     . Chap by the name of Jimmy Baker runs that.However, the point is, between the properties of these two companiesstretches a band or belt which has become known as the Baldric.     There are two principal forms of life in the Baldric; flagpole treesand a species of ornithoid resembling cockatoos. So far no one hascrossed the Baldric without trouble.     What sort of trouble? Grannie Annie had demanded. And when AntlersPark stuttered evasively, the old lady snorted, Fiddlesticks, I neversaw trouble yet that couldn't be explained. We leave in an hour.  So now here we were at the outer reaches of the Baldric, four travelerson foot with only the barest necessities in the way of equipment andsupplies.     I walked forward to get a closer view of one of the flagpole trees. Andthen abruptly I saw something else.     A queer-looking bird squatted there in the sand, looking up at me.Silver in plumage, it resembled a parrot with a crest; and yet itdidn't. In some strange way the thing was a hideous caricature.     Look what I found, I yelled.     What I found, said the cockatoo in a very human voice.     Thunder, it talks, I said amazed.     Talks, repeated the bird, blinking its eyes.     The cockatoo repeated my last statement again, then rose on its shortlegs, flapped its wings once and soared off into the sky. Xartal,the Martian illustrator, already had a notebook in his hands and wassketching a likeness of the creature.     Ten minutes later we were on the move again. We saw more silvercockatoos and more flagpole trees. Above us, the great disc of Jupiterbegan to descend toward the horizon.     And then all at once Grannie stopped again, this time at the top of ahigh ridge. She shielded her eyes and stared off into the plain we hadjust crossed.     Billy-boy, she said to me in a strange voice, look down there andtell me what you see.     I followed the direction of her hand and a shock went through me fromhead to foot. Down there, slowly toiling across the sand, advanced aparty of four persons. In the lead was a little old lady in a blackdress. Behind her strode a grizzled Earth man in a flop-brimmed hat,another Earth man, and a Martian.       Detail for detail they were a duplicate of ourselves!       A mirage! said Ezra Karn.     But it wasn't a mirage. As the party came closer, we could see thattheir lips were moving, and their voices became audible. I listened inawe. The duplicate of myself was talking to the duplicate of GrannieAnnie, and she was replying in the most natural way.     Steadily the four travelers approached. Then, when a dozen yards away,they suddenly faded like a negative exposed to light and disappeared.     What do you make of it? I said in a hushed voice.     Grannie shook her head. Might be a form of mass hypnosis superinducedby some chemical radiations, she replied. Whatever it is, we'd betterwatch our step. There's no telling what might lie ahead.     We walked after that with taut nerves and watchful eyes, but we saw norepetition of the mirage. The wind continued to blow ceaselessly, andthe sand seemed to grow more and more powdery.     For some time I had fixed my gaze on a dot in the sky which I supposedto be a high-flying cockatoo. As that dot continued to move across theheavens in a single direction, I called Grannie's attention to it.     It's a kite, she nodded. There should be a car attached to itsomewhere.     She offered no further explanation, but a quarter of an hour later aswe topped another rise a curious elliptical car with a long slantingwindscreen came into view. Attached to its hood was a taut wire whichslanted up into the sky to connect with the kite.     A man was driving and when he saw us, he waved. Five minutes laterGrannie was shaking his hand vigorously and mumbling introductions.     This is Jimmy Baker, she said. He manages      Larynx Incorporated     , andhe's the real reason we're here.     I decided I liked Baker the moment I saw him. In his middle thirties,he was tall and lean, with pleasant blue eyes which even his sandgoggles could not conceal.     I can't tell you how glad I am you're here, Grannie, he said. Ifanybody can help me, you can.     Grannie's eyes glittered. Trouble with the mine laborers? shequestioned.  Jimmy Baker nodded. He told his story over the roar of the wind as weheaded back across the desert. Occasionally he touched a stud on anelectric windlass to which the kite wire was attached. Apparently theseadjustments moved planes or fins on the kite and accounted for thecar's ability to move in any direction.     If I weren't a realist, I'd say that      Larynx Incorporated     has beenbewitched, he began slowly. We pay our men high wages and give themexcellent living conditions with a vacation on Callisto every year.Up until a short time ago most of them were in excellent health andspirits. Then the Red Spot Fever got them.     Red Spot Fever? Grannie looked at him curiously.     Jimmy Baker nodded. The first symptoms are a tendency to garrulousnesson the part of the patient. Then they disappear.     He paused to make an adjustment of the windlass.     They walk out into the Baldric, he continued, and nothing can stopthem. We tried following them, of course, but it was no go. As soon asthey realize they're being followed, they stop. But the moment our eyesare turned, they give us the slip.     But surely you must have some idea of where they go, Grannie said.     Baker lit a cigarette. There's all kinds of rumors, he replied, butnone of them will hold water. By the way, there's a cockatoo eyrieahead of us.     I followed his gaze and saw a curious structure suspended betweena rude circle of flagpole trees. A strange web-like formation oftranslucent gauzy material, it was. Fully two hundred cockatoos wereperched upon it. They watched us with their mild eyes as we passed, butthey didn't move.     After that we were rolling up the driveway that led to the offices of      Larynx Incorporated     . As Jimmy Baker led the way up the inclined ramp,a door in the central building opened, and a man emerged. His face wasdrawn.     Mr. Baker, he said breathlessly, seventy-five workers at Shaft Fourhave headed out into the Baldric.     Baker dropped his cigarette and ground his heel on it savagely.     Shaft Four, eh? he repeated. That's our principal mine. If the feverspreads there, I'm licked.     He motioned us into his office and strode across to a desk. SilentXartal, the Martian illustrator, took a chair in a corner and got hisnotebook out, sketching the room's interior. Grannie Annie remainedstanding.     Presently the old lady walked across to the desk and helped herself tothe bottle of Martian whiskey there.     There must be ways of stopping this, she said. Have you called inany physicians? Why don't you call an enforced vacation and send themen away until the plague has died down?     Baker shook his head. Three doctors from Callisto were here lastmonth. They were as much at loss as I am. As for sending the men away,I may have to do that, but when I do, it means quits. Our company ischartered with Spacolonial, and you know what that means. Failureto produce during a period of thirty days or more, and you lose allrights.     A visiphone bell sounded, and Baker walked across to the instrument. Aman's face formed in the vision plate. Baker listened, said Okay andthrew off the switch.     The entire crew of Shaft Four have gone out into the Baldric, he saidslowly. There was a large map hanging on the wall back of Baker's desk.Grannie Annie walked across to it and began to study its markings.     Shaft Four is at the outer edge of the Baldric at a point where thatcorridor is at its widest, she said.     Baker looked up. That's right. We only began operations there acomparatively short time ago. Struck a rich vein of Acoustix thatruns deep in. If that vein holds out, we'll double the output of      Interstellar Voice     , our rival, in a year.     Grannie nodded. I think you and I and Xartal had better take a run upthere, she said. But first I want to see your laboratory.     There was no refusing her. Jimmy Baker led the way down to a lowerlevel where a huge laboratory and experimental shop ran the lengthof the building. Grannie seized a light weight carry-case and begandropping articles into it. A pontocated glass lens, three or fourWellington radite bulbs, each with a spectroscopic filament, a smalldynamo that would operate on a kite windlass, and a quantity of wireand other items.     The kite car was brought out again, and the old woman, Baker and theMartian took their places in it. Then Jimmy waved, and the car began toroll down the ramp.  Not until they had vanished in the desert haze did I sense theloneliness of this outpost. With that loneliness came a sudden sense offoreboding. Had I been a fool to let Grannie go? I thought of her, anold woman who should be in a rocking chair, knitting socks. If anythinghappened to Annabella C. Flowers, I would never forgive myself andneither would her millions of readers.     Ezra Karn and I went back into the office. The old prospector chuckled.     Dang human dynamo. Got more energy than a runaway comet.     A connecting door on the far side of the office opened onto a longcorridor which ended at a staircase.     Let's look around, I said.     We passed down the corridor and climbed the staircase to the secondfloor. Here were the general offices of      Larynx Incorporated     , andthrough glass doors I could see clerks busy with counting machines andreport tapes. In another chamber the extremely light Acoustix ore wasbeing packed into big cases and marked for shipment. At the far end adoor to a small room stood open. Inside a young man was tilted back ina swivel chair before a complicated instrument panel.     C'mon in, he said, seeing us. If you want a look at your friends,here they are.     He flicked a stud, and the entire wall above the panel underwent aslow change of colors. Those colors whirled kaleidescopically, thencoalesced into a three-dimensional scene.     It was a scene of a rapidly unfolding desert country as seen from therear of a kite car. Directly behind the windscreen, backs turned to me,were Jimmy Baker, Grannie, and Xartal. It was as if I were standingdirectly behind them.     It's Mr. Baker's own invention, the operator said. An improvement onthe visiphone.     Do you mean to say you can follow the movements of that car and itspassengers wherever it goes? Can you hear them talk too?     Sure. The operator turned another dial, and Grannie's falsetto voiceentered the room. It stopped abruptly. The machine uses a lot ofpower, the operator said, and as yet we haven't got much.     The cloud of anxiety which had wrapped itself about me disappearedsomewhat as I viewed this device. At least I could now keep myselfposted of Grannie's movements.     Karn and I went down to the commissary where we ate our supper. Whenwe returned to Jimmy Baker's office, the visiphone bell was ringing.I went over to it and turned it on, and to my surprise the face ofAntlers Park flashed on the screen.     Hello, he said in his friendly way. I see you arrived all right. IsMiss Flowers there?     Miss Flowers left with Mr. Baker for Shaft Four, I said. There'strouble up there. Red spot fever.     Fever, eh? repeated Park. That's a shame. Is there anything I cando?     Tell me, I said, has your company had any trouble with this plague?     A little. But up until yesterday the fever's been confined to theother side of the Baldric. We had one partial case, but my chemistsgave the chap an antitoxin that seems to have worked. Come to think ofit, I might drive over to Shaft Four and give Jimmy Baker the formula.I haven't been out in the Baldric for years, but if you didn't have anytrouble, I shouldn't either.     We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then he rang off. In exactlyan hour I went upstairs to the visiscreen room.     Then once more I was directly behind my friends, listening in on theirconversation. The view through the windscreen showed an irregular arrayof flagpole trees, with the sky dotted by high-flying cockatoos.     There's an eyrie over there, Jimmy Baker was saying. We might aswell camp beside it.  Moments later a rude circle of flagpole trees loomed ahead. Across thetop of them was stretched a translucent web. Jimmy and Grannie got outof the car and began making camp. Xartal remained in his seat. He wasdrawing pictures on large pieces of pasteboard, and as I stood there inthe visiscreen room, I watched him.     There was no doubt about it, the Martian was clever. He would makea few rapid lines on one of the pasteboards, rub it a little to getthe proper shading and then go on to the next. In swift rotationlikenesses of Ezra Karn, of myself, of Jimmy Baker, and of Antlers Parktook form.     Ezra spoke over my shoulder. He's doing scenes for Grannie's newbook, he said. The old lady figures on using the events here for aplot.      Look at that damned nosy bird!          A silver cockatoo had alighted on the kite car and was surveyingcuriously Xartal's work. As each drawing was completed, the birdscanned it with rapt attention. Abruptly it flew to the top of theeyrie, where it seemed to be having a consultation with its birdcompanions.     And then abruptly it happened. The cockatoos took off in mass flight. Agroup of Earth people suddenly materialized on the eyrie, talking andmoving about as if it were the most natural thing in the world.     With a shock I saw the likeness of myself; I saw Ezra Karn; and I sawthe image of Jimmy Baker.     The      real     Jimmy Baker stood next to Grannie, staring up at thisincredible mirage. Grannie let out a whoop. I've got it! she said.Those things we see up there are nothing more than mental images.They're Xartal's drawings!  Don't you see, the lady continued. Everything that Xartal put onpaper has been seen by one or more of these cockatoos. The cockatoosare like Earth parrots all right, but not only have they the powerof copying speech, they also have the ability to recreate a mentalimage of what they have seen. In other words their brains form apowerful photographic impression of the object. That impression isthen transmitted simultaneously in telepathic wavelengths to commonfoci. That eyrie might be likened to a cinema screen, receiving brainvibrations from a hundred different sources that blend into the lightfield to form what are apparently three-dimensional images.     The Larynx manager nodded slowly. I see, he said. But why don't thebirds reconstruct images from the actual person. Why use drawings?     Probably because the drawings are exaggerated in certain details andmade a greater impression on their brains, Grannie replied.     Up on the eyrie a strange performance was taking place. The duplicateof Grannie Annie was bowing to the duplicate of Jimmy Baker, and theimage of Ezra Karn was playing leap frog with the image of Antlers Park.     Then abruptly the screen before me blurred and went blank.     Sorry, the operator said. I've used too much power already. Have togive the generators a chance to build it up again.     Nodding, I turned and motioned to Karn. We went back downstairs.     That explains something at any rate, the old prospector said. Buthow about that Red spot fever?     On Jimmy Baker's desk was a large file marked: FEVER VICTIMS. I openedit and found it contained the case histories of those men who had beenattacked by the strange malady.     Reading them over, I was struck by one detail. Each patient hadreceived the first symptoms, not while working in the mines, but whilesleeping or lounging in the barracks.     Five minutes later Karn and I were striding down a white ramp thatled to the nearest barracks. The building came into sight, a lowrectangular structure, dome-roofed to withstand the violent winds.     Inside double tiers of bunks stretched along either wall. In thosebunks some thirty men lay sleeping.     The far wall was taken up by a huge window of denvo-quartz. As I stoodthere, something suddenly caught Ezra Karn's eye. He began to walktoward that window.     Look here, he said.     Six feet up on that window a small almost imperceptible button of dullmetal had been wedged into an aperture cut in the quartz. The centralpart of the button appeared to be a powerful lens of some kind, and asI seized it and pulled it loose, I felt the hum of tiny clock work.     All at once I had it! Red spot fever. Heat fever from the infra-redrays of Jupiter's great spot. Someone had constructed this lens toconcentrate and amplify the power of those rays. The internal clockworkserved a double purpose. It opened a shutter, and it rotated the lensslowly so that it played for a time on each of the sleeping men.     I slid the metal button in my pocket and left the barracks at a run.Back in the visiscreen room, I snapped to the operator:     Turn it on!     The kite car swam into view in the screen above the instrument panel.I stared with open eyes. Jimmy Baker no longer was in the car, norwas Xartal, the Martian. Grannie Annie was there, but seated at thecontrols was Antlers Park, the manager of Interstellar Voice.  Ezra Karn jabbed my elbow. Grannie's coming back. I thought she'd begetting sick of this blamed moon.     It didn't make sense. In all the years I'd known Annabella C. Flowers,never yet had I seen her desert a case until she had woven the cluesand facts to a logical conclusion.     Ezra, I said, we're going to drive out and meet them. There'ssomething screwy here.     Ten minutes later in another kite car we were driving at a fast clipthrough the powdery sands of the Baldric. And before long we sawanother car approaching.     It was Grannie. As the car drew up alongside I saw her sitting in herprim way next to Antlers Park. Park said:     We left the others at the mine. Miss Flowers is going back with me tomy offices to help me improve the formula for that new antitoxin.     He waved his hand, and the car moved off. I watched it as it spedacross the desert, and a growing suspicion began to form in my mind.Then, like a knife thrust, the truth struck me.     Ezra! I yelled, swinging the car. That wasn't Grannie!      That was oneof those damned cockatoo images.     We've got to catch him.     The other car was some distance ahead now. Park looked back and saw usfollowing. He did something to the kite wire, and his car leaped ahead.     I threw the speed indicator hard over. Our kite was a huge box affairwith a steady powerful pull to the connecting wire. Park's vehiclewas drawn by a flat triangular kite that dove and fluttered with eachvariance of the wind. Steadily we began to close in.     The manager of Interstellar Voice turned again, and something glintedin his hand. There was a flash of purple flame, and a round holeappeared in our windscreen inches above Karn's head.     Heat gun! Ezra yelled.     Now we were rocketing over the sand dunes, winding in and out betweenthe flagpole trees. I had to catch that car I told myself. GrannieAnnie's very life might be at stake, not to mention the lives ofhundreds of mine workers. Again Park took aim and again a holeshattered our windscreen.     The wind shifted and blew from another quarter. The box kite soared,but the triangular kite faltered. Taking advantage of Park's loss ofspeed, I raced alongside.     The I. V. manager lifted his weapon frantically. But before he coulduse it a third time, Ezra Karn had whipped a lariat from his belt andsent it coiling across the intervening space.     The thong yanked tight about the manager's throat. Park did the onlything he could do. He shut off power, and the two cars coasted to ahalt. Then I was across in the other seat, wrenching the weapon freefrom his grasp.     What have you done with Miss Flowers? I demanded.     The manager's eyes glittered with fear as he saw my finger tense on thetrigger. Weakly he lifted an arm and pointed to the northwest.     Val-ley. Thir-ty miles. Entrance hidden by wall of ... flagpole trees.  I leaped into the driver's seat and gave the kite its head. And now thecountry began to undergo a subtle change. The trees seemed to groupthemselves in a long flanking corridor in a northwesterly direction, asif to hide some secret that lay beyond. Twice I attempted to penetratethat wall, only to find my way blocked by those curious growths.     Then a corridor opened before me; a mile forward and the desert beganagain. But it was a new desert this time: the sand packed hard asgranite, the way ahead utterly devoid of vegetation. In the distanceblack bulging hills extended to right and left, with a narrow chasm ordoorway between.     I headed for that entrance, and when I reached it, I shut off powerwith an exclamation of astonishment.     There was a huge chair-shaped rock there, and seated upon it wasGrannie Annie. She had a tablet in her hands, and she was writing.     Grannie! I yelled. What're you doing here? Where's Mr. Baker?     She rose to her feet and clambered down the rock.     Getting back Jimmy's mine laborers, she said, a twinkle in her eyes.I see you've got Antlers Park. I'm glad of that. It saves me a lot oftrouble. She took off her spectacles and wiped them on her sleeve.Don't look so fuddled, Billy-boy. Come along, and I'll show you.     She led the way through the narrow passage into the valley. A deepgorge, it was, with the black sheer cliffs on either side pressingclose. Ten feet forward, I stopped short, staring in amazement.     Advancing toward me like a column of infantry came a long line ofLarynx miners. They walked slowly, looking straight ahead, moving downthe center of the gorge toward the entrance.     But there was more! A kite car was drawn up to the side. The windscreenhad been removed, and mounted on the hood was a large bullet-likecontrivance that looked not unlike a search lamp. A blinding shaft ofbluish radiance spewed from its open end. Playing it back and forthupon the marching men were Jimmy Baker and Xartal, the Martian.     Ultra violet, Grannie Annie explained. The opposite end of thevibratory scale and the only thing that will combat the infra-red raysthat cause red spot fever. Those men won't stop walking until they'vereached Shaft Four.     Grannie Annie told her story during the long ride back to Shaft Four.We drove slowly, keeping the line of marching Larynx miners alwaysahead of us.     Jimmy Baker had struck a new big lode of Acoustix, a lode which ifworked successfully would see      Larynx Incorporated     become a far morepowerful exporting concern than      Interstellar Voice     . Antlers Parkdidn't want that.     It was he or his agents who placed those lens buttons in the Larynxbarracks.      For he knew that just as Jupiter's great spot wasresponsible for a climate and atmosphere suitable for an Earthman onthis Eighth Moon, so also was that spot a deadly power in itself,capable when its rays were concentrated of causing a fatal sickness.       Then suddenly becoming fearful of Grannie's prying, Antlers Park stroveto head her off before she reached Shaft Four.     He did head her off and managed to lure her and Baker and Xartal intothe Shaft barracks where they would be exposed to the rays from thelens button. But Grannie only pretended to contract the plague.     Park then attempted to outwit Ezra Karn and me by returning in JimmyBaker's kite car with a cockatoo image of Grannie.  I listened to all this in silence. But, I said when she had finished,how did Park manage to have that image created and why did the minelaborers walk out into the Baldric when they contracted the fever?     Grannie Annie frowned. I'm not sure I can answer the first of thosequestions, she replied. You must remember Antlers Park has been onthis moon five years and during that time he must have acquaintedhimself with many of its secrets. Probably he learned long ago justwhat to do to make a cockatoo create a mental image.     As for the men going out into the Baldric, that was more of Park'sdiabolical work. In the walls of the barracks besides those lensbuttons were also miniature electro-hypnotic plates, with the mastercontrolling unit located in that valley. Park knew that when the minerswere in a drugged condition from the effects of the fever they wouldbe susceptible to the machine's lure.... And now, Billy-boy, are youcoming with me?     Coming with you? I repeated. Where?     The old lady lit a cigarette. Pluto maybe, she said. There's a penalcolony there, you know, and that ought to tie in nicely with a newcrime story. I can see it now ... prison break, stolen rocket ship,fugitives lurking in the interplanetary lanes....     Grannie, I laughed. You're incorrigible!   ","The symptoms of the fever are described as “garrulousness” followed by the victims leaving their post and walking into the Baldric desert.The fever is brought on by infra-red rays from Jupiter’s great spot. Normally, people on this moon aren’t coming down with the fever from their regular activities. However, a lens-like device mounted in the window of the worker barracks at Larynx Incorporated projects the infra-red rays from the great spot around the room onto the sleeping workers which puts them into this trance-like state.Antlers Karn is responsible for causing the Red Spot Fever by having the devices installed in his competitors' barracks. He also claims to have developed an antitoxin that would reverse the fever, however, it is implied that this was only a lie to cover up his actions."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     BEACH SCENE     By MARSHALL KING     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1960.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         It was a fine day at the beach       for Purnie's game—but his new       friends played very rough!        Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could runno more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped withdelight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see theocean at last.     When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. Nosign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutinyof brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from goingto the ocean. This was the moment to stop time.     On your mark! he shouted to the rippling stream and its orangewhirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending thatsome object might try to get a head start. Get set! he challengedthe thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. Stop!He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purpleclouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonderhow tall the trees really were.     His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpoolshad stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and theheavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls andnimbi.     With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purniehurried toward the ocean.     If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much tosee and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seenthe wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from hisbrothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he couldremember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though hewere already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs toplay on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comicalthree-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and manykinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean.     He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved thisday just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't thishis fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, andeven for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies andwouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five!     I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see! As he passed one ofthe many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he tookcare not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. WhenPurnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures hemet—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that assoon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off.  When he smelled an acid sweetness that told him the ocean was not faroff, his pulse quickened in anticipation. Rather than spoil what wasclearly going to be a perfect day, he chose to ignore the fact that hehad been forbidden to use time-stopping as a convenience for journeyingfar from home. He chose to ignore the oft-repeated statement that anhour of time-stopping consumed more energy than a week of foot-racing.He chose to ignore the negative maxim that small children who stoptime without an adult being present, may not live to regret it.     He chose, instead, to picture the beaming praise of family and friendswhen they learned of his brave journey.     The journey was long, the clock stood still. He stopped long enough togather some fruit that grew along the path. It would serve as his lunchduring this day of promise. With it under his arm he bounded along adozen more steps, then stopped abruptly in his tracks.     He found himself atop a rocky knoll, overlooking the mighty sea!     He was so overpowered by the vista before him that his Hurrah! cameout as a weak squeak. The ocean lay at the ready, its stilled wavesawaiting his command to resume their tidal sweep. The breakers alongthe shoreline hung in varying stages of disarray, some having alreadyexploded into towering white spray while others were poised in smoothorange curls waiting to start that action.     And there were new friends everywhere! Overhead, a flock of spora werefrozen in a steep glide, preparatory to a beach landing. Purnie hadheard of these playful creatures many times. Today, with his brothersin school, he would have the pets all to himself. Further down thebeach was a pair of two-legged animals poised in mid-step, facingthe spot where Purnie now stood. Some distance behind them were eightmore, each of whom were motionless in a curious pose of interruptedanimation. And down in the water, where the ocean ran itself into thinnothingness upon the sand, he saw standing here and there the comicaltripons, those three-legged marine buffoons who made handsome careersof munching seaweed.     Hi there! Purnie called. When he got no reaction, he remembered thathe himself was dead to the living world: he was still in a zone oftime-stopping, on the inside looking out. For him, the world wouldcontinue to be a tableau of mannikins until he resumed time.  Hi there! he called again; but now his mental attitude was that heexpected time to resume. It did! Immediately he was surrounded byactivity. He heard the roar of the crashing orange breakers, he tastedthe dew of acid that floated from the spray, and he saw his new friendscontinue the actions which he had stopped while back in the forest.     He knew, too, that at this moment, in the forest, the little brookpicked up its flow where it had left off, the purple clouds resumedtheir leeward journey up the valley, and the bees continued theirpollen-gathering without having missed a single stroke of theirdelicate wings. The brook, the clouds, and the insects had not beeninterrupted in the least; their respective tasks had been performedwith continuing sureness. It was time itself that Purnie had stopped,not the world around him.     He scampered around the rockpile and down the sandy cliff to meet thetripons who, to him, had just come to life.     I can stand on my head! He set down his lunch and balanced himselfbottoms-up while his legs pawed the air in an effort to hold him inposition. He knew it was probably the worst head-stand he had everdone, for he felt weak and dizzy. Already time-stopping had left itsmark on his strength. But his spirits ran on unchecked.     The tripon thought Purnie's feat was superb. It stopped munching longenough to give him a salutory wag of its rump before returning to itsrepast.     Purnie ran from pillar to post, trying to see and do everything atonce. He looked around to greet the flock of spora, but they had glidedto a spot further along the shore. Then, bouncing up to the first ofthe two-legged animals, he started to burst forth with his habitual Hithere! when he heard them making sounds of their own.     ... will be no limit to my operations now, Benson. This planet makesseventeen. Seventeen planets I can claim as my own!     My, my. Seventeen planets. And tell me, Forbes, just what the hell areyou going to do with them—mount them on the wall of your den back inSan Diego?     Hi there, wanna play? Purnie's invitation got nothing more thanstartled glance from the animals who quickly returned to their chatter.He scampered up the beach, picked up his lunch, and ran back to them,tagging along at their heels. I've got my lunch, want some?     Benson, you'd better tell your men back there to stop gawking atthe scenery and get to work. Time is money. I didn't pay for thisexpedition just to give your flunkies a vacation.  The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself intheir heels.     All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it'syour money that put us here; it's your expedition all the way. But youhired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's justwhat I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safetyof the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home.     Precisely. And since you're responsible, get 'em working. Tell 'em tobring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in theocean with a three-legged ostrich!     Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twentyminutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to findwild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint littlecreatures that run up to us like we're long-lost brothers. Let the menlook around a minute or two before we stake out your claim.     Bah! Bunch of damn children.     As Purnie followed along, a leg shot out at him and missed. Benson,will you get this bug-eyed kangaroo away from me! Purnie shrieked withjoy at this new frolic and promptly stood on his head. In this positionhe got an upside down view of them walking away.     He gave up trying to stay with them. Why did they move so fast, anyway?What was the hurry? As he sat down and began eating his lunch, threemore of the creatures came along making excited noises, apparentlytrying to catch up to the first two. As they passed him, he held outhis lunch. Want some? No response.     Playing held more promise than eating. He left his lunch half eaten andwent down to where they had stopped further along the beach.     Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in thevicinity. He's trying to locate it now.     There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to makeyou so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, Ibelieve.     Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I'vediscovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about thatflag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque.     All right, lads. The sooner we get Mr. Forbes's pennant raised and hisclaim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Livelynow!  When the three animals went back to join the rest of their group, thefirst two resumed walking. Purnie followed along.     Well, Benson, you won't have to look far for materials to use for thebase of the flag pole. Look at that rockpile up there.     Can't use them. They're petrified logs. The ones on top are too highto carry down, and if we move those on the bottom, the whole works willslide down on top of us.     Well—that's your problem. Just remember, I want this flag pole to besolid. It's got to stand at least—     Don't worry, Forbes, we'll get your monument erected. What's this withthe flag? There must be more to staking a claim than just putting up aflag.     There is, there is. Much more. I've taken care of all requirements setdown by law to make my claim. But the flag? Well, you might say itrepresents an empire, Benson. The Forbes Empire. On each of my flagsis the word FORBES, a symbol of development and progress. Call itsentiment if you will.     Don't worry, I won't. I've seen real-estate flags before.     Damn it all, will you stop referring to this as a real-estate deal?What I'm doing is big, man. Big! This is pioneering.     Of course. And if I'm not mistaken, you've set up a neat little escrowsystem so that you not only own the planets, but you will virtually ownthe people who are foolish enough to buy land on them.     I could have your hide for talking to me like this. Damn you, man!It's people like me who pay your way. It's people like me who give yourspace ships some place to go. It's people like me who pour good moneyinto a chancey job like this, so that people like you can get away fromthirteen-story tenement houses. Did you ever think of that?     I imagine you'll triple your money in six months.     When they stopped, Purnie stopped. At first he had been interested inthe strange sounds they were making, but as he grew used to them, andas they in turn ignored his presence, he hopped alongside chattering tohimself, content to be in their company.     He heard more of these sounds coming from behind, and he turned to seethe remainder of the group running toward them.     Captain Benson! Here's the flag, sir. And here's Miles with thescintillometer. He says the radiation's getting stronger over this way!     How about that, Miles?     This thing's going wild, Captain. It's almost off scale.  Purnie saw one of the animals hovering around him with a little box.Thankful for the attention, he stood on his head. Can you do this?He was overjoyed at the reaction. They all started making wonderfulnoises, and he felt most satisfied.     Stand back, Captain! Here's the source right here! This littlechuck-walla's hotter than a plutonium pile!     Let me see that, Miles. Well, I'll be damned! Now what do yousuppose—     By now they had formed a widening circle around him, and he was hardput to think of an encore. He gambled on trying a brand new trick: hestood on one leg.     Benson, I must have that animal! Put him in a box.     Now wait a minute, Forbes. Universal Law forbids—     This is my planet and I am the law. Put him in a box!     With my crew as witness, I officially protest—     Good God, what a specimen to take back. Radio-active animals! Why,they can reproduce themselves, of course! There must be thousands ofthese creatures around here someplace. And to think of those damn foolson Earth with their plutonium piles! Hah! Now I'll have investors      flocking     to me. How about it, Benson—does pioneering pay off ordoesn't it?     Not so fast. Since this little fellow is radioactive, there may begreat danger to the crew—     Now look here! You had planned to put      mineral     specimens in a leadbox, so what's the difference? Put him in a box.     He'll die.     I have you under contract, Benson! You are responsible to me, andwhat's more, you are on my property. Put him in a box.     Purnie was tired. First the time-stopping, then this. While this dayhad brought more fun and excitement than he could have hoped for,the strain was beginning to tell. He lay in the center of the circlehappily exhausted, hoping that his friends would show him some of theirown tricks.     He didn't have to wait long. The animals forming the circle steppedback and made way for two others who came through carrying a box.Purnie sat up to watch the show.     Hell, Captain, why don't I just pick him up? Looks like he has nointention of running away.     Better not, Cabot. Even though you're shielded, no telling whatpowers the little fella has. Play it safe and use the rope.     I swear he knows what we're saying. Look at those eyes.     All right, careful now with that line.     Come on, baby. Here you go. That's a boy!  Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation.     He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself.     He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun.     Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some?     The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs.     Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun!     There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up.     The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time.     The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand.     As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position.     Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals.     Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty.  When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing.     My God, he's—he's gone.     Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him?     The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone.     Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he?     Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him?     Well, I'll be damned!     Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way.     Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun!     Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria.     The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand.     I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout.     The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf.  Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath.     Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me?     I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown!     Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving?     The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water—     Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head.     Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop.     Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore.     It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke.     Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him.     At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim.     He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time.     Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below.     Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened.     His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe.     He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no      urging     time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other.     Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand....  His friends came to life. The first one he saw stir lay on his stomachand pounded his fists on the beach. A flood of relief settled overPurnie as sounds came from the animal.     What's the matter with me? Somebody tell me! Am I nuts? Miles! Schick!What's happening?     I'm coming, Rhodes! Heaven help us, man—I saw it, too. We're eithercrazy or those damn logs are alive!     It's not the logs. How about us? How'd we get out of the water? Miles,we're both cracking.     I'm telling you, man, it's the logs, or rocks or whatever they are.I was looking right at them. First they're on top of me, then they'repiled up over there!     Damnit, the logs didn't pick us up out of the ocean, did they? CaptainBenson!     Are you men all right?     Yes sir, but—     Who saw exactly what happened?     I'm afraid we're not seeing right, Captain. Those logs—     I know, I know. Now get hold of yourselves. We've got to round up theothers and get out of here while time is on our side.     But what happened, Captain?     Hell, Rhodes, don't you think I'd like to know? Those logs are so oldthey're petrified. The whole bunch of us couldn't lift one. It wouldtake super-human energy to move one of those things.     I haven't seen anything super-human. Those ostriches down there are sobusy eating seaweed—     All right, let's bear a hand here with the others. Some of them can'twalk. Where's Forbes?     He's sitting down there in the water, Captain, crying like a baby. Orlaughing. I can't tell which.     We'll have to get him. Miles, Schick, come along. Forbes! You allright?     Ho-ho-ho! Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen planets, Benson, and they'lldo anything I say! This one's got a mind of its own. Did you see thatlittle trick with the rocks? Ho-ho!     See if you can find his gun, Schick; he'll either kill himself or oneof us. Tie his hands and take him back to the ship. We'll be alongshortly.     Hah-hah-hah! Seventeen! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsiblefor this. Hee-hee!  Purnie opened his eyes as consciousness returned. Had his friends gone?     He pulled himself along on his stomach to a position between two rocks,where he could see without being seen. By the light of the twin moonshe saw that they were leaving, marching away in groups of two andthree, the weak helping the weaker. As they disappeared around thecurving shoreline, the voices of the last two, bringing up the rear farbehind the others, fell faintly on his ears over the sound of the surf.     Is it possible that we're all crazy, Captain?     It's possible, but we're not.     I wish I could be sure.     See Forbes up ahead there? What do you think of him?     I still can't believe it.     He'll never be the same.     Tell me something. What was the most unusual thing you noticed backthere?     You must be kidding, sir. Why, the way those logs were off of ussuddenly—     Yes, of course. But I mean beside that.     Well, I guess I was kind of busy. You know, scared and mixed up.     But didn't you notice our little pop-eyed friend?     Oh, him. I'm afraid not, Captain. I—I guess I was thinking mostly ofmyself.     Hmmm. If I could only be sure I saw him. If only someone else saw himtoo.     I'm afraid I don't follow you, sir.     Well, damn it all, you know that Forbes took a pot shot at him. Gothim in the leg. That being the case, why would the fuzzy little devilcome back to his tormentors—back to us—when we were trapped underthose logs?     Well, I guess as long as we were trapped, he figured we couldn't dohim any more harm.... I'm sorry, that was a stupid answer. I guess I'mstill a little shaky.     Forget it. Look, you go ahead to the ship and make ready for take-off.I'll join you in a few minutes. I think I'll go back and look around.You know. Make sure we haven't left anyone.     No need to do that. They're all ahead of us. I've checked.     That's my responsibility, Cabot, not yours. Now go on.  As Purnie lay gathering strength for the long trek home, he saw throughglazed eyes one of the animals coming back along the beach. When it wasnearly directly below him, he could hear it making sounds that by nowhad become familiar.     Where are you?     Purnie paid little attention to the antics of his friend; he wasbeyond understanding. He wondered what they would say at home when hereturned.     We've made a terrible mistake. We— The sounds faded in and out onPurnie's ears as the creature turned slowly and called in differentdirections. He watched the animal walk over to the pile of scatteredlogs and peer around and under them.     If you're hurt I'd like to help! The twin moons were high in the skynow, and where their light broke through the swirling clouds a doubleshadow was cast around the animal. With foggy awareness, Purnie watchedthe creature shake its head slowly, then walk away in the direction ofthe others.     Purnie's eyes stared, without seeing, at the panorama before him. Thebeach was deserted now, and his gaze was transfixed on a shimmeringwhite square floating on the ocean. Across it, the last thing Purnieever saw, was emblazoned the word FORBES.   ","Purnie, an animal, is going to see the ocean on his fifth birthday. He has heard stories about this place, and experiencing it firsthand is surreal for him. Purnie is careful not to disturb the animals he sees along the way because he has frozen time, and everything must resume normally when he unfreezes it. He knows that time-stopping is forbidden for animals his age, but he chooses to believe that his family will be proud of his bravery. Finally, he sees the ocean in front of him, and he resumes time. He does a head-stand and feels weak and dizzy. These feelings are a result of the time-stop, and he knows it. Purnie approaches some humans on the beach. A man named Forbes is in the middle of explaining to his captain, Benson, that he has found 17 planets to claim as his own. Forbes is hellbent on raising his FORBES flag as soon as possible. He is eager to stake his claim to the land and says that his mission is much bigger than real estate alone. Benson retorts that yes, his mission is bigger than just real estate because his paperwork says that Forbes will own all of the inhabitants of the planets he claims as well as the land. The crew members use a special machine and  find radiation emanating from Purnie. Forbes demands that they put the animal in a box. Benson protests and reminds Forbes that it’s against Universal Law, but Forbes insists. Purnie experiences his first-ever impulse to run away with fear when a noose comes towards him. He goes back to pick up his fruit, and Forbes shoots him in the leg. When the man throws the noose again, Purnie involuntarily stops time. He drags himself up the knoll where he originally came from. The humans are astonished when time resumes and Purnie is not where he was a split second ago. They spot him up on top of a pile of petrified logs, and suddenly the logs fall down the hill and pin the men down. Purnie is shocked and regretful. The whole thing was an accident. He deliberately stops time and uses all of his remaining strength to lift the logs off of the humans. Purnie begins to lose consciousness, and he knows that he must resume time or he will die. After pouring all of his strength into this action, time does begin again. The humans resume life and feel as though they have gone mad. They know that they were just facing death by drowning, and now they are free. The logs were so heavy that it would have taken superhuman strength to move them. Forbes, in particular, has really gone mad, and he laughs to himself uncontrollably. Benson believes that Purnie was responsible for moving the logs, but of course that seems physically impossible.  Purnie stares off at the beautiful ocean views and watches the men leave in their vehicle as he dies. "
"Describe Forbes' relationship with Benson. </s>     BEACH SCENE     By MARSHALL KING     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1960.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         It was a fine day at the beach       for Purnie's game—but his new       friends played very rough!        Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could runno more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped withdelight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see theocean at last.     When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. Nosign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutinyof brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from goingto the ocean. This was the moment to stop time.     On your mark! he shouted to the rippling stream and its orangewhirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending thatsome object might try to get a head start. Get set! he challengedthe thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. Stop!He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purpleclouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonderhow tall the trees really were.     His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpoolshad stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and theheavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls andnimbi.     With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purniehurried toward the ocean.     If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much tosee and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seenthe wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from hisbrothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he couldremember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though hewere already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs toplay on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comicalthree-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and manykinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean.     He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved thisday just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't thishis fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, andeven for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies andwouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five!     I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see! As he passed one ofthe many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he tookcare not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. WhenPurnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures hemet—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that assoon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off.  When he smelled an acid sweetness that told him the ocean was not faroff, his pulse quickened in anticipation. Rather than spoil what wasclearly going to be a perfect day, he chose to ignore the fact that hehad been forbidden to use time-stopping as a convenience for journeyingfar from home. He chose to ignore the oft-repeated statement that anhour of time-stopping consumed more energy than a week of foot-racing.He chose to ignore the negative maxim that small children who stoptime without an adult being present, may not live to regret it.     He chose, instead, to picture the beaming praise of family and friendswhen they learned of his brave journey.     The journey was long, the clock stood still. He stopped long enough togather some fruit that grew along the path. It would serve as his lunchduring this day of promise. With it under his arm he bounded along adozen more steps, then stopped abruptly in his tracks.     He found himself atop a rocky knoll, overlooking the mighty sea!     He was so overpowered by the vista before him that his Hurrah! cameout as a weak squeak. The ocean lay at the ready, its stilled wavesawaiting his command to resume their tidal sweep. The breakers alongthe shoreline hung in varying stages of disarray, some having alreadyexploded into towering white spray while others were poised in smoothorange curls waiting to start that action.     And there were new friends everywhere! Overhead, a flock of spora werefrozen in a steep glide, preparatory to a beach landing. Purnie hadheard of these playful creatures many times. Today, with his brothersin school, he would have the pets all to himself. Further down thebeach was a pair of two-legged animals poised in mid-step, facingthe spot where Purnie now stood. Some distance behind them were eightmore, each of whom were motionless in a curious pose of interruptedanimation. And down in the water, where the ocean ran itself into thinnothingness upon the sand, he saw standing here and there the comicaltripons, those three-legged marine buffoons who made handsome careersof munching seaweed.     Hi there! Purnie called. When he got no reaction, he remembered thathe himself was dead to the living world: he was still in a zone oftime-stopping, on the inside looking out. For him, the world wouldcontinue to be a tableau of mannikins until he resumed time.  Hi there! he called again; but now his mental attitude was that heexpected time to resume. It did! Immediately he was surrounded byactivity. He heard the roar of the crashing orange breakers, he tastedthe dew of acid that floated from the spray, and he saw his new friendscontinue the actions which he had stopped while back in the forest.     He knew, too, that at this moment, in the forest, the little brookpicked up its flow where it had left off, the purple clouds resumedtheir leeward journey up the valley, and the bees continued theirpollen-gathering without having missed a single stroke of theirdelicate wings. The brook, the clouds, and the insects had not beeninterrupted in the least; their respective tasks had been performedwith continuing sureness. It was time itself that Purnie had stopped,not the world around him.     He scampered around the rockpile and down the sandy cliff to meet thetripons who, to him, had just come to life.     I can stand on my head! He set down his lunch and balanced himselfbottoms-up while his legs pawed the air in an effort to hold him inposition. He knew it was probably the worst head-stand he had everdone, for he felt weak and dizzy. Already time-stopping had left itsmark on his strength. But his spirits ran on unchecked.     The tripon thought Purnie's feat was superb. It stopped munching longenough to give him a salutory wag of its rump before returning to itsrepast.     Purnie ran from pillar to post, trying to see and do everything atonce. He looked around to greet the flock of spora, but they had glidedto a spot further along the shore. Then, bouncing up to the first ofthe two-legged animals, he started to burst forth with his habitual Hithere! when he heard them making sounds of their own.     ... will be no limit to my operations now, Benson. This planet makesseventeen. Seventeen planets I can claim as my own!     My, my. Seventeen planets. And tell me, Forbes, just what the hell areyou going to do with them—mount them on the wall of your den back inSan Diego?     Hi there, wanna play? Purnie's invitation got nothing more thanstartled glance from the animals who quickly returned to their chatter.He scampered up the beach, picked up his lunch, and ran back to them,tagging along at their heels. I've got my lunch, want some?     Benson, you'd better tell your men back there to stop gawking atthe scenery and get to work. Time is money. I didn't pay for thisexpedition just to give your flunkies a vacation.  The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself intheir heels.     All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it'syour money that put us here; it's your expedition all the way. But youhired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's justwhat I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safetyof the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home.     Precisely. And since you're responsible, get 'em working. Tell 'em tobring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in theocean with a three-legged ostrich!     Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twentyminutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to findwild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint littlecreatures that run up to us like we're long-lost brothers. Let the menlook around a minute or two before we stake out your claim.     Bah! Bunch of damn children.     As Purnie followed along, a leg shot out at him and missed. Benson,will you get this bug-eyed kangaroo away from me! Purnie shrieked withjoy at this new frolic and promptly stood on his head. In this positionhe got an upside down view of them walking away.     He gave up trying to stay with them. Why did they move so fast, anyway?What was the hurry? As he sat down and began eating his lunch, threemore of the creatures came along making excited noises, apparentlytrying to catch up to the first two. As they passed him, he held outhis lunch. Want some? No response.     Playing held more promise than eating. He left his lunch half eaten andwent down to where they had stopped further along the beach.     Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in thevicinity. He's trying to locate it now.     There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to makeyou so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, Ibelieve.     Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I'vediscovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about thatflag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque.     All right, lads. The sooner we get Mr. Forbes's pennant raised and hisclaim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Livelynow!  When the three animals went back to join the rest of their group, thefirst two resumed walking. Purnie followed along.     Well, Benson, you won't have to look far for materials to use for thebase of the flag pole. Look at that rockpile up there.     Can't use them. They're petrified logs. The ones on top are too highto carry down, and if we move those on the bottom, the whole works willslide down on top of us.     Well—that's your problem. Just remember, I want this flag pole to besolid. It's got to stand at least—     Don't worry, Forbes, we'll get your monument erected. What's this withthe flag? There must be more to staking a claim than just putting up aflag.     There is, there is. Much more. I've taken care of all requirements setdown by law to make my claim. But the flag? Well, you might say itrepresents an empire, Benson. The Forbes Empire. On each of my flagsis the word FORBES, a symbol of development and progress. Call itsentiment if you will.     Don't worry, I won't. I've seen real-estate flags before.     Damn it all, will you stop referring to this as a real-estate deal?What I'm doing is big, man. Big! This is pioneering.     Of course. And if I'm not mistaken, you've set up a neat little escrowsystem so that you not only own the planets, but you will virtually ownthe people who are foolish enough to buy land on them.     I could have your hide for talking to me like this. Damn you, man!It's people like me who pay your way. It's people like me who give yourspace ships some place to go. It's people like me who pour good moneyinto a chancey job like this, so that people like you can get away fromthirteen-story tenement houses. Did you ever think of that?     I imagine you'll triple your money in six months.     When they stopped, Purnie stopped. At first he had been interested inthe strange sounds they were making, but as he grew used to them, andas they in turn ignored his presence, he hopped alongside chattering tohimself, content to be in their company.     He heard more of these sounds coming from behind, and he turned to seethe remainder of the group running toward them.     Captain Benson! Here's the flag, sir. And here's Miles with thescintillometer. He says the radiation's getting stronger over this way!     How about that, Miles?     This thing's going wild, Captain. It's almost off scale.  Purnie saw one of the animals hovering around him with a little box.Thankful for the attention, he stood on his head. Can you do this?He was overjoyed at the reaction. They all started making wonderfulnoises, and he felt most satisfied.     Stand back, Captain! Here's the source right here! This littlechuck-walla's hotter than a plutonium pile!     Let me see that, Miles. Well, I'll be damned! Now what do yousuppose—     By now they had formed a widening circle around him, and he was hardput to think of an encore. He gambled on trying a brand new trick: hestood on one leg.     Benson, I must have that animal! Put him in a box.     Now wait a minute, Forbes. Universal Law forbids—     This is my planet and I am the law. Put him in a box!     With my crew as witness, I officially protest—     Good God, what a specimen to take back. Radio-active animals! Why,they can reproduce themselves, of course! There must be thousands ofthese creatures around here someplace. And to think of those damn foolson Earth with their plutonium piles! Hah! Now I'll have investors      flocking     to me. How about it, Benson—does pioneering pay off ordoesn't it?     Not so fast. Since this little fellow is radioactive, there may begreat danger to the crew—     Now look here! You had planned to put      mineral     specimens in a leadbox, so what's the difference? Put him in a box.     He'll die.     I have you under contract, Benson! You are responsible to me, andwhat's more, you are on my property. Put him in a box.     Purnie was tired. First the time-stopping, then this. While this dayhad brought more fun and excitement than he could have hoped for,the strain was beginning to tell. He lay in the center of the circlehappily exhausted, hoping that his friends would show him some of theirown tricks.     He didn't have to wait long. The animals forming the circle steppedback and made way for two others who came through carrying a box.Purnie sat up to watch the show.     Hell, Captain, why don't I just pick him up? Looks like he has nointention of running away.     Better not, Cabot. Even though you're shielded, no telling whatpowers the little fella has. Play it safe and use the rope.     I swear he knows what we're saying. Look at those eyes.     All right, careful now with that line.     Come on, baby. Here you go. That's a boy!  Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation.     He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself.     He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun.     Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some?     The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs.     Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun!     There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up.     The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time.     The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand.     As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position.     Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals.     Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty.  When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing.     My God, he's—he's gone.     Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him?     The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone.     Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he?     Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him?     Well, I'll be damned!     Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way.     Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun!     Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria.     The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand.     I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout.     The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf.  Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath.     Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me?     I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown!     Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving?     The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water—     Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head.     Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop.     Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore.     It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke.     Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him.     At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim.     He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time.     Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below.     Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened.     His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe.     He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no      urging     time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other.     Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand....  His friends came to life. The first one he saw stir lay on his stomachand pounded his fists on the beach. A flood of relief settled overPurnie as sounds came from the animal.     What's the matter with me? Somebody tell me! Am I nuts? Miles! Schick!What's happening?     I'm coming, Rhodes! Heaven help us, man—I saw it, too. We're eithercrazy or those damn logs are alive!     It's not the logs. How about us? How'd we get out of the water? Miles,we're both cracking.     I'm telling you, man, it's the logs, or rocks or whatever they are.I was looking right at them. First they're on top of me, then they'repiled up over there!     Damnit, the logs didn't pick us up out of the ocean, did they? CaptainBenson!     Are you men all right?     Yes sir, but—     Who saw exactly what happened?     I'm afraid we're not seeing right, Captain. Those logs—     I know, I know. Now get hold of yourselves. We've got to round up theothers and get out of here while time is on our side.     But what happened, Captain?     Hell, Rhodes, don't you think I'd like to know? Those logs are so oldthey're petrified. The whole bunch of us couldn't lift one. It wouldtake super-human energy to move one of those things.     I haven't seen anything super-human. Those ostriches down there are sobusy eating seaweed—     All right, let's bear a hand here with the others. Some of them can'twalk. Where's Forbes?     He's sitting down there in the water, Captain, crying like a baby. Orlaughing. I can't tell which.     We'll have to get him. Miles, Schick, come along. Forbes! You allright?     Ho-ho-ho! Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen planets, Benson, and they'lldo anything I say! This one's got a mind of its own. Did you see thatlittle trick with the rocks? Ho-ho!     See if you can find his gun, Schick; he'll either kill himself or oneof us. Tie his hands and take him back to the ship. We'll be alongshortly.     Hah-hah-hah! Seventeen! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsiblefor this. Hee-hee!  Purnie opened his eyes as consciousness returned. Had his friends gone?     He pulled himself along on his stomach to a position between two rocks,where he could see without being seen. By the light of the twin moonshe saw that they were leaving, marching away in groups of two andthree, the weak helping the weaker. As they disappeared around thecurving shoreline, the voices of the last two, bringing up the rear farbehind the others, fell faintly on his ears over the sound of the surf.     Is it possible that we're all crazy, Captain?     It's possible, but we're not.     I wish I could be sure.     See Forbes up ahead there? What do you think of him?     I still can't believe it.     He'll never be the same.     Tell me something. What was the most unusual thing you noticed backthere?     You must be kidding, sir. Why, the way those logs were off of ussuddenly—     Yes, of course. But I mean beside that.     Well, I guess I was kind of busy. You know, scared and mixed up.     But didn't you notice our little pop-eyed friend?     Oh, him. I'm afraid not, Captain. I—I guess I was thinking mostly ofmyself.     Hmmm. If I could only be sure I saw him. If only someone else saw himtoo.     I'm afraid I don't follow you, sir.     Well, damn it all, you know that Forbes took a pot shot at him. Gothim in the leg. That being the case, why would the fuzzy little devilcome back to his tormentors—back to us—when we were trapped underthose logs?     Well, I guess as long as we were trapped, he figured we couldn't dohim any more harm.... I'm sorry, that was a stupid answer. I guess I'mstill a little shaky.     Forget it. Look, you go ahead to the ship and make ready for take-off.I'll join you in a few minutes. I think I'll go back and look around.You know. Make sure we haven't left anyone.     No need to do that. They're all ahead of us. I've checked.     That's my responsibility, Cabot, not yours. Now go on.  As Purnie lay gathering strength for the long trek home, he saw throughglazed eyes one of the animals coming back along the beach. When it wasnearly directly below him, he could hear it making sounds that by nowhad become familiar.     Where are you?     Purnie paid little attention to the antics of his friend; he wasbeyond understanding. He wondered what they would say at home when hereturned.     We've made a terrible mistake. We— The sounds faded in and out onPurnie's ears as the creature turned slowly and called in differentdirections. He watched the animal walk over to the pile of scatteredlogs and peer around and under them.     If you're hurt I'd like to help! The twin moons were high in the skynow, and where their light broke through the swirling clouds a doubleshadow was cast around the animal. With foggy awareness, Purnie watchedthe creature shake its head slowly, then walk away in the direction ofthe others.     Purnie's eyes stared, without seeing, at the panorama before him. Thebeach was deserted now, and his gaze was transfixed on a shimmeringwhite square floating on the ocean. Across it, the last thing Purnieever saw, was emblazoned the word FORBES.   ","Forbes is the head of the expedition to claim planets, and Benson is the Captain of the crew. Forbes provides all of the money to make the trips possible, and he pays Benson’s and the other mens’ salaries. Captain Benson is responsible for keeping all of the men safe and making sure the trip goes smoothly. Although Forbes is Benson’s superior, Benson does feel the need to speak his mind to Forbes. When Forbes demands that Benson’s crew stop dawdling and hurry up and put his FORBES flag up, Benson tells Forbes that they are only humans. Of course they are interested in the new environment and want to take a moment to look around. He is not afraid to tell Forbes that capturing Purnie or injuring him is against Universal Laws. Benson does not want to take part in illegal activities, and he scoffs at Forbes’ remarks that he is a pioneer and not a real estate developer. He openly tells Forbes that he knows he will triple his money after claiming these planets, so it’s not like he’s doing it for the greater good of humanity. Benson also asks Forbes if he’s going to take his 17 new planets back home with him to San Diego. It’s clear that Benson has little respect for Forbes and the way he conducts his business, but at the same time, he needs a job and Forbes is providing him with an incredible opportunity to survey all sorts of different planets.Benson has to face Forbes’ wrath when Purnie goes missing after Forbes shoots him and they attempt to put a noose around his neck. After Purnie unfreezes time, the men are confused as to what they just saw. Forbes turns to Benson and tells him that he is holding him responsible for this mishap even though there is zero evidence that Benson did anything wrong.After the logs fall on the men and Purnie uses all of his remaining strength to save their lives, Forbes is completely out of his mind. Benson finds it a bit humorous, especially since he has an inkling that Purnie, the bug-eyed creature, was behind the whole thing. He does not respect Forbes and thinks his disconnect to reality and repetitive laughter is what he deserves for the way he treated Purnie, himself, and the crew. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     BEACH SCENE     By MARSHALL KING     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1960.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         It was a fine day at the beach       for Purnie's game—but his new       friends played very rough!        Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could runno more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped withdelight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see theocean at last.     When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. Nosign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutinyof brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from goingto the ocean. This was the moment to stop time.     On your mark! he shouted to the rippling stream and its orangewhirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending thatsome object might try to get a head start. Get set! he challengedthe thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. Stop!He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purpleclouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonderhow tall the trees really were.     His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpoolshad stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and theheavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls andnimbi.     With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purniehurried toward the ocean.     If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much tosee and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seenthe wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from hisbrothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he couldremember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though hewere already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs toplay on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comicalthree-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and manykinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean.     He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved thisday just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't thishis fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, andeven for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies andwouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five!     I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see! As he passed one ofthe many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he tookcare not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. WhenPurnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures hemet—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that assoon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off.  When he smelled an acid sweetness that told him the ocean was not faroff, his pulse quickened in anticipation. Rather than spoil what wasclearly going to be a perfect day, he chose to ignore the fact that hehad been forbidden to use time-stopping as a convenience for journeyingfar from home. He chose to ignore the oft-repeated statement that anhour of time-stopping consumed more energy than a week of foot-racing.He chose to ignore the negative maxim that small children who stoptime without an adult being present, may not live to regret it.     He chose, instead, to picture the beaming praise of family and friendswhen they learned of his brave journey.     The journey was long, the clock stood still. He stopped long enough togather some fruit that grew along the path. It would serve as his lunchduring this day of promise. With it under his arm he bounded along adozen more steps, then stopped abruptly in his tracks.     He found himself atop a rocky knoll, overlooking the mighty sea!     He was so overpowered by the vista before him that his Hurrah! cameout as a weak squeak. The ocean lay at the ready, its stilled wavesawaiting his command to resume their tidal sweep. The breakers alongthe shoreline hung in varying stages of disarray, some having alreadyexploded into towering white spray while others were poised in smoothorange curls waiting to start that action.     And there were new friends everywhere! Overhead, a flock of spora werefrozen in a steep glide, preparatory to a beach landing. Purnie hadheard of these playful creatures many times. Today, with his brothersin school, he would have the pets all to himself. Further down thebeach was a pair of two-legged animals poised in mid-step, facingthe spot where Purnie now stood. Some distance behind them were eightmore, each of whom were motionless in a curious pose of interruptedanimation. And down in the water, where the ocean ran itself into thinnothingness upon the sand, he saw standing here and there the comicaltripons, those three-legged marine buffoons who made handsome careersof munching seaweed.     Hi there! Purnie called. When he got no reaction, he remembered thathe himself was dead to the living world: he was still in a zone oftime-stopping, on the inside looking out. For him, the world wouldcontinue to be a tableau of mannikins until he resumed time.  Hi there! he called again; but now his mental attitude was that heexpected time to resume. It did! Immediately he was surrounded byactivity. He heard the roar of the crashing orange breakers, he tastedthe dew of acid that floated from the spray, and he saw his new friendscontinue the actions which he had stopped while back in the forest.     He knew, too, that at this moment, in the forest, the little brookpicked up its flow where it had left off, the purple clouds resumedtheir leeward journey up the valley, and the bees continued theirpollen-gathering without having missed a single stroke of theirdelicate wings. The brook, the clouds, and the insects had not beeninterrupted in the least; their respective tasks had been performedwith continuing sureness. It was time itself that Purnie had stopped,not the world around him.     He scampered around the rockpile and down the sandy cliff to meet thetripons who, to him, had just come to life.     I can stand on my head! He set down his lunch and balanced himselfbottoms-up while his legs pawed the air in an effort to hold him inposition. He knew it was probably the worst head-stand he had everdone, for he felt weak and dizzy. Already time-stopping had left itsmark on his strength. But his spirits ran on unchecked.     The tripon thought Purnie's feat was superb. It stopped munching longenough to give him a salutory wag of its rump before returning to itsrepast.     Purnie ran from pillar to post, trying to see and do everything atonce. He looked around to greet the flock of spora, but they had glidedto a spot further along the shore. Then, bouncing up to the first ofthe two-legged animals, he started to burst forth with his habitual Hithere! when he heard them making sounds of their own.     ... will be no limit to my operations now, Benson. This planet makesseventeen. Seventeen planets I can claim as my own!     My, my. Seventeen planets. And tell me, Forbes, just what the hell areyou going to do with them—mount them on the wall of your den back inSan Diego?     Hi there, wanna play? Purnie's invitation got nothing more thanstartled glance from the animals who quickly returned to their chatter.He scampered up the beach, picked up his lunch, and ran back to them,tagging along at their heels. I've got my lunch, want some?     Benson, you'd better tell your men back there to stop gawking atthe scenery and get to work. Time is money. I didn't pay for thisexpedition just to give your flunkies a vacation.  The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself intheir heels.     All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it'syour money that put us here; it's your expedition all the way. But youhired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's justwhat I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safetyof the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home.     Precisely. And since you're responsible, get 'em working. Tell 'em tobring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in theocean with a three-legged ostrich!     Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twentyminutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to findwild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint littlecreatures that run up to us like we're long-lost brothers. Let the menlook around a minute or two before we stake out your claim.     Bah! Bunch of damn children.     As Purnie followed along, a leg shot out at him and missed. Benson,will you get this bug-eyed kangaroo away from me! Purnie shrieked withjoy at this new frolic and promptly stood on his head. In this positionhe got an upside down view of them walking away.     He gave up trying to stay with them. Why did they move so fast, anyway?What was the hurry? As he sat down and began eating his lunch, threemore of the creatures came along making excited noises, apparentlytrying to catch up to the first two. As they passed him, he held outhis lunch. Want some? No response.     Playing held more promise than eating. He left his lunch half eaten andwent down to where they had stopped further along the beach.     Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in thevicinity. He's trying to locate it now.     There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to makeyou so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, Ibelieve.     Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I'vediscovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about thatflag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque.     All right, lads. The sooner we get Mr. Forbes's pennant raised and hisclaim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Livelynow!  When the three animals went back to join the rest of their group, thefirst two resumed walking. Purnie followed along.     Well, Benson, you won't have to look far for materials to use for thebase of the flag pole. Look at that rockpile up there.     Can't use them. They're petrified logs. The ones on top are too highto carry down, and if we move those on the bottom, the whole works willslide down on top of us.     Well—that's your problem. Just remember, I want this flag pole to besolid. It's got to stand at least—     Don't worry, Forbes, we'll get your monument erected. What's this withthe flag? There must be more to staking a claim than just putting up aflag.     There is, there is. Much more. I've taken care of all requirements setdown by law to make my claim. But the flag? Well, you might say itrepresents an empire, Benson. The Forbes Empire. On each of my flagsis the word FORBES, a symbol of development and progress. Call itsentiment if you will.     Don't worry, I won't. I've seen real-estate flags before.     Damn it all, will you stop referring to this as a real-estate deal?What I'm doing is big, man. Big! This is pioneering.     Of course. And if I'm not mistaken, you've set up a neat little escrowsystem so that you not only own the planets, but you will virtually ownthe people who are foolish enough to buy land on them.     I could have your hide for talking to me like this. Damn you, man!It's people like me who pay your way. It's people like me who give yourspace ships some place to go. It's people like me who pour good moneyinto a chancey job like this, so that people like you can get away fromthirteen-story tenement houses. Did you ever think of that?     I imagine you'll triple your money in six months.     When they stopped, Purnie stopped. At first he had been interested inthe strange sounds they were making, but as he grew used to them, andas they in turn ignored his presence, he hopped alongside chattering tohimself, content to be in their company.     He heard more of these sounds coming from behind, and he turned to seethe remainder of the group running toward them.     Captain Benson! Here's the flag, sir. And here's Miles with thescintillometer. He says the radiation's getting stronger over this way!     How about that, Miles?     This thing's going wild, Captain. It's almost off scale.  Purnie saw one of the animals hovering around him with a little box.Thankful for the attention, he stood on his head. Can you do this?He was overjoyed at the reaction. They all started making wonderfulnoises, and he felt most satisfied.     Stand back, Captain! Here's the source right here! This littlechuck-walla's hotter than a plutonium pile!     Let me see that, Miles. Well, I'll be damned! Now what do yousuppose—     By now they had formed a widening circle around him, and he was hardput to think of an encore. He gambled on trying a brand new trick: hestood on one leg.     Benson, I must have that animal! Put him in a box.     Now wait a minute, Forbes. Universal Law forbids—     This is my planet and I am the law. Put him in a box!     With my crew as witness, I officially protest—     Good God, what a specimen to take back. Radio-active animals! Why,they can reproduce themselves, of course! There must be thousands ofthese creatures around here someplace. And to think of those damn foolson Earth with their plutonium piles! Hah! Now I'll have investors      flocking     to me. How about it, Benson—does pioneering pay off ordoesn't it?     Not so fast. Since this little fellow is radioactive, there may begreat danger to the crew—     Now look here! You had planned to put      mineral     specimens in a leadbox, so what's the difference? Put him in a box.     He'll die.     I have you under contract, Benson! You are responsible to me, andwhat's more, you are on my property. Put him in a box.     Purnie was tired. First the time-stopping, then this. While this dayhad brought more fun and excitement than he could have hoped for,the strain was beginning to tell. He lay in the center of the circlehappily exhausted, hoping that his friends would show him some of theirown tricks.     He didn't have to wait long. The animals forming the circle steppedback and made way for two others who came through carrying a box.Purnie sat up to watch the show.     Hell, Captain, why don't I just pick him up? Looks like he has nointention of running away.     Better not, Cabot. Even though you're shielded, no telling whatpowers the little fella has. Play it safe and use the rope.     I swear he knows what we're saying. Look at those eyes.     All right, careful now with that line.     Come on, baby. Here you go. That's a boy!  Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation.     He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself.     He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun.     Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some?     The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs.     Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun!     There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up.     The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time.     The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand.     As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position.     Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals.     Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty.  When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing.     My God, he's—he's gone.     Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him?     The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone.     Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he?     Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him?     Well, I'll be damned!     Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way.     Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun!     Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria.     The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand.     I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout.     The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf.  Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath.     Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me?     I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown!     Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving?     The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water—     Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head.     Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop.     Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore.     It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke.     Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him.     At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim.     He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time.     Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below.     Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened.     His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe.     He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no      urging     time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other.     Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand....  His friends came to life. The first one he saw stir lay on his stomachand pounded his fists on the beach. A flood of relief settled overPurnie as sounds came from the animal.     What's the matter with me? Somebody tell me! Am I nuts? Miles! Schick!What's happening?     I'm coming, Rhodes! Heaven help us, man—I saw it, too. We're eithercrazy or those damn logs are alive!     It's not the logs. How about us? How'd we get out of the water? Miles,we're both cracking.     I'm telling you, man, it's the logs, or rocks or whatever they are.I was looking right at them. First they're on top of me, then they'repiled up over there!     Damnit, the logs didn't pick us up out of the ocean, did they? CaptainBenson!     Are you men all right?     Yes sir, but—     Who saw exactly what happened?     I'm afraid we're not seeing right, Captain. Those logs—     I know, I know. Now get hold of yourselves. We've got to round up theothers and get out of here while time is on our side.     But what happened, Captain?     Hell, Rhodes, don't you think I'd like to know? Those logs are so oldthey're petrified. The whole bunch of us couldn't lift one. It wouldtake super-human energy to move one of those things.     I haven't seen anything super-human. Those ostriches down there are sobusy eating seaweed—     All right, let's bear a hand here with the others. Some of them can'twalk. Where's Forbes?     He's sitting down there in the water, Captain, crying like a baby. Orlaughing. I can't tell which.     We'll have to get him. Miles, Schick, come along. Forbes! You allright?     Ho-ho-ho! Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen planets, Benson, and they'lldo anything I say! This one's got a mind of its own. Did you see thatlittle trick with the rocks? Ho-ho!     See if you can find his gun, Schick; he'll either kill himself or oneof us. Tie his hands and take him back to the ship. We'll be alongshortly.     Hah-hah-hah! Seventeen! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsiblefor this. Hee-hee!  Purnie opened his eyes as consciousness returned. Had his friends gone?     He pulled himself along on his stomach to a position between two rocks,where he could see without being seen. By the light of the twin moonshe saw that they were leaving, marching away in groups of two andthree, the weak helping the weaker. As they disappeared around thecurving shoreline, the voices of the last two, bringing up the rear farbehind the others, fell faintly on his ears over the sound of the surf.     Is it possible that we're all crazy, Captain?     It's possible, but we're not.     I wish I could be sure.     See Forbes up ahead there? What do you think of him?     I still can't believe it.     He'll never be the same.     Tell me something. What was the most unusual thing you noticed backthere?     You must be kidding, sir. Why, the way those logs were off of ussuddenly—     Yes, of course. But I mean beside that.     Well, I guess I was kind of busy. You know, scared and mixed up.     But didn't you notice our little pop-eyed friend?     Oh, him. I'm afraid not, Captain. I—I guess I was thinking mostly ofmyself.     Hmmm. If I could only be sure I saw him. If only someone else saw himtoo.     I'm afraid I don't follow you, sir.     Well, damn it all, you know that Forbes took a pot shot at him. Gothim in the leg. That being the case, why would the fuzzy little devilcome back to his tormentors—back to us—when we were trapped underthose logs?     Well, I guess as long as we were trapped, he figured we couldn't dohim any more harm.... I'm sorry, that was a stupid answer. I guess I'mstill a little shaky.     Forget it. Look, you go ahead to the ship and make ready for take-off.I'll join you in a few minutes. I think I'll go back and look around.You know. Make sure we haven't left anyone.     No need to do that. They're all ahead of us. I've checked.     That's my responsibility, Cabot, not yours. Now go on.  As Purnie lay gathering strength for the long trek home, he saw throughglazed eyes one of the animals coming back along the beach. When it wasnearly directly below him, he could hear it making sounds that by nowhad become familiar.     Where are you?     Purnie paid little attention to the antics of his friend; he wasbeyond understanding. He wondered what they would say at home when hereturned.     We've made a terrible mistake. We— The sounds faded in and out onPurnie's ears as the creature turned slowly and called in differentdirections. He watched the animal walk over to the pile of scatteredlogs and peer around and under them.     If you're hurt I'd like to help! The twin moons were high in the skynow, and where their light broke through the swirling clouds a doubleshadow was cast around the animal. With foggy awareness, Purnie watchedthe creature shake its head slowly, then walk away in the direction ofthe others.     Purnie's eyes stared, without seeing, at the panorama before him. Thebeach was deserted now, and his gaze was transfixed on a shimmeringwhite square floating on the ocean. Across it, the last thing Purnieever saw, was emblazoned the word FORBES.   ","The unnamed planet where the story takes place is breathtaking, colorful, and lively with all sorts of fauna and flora unknown to Earth. There is blue moss on the forest floors, bubbling streams, and orange pools of water. There are also bees, purple clouds, petrified logs by the ocean, and three-legged animals who eat seaweed. The orange ocean waves crash against the sand, and two moons hover in the sky. Humans have never touched this land, so Purnie is surprised that he has never heard his brothers or parents talk about the two-legged animals who make strange sounds. He does not understand that they have just landed their ship here and are experiencing the land for the first time. "
"What is Purnie's role in the story? </s>     BEACH SCENE     By MARSHALL KING     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1960.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         It was a fine day at the beach       for Purnie's game—but his new       friends played very rough!        Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could runno more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped withdelight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see theocean at last.     When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. Nosign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutinyof brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from goingto the ocean. This was the moment to stop time.     On your mark! he shouted to the rippling stream and its orangewhirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending thatsome object might try to get a head start. Get set! he challengedthe thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. Stop!He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purpleclouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonderhow tall the trees really were.     His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpoolshad stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and theheavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls andnimbi.     With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purniehurried toward the ocean.     If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much tosee and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seenthe wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from hisbrothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he couldremember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though hewere already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs toplay on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comicalthree-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and manykinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean.     He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved thisday just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't thishis fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, andeven for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies andwouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five!     I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see! As he passed one ofthe many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he tookcare not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. WhenPurnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures hemet—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that assoon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off.  When he smelled an acid sweetness that told him the ocean was not faroff, his pulse quickened in anticipation. Rather than spoil what wasclearly going to be a perfect day, he chose to ignore the fact that hehad been forbidden to use time-stopping as a convenience for journeyingfar from home. He chose to ignore the oft-repeated statement that anhour of time-stopping consumed more energy than a week of foot-racing.He chose to ignore the negative maxim that small children who stoptime without an adult being present, may not live to regret it.     He chose, instead, to picture the beaming praise of family and friendswhen they learned of his brave journey.     The journey was long, the clock stood still. He stopped long enough togather some fruit that grew along the path. It would serve as his lunchduring this day of promise. With it under his arm he bounded along adozen more steps, then stopped abruptly in his tracks.     He found himself atop a rocky knoll, overlooking the mighty sea!     He was so overpowered by the vista before him that his Hurrah! cameout as a weak squeak. The ocean lay at the ready, its stilled wavesawaiting his command to resume their tidal sweep. The breakers alongthe shoreline hung in varying stages of disarray, some having alreadyexploded into towering white spray while others were poised in smoothorange curls waiting to start that action.     And there were new friends everywhere! Overhead, a flock of spora werefrozen in a steep glide, preparatory to a beach landing. Purnie hadheard of these playful creatures many times. Today, with his brothersin school, he would have the pets all to himself. Further down thebeach was a pair of two-legged animals poised in mid-step, facingthe spot where Purnie now stood. Some distance behind them were eightmore, each of whom were motionless in a curious pose of interruptedanimation. And down in the water, where the ocean ran itself into thinnothingness upon the sand, he saw standing here and there the comicaltripons, those three-legged marine buffoons who made handsome careersof munching seaweed.     Hi there! Purnie called. When he got no reaction, he remembered thathe himself was dead to the living world: he was still in a zone oftime-stopping, on the inside looking out. For him, the world wouldcontinue to be a tableau of mannikins until he resumed time.  Hi there! he called again; but now his mental attitude was that heexpected time to resume. It did! Immediately he was surrounded byactivity. He heard the roar of the crashing orange breakers, he tastedthe dew of acid that floated from the spray, and he saw his new friendscontinue the actions which he had stopped while back in the forest.     He knew, too, that at this moment, in the forest, the little brookpicked up its flow where it had left off, the purple clouds resumedtheir leeward journey up the valley, and the bees continued theirpollen-gathering without having missed a single stroke of theirdelicate wings. The brook, the clouds, and the insects had not beeninterrupted in the least; their respective tasks had been performedwith continuing sureness. It was time itself that Purnie had stopped,not the world around him.     He scampered around the rockpile and down the sandy cliff to meet thetripons who, to him, had just come to life.     I can stand on my head! He set down his lunch and balanced himselfbottoms-up while his legs pawed the air in an effort to hold him inposition. He knew it was probably the worst head-stand he had everdone, for he felt weak and dizzy. Already time-stopping had left itsmark on his strength. But his spirits ran on unchecked.     The tripon thought Purnie's feat was superb. It stopped munching longenough to give him a salutory wag of its rump before returning to itsrepast.     Purnie ran from pillar to post, trying to see and do everything atonce. He looked around to greet the flock of spora, but they had glidedto a spot further along the shore. Then, bouncing up to the first ofthe two-legged animals, he started to burst forth with his habitual Hithere! when he heard them making sounds of their own.     ... will be no limit to my operations now, Benson. This planet makesseventeen. Seventeen planets I can claim as my own!     My, my. Seventeen planets. And tell me, Forbes, just what the hell areyou going to do with them—mount them on the wall of your den back inSan Diego?     Hi there, wanna play? Purnie's invitation got nothing more thanstartled glance from the animals who quickly returned to their chatter.He scampered up the beach, picked up his lunch, and ran back to them,tagging along at their heels. I've got my lunch, want some?     Benson, you'd better tell your men back there to stop gawking atthe scenery and get to work. Time is money. I didn't pay for thisexpedition just to give your flunkies a vacation.  The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself intheir heels.     All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it'syour money that put us here; it's your expedition all the way. But youhired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's justwhat I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safetyof the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home.     Precisely. And since you're responsible, get 'em working. Tell 'em tobring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in theocean with a three-legged ostrich!     Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twentyminutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to findwild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint littlecreatures that run up to us like we're long-lost brothers. Let the menlook around a minute or two before we stake out your claim.     Bah! Bunch of damn children.     As Purnie followed along, a leg shot out at him and missed. Benson,will you get this bug-eyed kangaroo away from me! Purnie shrieked withjoy at this new frolic and promptly stood on his head. In this positionhe got an upside down view of them walking away.     He gave up trying to stay with them. Why did they move so fast, anyway?What was the hurry? As he sat down and began eating his lunch, threemore of the creatures came along making excited noises, apparentlytrying to catch up to the first two. As they passed him, he held outhis lunch. Want some? No response.     Playing held more promise than eating. He left his lunch half eaten andwent down to where they had stopped further along the beach.     Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in thevicinity. He's trying to locate it now.     There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to makeyou so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, Ibelieve.     Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I'vediscovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about thatflag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque.     All right, lads. The sooner we get Mr. Forbes's pennant raised and hisclaim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Livelynow!  When the three animals went back to join the rest of their group, thefirst two resumed walking. Purnie followed along.     Well, Benson, you won't have to look far for materials to use for thebase of the flag pole. Look at that rockpile up there.     Can't use them. They're petrified logs. The ones on top are too highto carry down, and if we move those on the bottom, the whole works willslide down on top of us.     Well—that's your problem. Just remember, I want this flag pole to besolid. It's got to stand at least—     Don't worry, Forbes, we'll get your monument erected. What's this withthe flag? There must be more to staking a claim than just putting up aflag.     There is, there is. Much more. I've taken care of all requirements setdown by law to make my claim. But the flag? Well, you might say itrepresents an empire, Benson. The Forbes Empire. On each of my flagsis the word FORBES, a symbol of development and progress. Call itsentiment if you will.     Don't worry, I won't. I've seen real-estate flags before.     Damn it all, will you stop referring to this as a real-estate deal?What I'm doing is big, man. Big! This is pioneering.     Of course. And if I'm not mistaken, you've set up a neat little escrowsystem so that you not only own the planets, but you will virtually ownthe people who are foolish enough to buy land on them.     I could have your hide for talking to me like this. Damn you, man!It's people like me who pay your way. It's people like me who give yourspace ships some place to go. It's people like me who pour good moneyinto a chancey job like this, so that people like you can get away fromthirteen-story tenement houses. Did you ever think of that?     I imagine you'll triple your money in six months.     When they stopped, Purnie stopped. At first he had been interested inthe strange sounds they were making, but as he grew used to them, andas they in turn ignored his presence, he hopped alongside chattering tohimself, content to be in their company.     He heard more of these sounds coming from behind, and he turned to seethe remainder of the group running toward them.     Captain Benson! Here's the flag, sir. And here's Miles with thescintillometer. He says the radiation's getting stronger over this way!     How about that, Miles?     This thing's going wild, Captain. It's almost off scale.  Purnie saw one of the animals hovering around him with a little box.Thankful for the attention, he stood on his head. Can you do this?He was overjoyed at the reaction. They all started making wonderfulnoises, and he felt most satisfied.     Stand back, Captain! Here's the source right here! This littlechuck-walla's hotter than a plutonium pile!     Let me see that, Miles. Well, I'll be damned! Now what do yousuppose—     By now they had formed a widening circle around him, and he was hardput to think of an encore. He gambled on trying a brand new trick: hestood on one leg.     Benson, I must have that animal! Put him in a box.     Now wait a minute, Forbes. Universal Law forbids—     This is my planet and I am the law. Put him in a box!     With my crew as witness, I officially protest—     Good God, what a specimen to take back. Radio-active animals! Why,they can reproduce themselves, of course! There must be thousands ofthese creatures around here someplace. And to think of those damn foolson Earth with their plutonium piles! Hah! Now I'll have investors      flocking     to me. How about it, Benson—does pioneering pay off ordoesn't it?     Not so fast. Since this little fellow is radioactive, there may begreat danger to the crew—     Now look here! You had planned to put      mineral     specimens in a leadbox, so what's the difference? Put him in a box.     He'll die.     I have you under contract, Benson! You are responsible to me, andwhat's more, you are on my property. Put him in a box.     Purnie was tired. First the time-stopping, then this. While this dayhad brought more fun and excitement than he could have hoped for,the strain was beginning to tell. He lay in the center of the circlehappily exhausted, hoping that his friends would show him some of theirown tricks.     He didn't have to wait long. The animals forming the circle steppedback and made way for two others who came through carrying a box.Purnie sat up to watch the show.     Hell, Captain, why don't I just pick him up? Looks like he has nointention of running away.     Better not, Cabot. Even though you're shielded, no telling whatpowers the little fella has. Play it safe and use the rope.     I swear he knows what we're saying. Look at those eyes.     All right, careful now with that line.     Come on, baby. Here you go. That's a boy!  Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation.     He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself.     He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun.     Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some?     The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs.     Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun!     There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up.     The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time.     The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand.     As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position.     Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals.     Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty.  When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing.     My God, he's—he's gone.     Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him?     The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone.     Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he?     Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him?     Well, I'll be damned!     Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way.     Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun!     Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria.     The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand.     I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout.     The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf.  Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath.     Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me?     I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown!     Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving?     The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water—     Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head.     Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop.     Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore.     It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke.     Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him.     At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim.     He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time.     Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below.     Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened.     His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe.     He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no      urging     time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other.     Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand....  His friends came to life. The first one he saw stir lay on his stomachand pounded his fists on the beach. A flood of relief settled overPurnie as sounds came from the animal.     What's the matter with me? Somebody tell me! Am I nuts? Miles! Schick!What's happening?     I'm coming, Rhodes! Heaven help us, man—I saw it, too. We're eithercrazy or those damn logs are alive!     It's not the logs. How about us? How'd we get out of the water? Miles,we're both cracking.     I'm telling you, man, it's the logs, or rocks or whatever they are.I was looking right at them. First they're on top of me, then they'repiled up over there!     Damnit, the logs didn't pick us up out of the ocean, did they? CaptainBenson!     Are you men all right?     Yes sir, but—     Who saw exactly what happened?     I'm afraid we're not seeing right, Captain. Those logs—     I know, I know. Now get hold of yourselves. We've got to round up theothers and get out of here while time is on our side.     But what happened, Captain?     Hell, Rhodes, don't you think I'd like to know? Those logs are so oldthey're petrified. The whole bunch of us couldn't lift one. It wouldtake super-human energy to move one of those things.     I haven't seen anything super-human. Those ostriches down there are sobusy eating seaweed—     All right, let's bear a hand here with the others. Some of them can'twalk. Where's Forbes?     He's sitting down there in the water, Captain, crying like a baby. Orlaughing. I can't tell which.     We'll have to get him. Miles, Schick, come along. Forbes! You allright?     Ho-ho-ho! Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen planets, Benson, and they'lldo anything I say! This one's got a mind of its own. Did you see thatlittle trick with the rocks? Ho-ho!     See if you can find his gun, Schick; he'll either kill himself or oneof us. Tie his hands and take him back to the ship. We'll be alongshortly.     Hah-hah-hah! Seventeen! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsiblefor this. Hee-hee!  Purnie opened his eyes as consciousness returned. Had his friends gone?     He pulled himself along on his stomach to a position between two rocks,where he could see without being seen. By the light of the twin moonshe saw that they were leaving, marching away in groups of two andthree, the weak helping the weaker. As they disappeared around thecurving shoreline, the voices of the last two, bringing up the rear farbehind the others, fell faintly on his ears over the sound of the surf.     Is it possible that we're all crazy, Captain?     It's possible, but we're not.     I wish I could be sure.     See Forbes up ahead there? What do you think of him?     I still can't believe it.     He'll never be the same.     Tell me something. What was the most unusual thing you noticed backthere?     You must be kidding, sir. Why, the way those logs were off of ussuddenly—     Yes, of course. But I mean beside that.     Well, I guess I was kind of busy. You know, scared and mixed up.     But didn't you notice our little pop-eyed friend?     Oh, him. I'm afraid not, Captain. I—I guess I was thinking mostly ofmyself.     Hmmm. If I could only be sure I saw him. If only someone else saw himtoo.     I'm afraid I don't follow you, sir.     Well, damn it all, you know that Forbes took a pot shot at him. Gothim in the leg. That being the case, why would the fuzzy little devilcome back to his tormentors—back to us—when we were trapped underthose logs?     Well, I guess as long as we were trapped, he figured we couldn't dohim any more harm.... I'm sorry, that was a stupid answer. I guess I'mstill a little shaky.     Forget it. Look, you go ahead to the ship and make ready for take-off.I'll join you in a few minutes. I think I'll go back and look around.You know. Make sure we haven't left anyone.     No need to do that. They're all ahead of us. I've checked.     That's my responsibility, Cabot, not yours. Now go on.  As Purnie lay gathering strength for the long trek home, he saw throughglazed eyes one of the animals coming back along the beach. When it wasnearly directly below him, he could hear it making sounds that by nowhad become familiar.     Where are you?     Purnie paid little attention to the antics of his friend; he wasbeyond understanding. He wondered what they would say at home when hereturned.     We've made a terrible mistake. We— The sounds faded in and out onPurnie's ears as the creature turned slowly and called in differentdirections. He watched the animal walk over to the pile of scatteredlogs and peer around and under them.     If you're hurt I'd like to help! The twin moons were high in the skynow, and where their light broke through the swirling clouds a doubleshadow was cast around the animal. With foggy awareness, Purnie watchedthe creature shake its head slowly, then walk away in the direction ofthe others.     Purnie's eyes stared, without seeing, at the panorama before him. Thebeach was deserted now, and his gaze was transfixed on a shimmeringwhite square floating on the ocean. Across it, the last thing Purnieever saw, was emblazoned the word FORBES.   ","Although Purnie is an animal and not a human, he plays a very important role in the story. Through his understanding of the world, we learn that he has never felt real fear before. This makes sense because although he has been warned about stopping time, and he has explicitly been told that it could lead to his death, he decides to go ahead with his birthday plan anyway and stop time and see the ocean. When the humans throw a noose at him in an attempt to capture him, he is shocked to find that his body instinctively runs from it. He doesn’t really experience the fear because he wants to play with them and has no interest in leaving the fun, but his natural impulses as an animal save his life at this moment. Humans have never before visited his planet, so this means that no other animal Purnie has come in contact with has made his body react this way. Purnie also demonstrates how evil Forbes is for trying to capture and kill such an innocent and caring animal. When Benson reminds Forbes that it’s illegal to shoot or capture Purnie, Forbes does not care at all. He wants the animal that is emitting radiation because he believes he can make a profit off of him. The value of Purnie’s life means nothing to him. However, as soon as Purnie feels as though his “friends” are in danger, he is willing to risk his own life by stopping time to help them. Purnie feels guilt, regret, and sorrow when he accidentally causes the petrified logs to fall on the men, yet Forbes has none of those feelings when he shoots Purnie in the leg and causes him pain. "
"What causes Forbes to go mad? </s>     BEACH SCENE     By MARSHALL KING     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1960.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         It was a fine day at the beach       for Purnie's game—but his new       friends played very rough!        Purnie ran laughing and shouting through the forest until he could runno more. He fell headlong into a patch of blue moss and whooped withdelight in having this day free for exploring. He was free to see theocean at last.     When he had caught his breath, he looked back through the forest. Nosign of the village; he had left it far behind. Safe from the scrutinyof brothers and parents, there was nothing now to stop him from goingto the ocean. This was the moment to stop time.     On your mark! he shouted to the rippling stream and its orangewhirlpools. He glanced furtively from side to side, pretending thatsome object might try to get a head start. Get set! he challengedthe thin-winged bees that hovered over the abundant foliage. Stop!He shrieked this command upward toward the dense, low-hanging purpleclouds that perennially raced across the treetops, making one wonderhow tall the trees really were.     His eyes took quick inventory. It was exactly as he knew it would be:the milky-orange stream had become motionless and its minute whirlpoolshad stopped whirling; a nearby bee hung suspended over a paka plant,its transparent wings frozen in position for a downward stroke; and theheavy purple fluid overhead held fast in its manufacture of whorls andnimbi.     With everything around him in a state of perfect tableau, Purniehurried toward the ocean.     If only the days weren't so short! he thought. There was so much tosee and so little time. It seemed that everyone except him had seenthe wonders of the beach country. The stories he had heard from hisbrothers and their friends had taunted him for as long as he couldremember. So many times had he heard these thrilling tales that now,as he ran along, he could clearly picture the wonderland as though hewere already there. There would be a rockslide of petrified logs toplay on, the ocean itself with waves higher than a house, the comicalthree-legged tripons who never stopped munching on seaweed, and manykinds of other wonderful creatures found only at the ocean.     He bounced through the forest as though the world was reserved thisday just for him. And who could say it wasn't? he thought. Wasn't thishis fifth birthday? He ran along feeling sorry for four-year-olds, andeven for those who were only four and a half, for they were babies andwouldn't dare try slipping away to the ocean alone. But five!     I'll set you free, Mr. Bee—just wait and see! As he passed one ofthe many motionless pollen-gathering insects he met on the way, he tookcare not to brush against it or disturb its interrupted task. WhenPurnie had stopped time, the bees—like all the other creatures hemet—had been arrested in their native activities, and he knew that assoon as he resumed time, everything would pick up where it had left off.  When he smelled an acid sweetness that told him the ocean was not faroff, his pulse quickened in anticipation. Rather than spoil what wasclearly going to be a perfect day, he chose to ignore the fact that hehad been forbidden to use time-stopping as a convenience for journeyingfar from home. He chose to ignore the oft-repeated statement that anhour of time-stopping consumed more energy than a week of foot-racing.He chose to ignore the negative maxim that small children who stoptime without an adult being present, may not live to regret it.     He chose, instead, to picture the beaming praise of family and friendswhen they learned of his brave journey.     The journey was long, the clock stood still. He stopped long enough togather some fruit that grew along the path. It would serve as his lunchduring this day of promise. With it under his arm he bounded along adozen more steps, then stopped abruptly in his tracks.     He found himself atop a rocky knoll, overlooking the mighty sea!     He was so overpowered by the vista before him that his Hurrah! cameout as a weak squeak. The ocean lay at the ready, its stilled wavesawaiting his command to resume their tidal sweep. The breakers alongthe shoreline hung in varying stages of disarray, some having alreadyexploded into towering white spray while others were poised in smoothorange curls waiting to start that action.     And there were new friends everywhere! Overhead, a flock of spora werefrozen in a steep glide, preparatory to a beach landing. Purnie hadheard of these playful creatures many times. Today, with his brothersin school, he would have the pets all to himself. Further down thebeach was a pair of two-legged animals poised in mid-step, facingthe spot where Purnie now stood. Some distance behind them were eightmore, each of whom were motionless in a curious pose of interruptedanimation. And down in the water, where the ocean ran itself into thinnothingness upon the sand, he saw standing here and there the comicaltripons, those three-legged marine buffoons who made handsome careersof munching seaweed.     Hi there! Purnie called. When he got no reaction, he remembered thathe himself was dead to the living world: he was still in a zone oftime-stopping, on the inside looking out. For him, the world wouldcontinue to be a tableau of mannikins until he resumed time.  Hi there! he called again; but now his mental attitude was that heexpected time to resume. It did! Immediately he was surrounded byactivity. He heard the roar of the crashing orange breakers, he tastedthe dew of acid that floated from the spray, and he saw his new friendscontinue the actions which he had stopped while back in the forest.     He knew, too, that at this moment, in the forest, the little brookpicked up its flow where it had left off, the purple clouds resumedtheir leeward journey up the valley, and the bees continued theirpollen-gathering without having missed a single stroke of theirdelicate wings. The brook, the clouds, and the insects had not beeninterrupted in the least; their respective tasks had been performedwith continuing sureness. It was time itself that Purnie had stopped,not the world around him.     He scampered around the rockpile and down the sandy cliff to meet thetripons who, to him, had just come to life.     I can stand on my head! He set down his lunch and balanced himselfbottoms-up while his legs pawed the air in an effort to hold him inposition. He knew it was probably the worst head-stand he had everdone, for he felt weak and dizzy. Already time-stopping had left itsmark on his strength. But his spirits ran on unchecked.     The tripon thought Purnie's feat was superb. It stopped munching longenough to give him a salutory wag of its rump before returning to itsrepast.     Purnie ran from pillar to post, trying to see and do everything atonce. He looked around to greet the flock of spora, but they had glidedto a spot further along the shore. Then, bouncing up to the first ofthe two-legged animals, he started to burst forth with his habitual Hithere! when he heard them making sounds of their own.     ... will be no limit to my operations now, Benson. This planet makesseventeen. Seventeen planets I can claim as my own!     My, my. Seventeen planets. And tell me, Forbes, just what the hell areyou going to do with them—mount them on the wall of your den back inSan Diego?     Hi there, wanna play? Purnie's invitation got nothing more thanstartled glance from the animals who quickly returned to their chatter.He scampered up the beach, picked up his lunch, and ran back to them,tagging along at their heels. I've got my lunch, want some?     Benson, you'd better tell your men back there to stop gawking atthe scenery and get to work. Time is money. I didn't pay for thisexpedition just to give your flunkies a vacation.  The animals stopped so suddenly that Purnie nearly tangled himself intheir heels.     All right, Forbes, just hold it a minute. Listen to me. Sure, it'syour money that put us here; it's your expedition all the way. But youhired me to get you here with the best crew on earth, and that's justwhat I've done. My job isn't over yet. I'm responsible for the safetyof the men while we're here, and for the safe trip home.     Precisely. And since you're responsible, get 'em working. Tell 'em tobring along the flag. Look at the damn fools back there, playing in theocean with a three-legged ostrich!     Good God, man, aren't you human? We've only been on this planet twentyminutes! Naturally they want to look around. They half expected to findwild animals or worse, and here we are surrounded by quaint littlecreatures that run up to us like we're long-lost brothers. Let the menlook around a minute or two before we stake out your claim.     Bah! Bunch of damn children.     As Purnie followed along, a leg shot out at him and missed. Benson,will you get this bug-eyed kangaroo away from me! Purnie shrieked withjoy at this new frolic and promptly stood on his head. In this positionhe got an upside down view of them walking away.     He gave up trying to stay with them. Why did they move so fast, anyway?What was the hurry? As he sat down and began eating his lunch, threemore of the creatures came along making excited noises, apparentlytrying to catch up to the first two. As they passed him, he held outhis lunch. Want some? No response.     Playing held more promise than eating. He left his lunch half eaten andwent down to where they had stopped further along the beach.     Captain Benson, sir! Miles has detected strong radiation in thevicinity. He's trying to locate it now.     There you are, Forbes. Your new piece of real estate is going to makeyou so rich that you can buy your next planet. That'll make eighteen, Ibelieve.     Radiation, bah! We've found low-grade ore on every planet I'vediscovered so far, and this one'll be no different. Now how about thatflag? Let's get it up, Benson. And the cornerstone, and the plaque.     All right, lads. The sooner we get Mr. Forbes's pennant raised and hisclaim staked out, the sooner we can take time to look around. Livelynow!  When the three animals went back to join the rest of their group, thefirst two resumed walking. Purnie followed along.     Well, Benson, you won't have to look far for materials to use for thebase of the flag pole. Look at that rockpile up there.     Can't use them. They're petrified logs. The ones on top are too highto carry down, and if we move those on the bottom, the whole works willslide down on top of us.     Well—that's your problem. Just remember, I want this flag pole to besolid. It's got to stand at least—     Don't worry, Forbes, we'll get your monument erected. What's this withthe flag? There must be more to staking a claim than just putting up aflag.     There is, there is. Much more. I've taken care of all requirements setdown by law to make my claim. But the flag? Well, you might say itrepresents an empire, Benson. The Forbes Empire. On each of my flagsis the word FORBES, a symbol of development and progress. Call itsentiment if you will.     Don't worry, I won't. I've seen real-estate flags before.     Damn it all, will you stop referring to this as a real-estate deal?What I'm doing is big, man. Big! This is pioneering.     Of course. And if I'm not mistaken, you've set up a neat little escrowsystem so that you not only own the planets, but you will virtually ownthe people who are foolish enough to buy land on them.     I could have your hide for talking to me like this. Damn you, man!It's people like me who pay your way. It's people like me who give yourspace ships some place to go. It's people like me who pour good moneyinto a chancey job like this, so that people like you can get away fromthirteen-story tenement houses. Did you ever think of that?     I imagine you'll triple your money in six months.     When they stopped, Purnie stopped. At first he had been interested inthe strange sounds they were making, but as he grew used to them, andas they in turn ignored his presence, he hopped alongside chattering tohimself, content to be in their company.     He heard more of these sounds coming from behind, and he turned to seethe remainder of the group running toward them.     Captain Benson! Here's the flag, sir. And here's Miles with thescintillometer. He says the radiation's getting stronger over this way!     How about that, Miles?     This thing's going wild, Captain. It's almost off scale.  Purnie saw one of the animals hovering around him with a little box.Thankful for the attention, he stood on his head. Can you do this?He was overjoyed at the reaction. They all started making wonderfulnoises, and he felt most satisfied.     Stand back, Captain! Here's the source right here! This littlechuck-walla's hotter than a plutonium pile!     Let me see that, Miles. Well, I'll be damned! Now what do yousuppose—     By now they had formed a widening circle around him, and he was hardput to think of an encore. He gambled on trying a brand new trick: hestood on one leg.     Benson, I must have that animal! Put him in a box.     Now wait a minute, Forbes. Universal Law forbids—     This is my planet and I am the law. Put him in a box!     With my crew as witness, I officially protest—     Good God, what a specimen to take back. Radio-active animals! Why,they can reproduce themselves, of course! There must be thousands ofthese creatures around here someplace. And to think of those damn foolson Earth with their plutonium piles! Hah! Now I'll have investors      flocking     to me. How about it, Benson—does pioneering pay off ordoesn't it?     Not so fast. Since this little fellow is radioactive, there may begreat danger to the crew—     Now look here! You had planned to put      mineral     specimens in a leadbox, so what's the difference? Put him in a box.     He'll die.     I have you under contract, Benson! You are responsible to me, andwhat's more, you are on my property. Put him in a box.     Purnie was tired. First the time-stopping, then this. While this dayhad brought more fun and excitement than he could have hoped for,the strain was beginning to tell. He lay in the center of the circlehappily exhausted, hoping that his friends would show him some of theirown tricks.     He didn't have to wait long. The animals forming the circle steppedback and made way for two others who came through carrying a box.Purnie sat up to watch the show.     Hell, Captain, why don't I just pick him up? Looks like he has nointention of running away.     Better not, Cabot. Even though you're shielded, no telling whatpowers the little fella has. Play it safe and use the rope.     I swear he knows what we're saying. Look at those eyes.     All right, careful now with that line.     Come on, baby. Here you go. That's a boy!  Purnie took in these sounds with perplexed concern. He sensed theimploring quality of the creature with the rope, but he didn't knowwhat he was supposed to do. He cocked his head to one side as hewiggled in anticipation.     He saw the noose spinning down toward his head, and, before he knewit, he had scooted out of the circle and up the sandy beach. He wassurprised at himself for running away. Why had he done it? He wondered.Never before had he felt this fleeting twinge that made him want toprotect himself.     He watched the animals huddle around the box on the beach, theirattention apparently diverted to something else. He wished now that hehad not run away; he felt he had lost his chance to join in their fun.     Wait! He ran over to his half-eaten lunch, picked it up, and ran backinto the little crowd. I've got my lunch, want some?     The party came to life once more. His friends ran this way and that,and at last Purnie knew that the idea was to get him into the box.He picked up the spirit of the tease, and deliberately ran within afew feet of the lead box, then, just as the nearest pursuer was aboutto push him in, he sidestepped onto safer ground. Then he heard adeafening roar and felt a warm, wet sting in one of his legs.     Forbes, you fool! Put away that gun!     There you are, boys. It's all in knowing how. Just winged him, that'sall. Now pick him up.     The pang in his leg was nothing: Purnie's misery lay in his confusion.What had he done wrong? When he saw the noose spinning toward himagain, he involuntarily stopped time. He knew better than to use thispower carelessly, but his action now was reflex. In that split secondfollowing the sharp sting in his leg, his mind had grasped in alldirections to find an acceptable course of action. Finding none, it hadordered the stoppage of time.     The scene around him became a tableau once more. The noose hungmotionless over his head while the rest of the rope snaked its way intransverse waves back to one of the two-legged animals. Purnie draggedhimself through the congregation, whimpering from his inability tounderstand.     As he worked his way past one creature after another, he tried at firstto not look them in the eye, for he felt sure he had done somethingwrong. Then he thought that by sneaking a glance at them as he passed,he might see a sign pointing to their purpose. He limped by one who hadin his hand a small shiny object that had been emitting smoke from oneend; the smoke now billowed in lifeless curls about the animal's head.He hobbled by another who held a small box that had previously made ahissing sound whenever Purnie was near. These things told him nothing.Before starting his climb up the knoll, he passed a tripon which, trueto its reputation, was comical even in fright. Startled by the loudexplosion, it had jumped four feet into the air before Purnie hadstopped time. Now it hung there, its beak stuffed with seaweed and itsthree legs drawn up into a squatting position.     Leaving the assorted statues behind, he limped his way up the knoll,torn between leaving and staying. What an odd place, this oceancountry! He wondered why he had not heard more detail about the beachanimals.     Reaching the top of the bluff, he looked down upon his silent friendswith a feeling of deep sorrow. How he wished he were down there playingwith them. But he knew at last that theirs was a game he didn't fitinto. Now there was nothing left but to resume time and start thelong walk home. Even though the short day was nearly over, he knew hedidn't dare use time-stopping to get himself home in nothing flat. Hisfatigued body and clouded mind were strong signals that he had alreadyabused this faculty.  When Purnie started time again, the animal with the noose stood inopen-mouthed disbelief as the rope fell harmlessly to the sand—on thespot where Purnie had been standing.     My God, he's—he's gone.     Then another of the animals, the one with the smoking thing in hishand, ran a few steps toward the noose, stopped and gaped at the rope.All right, you people, what's going on here? Get him in that box. Whatdid you do with him?     The resumption of time meant nothing at all to those on the beach, forto them time had never stopped. The only thing they could be sure ofwas that at one moment there had been a fuzzy creature hopping aroundin front of them, and the next moment he was gone.     Is he invisible, Captain? Where is he?     Up there, Captain! On those rocks. Isn't that him?     Well, I'll be damned!     Benson, I'm holding you personally responsible for this! Now thatyou've botched it up, I'll bring him down my own way.     Just a minute, Forbes, let me think. There's something about thatfuzzy little devil that we should.... Forbes! I warned you about thatgun!     Purnie moved across the top of the rockpile for a last look at hisfriends. His weight on the end of the first log started the slide.Slowly at first, the giant pencils began cascading down the shortdistance to the sand. Purnie fell back onto solid ground, horrified atthe spectacle before him. The agonizing screams of the animals belowfilled him with hysteria.     The boulders caught most of them as they stood ankle-deep in the surf.Others were pinned down on the sand.     I didn't mean it! Purnie screamed. I'm sorry! Can't you hear? Hehopped back and forth near the edge of the rise, torn with panic andshame. Get up! Please get up! He was horrified by the moans reachinghis ears from the beach. You're getting all wet! Did you hear me?Please get up. He was choked with rage and sorrow. How could he havedone this? He wanted his friends to get up and shake themselves off,tell him it was all right. But it was beyond his power to bring itabout.     The lapping tide threatened to cover those in the orange surf.  Purnie worked his way down the hill, imploring them to save themselves.The sounds they made carried a new tone, a desperate foreboding ofdeath.     Rhodes! Cabot! Can you hear me?     I—I can't move, Captain. My leg, it's.... My God, we're going todrown!     Look around you, Cabot. Can you see anyone moving?     The men on the beach are nearly buried, Captain. And the rest of ushere in the water—     Forbes. Can you see Forbes? Maybe he's— His sounds were cut off by awavelet gently rolling over his head.     Purnie could wait no longer. The tides were all but covering one of theanimals, and soon the others would be in the same plight. Disregardingthe consequences, he ordered time to stop.     Wading down into the surf, he worked a log off one victim, then hetugged the animal up to the sand. Through blinding tears, Purnie workedslowly and carefully. He knew there was no hurry—at least, not as faras his friends' safety was concerned. No matter what their conditionof life or death was at this moment, it would stay the same way untilhe started time again. He made his way deeper into the orange liquid,where a raised hand signalled the location of a submerged body. Thehand was clutching a large white banner that was tangled among thelogs. Purnie worked the animal free and pulled it ashore.     It was the one who had been carrying the shiny object that spit smoke.     Scarcely noticing his own injured leg, he ferried one victim afteranother until there were no more in the surf. Up on the beach, hestarted unraveling the logs that pinned down the animals caught there.He removed a log from the lap of one, who then remained in a sittingposition, his face contorted into a frozen mask of agony and shock.Another, with the weight removed, rolled over like an iron statue intoa new position. Purnie whimpered in black misery as he surveyed thechaotic scene before him.     At last he could do no more; he felt consciousness slipping away fromhim.     He instinctively knew that if he lost his senses during a period oftime-stopping, events would pick up where they had left off ... withouthim. For Purnie, this would be death. If he had to lose consciousness,he knew he must first resume time.     Step by step he plodded up the little hill, pausing every now and thento consider if this were the moment to start time before it was toolate. With his energy fast draining away, he reached the top of theknoll, and he turned to look down once more on the group below.     Then he knew how much his mind and body had suffered: when he orderedtime to resume, nothing happened.     His heart sank. He wasn't afraid of death, and he knew that if he diedthe oceans would roll again and his friends would move about. But hewanted to see them safe.     He tried to clear his mind for supreme effort. There was no      urging     time to start. He knew he couldn't persuade it by bits and pieces,first slowly then full ahead. Time either progressed or it didn't. Hehad to take one viewpoint or the other.     Then, without knowing exactly when it happened, his mind tookcommand....  His friends came to life. The first one he saw stir lay on his stomachand pounded his fists on the beach. A flood of relief settled overPurnie as sounds came from the animal.     What's the matter with me? Somebody tell me! Am I nuts? Miles! Schick!What's happening?     I'm coming, Rhodes! Heaven help us, man—I saw it, too. We're eithercrazy or those damn logs are alive!     It's not the logs. How about us? How'd we get out of the water? Miles,we're both cracking.     I'm telling you, man, it's the logs, or rocks or whatever they are.I was looking right at them. First they're on top of me, then they'repiled up over there!     Damnit, the logs didn't pick us up out of the ocean, did they? CaptainBenson!     Are you men all right?     Yes sir, but—     Who saw exactly what happened?     I'm afraid we're not seeing right, Captain. Those logs—     I know, I know. Now get hold of yourselves. We've got to round up theothers and get out of here while time is on our side.     But what happened, Captain?     Hell, Rhodes, don't you think I'd like to know? Those logs are so oldthey're petrified. The whole bunch of us couldn't lift one. It wouldtake super-human energy to move one of those things.     I haven't seen anything super-human. Those ostriches down there are sobusy eating seaweed—     All right, let's bear a hand here with the others. Some of them can'twalk. Where's Forbes?     He's sitting down there in the water, Captain, crying like a baby. Orlaughing. I can't tell which.     We'll have to get him. Miles, Schick, come along. Forbes! You allright?     Ho-ho-ho! Seventeen! Seventeen! Seventeen planets, Benson, and they'lldo anything I say! This one's got a mind of its own. Did you see thatlittle trick with the rocks? Ho-ho!     See if you can find his gun, Schick; he'll either kill himself or oneof us. Tie his hands and take him back to the ship. We'll be alongshortly.     Hah-hah-hah! Seventeen! Benson, I'm holding you personally responsiblefor this. Hee-hee!  Purnie opened his eyes as consciousness returned. Had his friends gone?     He pulled himself along on his stomach to a position between two rocks,where he could see without being seen. By the light of the twin moonshe saw that they were leaving, marching away in groups of two andthree, the weak helping the weaker. As they disappeared around thecurving shoreline, the voices of the last two, bringing up the rear farbehind the others, fell faintly on his ears over the sound of the surf.     Is it possible that we're all crazy, Captain?     It's possible, but we're not.     I wish I could be sure.     See Forbes up ahead there? What do you think of him?     I still can't believe it.     He'll never be the same.     Tell me something. What was the most unusual thing you noticed backthere?     You must be kidding, sir. Why, the way those logs were off of ussuddenly—     Yes, of course. But I mean beside that.     Well, I guess I was kind of busy. You know, scared and mixed up.     But didn't you notice our little pop-eyed friend?     Oh, him. I'm afraid not, Captain. I—I guess I was thinking mostly ofmyself.     Hmmm. If I could only be sure I saw him. If only someone else saw himtoo.     I'm afraid I don't follow you, sir.     Well, damn it all, you know that Forbes took a pot shot at him. Gothim in the leg. That being the case, why would the fuzzy little devilcome back to his tormentors—back to us—when we were trapped underthose logs?     Well, I guess as long as we were trapped, he figured we couldn't dohim any more harm.... I'm sorry, that was a stupid answer. I guess I'mstill a little shaky.     Forget it. Look, you go ahead to the ship and make ready for take-off.I'll join you in a few minutes. I think I'll go back and look around.You know. Make sure we haven't left anyone.     No need to do that. They're all ahead of us. I've checked.     That's my responsibility, Cabot, not yours. Now go on.  As Purnie lay gathering strength for the long trek home, he saw throughglazed eyes one of the animals coming back along the beach. When it wasnearly directly below him, he could hear it making sounds that by nowhad become familiar.     Where are you?     Purnie paid little attention to the antics of his friend; he wasbeyond understanding. He wondered what they would say at home when hereturned.     We've made a terrible mistake. We— The sounds faded in and out onPurnie's ears as the creature turned slowly and called in differentdirections. He watched the animal walk over to the pile of scatteredlogs and peer around and under them.     If you're hurt I'd like to help! The twin moons were high in the skynow, and where their light broke through the swirling clouds a doubleshadow was cast around the animal. With foggy awareness, Purnie watchedthe creature shake its head slowly, then walk away in the direction ofthe others.     Purnie's eyes stared, without seeing, at the panorama before him. Thebeach was deserted now, and his gaze was transfixed on a shimmeringwhite square floating on the ocean. Across it, the last thing Purnieever saw, was emblazoned the word FORBES.   ","Forbes believes he can control anyone and anything he comes in contact with. His first order of business upon landing on the gorgeous planet is to put up his flag emblazoned with his name. When Benson reminds him that the crew members are interested in taking a moment to look around, Forbes reprimands him for suggesting that they have the right to waste his money. He believes that putting up his flag is a symbol of defeat, and he is incredibly eager to take over a planet he literally just landed on and knows almost nothing about. He incessantly talks about the 17 other planets he has already conquered, and he calls himself a pioneer. Although Forbes definitely makes a lot of money by claiming these planets, he is more interested in the control and fame it brings him than the money he will inevitably make. The first time that Purnie freezes time to escape the noose after Forbes shoots him in the leg, Forbes is incredibly confused but willing to blame the glitch on Benson. He shot Purnie after explicitly being told not to, so he assumes that Benson secretly managed to aid Purnie in getting away. He is furious at this act because capturing the animal emitting radiation is very important to him. He doesn't care if it’s illegal or immoral. He wants control of the planet, the animal, and the crew. The second time that Purnie freezes time, Forbes cannot simply ignore it. He knows that he saw the petrified logs falling down the hill, he knows that he saw several crew members pinned under the logs, about to drown, and he knows that he himself was in a near-death situation one second and saved in the next. There is simply no explanation in his mind for what occurred, and his brain can’t compute the mysterious event. He laughs hysterically because he can’t process the information that his brain receives. He was about to die, and now he is perfectly fine, and he has no explanation for the chain of events. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     HUNT the HUNTER     BY KRIS NEVILLE     Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Of course using live bait is the best     way to lure dangerous alien animals ...     unless it turns out that you are the bait!      We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them.     Extrone asked, Is there a pass?     Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too.     Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said.     Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen!     Eh? Extrone said.     Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us.     Extrone raised his eyebrows.     This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct.     It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right!     Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge.     Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir.     We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry.     Yes, sir.     Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here!     He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge.     Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so.     Ri shrugged hopelessly.     Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble.     There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too.     That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus.     Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right.     It's the Hunting Club he don't like.     I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse?  Mia looked at his companion. He spat. What hurts most, he pays us forit. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at lessthan I pay my secretary.     Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge.     Hey, you! Extrone called.     The two of them turned immediately.     You two scout ahead, Extrone said. See if you can pick up sometracks.     Yes, sir, Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted theirshoulder straps and started off.     Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. Let'swait here, Mia said.     No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in.     They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were notprofessional guides.     We don't want to get too near, Ri said after toiling through theforest for many minutes. Without guns, we don't want to get nearenough for the farn beast to charge us.     They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging.     He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him, Mia said. But we goit alone. Damn him.     Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. Hot.By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time wewere here.     Mia said, The first time,      we     weren't guides. We didn't notice it somuch then.     They fought a few yards more into the forest.     Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay ablast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, butthe tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath.     This isn't ours! Ri said. This looks like it was made nearly a yearago!     Mia's eyes narrowed. The military from Xnile?     No, Ri said. They don't have any rockets this small. And I don'tthink there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one weleased from the Club. Except the one      he     brought.     The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place? Miaasked. You think it's their blast?     So? Ri said. But who are they?  It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better.     We didn't do so damned well.     We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out.     I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus.     Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area.     I didn't think a Club pilot would do that.     After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute.     There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.           I     didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said.     Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did.     Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over.     Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even      him     . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.     Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back.     What'll we tell him?     That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him?     They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines.     It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously.     The breeze dies down.     It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this.     There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away.     Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it.     Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said.  When it came over the hastily established camp, the rocket was low,obviously looking for a landing site. It was a military craft, from theoutpost on the near moon, and forward, near the nose, there was theblazoned emblem of the Ninth Fleet. The rocket roared directly overExtrone's tent, turned slowly, spouting fuel expensively, and settledinto the scrub forest, turning the vegetation beneath it sere by itsblasts.     Extrone sat on an upholstered stool before his tent and spatdisgustedly and combed his beard with his blunt fingers.     Shortly, from the direction of the rocket, a group of four high-rankingofficers came out of the forest, heading toward him. They were spruce,the officers, with military discipline holding their waists in andknees almost stiff.     What in hell do you want? Extrone asked.     They stopped a respectful distance away. Sir.... one began.     Haven't I told you gentlemen that rockets frighten the game? Extronedemanded, ominously not raising his voice.     Sir, the lead officer said, it's another alien ship. It was sighteda few hours ago, off this very planet, sir.     Extrone's face looked much too innocent. How did it get there,gentlemen? Why wasn't it destroyed?     We lost it again, sir. Temporarily, sir.     So? Extrone mocked.     We thought you ought to return to a safer planet, sir. Until we couldlocate and destroy it.     Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turnedaway, in the direction of a resting bearer. You! he said. Hey! Bringme a drink! He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. I'mstaying here.     The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. But, sir....     Extrone toyed with his beard. About a year ago, gentlemen, there wasan alien ship around here then, wasn't there? And you destroyed it,didn't you?     Yes, sir. When we located it, sir.     You'll destroy this one, too, Extrone said.     We have a tight patrol, sir. It can't slip through. But it might try along range bombardment, sir.  Extrone said, To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here.And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And youcan't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway.     That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir.     Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. You'lllose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen.I'm quite safe here, I think.     The bearer brought Extrone his drink.     Get off, Extrone said quietly to the four officers.     Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into thetangle of forest.     Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hotbreath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars.     Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap tohis tent.     Sir? Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness.     Eh? Extrone said, turning, startled. Oh, you. Well?     We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east.     Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, You killed one, I believe, on      your     trip?     Ri shifted. Yes, sir.     Extrone held back the flap of the tent. Won't you come in? he askedwithout any politeness whatever.     Ri obeyed the order.     The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. Thefloor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatlyand smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to theleft of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light waselectric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed tothe bed, sat down.     You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast? he said.     I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir.  Extrone narrowed his eyes. I see by your eyes that you areenvious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent.     Ri looked away from his face.     Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I havenever killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't      seen     a farn beast.     Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone'sglittering ones. Few people have seen them, sir.     Oh? Extrone questioned mildly. I wouldn't say that. I understandthat the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of theirplanets.     I meant in our system, sir.     Of course you did, Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of hissleeve with his forefinger. I imagine these are the only farn beastsin our system.     Ri waited uneasily, not answering.     Yes, Extrone said, I imagine they are. It would have been a shame ifyou had killed the last one. Don't you think so?     Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. Yes, sir. It wouldhave been.     Extrone pursed his lips. It wouldn't have been very considerate of youto—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed tocome along as my guide.     It was an honor, sir.     Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. If I had waited until it wassafe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able tofind such an illustrious guide.     ... I'm flattered, sir.     Of course, Extrone said. But you should have spoken to me about it,when you discovered the farn beast in our own system.     I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,sir....     Of course, Extrone said dryly. Like all of my subjects, he wavedhis hand in a broad gesture, the highest as well as the lowest slave,know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best.     Ri squirmed, his face pale. We do indeed love you, sir.     Extrone bent forward.       Know     me and love me.     Yes, sir.      Know     you and love you, sir, Ri said.     Get out! Extrone said.  It's frightening, Ri said, to be that close to him.     Mia nodded.     The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold andbright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for acentral mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres.     To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—whatwe've read about.     Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. You begin tounderstand a lot of things, after seeing him.     Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag.     It makes you think, Mia added. He twitched. I'm afraid. I'm afraidhe'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill usfirst.     Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. No. We have friends. We haveinfluence. He couldn't just like that—     He could say it was an accident.     No, Ri said stubbornly.     He can say anything, Mia insisted. He can make people believeanything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it.     It's getting cold, Ri said.     Listen, Mia pleaded.     No, Ri said. Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.Everybody would      know     we were lying. Everything they've come tobelieve would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, everypicture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us.      He     knows that.     Listen, Mia repeated intently. This is important. Right now hecouldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army isnot against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. Abearer overheard them talking. They don't      want     to overthrow him!     Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering.     That's another lie, Mia continued. That he protects the people fromthe Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were      ever     plottingagainst him. Not even at first. I think they      helped     him, don't yousee?     Ri whined nervously.     It's like this, Mia said. I see it like this. The Army      put     him inpower when the people were in rebellion against military rule.  Ri swallowed. We couldn't make the people believe that.     No? Mia challenged. Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade thealien system!     The people won't support them, Ri answered woodenly.           Think.     If he tells them to, they will. They trust him.     Ri looked around at the shadows.     That explains a lot of things, Mia said. I think the Army's beenpreparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's whyExtrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them fromlearning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keepthem from exposing      him     to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooledlike we were, so easy.     No! Ri snapped. It was to keep the natural economic balance.     You know that's not right.     Ri lay down on his bed roll. Don't talk about it. It's not good totalk like this. I don't even want to listen.     When the invasion starts, he'll have to command      all     their loyalties.To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying totell the truth.     You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong.     Mia smiled twistedly. How many has he already killed? How can we evenguess?     Ri swallowed sickly.     Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret?     Ri shuddered. That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all likethat.  With morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,uncontaminated.     And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting theflap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared aroundthe camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep.     Breakfast! he shouted, and two bearers came running with a foldingtable and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray ofvarious foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcherand a drinking mug.     Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in hisconversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth withwater and spat on the ground.     Lin! he said.     His personal bearer came loping toward him.     Have you read that manual I gave you?     Lin nodded. Yes.     Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. Veryludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen forguides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,twenty years ago, damn them.     Lin waited.     Now I can spit on them, which pleases me.     The farn beasts are dangerous, sir, Lin said.     Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them?     I believe they're carnivorous, sir.     An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the onlyinformation on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, ofcourse, two businessmen.     They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable oftearing a man—     An alien? Extrone corrected.     There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing analien to pieces, sir.     Extrone laughed harshly. It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me?     Lin's face remained impassive. I guess it seems that way. Sir.     Damned few people would dare go as far as you do, Extrone said. Butyou're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you?     Lin shrugged. Maybe.     I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know howwonderful it feels to have people      all     afraid of you.     The farn beasts, according to the manual....     You are very insistent on one subject.     ... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as Iwas saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, ofaliens. Sir.     All right, Extrone said, annoyed. I'll be careful.     In the distance, a farn beast coughed.     Instantly alert, Extrone said, Get the bearers! Have some of them cuta path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to getthe hell over here!     Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt.  Four hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walkedleisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, atthe vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Theirsharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavybreathing.     Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drankdeeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat madeoppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air.     Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmenfought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanksfor farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among thetree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near.     Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, apowerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustainedfire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing afolding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-poweredtwo-way communication set.     Once Extrone unslung his blast rifle and triggered a burst at a tiny,arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, toExtrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur.     When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearersslump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume,he sat on the stool with his back against an ancient tree and patted,reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs.     For you, sir, the communications man said, interrupting his reverie.     Damn, Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. It better beimportant. He took the head-set and mike and nodded to the bearer. Thebearer twiddled the dials.     Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell botherme?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn'tyou?     Blasted them right out of space, the voice crackled excitedly. Rightin the middle of a radio broadcast, sir.     I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting! Extronetore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. If they call back,find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it'simportant.     Yes, sir.     Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, andperspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands.     Lin, returning to the column, threaded his way among recliningbearers. He stopped before Extrone and tossed his hair out of his eyes.I located a spoor, he said, suppressed eagerness in his voice. Abouta quarter ahead. It looks fresh.     Extrone's eyes lit with passion.     Lin's face was red with heat and grimy with sweat. There were two, Ithink.     Two? Extrone grinned, petting the rifle. You and I better go forwardand look at the spoor.     Lin said, We ought to take protection, if you're going, too.     Extrone laughed. This is enough. He gestured with the rifle and stoodup.     I wish you had let me bring a gun along, sir, Lin said.     One is enough in      my     camp.  The two of them went forward, alone, into the forest. Extrone movedagilely through the tangle, following Lin closely. When they came tothe tracks, heavily pressed into drying mud around a small wateringhole, Extrone nodded his head in satisfaction.     This way, Lin said, pointing, and once more the two of them startedoff.     They went a good distance through the forest, Extrone becoming morealert with each additional foot. Finally, Lin stopped him with arestraining hand. They may be quite a way ahead. Hadn't we ought tobring up the column?     The farn beast, somewhere beyond a ragged clump of bushes, coughed.Extrone clenched the blast rifle convulsively.     The farn beast coughed again, more distant this time.     They're moving away, Lin said.     Damn! Extrone said.     It's a good thing the wind's right, or they'd be coming back, andfast, too.     Eh? Extrone said.     They charge on scent, sight, or sound. I understand they will trackdown a man for as long as a day.     Wait, Extrone said, combing his beard. Wait a minute.     Yes?     Look, Extrone said. If that's the case, why do we bother trackingthem? Why not make them come to us?     They're too unpredictable. It wouldn't be safe. I'd rather havesurprise on our side.     You don't seem to see what I mean, Extrone said.       We     won't bethe—ah—the bait.     Oh?     Let's get back to the column.  Extrone wants to see you, Lin said.     Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.What's he want to see      me     for?     I don't know, Lin said curtly.     Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervouslyat Lin's bare forearm. Look, he whispered. You know him. I have—alittle money. If you were able to ... if he wants, Ri gulped, to      do     anything to me—I'd pay you, if you could....     You better come along, Lin said, turning.     Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to whereExtrone was seated, petting his rifle.     Extrone nodded genially. The farn beast hunter, eh?     Yes, sir.     Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. Tell mewhat they look like, he said suddenly.     Well, sir, they're ... uh....     Pretty frightening?     No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir.     But      you     weren't afraid of them, were you?     No, sir. No, because....     Extrone was smiling innocently. Good. I want you to do something forme.     I ... I.... Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.Lin's face was impassive.     Of      course     you will, Extrone said genially. Get me a rope, Lin. Agood, long, strong rope.     What are you going to do? Ri asked, terrified.     Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out asbait.     No!     Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you      can     scream,by the way?     Ri swallowed.     We could find a way to make you.     There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,creeping toward his nose.     You'll be safe, Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. I'llshoot the animal before it reaches you.     Ri gulped for air. But ... if there should be more than one?     Extrone shrugged.     I—Look, sir. Listen to me. Ri's lips were bloodless and his handswere trembling. It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir.      He     killed a farn beast before      I     did, sir. And last night—lastnight, he—     He what? Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently.     Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. He said he ought to kill you, sir.That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. Iwouldn't....     Extrone said, Which one is he?     That one. Right over there.     The one with his back to me?     Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir.     Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifleand said, Here comes Lin with the rope, I see.     Ri was greenish. You ... you....     Extrone turned to Lin. Tie one end around his waist.     Wait, Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. You don'twant to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anythingshould happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it.     Tie it, Extrone ordered.     No, sir. Please. Oh,      please     don't, sir.     Tie it, Extrone said inexorably.     Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless.  They were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri.     Since the hole was drying, the left, partially exposed bank was steeptoward the muddy water. Upon it was green, new grass, tender-tuffed,half mashed in places by heavy animal treads. It was there that theystaked him out, tying the free end of the rope tightly around the baseof a scaling tree.     You will scream, Extrone instructed. With his rifle, he pointedacross the water hole. The farn beast will come from this direction, Iimagine.     Ri was almost slobbering in fear.     Let me hear you scream, Extrone said.     Ri moaned weakly.     You'll have to do better than that. Extrone inclined his head towarda bearer, who used something Ri couldn't see.       Ri screamed.     See that you keep it up that way, Extrone said. That's the way Iwant you to sound. He turned toward Lin. We can climb this tree, Ithink.     Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, barkpeeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly.     Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smallercrotch.     Looking down, Extrone said, Scream! Then, to Lin, You feel theexcitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt.     I feel it, Lin said.     Extrone chuckled. You were with me on Meizque?     Yes.     That was something, that time. He ran his hand along the stock of theweapon.     The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circledExtrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri'sscreams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched.     Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone'sface. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed againstthem, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed.  A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest.     Extrone laughed nervously. He must have heard.     We're lucky to rouse one so fast, Lin said.     Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. I likethis. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything Iknow.     Lin nodded.     The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killingthat matters.     It's not      only     the killing, Lin echoed.     You understand? Extrone said. How it is to wait, knowing in just aminute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're goingto kill it?     I know, Lin said.     But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too.     The farn beast coughed again; nearer.     It's a different one, Lin said.     How do you know?     Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar?     Hey! Extrone shouted. You, down there. There are two coming. Nowlet's hear you really scream!     Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tethertree, his eyes wide.     There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too, Extrone said.Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them. Heopened his right hand. Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,imprisoning the idea. Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if theyreally will come to your bait.     Lin shifted, staring toward the forest.     I've always liked to hunt, Extrone said. More than anything else, Ithink.     Lin spat toward the ground. People should hunt because they have to.For food. For safety.     No, Extrone argued. People should hunt for the love of hunting.     Killing?     Hunting, Extrone repeated harshly.  The farn beast coughed. Another answered. They were very near, andthere was a noise of crackling underbrush.     He's good bait, Extrone said. He's fat enough and he knows how toscream good.     Ri had stopped screaming; he was huddled against the tree, fearfullyeying the forest across from the watering hole.     Extrone began to tremble with excitement. Here they come!     The forest sprang apart. Extrone bent forward, the gun still across hislap.     The farn beast, its tiny eyes red with hate, stepped out on the bank,swinging its head wildly, its nostrils flaring in anger. It coughed.Its mate appeared beside it. Their tails thrashed against the scrubsbehind them, rattling leaves.       Shoot! Lin hissed. For God's sake, shoot!     Wait, Extrone said. Let's see what they do. He had not movedthe rifle. He was tense, bent forward, his eyes slitted, his breathbeginning to sound like an asthmatic pump.     The lead farn beast sighted Ri. It lowered its head.     Look! Extrone cried excitedly. Here it comes!     Ri began to scream again.     Still Extrone did not lift his blast rifle. He was laughing. Linwaited, frozen, his eyes staring at the farn beast in fascination.     The farn beast plunged into the water, which was shallow, and, throwinga sheet of it to either side, headed across toward Ri.     Watch! Watch! Extrone cried gleefully.     And then the aliens sprang their trap.   ","Extrone is a very important person of influence who is on a hunting trip looking for farn beasts on an outer planet. He has hired guides, Ri and Mia, who are businessmen who have successfully shot a farn beast on a prior private trip. They attempted to conceal their killing of a farn beast on that trip, however, the word got out and now Extrone has forced them (seemingly against their will) to be the guides for his own trip. Ri and Mia do not turn out to be very good guides. Mia is unsupportive of Extrone and suspicious of his activities and potential plans to violently attack the aliens, and Ri is fearful of that talk and of Extrone himself causing him to be unhelpful as a guide.Extrone refers to being loved by his “subjects” suggesting he has a position of royalty or power. The military is at his disposal and seem eager to please him. He is highly focused on finding and killing a farn beast any way possible - and attempts sacrificing his guide Ri as bait for the animal to do it. He kills Mia by shooting him in the back after Ri accuses him of intent to kill Extrone, suggesting Extrone is a violent ruler.Extrone’s focus is on killing a farn beast and this blinds him to the existence of an alien trap on the planet. It is heavily implied that the aliens have intentions to do harm to Extrone, and it is revealed that his fixation on the farn beast led him directly into a trap set by the aliens to capture him."
"What is the farn beast and its significance? </s>     HUNT the HUNTER     BY KRIS NEVILLE     Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Of course using live bait is the best     way to lure dangerous alien animals ...     unless it turns out that you are the bait!      We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them.     Extrone asked, Is there a pass?     Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too.     Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said.     Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen!     Eh? Extrone said.     Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us.     Extrone raised his eyebrows.     This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct.     It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right!     Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge.     Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir.     We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry.     Yes, sir.     Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here!     He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge.     Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so.     Ri shrugged hopelessly.     Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble.     There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too.     That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus.     Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right.     It's the Hunting Club he don't like.     I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse?  Mia looked at his companion. He spat. What hurts most, he pays us forit. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at lessthan I pay my secretary.     Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge.     Hey, you! Extrone called.     The two of them turned immediately.     You two scout ahead, Extrone said. See if you can pick up sometracks.     Yes, sir, Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted theirshoulder straps and started off.     Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. Let'swait here, Mia said.     No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in.     They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were notprofessional guides.     We don't want to get too near, Ri said after toiling through theforest for many minutes. Without guns, we don't want to get nearenough for the farn beast to charge us.     They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging.     He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him, Mia said. But we goit alone. Damn him.     Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. Hot.By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time wewere here.     Mia said, The first time,      we     weren't guides. We didn't notice it somuch then.     They fought a few yards more into the forest.     Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay ablast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, butthe tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath.     This isn't ours! Ri said. This looks like it was made nearly a yearago!     Mia's eyes narrowed. The military from Xnile?     No, Ri said. They don't have any rockets this small. And I don'tthink there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one weleased from the Club. Except the one      he     brought.     The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place? Miaasked. You think it's their blast?     So? Ri said. But who are they?  It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better.     We didn't do so damned well.     We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out.     I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus.     Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area.     I didn't think a Club pilot would do that.     After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute.     There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.           I     didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said.     Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did.     Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over.     Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even      him     . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.     Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back.     What'll we tell him?     That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him?     They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines.     It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously.     The breeze dies down.     It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this.     There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away.     Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it.     Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said.  When it came over the hastily established camp, the rocket was low,obviously looking for a landing site. It was a military craft, from theoutpost on the near moon, and forward, near the nose, there was theblazoned emblem of the Ninth Fleet. The rocket roared directly overExtrone's tent, turned slowly, spouting fuel expensively, and settledinto the scrub forest, turning the vegetation beneath it sere by itsblasts.     Extrone sat on an upholstered stool before his tent and spatdisgustedly and combed his beard with his blunt fingers.     Shortly, from the direction of the rocket, a group of four high-rankingofficers came out of the forest, heading toward him. They were spruce,the officers, with military discipline holding their waists in andknees almost stiff.     What in hell do you want? Extrone asked.     They stopped a respectful distance away. Sir.... one began.     Haven't I told you gentlemen that rockets frighten the game? Extronedemanded, ominously not raising his voice.     Sir, the lead officer said, it's another alien ship. It was sighteda few hours ago, off this very planet, sir.     Extrone's face looked much too innocent. How did it get there,gentlemen? Why wasn't it destroyed?     We lost it again, sir. Temporarily, sir.     So? Extrone mocked.     We thought you ought to return to a safer planet, sir. Until we couldlocate and destroy it.     Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turnedaway, in the direction of a resting bearer. You! he said. Hey! Bringme a drink! He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. I'mstaying here.     The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. But, sir....     Extrone toyed with his beard. About a year ago, gentlemen, there wasan alien ship around here then, wasn't there? And you destroyed it,didn't you?     Yes, sir. When we located it, sir.     You'll destroy this one, too, Extrone said.     We have a tight patrol, sir. It can't slip through. But it might try along range bombardment, sir.  Extrone said, To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here.And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And youcan't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway.     That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir.     Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. You'lllose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen.I'm quite safe here, I think.     The bearer brought Extrone his drink.     Get off, Extrone said quietly to the four officers.     Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into thetangle of forest.     Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hotbreath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars.     Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap tohis tent.     Sir? Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness.     Eh? Extrone said, turning, startled. Oh, you. Well?     We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east.     Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, You killed one, I believe, on      your     trip?     Ri shifted. Yes, sir.     Extrone held back the flap of the tent. Won't you come in? he askedwithout any politeness whatever.     Ri obeyed the order.     The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. Thefloor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatlyand smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to theleft of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light waselectric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed tothe bed, sat down.     You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast? he said.     I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir.  Extrone narrowed his eyes. I see by your eyes that you areenvious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent.     Ri looked away from his face.     Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I havenever killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't      seen     a farn beast.     Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone'sglittering ones. Few people have seen them, sir.     Oh? Extrone questioned mildly. I wouldn't say that. I understandthat the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of theirplanets.     I meant in our system, sir.     Of course you did, Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of hissleeve with his forefinger. I imagine these are the only farn beastsin our system.     Ri waited uneasily, not answering.     Yes, Extrone said, I imagine they are. It would have been a shame ifyou had killed the last one. Don't you think so?     Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. Yes, sir. It wouldhave been.     Extrone pursed his lips. It wouldn't have been very considerate of youto—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed tocome along as my guide.     It was an honor, sir.     Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. If I had waited until it wassafe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able tofind such an illustrious guide.     ... I'm flattered, sir.     Of course, Extrone said. But you should have spoken to me about it,when you discovered the farn beast in our own system.     I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,sir....     Of course, Extrone said dryly. Like all of my subjects, he wavedhis hand in a broad gesture, the highest as well as the lowest slave,know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best.     Ri squirmed, his face pale. We do indeed love you, sir.     Extrone bent forward.       Know     me and love me.     Yes, sir.      Know     you and love you, sir, Ri said.     Get out! Extrone said.  It's frightening, Ri said, to be that close to him.     Mia nodded.     The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold andbright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for acentral mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres.     To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—whatwe've read about.     Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. You begin tounderstand a lot of things, after seeing him.     Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag.     It makes you think, Mia added. He twitched. I'm afraid. I'm afraidhe'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill usfirst.     Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. No. We have friends. We haveinfluence. He couldn't just like that—     He could say it was an accident.     No, Ri said stubbornly.     He can say anything, Mia insisted. He can make people believeanything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it.     It's getting cold, Ri said.     Listen, Mia pleaded.     No, Ri said. Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.Everybody would      know     we were lying. Everything they've come tobelieve would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, everypicture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us.      He     knows that.     Listen, Mia repeated intently. This is important. Right now hecouldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army isnot against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. Abearer overheard them talking. They don't      want     to overthrow him!     Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering.     That's another lie, Mia continued. That he protects the people fromthe Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were      ever     plottingagainst him. Not even at first. I think they      helped     him, don't yousee?     Ri whined nervously.     It's like this, Mia said. I see it like this. The Army      put     him inpower when the people were in rebellion against military rule.  Ri swallowed. We couldn't make the people believe that.     No? Mia challenged. Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade thealien system!     The people won't support them, Ri answered woodenly.           Think.     If he tells them to, they will. They trust him.     Ri looked around at the shadows.     That explains a lot of things, Mia said. I think the Army's beenpreparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's whyExtrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them fromlearning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keepthem from exposing      him     to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooledlike we were, so easy.     No! Ri snapped. It was to keep the natural economic balance.     You know that's not right.     Ri lay down on his bed roll. Don't talk about it. It's not good totalk like this. I don't even want to listen.     When the invasion starts, he'll have to command      all     their loyalties.To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying totell the truth.     You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong.     Mia smiled twistedly. How many has he already killed? How can we evenguess?     Ri swallowed sickly.     Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret?     Ri shuddered. That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all likethat.  With morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,uncontaminated.     And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting theflap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared aroundthe camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep.     Breakfast! he shouted, and two bearers came running with a foldingtable and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray ofvarious foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcherand a drinking mug.     Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in hisconversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth withwater and spat on the ground.     Lin! he said.     His personal bearer came loping toward him.     Have you read that manual I gave you?     Lin nodded. Yes.     Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. Veryludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen forguides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,twenty years ago, damn them.     Lin waited.     Now I can spit on them, which pleases me.     The farn beasts are dangerous, sir, Lin said.     Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them?     I believe they're carnivorous, sir.     An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the onlyinformation on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, ofcourse, two businessmen.     They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable oftearing a man—     An alien? Extrone corrected.     There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing analien to pieces, sir.     Extrone laughed harshly. It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me?     Lin's face remained impassive. I guess it seems that way. Sir.     Damned few people would dare go as far as you do, Extrone said. Butyou're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you?     Lin shrugged. Maybe.     I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know howwonderful it feels to have people      all     afraid of you.     The farn beasts, according to the manual....     You are very insistent on one subject.     ... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as Iwas saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, ofaliens. Sir.     All right, Extrone said, annoyed. I'll be careful.     In the distance, a farn beast coughed.     Instantly alert, Extrone said, Get the bearers! Have some of them cuta path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to getthe hell over here!     Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt.  Four hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walkedleisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, atthe vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Theirsharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavybreathing.     Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drankdeeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat madeoppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air.     Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmenfought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanksfor farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among thetree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near.     Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, apowerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustainedfire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing afolding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-poweredtwo-way communication set.     Once Extrone unslung his blast rifle and triggered a burst at a tiny,arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, toExtrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur.     When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearersslump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume,he sat on the stool with his back against an ancient tree and patted,reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs.     For you, sir, the communications man said, interrupting his reverie.     Damn, Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. It better beimportant. He took the head-set and mike and nodded to the bearer. Thebearer twiddled the dials.     Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell botherme?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn'tyou?     Blasted them right out of space, the voice crackled excitedly. Rightin the middle of a radio broadcast, sir.     I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting! Extronetore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. If they call back,find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it'simportant.     Yes, sir.     Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, andperspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands.     Lin, returning to the column, threaded his way among recliningbearers. He stopped before Extrone and tossed his hair out of his eyes.I located a spoor, he said, suppressed eagerness in his voice. Abouta quarter ahead. It looks fresh.     Extrone's eyes lit with passion.     Lin's face was red with heat and grimy with sweat. There were two, Ithink.     Two? Extrone grinned, petting the rifle. You and I better go forwardand look at the spoor.     Lin said, We ought to take protection, if you're going, too.     Extrone laughed. This is enough. He gestured with the rifle and stoodup.     I wish you had let me bring a gun along, sir, Lin said.     One is enough in      my     camp.  The two of them went forward, alone, into the forest. Extrone movedagilely through the tangle, following Lin closely. When they came tothe tracks, heavily pressed into drying mud around a small wateringhole, Extrone nodded his head in satisfaction.     This way, Lin said, pointing, and once more the two of them startedoff.     They went a good distance through the forest, Extrone becoming morealert with each additional foot. Finally, Lin stopped him with arestraining hand. They may be quite a way ahead. Hadn't we ought tobring up the column?     The farn beast, somewhere beyond a ragged clump of bushes, coughed.Extrone clenched the blast rifle convulsively.     The farn beast coughed again, more distant this time.     They're moving away, Lin said.     Damn! Extrone said.     It's a good thing the wind's right, or they'd be coming back, andfast, too.     Eh? Extrone said.     They charge on scent, sight, or sound. I understand they will trackdown a man for as long as a day.     Wait, Extrone said, combing his beard. Wait a minute.     Yes?     Look, Extrone said. If that's the case, why do we bother trackingthem? Why not make them come to us?     They're too unpredictable. It wouldn't be safe. I'd rather havesurprise on our side.     You don't seem to see what I mean, Extrone said.       We     won't bethe—ah—the bait.     Oh?     Let's get back to the column.  Extrone wants to see you, Lin said.     Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.What's he want to see      me     for?     I don't know, Lin said curtly.     Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervouslyat Lin's bare forearm. Look, he whispered. You know him. I have—alittle money. If you were able to ... if he wants, Ri gulped, to      do     anything to me—I'd pay you, if you could....     You better come along, Lin said, turning.     Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to whereExtrone was seated, petting his rifle.     Extrone nodded genially. The farn beast hunter, eh?     Yes, sir.     Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. Tell mewhat they look like, he said suddenly.     Well, sir, they're ... uh....     Pretty frightening?     No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir.     But      you     weren't afraid of them, were you?     No, sir. No, because....     Extrone was smiling innocently. Good. I want you to do something forme.     I ... I.... Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.Lin's face was impassive.     Of      course     you will, Extrone said genially. Get me a rope, Lin. Agood, long, strong rope.     What are you going to do? Ri asked, terrified.     Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out asbait.     No!     Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you      can     scream,by the way?     Ri swallowed.     We could find a way to make you.     There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,creeping toward his nose.     You'll be safe, Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. I'llshoot the animal before it reaches you.     Ri gulped for air. But ... if there should be more than one?     Extrone shrugged.     I—Look, sir. Listen to me. Ri's lips were bloodless and his handswere trembling. It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir.      He     killed a farn beast before      I     did, sir. And last night—lastnight, he—     He what? Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently.     Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. He said he ought to kill you, sir.That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. Iwouldn't....     Extrone said, Which one is he?     That one. Right over there.     The one with his back to me?     Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir.     Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifleand said, Here comes Lin with the rope, I see.     Ri was greenish. You ... you....     Extrone turned to Lin. Tie one end around his waist.     Wait, Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. You don'twant to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anythingshould happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it.     Tie it, Extrone ordered.     No, sir. Please. Oh,      please     don't, sir.     Tie it, Extrone said inexorably.     Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless.  They were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri.     Since the hole was drying, the left, partially exposed bank was steeptoward the muddy water. Upon it was green, new grass, tender-tuffed,half mashed in places by heavy animal treads. It was there that theystaked him out, tying the free end of the rope tightly around the baseof a scaling tree.     You will scream, Extrone instructed. With his rifle, he pointedacross the water hole. The farn beast will come from this direction, Iimagine.     Ri was almost slobbering in fear.     Let me hear you scream, Extrone said.     Ri moaned weakly.     You'll have to do better than that. Extrone inclined his head towarda bearer, who used something Ri couldn't see.       Ri screamed.     See that you keep it up that way, Extrone said. That's the way Iwant you to sound. He turned toward Lin. We can climb this tree, Ithink.     Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, barkpeeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly.     Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smallercrotch.     Looking down, Extrone said, Scream! Then, to Lin, You feel theexcitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt.     I feel it, Lin said.     Extrone chuckled. You were with me on Meizque?     Yes.     That was something, that time. He ran his hand along the stock of theweapon.     The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circledExtrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri'sscreams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched.     Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone'sface. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed againstthem, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed.  A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest.     Extrone laughed nervously. He must have heard.     We're lucky to rouse one so fast, Lin said.     Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. I likethis. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything Iknow.     Lin nodded.     The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killingthat matters.     It's not      only     the killing, Lin echoed.     You understand? Extrone said. How it is to wait, knowing in just aminute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're goingto kill it?     I know, Lin said.     But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too.     The farn beast coughed again; nearer.     It's a different one, Lin said.     How do you know?     Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar?     Hey! Extrone shouted. You, down there. There are two coming. Nowlet's hear you really scream!     Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tethertree, his eyes wide.     There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too, Extrone said.Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them. Heopened his right hand. Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,imprisoning the idea. Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if theyreally will come to your bait.     Lin shifted, staring toward the forest.     I've always liked to hunt, Extrone said. More than anything else, Ithink.     Lin spat toward the ground. People should hunt because they have to.For food. For safety.     No, Extrone argued. People should hunt for the love of hunting.     Killing?     Hunting, Extrone repeated harshly.  The farn beast coughed. Another answered. They were very near, andthere was a noise of crackling underbrush.     He's good bait, Extrone said. He's fat enough and he knows how toscream good.     Ri had stopped screaming; he was huddled against the tree, fearfullyeying the forest across from the watering hole.     Extrone began to tremble with excitement. Here they come!     The forest sprang apart. Extrone bent forward, the gun still across hislap.     The farn beast, its tiny eyes red with hate, stepped out on the bank,swinging its head wildly, its nostrils flaring in anger. It coughed.Its mate appeared beside it. Their tails thrashed against the scrubsbehind them, rattling leaves.       Shoot! Lin hissed. For God's sake, shoot!     Wait, Extrone said. Let's see what they do. He had not movedthe rifle. He was tense, bent forward, his eyes slitted, his breathbeginning to sound like an asthmatic pump.     The lead farn beast sighted Ri. It lowered its head.     Look! Extrone cried excitedly. Here it comes!     Ri began to scream again.     Still Extrone did not lift his blast rifle. He was laughing. Linwaited, frozen, his eyes staring at the farn beast in fascination.     The farn beast plunged into the water, which was shallow, and, throwinga sheet of it to either side, headed across toward Ri.     Watch! Watch! Extrone cried gleefully.     And then the aliens sprang their trap.   ","The farn beast is capable of killing humans and aliens. It resides on alien planets, but is rare within the human-occupied system. It is thought by Extrone that Ri may have been one of the only humans to ever see and shoot one.They are described as having long fangs and being carnivorous. Their main sound is a coughing noise, which can be used to locate how far away they are. They do indeed seem attracted to humans, as they are drawn to Ri screaming when he is placed as bait at the watering hole.The farn beast is significant, because as Extrone and his party are focused on hunting them, it is revealed that the beast itself is being used as bait by aliens to lure Extrone to the planet. "
"What is the relationship like between Lin and Extrone? </s>     HUNT the HUNTER     BY KRIS NEVILLE     Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Of course using live bait is the best     way to lure dangerous alien animals ...     unless it turns out that you are the bait!      We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them.     Extrone asked, Is there a pass?     Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too.     Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said.     Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen!     Eh? Extrone said.     Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us.     Extrone raised his eyebrows.     This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct.     It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right!     Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge.     Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir.     We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry.     Yes, sir.     Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here!     He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge.     Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so.     Ri shrugged hopelessly.     Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble.     There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too.     That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus.     Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right.     It's the Hunting Club he don't like.     I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse?  Mia looked at his companion. He spat. What hurts most, he pays us forit. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at lessthan I pay my secretary.     Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge.     Hey, you! Extrone called.     The two of them turned immediately.     You two scout ahead, Extrone said. See if you can pick up sometracks.     Yes, sir, Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted theirshoulder straps and started off.     Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. Let'swait here, Mia said.     No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in.     They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were notprofessional guides.     We don't want to get too near, Ri said after toiling through theforest for many minutes. Without guns, we don't want to get nearenough for the farn beast to charge us.     They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging.     He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him, Mia said. But we goit alone. Damn him.     Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. Hot.By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time wewere here.     Mia said, The first time,      we     weren't guides. We didn't notice it somuch then.     They fought a few yards more into the forest.     Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay ablast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, butthe tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath.     This isn't ours! Ri said. This looks like it was made nearly a yearago!     Mia's eyes narrowed. The military from Xnile?     No, Ri said. They don't have any rockets this small. And I don'tthink there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one weleased from the Club. Except the one      he     brought.     The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place? Miaasked. You think it's their blast?     So? Ri said. But who are they?  It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better.     We didn't do so damned well.     We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out.     I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus.     Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area.     I didn't think a Club pilot would do that.     After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute.     There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.           I     didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said.     Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did.     Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over.     Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even      him     . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.     Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back.     What'll we tell him?     That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him?     They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines.     It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously.     The breeze dies down.     It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this.     There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away.     Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it.     Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said.  When it came over the hastily established camp, the rocket was low,obviously looking for a landing site. It was a military craft, from theoutpost on the near moon, and forward, near the nose, there was theblazoned emblem of the Ninth Fleet. The rocket roared directly overExtrone's tent, turned slowly, spouting fuel expensively, and settledinto the scrub forest, turning the vegetation beneath it sere by itsblasts.     Extrone sat on an upholstered stool before his tent and spatdisgustedly and combed his beard with his blunt fingers.     Shortly, from the direction of the rocket, a group of four high-rankingofficers came out of the forest, heading toward him. They were spruce,the officers, with military discipline holding their waists in andknees almost stiff.     What in hell do you want? Extrone asked.     They stopped a respectful distance away. Sir.... one began.     Haven't I told you gentlemen that rockets frighten the game? Extronedemanded, ominously not raising his voice.     Sir, the lead officer said, it's another alien ship. It was sighteda few hours ago, off this very planet, sir.     Extrone's face looked much too innocent. How did it get there,gentlemen? Why wasn't it destroyed?     We lost it again, sir. Temporarily, sir.     So? Extrone mocked.     We thought you ought to return to a safer planet, sir. Until we couldlocate and destroy it.     Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turnedaway, in the direction of a resting bearer. You! he said. Hey! Bringme a drink! He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. I'mstaying here.     The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. But, sir....     Extrone toyed with his beard. About a year ago, gentlemen, there wasan alien ship around here then, wasn't there? And you destroyed it,didn't you?     Yes, sir. When we located it, sir.     You'll destroy this one, too, Extrone said.     We have a tight patrol, sir. It can't slip through. But it might try along range bombardment, sir.  Extrone said, To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here.And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And youcan't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway.     That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir.     Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. You'lllose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen.I'm quite safe here, I think.     The bearer brought Extrone his drink.     Get off, Extrone said quietly to the four officers.     Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into thetangle of forest.     Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hotbreath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars.     Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap tohis tent.     Sir? Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness.     Eh? Extrone said, turning, startled. Oh, you. Well?     We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east.     Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, You killed one, I believe, on      your     trip?     Ri shifted. Yes, sir.     Extrone held back the flap of the tent. Won't you come in? he askedwithout any politeness whatever.     Ri obeyed the order.     The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. Thefloor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatlyand smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to theleft of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light waselectric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed tothe bed, sat down.     You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast? he said.     I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir.  Extrone narrowed his eyes. I see by your eyes that you areenvious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent.     Ri looked away from his face.     Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I havenever killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't      seen     a farn beast.     Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone'sglittering ones. Few people have seen them, sir.     Oh? Extrone questioned mildly. I wouldn't say that. I understandthat the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of theirplanets.     I meant in our system, sir.     Of course you did, Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of hissleeve with his forefinger. I imagine these are the only farn beastsin our system.     Ri waited uneasily, not answering.     Yes, Extrone said, I imagine they are. It would have been a shame ifyou had killed the last one. Don't you think so?     Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. Yes, sir. It wouldhave been.     Extrone pursed his lips. It wouldn't have been very considerate of youto—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed tocome along as my guide.     It was an honor, sir.     Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. If I had waited until it wassafe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able tofind such an illustrious guide.     ... I'm flattered, sir.     Of course, Extrone said. But you should have spoken to me about it,when you discovered the farn beast in our own system.     I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,sir....     Of course, Extrone said dryly. Like all of my subjects, he wavedhis hand in a broad gesture, the highest as well as the lowest slave,know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best.     Ri squirmed, his face pale. We do indeed love you, sir.     Extrone bent forward.       Know     me and love me.     Yes, sir.      Know     you and love you, sir, Ri said.     Get out! Extrone said.  It's frightening, Ri said, to be that close to him.     Mia nodded.     The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold andbright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for acentral mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres.     To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—whatwe've read about.     Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. You begin tounderstand a lot of things, after seeing him.     Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag.     It makes you think, Mia added. He twitched. I'm afraid. I'm afraidhe'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill usfirst.     Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. No. We have friends. We haveinfluence. He couldn't just like that—     He could say it was an accident.     No, Ri said stubbornly.     He can say anything, Mia insisted. He can make people believeanything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it.     It's getting cold, Ri said.     Listen, Mia pleaded.     No, Ri said. Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.Everybody would      know     we were lying. Everything they've come tobelieve would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, everypicture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us.      He     knows that.     Listen, Mia repeated intently. This is important. Right now hecouldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army isnot against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. Abearer overheard them talking. They don't      want     to overthrow him!     Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering.     That's another lie, Mia continued. That he protects the people fromthe Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were      ever     plottingagainst him. Not even at first. I think they      helped     him, don't yousee?     Ri whined nervously.     It's like this, Mia said. I see it like this. The Army      put     him inpower when the people were in rebellion against military rule.  Ri swallowed. We couldn't make the people believe that.     No? Mia challenged. Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade thealien system!     The people won't support them, Ri answered woodenly.           Think.     If he tells them to, they will. They trust him.     Ri looked around at the shadows.     That explains a lot of things, Mia said. I think the Army's beenpreparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's whyExtrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them fromlearning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keepthem from exposing      him     to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooledlike we were, so easy.     No! Ri snapped. It was to keep the natural economic balance.     You know that's not right.     Ri lay down on his bed roll. Don't talk about it. It's not good totalk like this. I don't even want to listen.     When the invasion starts, he'll have to command      all     their loyalties.To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying totell the truth.     You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong.     Mia smiled twistedly. How many has he already killed? How can we evenguess?     Ri swallowed sickly.     Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret?     Ri shuddered. That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all likethat.  With morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,uncontaminated.     And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting theflap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared aroundthe camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep.     Breakfast! he shouted, and two bearers came running with a foldingtable and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray ofvarious foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcherand a drinking mug.     Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in hisconversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth withwater and spat on the ground.     Lin! he said.     His personal bearer came loping toward him.     Have you read that manual I gave you?     Lin nodded. Yes.     Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. Veryludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen forguides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,twenty years ago, damn them.     Lin waited.     Now I can spit on them, which pleases me.     The farn beasts are dangerous, sir, Lin said.     Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them?     I believe they're carnivorous, sir.     An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the onlyinformation on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, ofcourse, two businessmen.     They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable oftearing a man—     An alien? Extrone corrected.     There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing analien to pieces, sir.     Extrone laughed harshly. It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me?     Lin's face remained impassive. I guess it seems that way. Sir.     Damned few people would dare go as far as you do, Extrone said. Butyou're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you?     Lin shrugged. Maybe.     I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know howwonderful it feels to have people      all     afraid of you.     The farn beasts, according to the manual....     You are very insistent on one subject.     ... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as Iwas saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, ofaliens. Sir.     All right, Extrone said, annoyed. I'll be careful.     In the distance, a farn beast coughed.     Instantly alert, Extrone said, Get the bearers! Have some of them cuta path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to getthe hell over here!     Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt.  Four hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walkedleisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, atthe vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Theirsharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavybreathing.     Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drankdeeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat madeoppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air.     Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmenfought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanksfor farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among thetree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near.     Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, apowerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustainedfire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing afolding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-poweredtwo-way communication set.     Once Extrone unslung his blast rifle and triggered a burst at a tiny,arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, toExtrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur.     When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearersslump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume,he sat on the stool with his back against an ancient tree and patted,reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs.     For you, sir, the communications man said, interrupting his reverie.     Damn, Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. It better beimportant. He took the head-set and mike and nodded to the bearer. Thebearer twiddled the dials.     Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell botherme?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn'tyou?     Blasted them right out of space, the voice crackled excitedly. Rightin the middle of a radio broadcast, sir.     I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting! Extronetore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. If they call back,find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it'simportant.     Yes, sir.     Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, andperspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands.     Lin, returning to the column, threaded his way among recliningbearers. He stopped before Extrone and tossed his hair out of his eyes.I located a spoor, he said, suppressed eagerness in his voice. Abouta quarter ahead. It looks fresh.     Extrone's eyes lit with passion.     Lin's face was red with heat and grimy with sweat. There were two, Ithink.     Two? Extrone grinned, petting the rifle. You and I better go forwardand look at the spoor.     Lin said, We ought to take protection, if you're going, too.     Extrone laughed. This is enough. He gestured with the rifle and stoodup.     I wish you had let me bring a gun along, sir, Lin said.     One is enough in      my     camp.  The two of them went forward, alone, into the forest. Extrone movedagilely through the tangle, following Lin closely. When they came tothe tracks, heavily pressed into drying mud around a small wateringhole, Extrone nodded his head in satisfaction.     This way, Lin said, pointing, and once more the two of them startedoff.     They went a good distance through the forest, Extrone becoming morealert with each additional foot. Finally, Lin stopped him with arestraining hand. They may be quite a way ahead. Hadn't we ought tobring up the column?     The farn beast, somewhere beyond a ragged clump of bushes, coughed.Extrone clenched the blast rifle convulsively.     The farn beast coughed again, more distant this time.     They're moving away, Lin said.     Damn! Extrone said.     It's a good thing the wind's right, or they'd be coming back, andfast, too.     Eh? Extrone said.     They charge on scent, sight, or sound. I understand they will trackdown a man for as long as a day.     Wait, Extrone said, combing his beard. Wait a minute.     Yes?     Look, Extrone said. If that's the case, why do we bother trackingthem? Why not make them come to us?     They're too unpredictable. It wouldn't be safe. I'd rather havesurprise on our side.     You don't seem to see what I mean, Extrone said.       We     won't bethe—ah—the bait.     Oh?     Let's get back to the column.  Extrone wants to see you, Lin said.     Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.What's he want to see      me     for?     I don't know, Lin said curtly.     Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervouslyat Lin's bare forearm. Look, he whispered. You know him. I have—alittle money. If you were able to ... if he wants, Ri gulped, to      do     anything to me—I'd pay you, if you could....     You better come along, Lin said, turning.     Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to whereExtrone was seated, petting his rifle.     Extrone nodded genially. The farn beast hunter, eh?     Yes, sir.     Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. Tell mewhat they look like, he said suddenly.     Well, sir, they're ... uh....     Pretty frightening?     No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir.     But      you     weren't afraid of them, were you?     No, sir. No, because....     Extrone was smiling innocently. Good. I want you to do something forme.     I ... I.... Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.Lin's face was impassive.     Of      course     you will, Extrone said genially. Get me a rope, Lin. Agood, long, strong rope.     What are you going to do? Ri asked, terrified.     Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out asbait.     No!     Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you      can     scream,by the way?     Ri swallowed.     We could find a way to make you.     There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,creeping toward his nose.     You'll be safe, Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. I'llshoot the animal before it reaches you.     Ri gulped for air. But ... if there should be more than one?     Extrone shrugged.     I—Look, sir. Listen to me. Ri's lips were bloodless and his handswere trembling. It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir.      He     killed a farn beast before      I     did, sir. And last night—lastnight, he—     He what? Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently.     Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. He said he ought to kill you, sir.That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. Iwouldn't....     Extrone said, Which one is he?     That one. Right over there.     The one with his back to me?     Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir.     Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifleand said, Here comes Lin with the rope, I see.     Ri was greenish. You ... you....     Extrone turned to Lin. Tie one end around his waist.     Wait, Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. You don'twant to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anythingshould happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it.     Tie it, Extrone ordered.     No, sir. Please. Oh,      please     don't, sir.     Tie it, Extrone said inexorably.     Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless.  They were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri.     Since the hole was drying, the left, partially exposed bank was steeptoward the muddy water. Upon it was green, new grass, tender-tuffed,half mashed in places by heavy animal treads. It was there that theystaked him out, tying the free end of the rope tightly around the baseof a scaling tree.     You will scream, Extrone instructed. With his rifle, he pointedacross the water hole. The farn beast will come from this direction, Iimagine.     Ri was almost slobbering in fear.     Let me hear you scream, Extrone said.     Ri moaned weakly.     You'll have to do better than that. Extrone inclined his head towarda bearer, who used something Ri couldn't see.       Ri screamed.     See that you keep it up that way, Extrone said. That's the way Iwant you to sound. He turned toward Lin. We can climb this tree, Ithink.     Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, barkpeeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly.     Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smallercrotch.     Looking down, Extrone said, Scream! Then, to Lin, You feel theexcitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt.     I feel it, Lin said.     Extrone chuckled. You were with me on Meizque?     Yes.     That was something, that time. He ran his hand along the stock of theweapon.     The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circledExtrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri'sscreams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched.     Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone'sface. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed againstthem, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed.  A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest.     Extrone laughed nervously. He must have heard.     We're lucky to rouse one so fast, Lin said.     Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. I likethis. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything Iknow.     Lin nodded.     The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killingthat matters.     It's not      only     the killing, Lin echoed.     You understand? Extrone said. How it is to wait, knowing in just aminute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're goingto kill it?     I know, Lin said.     But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too.     The farn beast coughed again; nearer.     It's a different one, Lin said.     How do you know?     Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar?     Hey! Extrone shouted. You, down there. There are two coming. Nowlet's hear you really scream!     Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tethertree, his eyes wide.     There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too, Extrone said.Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them. Heopened his right hand. Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,imprisoning the idea. Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if theyreally will come to your bait.     Lin shifted, staring toward the forest.     I've always liked to hunt, Extrone said. More than anything else, Ithink.     Lin spat toward the ground. People should hunt because they have to.For food. For safety.     No, Extrone argued. People should hunt for the love of hunting.     Killing?     Hunting, Extrone repeated harshly.  The farn beast coughed. Another answered. They were very near, andthere was a noise of crackling underbrush.     He's good bait, Extrone said. He's fat enough and he knows how toscream good.     Ri had stopped screaming; he was huddled against the tree, fearfullyeying the forest across from the watering hole.     Extrone began to tremble with excitement. Here they come!     The forest sprang apart. Extrone bent forward, the gun still across hislap.     The farn beast, its tiny eyes red with hate, stepped out on the bank,swinging its head wildly, its nostrils flaring in anger. It coughed.Its mate appeared beside it. Their tails thrashed against the scrubsbehind them, rattling leaves.       Shoot! Lin hissed. For God's sake, shoot!     Wait, Extrone said. Let's see what they do. He had not movedthe rifle. He was tense, bent forward, his eyes slitted, his breathbeginning to sound like an asthmatic pump.     The lead farn beast sighted Ri. It lowered its head.     Look! Extrone cried excitedly. Here it comes!     Ri began to scream again.     Still Extrone did not lift his blast rifle. He was laughing. Linwaited, frozen, his eyes staring at the farn beast in fascination.     The farn beast plunged into the water, which was shallow, and, throwinga sheet of it to either side, headed across toward Ri.     Watch! Watch! Extrone cried gleefully.     And then the aliens sprang their trap.   ","Lin is Extrone’s personal bearer who does anything that is asked of him by Extrone. Extrone is pleased when people are fearful of him, but it appears that Lin may not have a fear or may be suppressing it. Lin appears very loyal to Extrone, which is proven when he rejects an attempt of bribery by Ri who wants to know if he is in danger by Extrone’s plan. Lin does Extrone’s bidding by tying up Ri and staking him out for bait to lure the farn beast.However, when Lin and Extrone hide in a nearby tree to shoot the farn beast when they come after Ri, Lin’s actions become more sinister and it is revealed that he may have different beliefs from Extrone. Lin says hunting animals should be done for reasons like survival, not just for killing - which is the opposite of what Extrone believes - that the waiting and then the killing is the appeal. It is never clear if Lin is part of the alien trapping of Extrone that results, or whether he was as blind to it as Extrone."
"What settings does the story take place in? </s>     HUNT the HUNTER     BY KRIS NEVILLE     Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Of course using live bait is the best     way to lure dangerous alien animals ...     unless it turns out that you are the bait!      We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them.     Extrone asked, Is there a pass?     Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too.     Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said.     Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen!     Eh? Extrone said.     Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us.     Extrone raised his eyebrows.     This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct.     It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right!     Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge.     Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir.     We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry.     Yes, sir.     Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here!     He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge.     Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so.     Ri shrugged hopelessly.     Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble.     There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too.     That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus.     Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right.     It's the Hunting Club he don't like.     I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse?  Mia looked at his companion. He spat. What hurts most, he pays us forit. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at lessthan I pay my secretary.     Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge.     Hey, you! Extrone called.     The two of them turned immediately.     You two scout ahead, Extrone said. See if you can pick up sometracks.     Yes, sir, Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted theirshoulder straps and started off.     Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. Let'swait here, Mia said.     No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in.     They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were notprofessional guides.     We don't want to get too near, Ri said after toiling through theforest for many minutes. Without guns, we don't want to get nearenough for the farn beast to charge us.     They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging.     He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him, Mia said. But we goit alone. Damn him.     Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. Hot.By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time wewere here.     Mia said, The first time,      we     weren't guides. We didn't notice it somuch then.     They fought a few yards more into the forest.     Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay ablast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, butthe tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath.     This isn't ours! Ri said. This looks like it was made nearly a yearago!     Mia's eyes narrowed. The military from Xnile?     No, Ri said. They don't have any rockets this small. And I don'tthink there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one weleased from the Club. Except the one      he     brought.     The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place? Miaasked. You think it's their blast?     So? Ri said. But who are they?  It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better.     We didn't do so damned well.     We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out.     I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus.     Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area.     I didn't think a Club pilot would do that.     After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute.     There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.           I     didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said.     Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did.     Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over.     Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even      him     . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.     Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back.     What'll we tell him?     That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him?     They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines.     It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously.     The breeze dies down.     It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this.     There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away.     Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it.     Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said.  When it came over the hastily established camp, the rocket was low,obviously looking for a landing site. It was a military craft, from theoutpost on the near moon, and forward, near the nose, there was theblazoned emblem of the Ninth Fleet. The rocket roared directly overExtrone's tent, turned slowly, spouting fuel expensively, and settledinto the scrub forest, turning the vegetation beneath it sere by itsblasts.     Extrone sat on an upholstered stool before his tent and spatdisgustedly and combed his beard with his blunt fingers.     Shortly, from the direction of the rocket, a group of four high-rankingofficers came out of the forest, heading toward him. They were spruce,the officers, with military discipline holding their waists in andknees almost stiff.     What in hell do you want? Extrone asked.     They stopped a respectful distance away. Sir.... one began.     Haven't I told you gentlemen that rockets frighten the game? Extronedemanded, ominously not raising his voice.     Sir, the lead officer said, it's another alien ship. It was sighteda few hours ago, off this very planet, sir.     Extrone's face looked much too innocent. How did it get there,gentlemen? Why wasn't it destroyed?     We lost it again, sir. Temporarily, sir.     So? Extrone mocked.     We thought you ought to return to a safer planet, sir. Until we couldlocate and destroy it.     Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turnedaway, in the direction of a resting bearer. You! he said. Hey! Bringme a drink! He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. I'mstaying here.     The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. But, sir....     Extrone toyed with his beard. About a year ago, gentlemen, there wasan alien ship around here then, wasn't there? And you destroyed it,didn't you?     Yes, sir. When we located it, sir.     You'll destroy this one, too, Extrone said.     We have a tight patrol, sir. It can't slip through. But it might try along range bombardment, sir.  Extrone said, To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here.And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And youcan't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway.     That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir.     Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. You'lllose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen.I'm quite safe here, I think.     The bearer brought Extrone his drink.     Get off, Extrone said quietly to the four officers.     Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into thetangle of forest.     Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hotbreath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars.     Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap tohis tent.     Sir? Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness.     Eh? Extrone said, turning, startled. Oh, you. Well?     We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east.     Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, You killed one, I believe, on      your     trip?     Ri shifted. Yes, sir.     Extrone held back the flap of the tent. Won't you come in? he askedwithout any politeness whatever.     Ri obeyed the order.     The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. Thefloor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatlyand smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to theleft of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light waselectric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed tothe bed, sat down.     You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast? he said.     I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir.  Extrone narrowed his eyes. I see by your eyes that you areenvious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent.     Ri looked away from his face.     Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I havenever killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't      seen     a farn beast.     Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone'sglittering ones. Few people have seen them, sir.     Oh? Extrone questioned mildly. I wouldn't say that. I understandthat the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of theirplanets.     I meant in our system, sir.     Of course you did, Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of hissleeve with his forefinger. I imagine these are the only farn beastsin our system.     Ri waited uneasily, not answering.     Yes, Extrone said, I imagine they are. It would have been a shame ifyou had killed the last one. Don't you think so?     Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. Yes, sir. It wouldhave been.     Extrone pursed his lips. It wouldn't have been very considerate of youto—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed tocome along as my guide.     It was an honor, sir.     Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. If I had waited until it wassafe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able tofind such an illustrious guide.     ... I'm flattered, sir.     Of course, Extrone said. But you should have spoken to me about it,when you discovered the farn beast in our own system.     I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,sir....     Of course, Extrone said dryly. Like all of my subjects, he wavedhis hand in a broad gesture, the highest as well as the lowest slave,know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best.     Ri squirmed, his face pale. We do indeed love you, sir.     Extrone bent forward.       Know     me and love me.     Yes, sir.      Know     you and love you, sir, Ri said.     Get out! Extrone said.  It's frightening, Ri said, to be that close to him.     Mia nodded.     The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold andbright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for acentral mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres.     To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—whatwe've read about.     Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. You begin tounderstand a lot of things, after seeing him.     Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag.     It makes you think, Mia added. He twitched. I'm afraid. I'm afraidhe'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill usfirst.     Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. No. We have friends. We haveinfluence. He couldn't just like that—     He could say it was an accident.     No, Ri said stubbornly.     He can say anything, Mia insisted. He can make people believeanything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it.     It's getting cold, Ri said.     Listen, Mia pleaded.     No, Ri said. Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.Everybody would      know     we were lying. Everything they've come tobelieve would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, everypicture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us.      He     knows that.     Listen, Mia repeated intently. This is important. Right now hecouldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army isnot against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. Abearer overheard them talking. They don't      want     to overthrow him!     Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering.     That's another lie, Mia continued. That he protects the people fromthe Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were      ever     plottingagainst him. Not even at first. I think they      helped     him, don't yousee?     Ri whined nervously.     It's like this, Mia said. I see it like this. The Army      put     him inpower when the people were in rebellion against military rule.  Ri swallowed. We couldn't make the people believe that.     No? Mia challenged. Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade thealien system!     The people won't support them, Ri answered woodenly.           Think.     If he tells them to, they will. They trust him.     Ri looked around at the shadows.     That explains a lot of things, Mia said. I think the Army's beenpreparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's whyExtrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them fromlearning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keepthem from exposing      him     to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooledlike we were, so easy.     No! Ri snapped. It was to keep the natural economic balance.     You know that's not right.     Ri lay down on his bed roll. Don't talk about it. It's not good totalk like this. I don't even want to listen.     When the invasion starts, he'll have to command      all     their loyalties.To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying totell the truth.     You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong.     Mia smiled twistedly. How many has he already killed? How can we evenguess?     Ri swallowed sickly.     Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret?     Ri shuddered. That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all likethat.  With morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,uncontaminated.     And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting theflap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared aroundthe camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep.     Breakfast! he shouted, and two bearers came running with a foldingtable and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray ofvarious foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcherand a drinking mug.     Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in hisconversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth withwater and spat on the ground.     Lin! he said.     His personal bearer came loping toward him.     Have you read that manual I gave you?     Lin nodded. Yes.     Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. Veryludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen forguides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,twenty years ago, damn them.     Lin waited.     Now I can spit on them, which pleases me.     The farn beasts are dangerous, sir, Lin said.     Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them?     I believe they're carnivorous, sir.     An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the onlyinformation on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, ofcourse, two businessmen.     They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable oftearing a man—     An alien? Extrone corrected.     There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing analien to pieces, sir.     Extrone laughed harshly. It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me?     Lin's face remained impassive. I guess it seems that way. Sir.     Damned few people would dare go as far as you do, Extrone said. Butyou're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you?     Lin shrugged. Maybe.     I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know howwonderful it feels to have people      all     afraid of you.     The farn beasts, according to the manual....     You are very insistent on one subject.     ... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as Iwas saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, ofaliens. Sir.     All right, Extrone said, annoyed. I'll be careful.     In the distance, a farn beast coughed.     Instantly alert, Extrone said, Get the bearers! Have some of them cuta path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to getthe hell over here!     Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt.  Four hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walkedleisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, atthe vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Theirsharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavybreathing.     Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drankdeeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat madeoppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air.     Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmenfought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanksfor farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among thetree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near.     Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, apowerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustainedfire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing afolding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-poweredtwo-way communication set.     Once Extrone unslung his blast rifle and triggered a burst at a tiny,arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, toExtrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur.     When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearersslump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume,he sat on the stool with his back against an ancient tree and patted,reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs.     For you, sir, the communications man said, interrupting his reverie.     Damn, Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. It better beimportant. He took the head-set and mike and nodded to the bearer. Thebearer twiddled the dials.     Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell botherme?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn'tyou?     Blasted them right out of space, the voice crackled excitedly. Rightin the middle of a radio broadcast, sir.     I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting! Extronetore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. If they call back,find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it'simportant.     Yes, sir.     Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, andperspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands.     Lin, returning to the column, threaded his way among recliningbearers. He stopped before Extrone and tossed his hair out of his eyes.I located a spoor, he said, suppressed eagerness in his voice. Abouta quarter ahead. It looks fresh.     Extrone's eyes lit with passion.     Lin's face was red with heat and grimy with sweat. There were two, Ithink.     Two? Extrone grinned, petting the rifle. You and I better go forwardand look at the spoor.     Lin said, We ought to take protection, if you're going, too.     Extrone laughed. This is enough. He gestured with the rifle and stoodup.     I wish you had let me bring a gun along, sir, Lin said.     One is enough in      my     camp.  The two of them went forward, alone, into the forest. Extrone movedagilely through the tangle, following Lin closely. When they came tothe tracks, heavily pressed into drying mud around a small wateringhole, Extrone nodded his head in satisfaction.     This way, Lin said, pointing, and once more the two of them startedoff.     They went a good distance through the forest, Extrone becoming morealert with each additional foot. Finally, Lin stopped him with arestraining hand. They may be quite a way ahead. Hadn't we ought tobring up the column?     The farn beast, somewhere beyond a ragged clump of bushes, coughed.Extrone clenched the blast rifle convulsively.     The farn beast coughed again, more distant this time.     They're moving away, Lin said.     Damn! Extrone said.     It's a good thing the wind's right, or they'd be coming back, andfast, too.     Eh? Extrone said.     They charge on scent, sight, or sound. I understand they will trackdown a man for as long as a day.     Wait, Extrone said, combing his beard. Wait a minute.     Yes?     Look, Extrone said. If that's the case, why do we bother trackingthem? Why not make them come to us?     They're too unpredictable. It wouldn't be safe. I'd rather havesurprise on our side.     You don't seem to see what I mean, Extrone said.       We     won't bethe—ah—the bait.     Oh?     Let's get back to the column.  Extrone wants to see you, Lin said.     Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.What's he want to see      me     for?     I don't know, Lin said curtly.     Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervouslyat Lin's bare forearm. Look, he whispered. You know him. I have—alittle money. If you were able to ... if he wants, Ri gulped, to      do     anything to me—I'd pay you, if you could....     You better come along, Lin said, turning.     Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to whereExtrone was seated, petting his rifle.     Extrone nodded genially. The farn beast hunter, eh?     Yes, sir.     Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. Tell mewhat they look like, he said suddenly.     Well, sir, they're ... uh....     Pretty frightening?     No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir.     But      you     weren't afraid of them, were you?     No, sir. No, because....     Extrone was smiling innocently. Good. I want you to do something forme.     I ... I.... Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.Lin's face was impassive.     Of      course     you will, Extrone said genially. Get me a rope, Lin. Agood, long, strong rope.     What are you going to do? Ri asked, terrified.     Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out asbait.     No!     Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you      can     scream,by the way?     Ri swallowed.     We could find a way to make you.     There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,creeping toward his nose.     You'll be safe, Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. I'llshoot the animal before it reaches you.     Ri gulped for air. But ... if there should be more than one?     Extrone shrugged.     I—Look, sir. Listen to me. Ri's lips were bloodless and his handswere trembling. It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir.      He     killed a farn beast before      I     did, sir. And last night—lastnight, he—     He what? Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently.     Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. He said he ought to kill you, sir.That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. Iwouldn't....     Extrone said, Which one is he?     That one. Right over there.     The one with his back to me?     Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir.     Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifleand said, Here comes Lin with the rope, I see.     Ri was greenish. You ... you....     Extrone turned to Lin. Tie one end around his waist.     Wait, Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. You don'twant to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anythingshould happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it.     Tie it, Extrone ordered.     No, sir. Please. Oh,      please     don't, sir.     Tie it, Extrone said inexorably.     Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless.  They were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri.     Since the hole was drying, the left, partially exposed bank was steeptoward the muddy water. Upon it was green, new grass, tender-tuffed,half mashed in places by heavy animal treads. It was there that theystaked him out, tying the free end of the rope tightly around the baseof a scaling tree.     You will scream, Extrone instructed. With his rifle, he pointedacross the water hole. The farn beast will come from this direction, Iimagine.     Ri was almost slobbering in fear.     Let me hear you scream, Extrone said.     Ri moaned weakly.     You'll have to do better than that. Extrone inclined his head towarda bearer, who used something Ri couldn't see.       Ri screamed.     See that you keep it up that way, Extrone said. That's the way Iwant you to sound. He turned toward Lin. We can climb this tree, Ithink.     Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, barkpeeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly.     Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smallercrotch.     Looking down, Extrone said, Scream! Then, to Lin, You feel theexcitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt.     I feel it, Lin said.     Extrone chuckled. You were with me on Meizque?     Yes.     That was something, that time. He ran his hand along the stock of theweapon.     The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circledExtrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri'sscreams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched.     Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone'sface. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed againstthem, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed.  A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest.     Extrone laughed nervously. He must have heard.     We're lucky to rouse one so fast, Lin said.     Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. I likethis. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything Iknow.     Lin nodded.     The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killingthat matters.     It's not      only     the killing, Lin echoed.     You understand? Extrone said. How it is to wait, knowing in just aminute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're goingto kill it?     I know, Lin said.     But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too.     The farn beast coughed again; nearer.     It's a different one, Lin said.     How do you know?     Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar?     Hey! Extrone shouted. You, down there. There are two coming. Nowlet's hear you really scream!     Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tethertree, his eyes wide.     There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too, Extrone said.Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them. Heopened his right hand. Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,imprisoning the idea. Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if theyreally will come to your bait.     Lin shifted, staring toward the forest.     I've always liked to hunt, Extrone said. More than anything else, Ithink.     Lin spat toward the ground. People should hunt because they have to.For food. For safety.     No, Extrone argued. People should hunt for the love of hunting.     Killing?     Hunting, Extrone repeated harshly.  The farn beast coughed. Another answered. They were very near, andthere was a noise of crackling underbrush.     He's good bait, Extrone said. He's fat enough and he knows how toscream good.     Ri had stopped screaming; he was huddled against the tree, fearfullyeying the forest across from the watering hole.     Extrone began to tremble with excitement. Here they come!     The forest sprang apart. Extrone bent forward, the gun still across hislap.     The farn beast, its tiny eyes red with hate, stepped out on the bank,swinging its head wildly, its nostrils flaring in anger. It coughed.Its mate appeared beside it. Their tails thrashed against the scrubsbehind them, rattling leaves.       Shoot! Lin hissed. For God's sake, shoot!     Wait, Extrone said. Let's see what they do. He had not movedthe rifle. He was tense, bent forward, his eyes slitted, his breathbeginning to sound like an asthmatic pump.     The lead farn beast sighted Ri. It lowered its head.     Look! Extrone cried excitedly. Here it comes!     Ri began to scream again.     Still Extrone did not lift his blast rifle. He was laughing. Linwaited, frozen, his eyes staring at the farn beast in fascination.     The farn beast plunged into the water, which was shallow, and, throwinga sheet of it to either side, headed across toward Ri.     Watch! Watch! Extrone cried gleefully.     And then the aliens sprang their trap.   ","On the surface of a planet which is wooded in scrub forest and one of the few places known to have farn beasts. The hunting party is next to a ridge that would be a significant effort to cross, and there are “blast sites” around the woods. The hunting party also uses a nearby water hole location to lure farn beasts while hiding up in a tree.Extrone’s camp set up by “bearers” and his tent, which is extravagantly decorated, are also scenes used throughout the story."
"What is the relationship like between Ri and Mia? </s>     HUNT the HUNTER     BY KRIS NEVILLE     Illustrated by ELIZABETH MacINTYRE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Of course using live bait is the best     way to lure dangerous alien animals ...     unless it turns out that you are the bait!      We're somewhat to the south, I think, Ri said, bending over the crudefield map. That ridge, he pointed, on our left, is right here. Hedrew a finger down the map. It was over here, he moved the finger,over the ridge, north of here, that we sighted them.     Extrone asked, Is there a pass?     Ri looked up, studying the terrain. He moved his shoulders. I don'tknow, but maybe they range this far. Maybe they're on this side of theridge, too.     Delicately, Extrone raised a hand to his beard. I'd hate to lose a daycrossing the ridge, he said.     Yes, sir, Ri said. Suddenly he threw back his head. Listen!     Eh? Extrone said.     Hear it? That cough? I think that's one, from over there. Right upahead of us.     Extrone raised his eyebrows.     This time, the coughing roar was more distant, but distinct.     It is! Ri said. It's a farn beast, all right!     Extrone smiled, almost pointed teeth showing through the beard. I'mglad we won't have to cross the ridge.     Ri wiped his forehead on the back of his sleeve. Yes, sir.     We'll pitch camp right here, then, Extrone said. We'll go after ittomorrow. He looked at the sky. Have the bearers hurry.     Yes, sir.     Ri moved away, his pulse gradually slowing. You, there! he called.Pitch camp, here!     He crossed to Mia, who, along with him, had been pressed into Extrone'sparty as guides. Once more, Ri addressed the bearers, Be quick, now!And to Mia, God almighty, he was getting mad. He ran a hand under hiscollar. It's a good thing that farn beast sounded off when it did. I'dhate to think of making him climb that ridge.     Mia glanced nervously over his shoulder. It's that damned pilot'sfault for setting us down on this side. I told him it was the otherside. I told him so.     Ri shrugged hopelessly.     Mia said, I don't think he even saw a blast area over here. I think hewanted to get us in trouble.     There shouldn't be one. There shouldn't be a blast area on this sideof the ridge, too.     That's what I mean. The pilot don't like businessmen. He had it in forus.     Ri cleared his throat nervously. Maybe you're right.     It's the Hunting Club he don't like.     I wish to God I'd never heard of a farn beast, Ri said. At least,then, I wouldn't be one of his guides. Why didn't he hire somebodyelse?  Mia looked at his companion. He spat. What hurts most, he pays us forit. I could buy half this planet, and he makes me his guide—at lessthan I pay my secretary.     Well, anyway, we won't have to cross that ridge.     Hey, you! Extrone called.     The two of them turned immediately.     You two scout ahead, Extrone said. See if you can pick up sometracks.     Yes, sir, Ri said, and instantly the two of them readjusted theirshoulder straps and started off.     Shortly they were inside of the scrub forest, safe from sight. Let'swait here, Mia said.     No, we better go on. He may have sent a spy in.     They pushed on, being careful to blaze the trees, because they were notprofessional guides.     We don't want to get too near, Ri said after toiling through theforest for many minutes. Without guns, we don't want to get nearenough for the farn beast to charge us.     They stopped. The forest was dense, the vines clinging.     He'll want the bearers to hack a path for him, Mia said. But we goit alone. Damn him.     Ri twisted his mouth into a sour frown. He wiped at his forehead. Hot.By God, it's hot. I didn't think it was this hot, the first time wewere here.     Mia said, The first time,      we     weren't guides. We didn't notice it somuch then.     They fought a few yards more into the forest.     Then it ended. Or, rather, there was a wide gap. Before them lay ablast area, unmistakable. The grass was beginning to grow again, butthe tree stumps were roasted from the rocket breath.     This isn't ours! Ri said. This looks like it was made nearly a yearago!     Mia's eyes narrowed. The military from Xnile?     No, Ri said. They don't have any rockets this small. And I don'tthink there's another cargo rocket on this planet outside of the one weleased from the Club. Except the one      he     brought.     The ones who discovered the farn beasts in the first place? Miaasked. You think it's their blast?     So? Ri said. But who are they?  It was Mia's turn to shrug. Whoever they were, they couldn't have beenhunters. They'd have kept the secret better.     We didn't do so damned well.     We didn't have a chance, Mia objected. Everybody and his brother hadheard the rumor that farn beasts were somewhere around here. It wasn'tour fault Extrone found out.     I wish we hadn't shot our guide, then. I wish he was here instead ofus.     Mia shook perspiration out of his eyes. We should have shot our pilot,too. That was our mistake. The pilot must have been the one who toldExtrone we'd hunted this area.     I didn't think a Club pilot would do that.     After Extrone said he'd hunt farn beasts, even if it meant going tothe alien system? Listen, you don't know.... Wait a minute.     There was perspiration on Ri's upper lip.           I     didn't tell Extrone, if that's what you're thinking, Mia said.     Ri's mouth twisted. I didn't say you did.     Listen, Mia said in a hoarse whisper. I just thought. Listen. Tohell with how he found out. Here's the point. Maybe he'll shoot us,too, when the hunt's over.     Ri licked his lips. No. He wouldn't do that. We're not—not justanybody. He couldn't kill us like that. Not even      him     . And besides,why would he want to do that? It wouldn't do any good to shoot us. Toomany people already know about the farn beasts. You said that yourself.     Mia said, I hope you're right. They stood side by side, studying theblast area in silence. Finally, Mia said, We better be getting back.     What'll we tell him?     That we saw tracks. What else can we tell him?     They turned back along their trail, stumbling over vines.     It gets hotter at sunset, Ri said nervously.     The breeze dies down.     It's screwy. I didn't think farn beasts had this wide a range. Theremust be a lot of them, to be on both sides of the ridge like this.     There may be a pass, Mia said, pushing a vine away.     Ri wrinkled his brow, panting. I guess that's it. If there were a lotof them, we'd have heard something before we did. But even so, it'sdamned funny, when you think about it.     Mia looked up at the darkening sky. We better hurry, he said.  When it came over the hastily established camp, the rocket was low,obviously looking for a landing site. It was a military craft, from theoutpost on the near moon, and forward, near the nose, there was theblazoned emblem of the Ninth Fleet. The rocket roared directly overExtrone's tent, turned slowly, spouting fuel expensively, and settledinto the scrub forest, turning the vegetation beneath it sere by itsblasts.     Extrone sat on an upholstered stool before his tent and spatdisgustedly and combed his beard with his blunt fingers.     Shortly, from the direction of the rocket, a group of four high-rankingofficers came out of the forest, heading toward him. They were spruce,the officers, with military discipline holding their waists in andknees almost stiff.     What in hell do you want? Extrone asked.     They stopped a respectful distance away. Sir.... one began.     Haven't I told you gentlemen that rockets frighten the game? Extronedemanded, ominously not raising his voice.     Sir, the lead officer said, it's another alien ship. It was sighteda few hours ago, off this very planet, sir.     Extrone's face looked much too innocent. How did it get there,gentlemen? Why wasn't it destroyed?     We lost it again, sir. Temporarily, sir.     So? Extrone mocked.     We thought you ought to return to a safer planet, sir. Until we couldlocate and destroy it.     Extrone stared at them for a space. Then, indifferently, he turnedaway, in the direction of a resting bearer. You! he said. Hey! Bringme a drink! He faced the officers again. He smiled maliciously. I'mstaying here.     The lead officer licked his firm lower lip. But, sir....     Extrone toyed with his beard. About a year ago, gentlemen, there wasan alien ship around here then, wasn't there? And you destroyed it,didn't you?     Yes, sir. When we located it, sir.     You'll destroy this one, too, Extrone said.     We have a tight patrol, sir. It can't slip through. But it might try along range bombardment, sir.  Extrone said, To begin with, they probably don't even know I'm here.And they probably couldn't hit this area if they did know. And youcan't afford to let them get a shot at me, anyway.     That's why we'd like you to return to an inner planet, sir.     Extrone plucked at his right ear lobe, half closing his eyes. You'lllose a fleet before you'll dare let anything happen to me, gentlemen.I'm quite safe here, I think.     The bearer brought Extrone his drink.     Get off, Extrone said quietly to the four officers.     Again they turned reluctantly. This time, he did not call them back.Instead, with amusement, he watched until they disappeared into thetangle of forest.     Dusk was falling. The takeoff blast of the rocket illuminated the area,casting weird shadows on the gently swaying grasses; there was a hotbreath of dry air and the rocket dwindled toward the stars.     Extrone stood up lazily, stretching. He tossed the empty glass away,listened for it to shatter. He reached out, parted the heavy flap tohis tent.     Sir? Ri said, hurrying toward him in the gathering darkness.     Eh? Extrone said, turning, startled. Oh, you. Well?     We ... located signs of the farn beast, sir. To the east.     Extrone nodded. After a moment he said, You killed one, I believe, on      your     trip?     Ri shifted. Yes, sir.     Extrone held back the flap of the tent. Won't you come in? he askedwithout any politeness whatever.     Ri obeyed the order.     The inside of the tent was luxurious. The bed was of bulky feathers,costly of transport space, the sleep curtains of silken gauze. Thefloor, heavy, portable tile blocks, not the hollow kind, were neatlyand smoothly inset into the ground. Hanging from the center, to theleft of the slender, hand-carved center pole, was a chain of crystals.They tinkled lightly when Extrone dropped the flap. The light waselectric from a portable dynamo. Extrone flipped it on. He crossed tothe bed, sat down.     You were, I believe, the first ever to kill a farn beast? he said.     I.... No, sir. There must have been previous hunters, sir.  Extrone narrowed his eyes. I see by your eyes that you areenvious—that is the word, isn't it?—of my tent.     Ri looked away from his face.     Perhaps I'm envious of your reputation as a hunter. You see, I havenever killed a farn beast. In fact, I haven't      seen     a farn beast.     Ri glanced nervously around the tent, his sharp eyes avoiding Extrone'sglittering ones. Few people have seen them, sir.     Oh? Extrone questioned mildly. I wouldn't say that. I understandthat the aliens hunt them quite extensively ... on some of theirplanets.     I meant in our system, sir.     Of course you did, Extrone said, lazily tracing the crease of hissleeve with his forefinger. I imagine these are the only farn beastsin our system.     Ri waited uneasily, not answering.     Yes, Extrone said, I imagine they are. It would have been a shame ifyou had killed the last one. Don't you think so?     Ri's hands worried the sides of his outer garment. Yes, sir. It wouldhave been.     Extrone pursed his lips. It wouldn't have been very considerate of youto—But, still, you gained valuable experience. I'm glad you agreed tocome along as my guide.     It was an honor, sir.     Extrone's lip twisted in wry amusement. If I had waited until it wassafe for me to hunt on an alien planet, I would not have been able tofind such an illustrious guide.     ... I'm flattered, sir.     Of course, Extrone said. But you should have spoken to me about it,when you discovered the farn beast in our own system.     I realize that, sir. That is, I had intended at the first opportunity,sir....     Of course, Extrone said dryly. Like all of my subjects, he wavedhis hand in a broad gesture, the highest as well as the lowest slave,know me and love me. I know your intentions were the best.     Ri squirmed, his face pale. We do indeed love you, sir.     Extrone bent forward.       Know     me and love me.     Yes, sir.      Know     you and love you, sir, Ri said.     Get out! Extrone said.  It's frightening, Ri said, to be that close to him.     Mia nodded.     The two of them, beneath the leaf-swollen branches of the gnarled tree,were seated on their sleeping bags. The moon was clear and cold andbright in a cloudless sky; a small moon, smooth-surfaced, except for acentral mountain ridge that bisected it into almost twin hemispheres.     To think of him. As flesh and blood. Not like the—well; that—whatwe've read about.     Mia glanced suspiciously around him at the shadows. You begin tounderstand a lot of things, after seeing him.     Ri picked nervously at the cover of his sleeping bag.     It makes you think, Mia added. He twitched. I'm afraid. I'm afraidhe'll.... Listen, we'll talk. When we get back to civilization. You,me, the bearers. About him. He can't let that happen. He'll kill usfirst.     Ri looked up at the moon, shivering. No. We have friends. We haveinfluence. He couldn't just like that—     He could say it was an accident.     No, Ri said stubbornly.     He can say anything, Mia insisted. He can make people believeanything. Whatever he says. There's no way to check on it.     It's getting cold, Ri said.     Listen, Mia pleaded.     No, Ri said. Even if we tried to tell them, they wouldn't listen.Everybody would      know     we were lying. Everything they've come tobelieve would tell them we were lying. Everything they've read, everypicture they've seen. They wouldn't believe us.      He     knows that.     Listen, Mia repeated intently. This is important. Right now hecouldn't afford to let us talk. Not right now. Because the Army isnot against him. Some officers were here, just before we came back. Abearer overheard them talking. They don't      want     to overthrow him!     Ri's teeth, suddenly, were chattering.     That's another lie, Mia continued. That he protects the people fromthe Army. That's a lie. I don't believe they were      ever     plottingagainst him. Not even at first. I think they      helped     him, don't yousee?     Ri whined nervously.     It's like this, Mia said. I see it like this. The Army      put     him inpower when the people were in rebellion against military rule.  Ri swallowed. We couldn't make the people believe that.     No? Mia challenged. Couldn't we? Not today, but what about tomorrow?You'll see. Because I think the Army is getting ready to invade thealien system!     The people won't support them, Ri answered woodenly.           Think.     If he tells them to, they will. They trust him.     Ri looked around at the shadows.     That explains a lot of things, Mia said. I think the Army's beenpreparing for this for a long time. From the first, maybe. That's whyExtrone cut off our trade with the aliens. Partly to keep them fromlearning that he was getting ready to invade them, but more to keepthem from exposing      him     to the people. The aliens wouldn't be fooledlike we were, so easy.     No! Ri snapped. It was to keep the natural economic balance.     You know that's not right.     Ri lay down on his bed roll. Don't talk about it. It's not good totalk like this. I don't even want to listen.     When the invasion starts, he'll have to command      all     their loyalties.To keep them from revolt again. They'd be ready to believe us, then.He'll have a hard enough time without people running around trying totell the truth.     You're wrong. He's not like that. I know you're wrong.     Mia smiled twistedly. How many has he already killed? How can we evenguess?     Ri swallowed sickly.     Remember our guide? To keep our hunting territory a secret?     Ri shuddered. That's different. Don't you see? This is not at all likethat.  With morning came birds' songs, came dew, came breakfast smells.The air was sweet with cooking and it was nostalgic, childhoodlike,uncontaminated.     And Extrone stepped out of the tent, fully dressed, surly, letting theflap slap loudly behind him. He stretched hungrily and stared aroundthe camp, his eyes still vacant-mean with sleep.     Breakfast! he shouted, and two bearers came running with a foldingtable and chair. Behind them, a third bearer, carrying a tray ofvarious foods; and yet behind him, a fourth, with a steaming pitcherand a drinking mug.     Extrone ate hugely, with none of the delicacy sometimes affected in hisconversational gestures. When he had finished, he washed his mouth withwater and spat on the ground.     Lin! he said.     His personal bearer came loping toward him.     Have you read that manual I gave you?     Lin nodded. Yes.     Extrone pushed the table away. He smacked his lips wetly. Veryludicrous, Lin. Have you noticed that I have two businessmen forguides? It occurred to me when I got up. They would have spat on me,twenty years ago, damn them.     Lin waited.     Now I can spit on them, which pleases me.     The farn beasts are dangerous, sir, Lin said.     Eh? Oh, yes. Those. What did the manual say about them?     I believe they're carnivorous, sir.     An alien manual. That's ludicrous, too. That we have the onlyinformation on our newly discovered fauna from an alien manual—and, ofcourse, two businessmen.     They have very long, sharp fangs, and, when enraged, are capable oftearing a man—     An alien? Extrone corrected.     There's not enough difference between us to matter, sir. Of tearing analien to pieces, sir.     Extrone laughed harshly. It's 'sir' whenever you contradict me?     Lin's face remained impassive. I guess it seems that way. Sir.     Damned few people would dare go as far as you do, Extrone said. Butyou're afraid of me, too, in your own way, aren't you?     Lin shrugged. Maybe.     I can see you are. Even my wives are. I wonder if anyone can know howwonderful it feels to have people      all     afraid of you.     The farn beasts, according to the manual....     You are very insistent on one subject.     ... It's the only thing I know anything about. The farn beast, as Iwas saying, sir, is the particular enemy of men. Or if you like, ofaliens. Sir.     All right, Extrone said, annoyed. I'll be careful.     In the distance, a farn beast coughed.     Instantly alert, Extrone said, Get the bearers! Have some of them cuta path through that damn thicket! And tell those two businessmen to getthe hell over here!     Lin smiled, his eyes suddenly afire with the excitement of the hunt.  Four hours later, they were well into the scrub forest. Extrone walkedleisurely, well back of the cutters, who hacked away, methodically, atthe vines and branches which might impede his forward progress. Theirsharp, awkward knives snickered rhythmically to the rasp of their heavybreathing.     Occasionally, Extrone halted, motioned for his water carrier, and drankdeeply of the icy water to allay the heat of the forest, a heat madeoppressive by the press of foliage against the outside air.     Ranging out, on both sides of the central body, the two businessmenfought independently against the wild growth, each scouting the flanksfor farn beasts, and ahead, beyond the cutters, Lin flittered among thetree trunks, sometimes far, sometimes near.     Extrone carried the only weapon, slung easily over his shoulder, apowerful blast rifle, capable of piercing medium armor in sustainedfire. To his rear, the water carrier was trailed by a man bearing afolding stool, and behind him, a man carrying the heavy, high-poweredtwo-way communication set.     Once Extrone unslung his blast rifle and triggered a burst at a tiny,arboreal mammal, which, upon the impact, shattered asunder, toExtrone's satisfied chuckle, in a burst of blood and fur.     When the sun stood high and heat exhaustion made the near-naked bearersslump, Extrone permitted a rest. While waiting for the march to resume,he sat on the stool with his back against an ancient tree and patted,reflectively, the blast rifle, lying across his legs.     For you, sir, the communications man said, interrupting his reverie.     Damn, Extrone muttered. His face twisted in anger. It better beimportant. He took the head-set and mike and nodded to the bearer. Thebearer twiddled the dials.     Extrone. Eh?... Oh, you got their ship. Well, why in hell botherme?... All right, so they found out I was here. You got them, didn'tyou?     Blasted them right out of space, the voice crackled excitedly. Rightin the middle of a radio broadcast, sir.     I don't want to listen to your gabbling when I'm hunting! Extronetore off the head-set and handed it to the bearer. If they call back,find out what they want, first. I don't want to be bothered unless it'simportant.     Yes, sir.     Extrone squinted up at the sun; his eyes crinkled under the glare, andperspiration stood in little droplets on the back of his hands.     Lin, returning to the column, threaded his way among recliningbearers. He stopped before Extrone and tossed his hair out of his eyes.I located a spoor, he said, suppressed eagerness in his voice. Abouta quarter ahead. It looks fresh.     Extrone's eyes lit with passion.     Lin's face was red with heat and grimy with sweat. There were two, Ithink.     Two? Extrone grinned, petting the rifle. You and I better go forwardand look at the spoor.     Lin said, We ought to take protection, if you're going, too.     Extrone laughed. This is enough. He gestured with the rifle and stoodup.     I wish you had let me bring a gun along, sir, Lin said.     One is enough in      my     camp.  The two of them went forward, alone, into the forest. Extrone movedagilely through the tangle, following Lin closely. When they came tothe tracks, heavily pressed into drying mud around a small wateringhole, Extrone nodded his head in satisfaction.     This way, Lin said, pointing, and once more the two of them startedoff.     They went a good distance through the forest, Extrone becoming morealert with each additional foot. Finally, Lin stopped him with arestraining hand. They may be quite a way ahead. Hadn't we ought tobring up the column?     The farn beast, somewhere beyond a ragged clump of bushes, coughed.Extrone clenched the blast rifle convulsively.     The farn beast coughed again, more distant this time.     They're moving away, Lin said.     Damn! Extrone said.     It's a good thing the wind's right, or they'd be coming back, andfast, too.     Eh? Extrone said.     They charge on scent, sight, or sound. I understand they will trackdown a man for as long as a day.     Wait, Extrone said, combing his beard. Wait a minute.     Yes?     Look, Extrone said. If that's the case, why do we bother trackingthem? Why not make them come to us?     They're too unpredictable. It wouldn't be safe. I'd rather havesurprise on our side.     You don't seem to see what I mean, Extrone said.       We     won't bethe—ah—the bait.     Oh?     Let's get back to the column.  Extrone wants to see you, Lin said.     Ri twisted at the grass shoot, broke it off, worried and unhappy.What's he want to see      me     for?     I don't know, Lin said curtly.     Ri got to his feet. One of his hands reached out, plucked nervouslyat Lin's bare forearm. Look, he whispered. You know him. I have—alittle money. If you were able to ... if he wants, Ri gulped, to      do     anything to me—I'd pay you, if you could....     You better come along, Lin said, turning.     Ri rubbed his hands along his thighs; he sighed, a tiny sound,ineffectual. He followed Lin beyond an outcropping of shale to whereExtrone was seated, petting his rifle.     Extrone nodded genially. The farn beast hunter, eh?     Yes, sir.     Extrone drummed his fingers on the stock of the blast rifle. Tell mewhat they look like, he said suddenly.     Well, sir, they're ... uh....     Pretty frightening?     No, sir.... Well, in a way, sir.     But      you     weren't afraid of them, were you?     No, sir. No, because....     Extrone was smiling innocently. Good. I want you to do something forme.     I ... I.... Ri glanced nervously at Lin out of the tail of his eye.Lin's face was impassive.     Of      course     you will, Extrone said genially. Get me a rope, Lin. Agood, long, strong rope.     What are you going to do? Ri asked, terrified.     Why, I'm going to tie the rope around your waist and stake you out asbait.     No!     Oh, come now. When the farn beast hears you scream—you      can     scream,by the way?     Ri swallowed.     We could find a way to make you.     There was perspiration trickling down Ri's forehead, a single drop,creeping toward his nose.     You'll be safe, Extrone said, studying his face with amusement. I'llshoot the animal before it reaches you.     Ri gulped for air. But ... if there should be more than one?     Extrone shrugged.     I—Look, sir. Listen to me. Ri's lips were bloodless and his handswere trembling. It's not me you want to do this to. It's Mia, sir.      He     killed a farn beast before      I     did, sir. And last night—lastnight, he—     He what? Extrone demanded, leaning forward intently.     Ri breathed with a gurgling sound. He said he ought to kill you, sir.That's what he said. I heard him, sir. He said he ought to kill you.He's the one you ought to use for bait. Then if there was an accident,sir, it wouldn't matter, because he said he ought to kill you. Iwouldn't....     Extrone said, Which one is he?     That one. Right over there.     The one with his back to me?     Yes, sir. That's him. That's him, sir.     Extrone aimed carefully and fired, full charge, then lowered the rifleand said, Here comes Lin with the rope, I see.     Ri was greenish. You ... you....     Extrone turned to Lin. Tie one end around his waist.     Wait, Ri begged, fighting off the rope with his hands. You don'twant to use me, sir. Not after I told you.... Please, sir. If anythingshould happen to me.... Please, sir. Don't do it.     Tie it, Extrone ordered.     No, sir. Please. Oh,      please     don't, sir.     Tie it, Extrone said inexorably.     Lin bent with the rope; his face was colorless.  They were at the watering hole—Extrone, Lin, two bearers, and Ri.     Since the hole was drying, the left, partially exposed bank was steeptoward the muddy water. Upon it was green, new grass, tender-tuffed,half mashed in places by heavy animal treads. It was there that theystaked him out, tying the free end of the rope tightly around the baseof a scaling tree.     You will scream, Extrone instructed. With his rifle, he pointedacross the water hole. The farn beast will come from this direction, Iimagine.     Ri was almost slobbering in fear.     Let me hear you scream, Extrone said.     Ri moaned weakly.     You'll have to do better than that. Extrone inclined his head towarda bearer, who used something Ri couldn't see.       Ri screamed.     See that you keep it up that way, Extrone said. That's the way Iwant you to sound. He turned toward Lin. We can climb this tree, Ithink.     Slowly, aided by the bearers, the two men climbed the tree, barkpeeling away from under their rough boots. Ri watched them hopelessly.     Once at the crotch, Extrone settled down, holding the rifle at alert.Lin moved to the left, out on the main branch, rested in a smallercrotch.     Looking down, Extrone said, Scream! Then, to Lin, You feel theexcitement? It's always in the air like this at a hunt.     I feel it, Lin said.     Extrone chuckled. You were with me on Meizque?     Yes.     That was something, that time. He ran his hand along the stock of theweapon.     The sun headed west, veiling itself with trees; a large insect circledExtrone's head. He slapped at it, angry. The forest was quiet,underlined by an occasional piping call, something like a whistle. Ri'sscreams were shrill, echoing away, shiveringly. Lin sat quiet, hunched.     Extrone's eyes narrowed, and he began to pet the gun stock with quick,jerky movements. Lin licked his lips, keeping his eyes on Extrone'sface. The sun seemed stuck in the sky, and the heat squeezed againstthem, sucking at their breath like a vacuum. The insect went away.Still, endless, hopeless, monotonous, Ri screamed.  A farn beast coughed, far in the matted forest.     Extrone laughed nervously. He must have heard.     We're lucky to rouse one so fast, Lin said.     Extrone dug his boot cleats into the tree, braced himself. I likethis. There's more excitement in waiting like this than in anything Iknow.     Lin nodded.     The waiting, itself, is a lot. The suspense. It's not only the killingthat matters.     It's not      only     the killing, Lin echoed.     You understand? Extrone said. How it is to wait, knowing in just aminute something is going to come out of the forest, and you're goingto kill it?     I know, Lin said.     But it's not only the killing. It's the waiting, too.     The farn beast coughed again; nearer.     It's a different one, Lin said.     How do you know?     Hear the lower pitch, the more of a roar?     Hey! Extrone shouted. You, down there. There are two coming. Nowlet's hear you really scream!     Ri, below, whimpered childishly and began to retreat toward the tethertree, his eyes wide.     There's a lot of satisfaction in fooling them, too, Extrone said.Making them come to your bait, where you can get at them. Heopened his right hand. Choose your ground, set your trap. Bait it.He snapped his hand into a fist, held the fist up before his eyes,imprisoning the idea. Spring the trap when the quarry is inside.Clever. That makes the waiting more interesting. Waiting to see if theyreally will come to your bait.     Lin shifted, staring toward the forest.     I've always liked to hunt, Extrone said. More than anything else, Ithink.     Lin spat toward the ground. People should hunt because they have to.For food. For safety.     No, Extrone argued. People should hunt for the love of hunting.     Killing?     Hunting, Extrone repeated harshly.  The farn beast coughed. Another answered. They were very near, andthere was a noise of crackling underbrush.     He's good bait, Extrone said. He's fat enough and he knows how toscream good.     Ri had stopped screaming; he was huddled against the tree, fearfullyeying the forest across from the watering hole.     Extrone began to tremble with excitement. Here they come!     The forest sprang apart. Extrone bent forward, the gun still across hislap.     The farn beast, its tiny eyes red with hate, stepped out on the bank,swinging its head wildly, its nostrils flaring in anger. It coughed.Its mate appeared beside it. Their tails thrashed against the scrubsbehind them, rattling leaves.       Shoot! Lin hissed. For God's sake, shoot!     Wait, Extrone said. Let's see what they do. He had not movedthe rifle. He was tense, bent forward, his eyes slitted, his breathbeginning to sound like an asthmatic pump.     The lead farn beast sighted Ri. It lowered its head.     Look! Extrone cried excitedly. Here it comes!     Ri began to scream again.     Still Extrone did not lift his blast rifle. He was laughing. Linwaited, frozen, his eyes staring at the farn beast in fascination.     The farn beast plunged into the water, which was shallow, and, throwinga sheet of it to either side, headed across toward Ri.     Watch! Watch! Extrone cried gleefully.     And then the aliens sprang their trap.   ","They are businessmen that have been recruited (seemingly against their will) as guides for Extrone on a hunting trip seeking to kill farn beasts. They had come to the same location once before on a hunting trip together in good relations, and killed their guide to keep their finding of the farn beasts a secret. Initially, they seem to be bonded in their misery about being forced into this situation by Extrone. However, this relationship changes and deteriorates over the story.Mia is highly suspicious of Extrone, his possible appointment by the Army, and what he thinks is an impending invasion of the alien system to be led by Extrone. Ri has had several personal meetings with Extrone and is completely terrified of him and what he is capable of. Ri rejects the notions suggested by Mia and is scared to be caught speaking of them. When Extrone threatens to put Ri out for bait to lure the farn beasts, he rats Mia out as having intention to kill Extrone in order to avoid his own death. The plan fails when Extrone kills Mia on the spot by shooting him in the back, thus ending their relationship."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     Bodyguard     By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM     Illustrated by CAVAT     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course       a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that       he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate!        The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So didthe light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man inthe gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner.     Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of thehumans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously andarrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superiorto anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she wasaccustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she wasalmost ordinary-looking.     As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merelyamused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemablyhideous.     Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was ashort man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women werein that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, thoughnot death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plasticsurgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century.     The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over hisclothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a ratherugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felthe was, which was what mattered.     Sorry, colleague, Gabe said lazily. All my fault. You must let mebuy you a replacement. He gestured to the bartender. Another of thesame for my fellow-man here.     The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a clothhastily supplied by the management.     You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill, Gabe said, taking outhis wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to lookat them. Here, have yourself a new suit on me.      You could use one     was implied.     And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had justset before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard'shandsome face.  Suddenly a restraining hand was laid upon his arm. Don't do that, thenondescript man who had been sitting in the corner advised. He removedthe glass from the little man's slackening grasp. You wouldn't want togo to jail because of him.     The ugly man gave him a bewildered stare. Then, seeing the forcesnow ranged against him—including his own belated prudence—were toostrong, he stumbled off. He hadn't really wanted to fight, only tosmash back, and now it was too late for that.     Gabe studied the newcomer curiously. So, it's you again?     The man in the gray suit smiled. Who else in any world would stand upfor you?     I should think you'd have given up by now. Not that I mind having youaround, of course, Gabriel added too quickly. You do come in usefulat times, you know.     So you don't mind having me around? The nondescript man smiled again.Then what are you running from, if not me? You can't be running fromyourself—you lost yourself a while back, remember?     Gabe ran a hand through his thick blond hair. Come on, have a drinkwith me, fellow-man, and let's let bygones be bygones. I owe yousomething—I admit that. Maybe we can even work this thing out.     I drank with you once too often, the nondescript man said. Andthings worked out fine, didn't they? For you. His eyes studied theother man's incredibly handsome young face, noted the suggestion ofbags under the eyes, the beginning of slackness at the lips, and werenot pleased with what they saw. Watch yourself, colleague, he warnedas he left. Soon you might not be worth the saving.     Who was that, Gabe? the girl asked.     He shrugged. I never saw him before in my life. Of course, knowinghim, she assumed he was lying, but, as a matter of fact, just then hehappened to have been telling the truth.  Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotelsuite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, ashe watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out againthat night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted acoin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond tothe letter combination      bodyguard     , he went out into the street.     If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would havebeen nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no realidentification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one foryears.     The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. Where to, fellow-man?the driver asked.     I'm new in the parish, the other man replied and let it hang there.     Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills?     But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head.     Games? the driver finally asked, although he could guess what waswanted by then. Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen?     Is there a good zarquil game in town?     The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in theteleview. A very ordinary face. Look, colleague, why don't you commitsuicide? It's cleaner and quicker.     I can't contact your attitude, the passenger said with a thinsmile. Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time ithappens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at athrill-mill. He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, andwhich the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy.     Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then? The driver spat out of thewindow. If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of thecab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em.     But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of acommission, wouldn't it? the other man asked coolly.     Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though.     I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun.     You're the dictator, the driver agreed sullenly.      II     It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in nocondition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn.     Let me take the controls, honey, the light-haired girl urged, but heshook his handsome head.     Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty, he said thickly,referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek.     Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so thatwhen they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the littletown, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashedon the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and ashort fat man was puffing toward them through the mist.     To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out ontothe dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined theyoung man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't thereat all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem toremember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a momentbefore the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames.     Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at himspeculatively. My guardian angel, he mumbled—shock had sobered hima little, but not enough. He sat up. Guess I'm not hurt or you'd havethrown me back in.     And that's no joke, the fat man agreed.     The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recallthat he had not been alone. How about Helen? She on course?     Seems to be, the fat man said. You all right, miss? he asked,glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern.           Mrs.     , Gabriel corrected. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. GabrielLockard, he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.Pretty bauble, isn't she?     I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard, the fat man said,looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-upfrom her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. I hopeyou'll be worthy of the name. The light given off by the flamingcar flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them.     There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town thelights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by thenewer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old andbeginning to slide downhill....     Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see.  There was the feeling that she had encountered the fat man before,which was, of course, absurd. She had an excellent memory for faces andhis was not included in her gallery. The girl pulled her thin jacketcloser about her chilly body. Aren't you going to introduce your—yourfriend to me, Gabe?     I don't know who he is, Gabe said almost merrily, except that he'sno friend of mine. Do you have a name, stranger?     Of course I have a name. The fat man extracted an identificationcard from his wallet and read it. Says here I'm Dominic Bianchi, andDominic Bianchi is a retail milgot dealer.... Only he isn't a retailmilgot dealer any more; the poor fellow went bankrupt a couple of weeksago, and now he isn't ... anything.     You saved our lives, the girl said. I'd like to give you some tokenof my—of our appreciation. Her hand reached toward her credit-carrierwith deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but onlycasually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciationheld little gratitude.     The fat man shook his head without rancor. I have plenty of money,thank you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard.... Come, he addressed her husband,if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in thefuture! Sometimes, he added musingly, I almost wish you would letsomething happen. Then my problem would not be any problem, would it?     Gabriel shivered. I'll be careful, he vowed. I promise—I'll becareful.       When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night,the fat man checked his personal possessions. He then requested a taxidriver to take him to the nearest zarquil game. The driver accepted thecommission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the othershad been; perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperateor despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was knowncolloquially as a flying dutchman, a man, or woman, who went fromone zarquil game to another, loving the thrill of the sport, if youcould call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope itextended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification.Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care.     Zarquil was extremely illegal, of course—so much so that there weremany legitimate citizens who weren't quite sure just what the wordimplied, knowing merely that it was one of those nameless horrors sodeliciously hinted at by the fax sheets under the generic term ofcrimes against nature. Actually the phrase was more appropriate tozarquil than to most of the other activities to which it was commonlyapplied. And this was one crime—for it was crime in law as well asnature—in which victim had to be considered as guilty as perpetrator;otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse.  Playing the game was fabulously expensive; it had to be to make itprofitable for the Vinzz to run it. Those odd creatures from Altair'sseventh planet cared nothing for the welfare of the completely alienhuman beings; all they wanted was to feather their own pockets withinterstellar credits, so that they could return to Vinau and buy manyslaves. For, on Vinau, bodies were of little account, and so to themzarquil was the equivalent of the terrestrial game musical chairs.Which was why they came to Terra to make profits—there has never beenbig money in musical chairs as such.     When the zarquil operators were apprehended, which was not frequent—asthey had strange powers, which, not being definable, were beyond thelaw—they suffered their sentences with equanimity. No Earth courtcould give an effective prison sentence to a creature whose lifespanned approximately two thousand terrestrial years. And capitalpunishment had become obsolete on Terra, which very possibly saved theterrestrials embarrassment, for it was not certain that their weaponscould kill the Vinzz ... or whether, in fact, the Vinzz merely expiredafter a period of years out of sheer boredom. Fortunately, becausetrade was more profitable than war, there had always been peace betweenVinau and Terra, and, for that reason, Terra could not bar the entranceof apparently respectable citizens of a friendly planet.     The taxi driver took the fat man to one of the rather seedy locales inwhich the zarquil games were usually found, for the Vinzz attempted toconduct their operations with as much unobtrusiveness as was possible.But the front door swung open on an interior that lacked the opulenceof the usual Vinoz set-up; it was down-right shabby, the dim olivelight hinting of squalor rather than forbidden pleasures. That wasthe trouble in these smaller towns—you ran greater risks of gettinginvolved in games where the players had not been carefully screened.     The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but,when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off intodarkside practices. Naturally the small-town houses were more likely tohave trouble in making ends meet, because everybody in the parish kneweverybody else far too well.     The fat man wondered whether that had been his quarry's motive incoming to such desolate, off-trail places—hoping that eventuallydisaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemedtoo logical for the man he was haunting.     However, beggars could not be choosers. The fat man paid off theheli-driver and entered the zarquil house. One? the small greencreature in the slightly frayed robe asked.     One, the fat man answered.      III     The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright raysfrom the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futilepatterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angularfeatures, made no attempt to follow. Instead, he bent over to examineGabriel Lockard's form, appropriately outstretched in the gutter. Onlyweighted out, he muttered, he'll be all right. Whatever possessed youtwo to come out to a place like this?     I really think Gabriel      must     be possessed.... the girl said, mostlyto herself. I had no idea of the kind of place it was going to beuntil he brought me here. The others were bad, but this is even worse.It almost seems as if he went around looking for trouble, doesn't it?     It does indeed, the stranger agreed, coughing a little. It wasgrowing colder and, on this world, the cities had no domes to protectthem from the climate, because it was Earth and the air was breathableand it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up.     The girl looked closely at him. You look different, but you      are     thesame man who pulled us out of that aircar crash, aren't you? And beforethat the man in the gray suit? And before that...?     The young man's cheekbones protruded as he smiled. Yes, I'm all ofthem.     Then what they say about the zarquil games is true? There are peoplewho go around changing their bodies like—like hats? Automatically shereached to adjust the expensive bit of blue synthetic on her moon-palehair, for she was always conscious of her appearance; if she had notbeen so before marriage, Gabriel would have taught her that.  He smiled again, but coughed instead of speaking.     But why do you do it?      Why!     Do you like it? Or is it because ofGabriel? She was growing a little frantic; there was menace hereand she could not understand it nor determine whether or not she wasincluded in its scope. Do you want to keep him from recognizing you;is that it?     Ask him.     He won't tell me; he never tells me anything. We just keep running. Ididn't recognize it as running at first, but now I realize that's whatwe've been doing ever since we were married. And running from you, Ithink?     There was no change of expression on the man's gaunt face, and shewondered how much control he had over a body that, though second- orthird- or fourth-hand, must be new to him. How well could he make itrespond? What was it like to step into another person's casing? But shemust not let herself think that way or she would find herself lookingfor a zarquil game. It would be one way of escaping Gabriel, but not,she thought, the best way; her body was much too good a one to risk socasually.  It was beginning to snow. Light, feathery flakes drifted down on herhusband's immobile body. She pulled her thick coat—of fur taken fromsome animal who had lived and died light-years away—more closely aboutherself. The thin young man began to cough again.     Overhead a tiny star seemed to detach itself from the pale flat diskof the Moon and hurl itself upward—one of the interstellar shipsembarking on its long voyage to distant suns. She wished that somehowshe could be on it, but she was here, on this solitary old world in abarren solar system, with her unconscious husband and a strange man whofollowed them, and it looked as if here she would stay ... all three ofthem would stay....     If you're after Gabriel, planning to hurt him, she asked, why thendo you keep helping him?     I am not helping      him     . And he knows that.     You'll change again tonight, won't you? she babbled. You alwayschange after you ... meet us? I think I'm beginning to be able toidentify you now, even when you're ... wearing a new body; there'ssomething about you that doesn't change.     Too bad he got married, the young man said. I could have followedhim for an eternity and he would never have been able to pick me outfrom the crowd. Too bad he got married anyway, he added, his voiceless impersonal, for your sake.     She had come to the same conclusion in her six months of marriage, butshe would not admit that to an outsider. Though this man was hardly anoutsider; he was part of their small family group—as long as she hadknown Gabriel, so long he must have known her. And she began to suspectthat he was even more closely involved than that.     Why must you change again? she persisted, obliquely approaching thesubject she feared. You have a pretty good body there. Why run therisk of getting a bad one?     This isn't a good body, he said. It's diseased. Sure, nobody'ssupposed to play the game who hasn't passed a thorough medicalexamination. But in the places to which your husband has been leadingme, they're often not too particular, as long as the player has plentyof foliage.     How—long will it last you?     Four or five months, if I'm careful. He smiled. But don't worry, ifthat's what you're doing; I'll get it passed on before then. It'll beexpensive—that's all. Bad landing for the guy who gets it, but thenit was tough on me too, wasn't it?     But how did you get into this ... pursuit? she asked again. And whyare you doing it? People didn't have any traffic with Gabriel Lockardfor fun, not after they got to know him. And this man certainly shouldknow him better than most.     Ask your husband.     The original Gabriel Lockard looked down at the prostrate,snow-powdered figure of the man who had stolen his body and his name,and stirred it with his toe. I'd better call a cab—he might freeze todeath.     He signaled and a cab came.     Tell him, when he comes to, he said to the girl as he and the driverlifted the heavy form of her husband into the helicar, that I'mgetting pretty tired of this. He stopped for a long spell of coughing.Tell him that sometimes I wonder whether cutting off my nose wouldn't,in the long run, be most beneficial for my face.  Sorry, the Vinzz said impersonally, in English that was perfectexcept for the slight dampening of the sibilants, but I'm afraid youcannot play.     Why not? The emaciated young man began to put on his clothes.     You know why. Your body is worthless. And this is a reputable house.     But I have plenty of money. The young man coughed. The Vinzzshrugged. I'll pay you twice the regular fee.     The green one shook his head. Regrettably, I do mean what I say. Thisgame is really clean.     In a town like this?     That is the reason we can afford to be honest. The Vinzz' tendrilsquivered in what the man had come to recognize as amusement throughlong, but necessarily superficial acquaintance with the Vinzz. Hisheavy robe of what looked like moss-green velvet, but might have beenvelvet-green moss, encrusted with oddly faceted alien jewels, swungwith him.     We do a lot of business here, he said unnecessarily, for the wholeset-up spelled wealth far beyond the dreams of the man, and he was byno means poor when it came to worldly goods. Why don't you try anothertown where they're not so particular?     The young man smiled wryly. Just his luck to stumble on a sunny game.He never liked to risk following his quarry in the same configuration.And even though only the girl had actually seen him this time, hewouldn't feel at ease until he had made the usual body-shift. Washe changing because of Gabriel, he wondered, or was he using his owndiscoverment and identification simply as an excuse to cover the factthat none of the bodies that fell to his lot ever seemed to fit him?Was he activated solely by revenge or as much by the hope that in thehazards of the game he might, impossible though it now seemed, some daywin another body that approached perfection as nearly as his originalcasing had?     He didn't know. However, there seemed to be no help for it now; hewould have to wait until they reached the next town, unless the girl,seeing him reappear in the same guise, would guess what had happenedand tell her husband. He himself had been a fool to admit to her thatthe hulk he inhabited was a sick one; he still couldn't understandhow he could so casually have entrusted her with so vital a piece ofinformation.  The Vinzz had been locking antennae with another of his kind. Now theydetached, and the first approached the man once more. There is, as ithappens, a body available for a private game, he lisped. No questionsto be asked or answered. All I can tell you is that it is in goodhealth.     The man hesitated. But unable to pass the screening? he murmuredaloud. A criminal then.     The green one's face—if you could call it a face—remained impassive.     Male?     Of course, the Vinzz said primly. His kind did have certain ultimatestandards to which they adhered rigidly, and one of those was thecurious tabu against mixed games, strictly enforced even though itkept them from tapping a vast source of potential players. There hadalso never been a recorded instance of humans and extraterrestrialsexchanging identities, but whether that was the result of tabu orbiological impossibility, no one could tell.     It might merely be prudence on the Vinzz' part—if it had everbeen proved that an alien life-form had desecrated a human body,Earthmen would clamor for war ... for on this planet humanity heldits self-bestowed purity of birthright dear—and the Vinzz, despitebeing unquestionably the stronger, were pragmatic pacifists. It hadbeen undoubtedly some rabid member of the anti-alien groups active onTerra who had started the rumor that the planetary slogan of Vinau was,Don't beat 'em; cheat 'em.     It would have to be something pretty nuclear for the other guy to takesuch a risk. The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. How much?     Thirty thousand credits.     Why, that's three times the usual rate!     The other will pay five times the usual rate.     Oh, all right, the delicate young man gave in. It was a terrificrisk he was agreeing to take, because, if the other was a criminal, hehimself would, upon assuming the body, assume responsibility for allthe crimes it had committed. But there was nothing else he could do.  He looked at himself in the mirror and found he had a fine new body;tall and strikingly handsome in a dark, coarse-featured way. Nothing tomatch the one he had lost, in his opinion, but there were probably manypeople who might find this one preferable. No identification in thepockets, but it wasn't necessary; he recognized the face. Not that itwas a very famous or even notorious one, but the dutchman was a carefulstudent of the wanted fax that had decorated public buildings fromtime immemorial, for he was ever mindful of the possibility that hemight one day find himself trapped unwittingly in the body of one ofthe men depicted there. And he knew that this particular man, thoughnot an important criminal in any sense of the word, was one whom thepolice had been ordered to burn on sight. The abolishing of capitalpunishment could not abolish the necessity for self-defense, and theman in question was not one who would let himself be captured easily,nor whom the police intended to capture easily.       This might be a lucky break for me after all     , the new tenant thought,as he tried to adjust himself to the body. It, too, despite its obviousrude health, was not a very comfortable fit.      I can do a lot with ahulk like this. And maybe I'm cleverer than the original owner; maybeI'll be able to get away with it.        IV     Look, Gabe, the girl said, don't try to fool me! I know youtoo well. And I know you have that man's—the real GabrielLockard's—body. She put unnecessary stardust on her nose as shewatched her husband's reflection in the dressing table mirror.     Lockard—Lockard's body, at any rate—sat up and felt his unshavenchin. That what he tell you?     No, he didn't tell me anything really—just suggested I ask youwhatever I want to know. But why else should he guard somebody heobviously hates the way he hates you? Only because he doesn't want tosee his body spoiled.     It      is     a pretty good body, isn't it? Gabe flexed softening musclesand made no attempt to deny her charge; very probably he was relievedat having someone with whom to share his secret.     Not as good as it must have been, the girl said, turning and lookingat him without admiration. Not if you keep on the way you're coursing.Gabe, why don't you...?     Give it back to him, eh? Lockard regarded his wife appraisingly.You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd be      his     wife then. That would benice—a sound mind in a sound body. But don't you think that's a littlemore than you deserve?     I wasn't thinking about that, Gabe, she said truthfully enough, forshe hadn't followed the idea to its logical conclusion. Of course I'dgo with you, she went on, now knowing she lied, when you got your ...old body back.       Sure     , she thought,      I'd keep going with you to farjeen houses andthrill-mills.     Actually she had accompanied him to a thrill-mill onlyonce, and from then on, despite all his threats, she had refused to gowith him again. But that once had been enough; nothing could ever washthat experience from her mind or her body.     You wouldn't be able to get your old body back, though, would you?she went on. You don't know where it's gone, and neither, I suppose,does he?     I don't want to know! he spat. I wouldn't want it if I could getit back. Whoever it adhered to probably killed himself as soon as helooked in a mirror. He swung long legs over the side of his bed.Christ, anything would be better than that! You can't imagine what ahulk I had!     Oh, yes, I can, she said incautiously. You must have had a body tomatch your character. Pity you could only change one.  ","Gabriel (Gabe) Lockard, an attractive man, is sitting in a bar with humans and extraterrestrials. He knocks over a man's drink while he talks to a girl. He offers to pay for a new suit, showing off his wealth. The other man reaches to throw his drink at Lockard but is stopped by a third man wearing a gray suit, who seems to know Lockard. This man warns Lockard to be careful, and when he leaves, Lockard tells the woman he's with that he's never seen him before, even though they talked as if they were acquaintances. The stranger visits a locker at a nearby airstation, puts most of his belongings inside, including all forms of identification, and sets the lock to the word ""bodyguard"". He climbs into a helicab, where he pressures the driver into taking him to a zarquil game. This man has been floating around without an identity, but operates as a flying dutchman, floating between zarquil games. Another day, Lockard crashes a helicar on a rainy fall night in a dark corner of a degrading city, and a fat stranger pulls him and his wife out of the helicar before it exploded. The man who saved them has the ID of Dominic Bianchi, a milgot dealer who seems to have disappeared in the past few weeks. Mrs. Lockard warns her husband to be more careful lest something happen to him. It seems the stranger's job is to rotate identities and protect Lockard. On yet another day, a thin stranger chases off a thief with his gun, and checks in on Mr. and Mrs. Lockard. Mrs. Lockard realizes that he is the same man who pulled them out of their aircar crash, and was the man wearing the gray suit at the bar. He has been changing bodies this whole time. She wants to know why, but the stranger suggests she ask Gabriel. She suspects they've been running from this stranger, and has started to be able to identify him, which the stranger is disappointed by as he explains it is not Gabriel he is helping. Because Gabriel is going to run-down cities, the bodies the stranger is getting are not well-vetted, and can't last too long. It turns out the stranger was the original Gabriel Lockard, the implication being that he's trying to protect his original body. As the stranger tries to swap bodies again, he finds that nobody wants the one he's in. He's offered a body that is healthy but likely a criminal, for three times the usual fee, and the stranger accepts the expensive deal. After the bodyswap, he recognizes the man as someone police are ordered to burn on sights. Mrs. Lockard interrogates her husband about his stolen body, which starts an argument. She recognizes he can't get his old body back, but lies and says she'd stay with him if he switched back, and the two talk about how ugly he was. "
"Who is Mrs. Lockard and what is her significance to the story? </s>     Bodyguard     By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM     Illustrated by CAVAT     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course       a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that       he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate!        The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So didthe light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man inthe gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner.     Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of thehumans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously andarrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superiorto anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she wasaccustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she wasalmost ordinary-looking.     As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merelyamused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemablyhideous.     Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was ashort man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women werein that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, thoughnot death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plasticsurgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century.     The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over hisclothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a ratherugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felthe was, which was what mattered.     Sorry, colleague, Gabe said lazily. All my fault. You must let mebuy you a replacement. He gestured to the bartender. Another of thesame for my fellow-man here.     The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a clothhastily supplied by the management.     You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill, Gabe said, taking outhis wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to lookat them. Here, have yourself a new suit on me.      You could use one     was implied.     And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had justset before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard'shandsome face.  Suddenly a restraining hand was laid upon his arm. Don't do that, thenondescript man who had been sitting in the corner advised. He removedthe glass from the little man's slackening grasp. You wouldn't want togo to jail because of him.     The ugly man gave him a bewildered stare. Then, seeing the forcesnow ranged against him—including his own belated prudence—were toostrong, he stumbled off. He hadn't really wanted to fight, only tosmash back, and now it was too late for that.     Gabe studied the newcomer curiously. So, it's you again?     The man in the gray suit smiled. Who else in any world would stand upfor you?     I should think you'd have given up by now. Not that I mind having youaround, of course, Gabriel added too quickly. You do come in usefulat times, you know.     So you don't mind having me around? The nondescript man smiled again.Then what are you running from, if not me? You can't be running fromyourself—you lost yourself a while back, remember?     Gabe ran a hand through his thick blond hair. Come on, have a drinkwith me, fellow-man, and let's let bygones be bygones. I owe yousomething—I admit that. Maybe we can even work this thing out.     I drank with you once too often, the nondescript man said. Andthings worked out fine, didn't they? For you. His eyes studied theother man's incredibly handsome young face, noted the suggestion ofbags under the eyes, the beginning of slackness at the lips, and werenot pleased with what they saw. Watch yourself, colleague, he warnedas he left. Soon you might not be worth the saving.     Who was that, Gabe? the girl asked.     He shrugged. I never saw him before in my life. Of course, knowinghim, she assumed he was lying, but, as a matter of fact, just then hehappened to have been telling the truth.  Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotelsuite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, ashe watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out againthat night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted acoin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond tothe letter combination      bodyguard     , he went out into the street.     If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would havebeen nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no realidentification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one foryears.     The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. Where to, fellow-man?the driver asked.     I'm new in the parish, the other man replied and let it hang there.     Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills?     But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head.     Games? the driver finally asked, although he could guess what waswanted by then. Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen?     Is there a good zarquil game in town?     The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in theteleview. A very ordinary face. Look, colleague, why don't you commitsuicide? It's cleaner and quicker.     I can't contact your attitude, the passenger said with a thinsmile. Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time ithappens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at athrill-mill. He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, andwhich the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy.     Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then? The driver spat out of thewindow. If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of thecab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em.     But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of acommission, wouldn't it? the other man asked coolly.     Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though.     I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun.     You're the dictator, the driver agreed sullenly.      II     It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in nocondition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn.     Let me take the controls, honey, the light-haired girl urged, but heshook his handsome head.     Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty, he said thickly,referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek.     Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so thatwhen they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the littletown, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashedon the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and ashort fat man was puffing toward them through the mist.     To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out ontothe dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined theyoung man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't thereat all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem toremember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a momentbefore the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames.     Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at himspeculatively. My guardian angel, he mumbled—shock had sobered hima little, but not enough. He sat up. Guess I'm not hurt or you'd havethrown me back in.     And that's no joke, the fat man agreed.     The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recallthat he had not been alone. How about Helen? She on course?     Seems to be, the fat man said. You all right, miss? he asked,glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern.           Mrs.     , Gabriel corrected. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. GabrielLockard, he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.Pretty bauble, isn't she?     I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard, the fat man said,looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-upfrom her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. I hopeyou'll be worthy of the name. The light given off by the flamingcar flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them.     There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town thelights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by thenewer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old andbeginning to slide downhill....     Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see.  There was the feeling that she had encountered the fat man before,which was, of course, absurd. She had an excellent memory for faces andhis was not included in her gallery. The girl pulled her thin jacketcloser about her chilly body. Aren't you going to introduce your—yourfriend to me, Gabe?     I don't know who he is, Gabe said almost merrily, except that he'sno friend of mine. Do you have a name, stranger?     Of course I have a name. The fat man extracted an identificationcard from his wallet and read it. Says here I'm Dominic Bianchi, andDominic Bianchi is a retail milgot dealer.... Only he isn't a retailmilgot dealer any more; the poor fellow went bankrupt a couple of weeksago, and now he isn't ... anything.     You saved our lives, the girl said. I'd like to give you some tokenof my—of our appreciation. Her hand reached toward her credit-carrierwith deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but onlycasually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciationheld little gratitude.     The fat man shook his head without rancor. I have plenty of money,thank you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard.... Come, he addressed her husband,if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in thefuture! Sometimes, he added musingly, I almost wish you would letsomething happen. Then my problem would not be any problem, would it?     Gabriel shivered. I'll be careful, he vowed. I promise—I'll becareful.       When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night,the fat man checked his personal possessions. He then requested a taxidriver to take him to the nearest zarquil game. The driver accepted thecommission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the othershad been; perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperateor despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was knowncolloquially as a flying dutchman, a man, or woman, who went fromone zarquil game to another, loving the thrill of the sport, if youcould call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope itextended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification.Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care.     Zarquil was extremely illegal, of course—so much so that there weremany legitimate citizens who weren't quite sure just what the wordimplied, knowing merely that it was one of those nameless horrors sodeliciously hinted at by the fax sheets under the generic term ofcrimes against nature. Actually the phrase was more appropriate tozarquil than to most of the other activities to which it was commonlyapplied. And this was one crime—for it was crime in law as well asnature—in which victim had to be considered as guilty as perpetrator;otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse.  Playing the game was fabulously expensive; it had to be to make itprofitable for the Vinzz to run it. Those odd creatures from Altair'sseventh planet cared nothing for the welfare of the completely alienhuman beings; all they wanted was to feather their own pockets withinterstellar credits, so that they could return to Vinau and buy manyslaves. For, on Vinau, bodies were of little account, and so to themzarquil was the equivalent of the terrestrial game musical chairs.Which was why they came to Terra to make profits—there has never beenbig money in musical chairs as such.     When the zarquil operators were apprehended, which was not frequent—asthey had strange powers, which, not being definable, were beyond thelaw—they suffered their sentences with equanimity. No Earth courtcould give an effective prison sentence to a creature whose lifespanned approximately two thousand terrestrial years. And capitalpunishment had become obsolete on Terra, which very possibly saved theterrestrials embarrassment, for it was not certain that their weaponscould kill the Vinzz ... or whether, in fact, the Vinzz merely expiredafter a period of years out of sheer boredom. Fortunately, becausetrade was more profitable than war, there had always been peace betweenVinau and Terra, and, for that reason, Terra could not bar the entranceof apparently respectable citizens of a friendly planet.     The taxi driver took the fat man to one of the rather seedy locales inwhich the zarquil games were usually found, for the Vinzz attempted toconduct their operations with as much unobtrusiveness as was possible.But the front door swung open on an interior that lacked the opulenceof the usual Vinoz set-up; it was down-right shabby, the dim olivelight hinting of squalor rather than forbidden pleasures. That wasthe trouble in these smaller towns—you ran greater risks of gettinginvolved in games where the players had not been carefully screened.     The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but,when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off intodarkside practices. Naturally the small-town houses were more likely tohave trouble in making ends meet, because everybody in the parish kneweverybody else far too well.     The fat man wondered whether that had been his quarry's motive incoming to such desolate, off-trail places—hoping that eventuallydisaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemedtoo logical for the man he was haunting.     However, beggars could not be choosers. The fat man paid off theheli-driver and entered the zarquil house. One? the small greencreature in the slightly frayed robe asked.     One, the fat man answered.      III     The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright raysfrom the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futilepatterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angularfeatures, made no attempt to follow. Instead, he bent over to examineGabriel Lockard's form, appropriately outstretched in the gutter. Onlyweighted out, he muttered, he'll be all right. Whatever possessed youtwo to come out to a place like this?     I really think Gabriel      must     be possessed.... the girl said, mostlyto herself. I had no idea of the kind of place it was going to beuntil he brought me here. The others were bad, but this is even worse.It almost seems as if he went around looking for trouble, doesn't it?     It does indeed, the stranger agreed, coughing a little. It wasgrowing colder and, on this world, the cities had no domes to protectthem from the climate, because it was Earth and the air was breathableand it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up.     The girl looked closely at him. You look different, but you      are     thesame man who pulled us out of that aircar crash, aren't you? And beforethat the man in the gray suit? And before that...?     The young man's cheekbones protruded as he smiled. Yes, I'm all ofthem.     Then what they say about the zarquil games is true? There are peoplewho go around changing their bodies like—like hats? Automatically shereached to adjust the expensive bit of blue synthetic on her moon-palehair, for she was always conscious of her appearance; if she had notbeen so before marriage, Gabriel would have taught her that.  He smiled again, but coughed instead of speaking.     But why do you do it?      Why!     Do you like it? Or is it because ofGabriel? She was growing a little frantic; there was menace hereand she could not understand it nor determine whether or not she wasincluded in its scope. Do you want to keep him from recognizing you;is that it?     Ask him.     He won't tell me; he never tells me anything. We just keep running. Ididn't recognize it as running at first, but now I realize that's whatwe've been doing ever since we were married. And running from you, Ithink?     There was no change of expression on the man's gaunt face, and shewondered how much control he had over a body that, though second- orthird- or fourth-hand, must be new to him. How well could he make itrespond? What was it like to step into another person's casing? But shemust not let herself think that way or she would find herself lookingfor a zarquil game. It would be one way of escaping Gabriel, but not,she thought, the best way; her body was much too good a one to risk socasually.  It was beginning to snow. Light, feathery flakes drifted down on herhusband's immobile body. She pulled her thick coat—of fur taken fromsome animal who had lived and died light-years away—more closely aboutherself. The thin young man began to cough again.     Overhead a tiny star seemed to detach itself from the pale flat diskof the Moon and hurl itself upward—one of the interstellar shipsembarking on its long voyage to distant suns. She wished that somehowshe could be on it, but she was here, on this solitary old world in abarren solar system, with her unconscious husband and a strange man whofollowed them, and it looked as if here she would stay ... all three ofthem would stay....     If you're after Gabriel, planning to hurt him, she asked, why thendo you keep helping him?     I am not helping      him     . And he knows that.     You'll change again tonight, won't you? she babbled. You alwayschange after you ... meet us? I think I'm beginning to be able toidentify you now, even when you're ... wearing a new body; there'ssomething about you that doesn't change.     Too bad he got married, the young man said. I could have followedhim for an eternity and he would never have been able to pick me outfrom the crowd. Too bad he got married anyway, he added, his voiceless impersonal, for your sake.     She had come to the same conclusion in her six months of marriage, butshe would not admit that to an outsider. Though this man was hardly anoutsider; he was part of their small family group—as long as she hadknown Gabriel, so long he must have known her. And she began to suspectthat he was even more closely involved than that.     Why must you change again? she persisted, obliquely approaching thesubject she feared. You have a pretty good body there. Why run therisk of getting a bad one?     This isn't a good body, he said. It's diseased. Sure, nobody'ssupposed to play the game who hasn't passed a thorough medicalexamination. But in the places to which your husband has been leadingme, they're often not too particular, as long as the player has plentyof foliage.     How—long will it last you?     Four or five months, if I'm careful. He smiled. But don't worry, ifthat's what you're doing; I'll get it passed on before then. It'll beexpensive—that's all. Bad landing for the guy who gets it, but thenit was tough on me too, wasn't it?     But how did you get into this ... pursuit? she asked again. And whyare you doing it? People didn't have any traffic with Gabriel Lockardfor fun, not after they got to know him. And this man certainly shouldknow him better than most.     Ask your husband.     The original Gabriel Lockard looked down at the prostrate,snow-powdered figure of the man who had stolen his body and his name,and stirred it with his toe. I'd better call a cab—he might freeze todeath.     He signaled and a cab came.     Tell him, when he comes to, he said to the girl as he and the driverlifted the heavy form of her husband into the helicar, that I'mgetting pretty tired of this. He stopped for a long spell of coughing.Tell him that sometimes I wonder whether cutting off my nose wouldn't,in the long run, be most beneficial for my face.  Sorry, the Vinzz said impersonally, in English that was perfectexcept for the slight dampening of the sibilants, but I'm afraid youcannot play.     Why not? The emaciated young man began to put on his clothes.     You know why. Your body is worthless. And this is a reputable house.     But I have plenty of money. The young man coughed. The Vinzzshrugged. I'll pay you twice the regular fee.     The green one shook his head. Regrettably, I do mean what I say. Thisgame is really clean.     In a town like this?     That is the reason we can afford to be honest. The Vinzz' tendrilsquivered in what the man had come to recognize as amusement throughlong, but necessarily superficial acquaintance with the Vinzz. Hisheavy robe of what looked like moss-green velvet, but might have beenvelvet-green moss, encrusted with oddly faceted alien jewels, swungwith him.     We do a lot of business here, he said unnecessarily, for the wholeset-up spelled wealth far beyond the dreams of the man, and he was byno means poor when it came to worldly goods. Why don't you try anothertown where they're not so particular?     The young man smiled wryly. Just his luck to stumble on a sunny game.He never liked to risk following his quarry in the same configuration.And even though only the girl had actually seen him this time, hewouldn't feel at ease until he had made the usual body-shift. Washe changing because of Gabriel, he wondered, or was he using his owndiscoverment and identification simply as an excuse to cover the factthat none of the bodies that fell to his lot ever seemed to fit him?Was he activated solely by revenge or as much by the hope that in thehazards of the game he might, impossible though it now seemed, some daywin another body that approached perfection as nearly as his originalcasing had?     He didn't know. However, there seemed to be no help for it now; hewould have to wait until they reached the next town, unless the girl,seeing him reappear in the same guise, would guess what had happenedand tell her husband. He himself had been a fool to admit to her thatthe hulk he inhabited was a sick one; he still couldn't understandhow he could so casually have entrusted her with so vital a piece ofinformation.  The Vinzz had been locking antennae with another of his kind. Now theydetached, and the first approached the man once more. There is, as ithappens, a body available for a private game, he lisped. No questionsto be asked or answered. All I can tell you is that it is in goodhealth.     The man hesitated. But unable to pass the screening? he murmuredaloud. A criminal then.     The green one's face—if you could call it a face—remained impassive.     Male?     Of course, the Vinzz said primly. His kind did have certain ultimatestandards to which they adhered rigidly, and one of those was thecurious tabu against mixed games, strictly enforced even though itkept them from tapping a vast source of potential players. There hadalso never been a recorded instance of humans and extraterrestrialsexchanging identities, but whether that was the result of tabu orbiological impossibility, no one could tell.     It might merely be prudence on the Vinzz' part—if it had everbeen proved that an alien life-form had desecrated a human body,Earthmen would clamor for war ... for on this planet humanity heldits self-bestowed purity of birthright dear—and the Vinzz, despitebeing unquestionably the stronger, were pragmatic pacifists. It hadbeen undoubtedly some rabid member of the anti-alien groups active onTerra who had started the rumor that the planetary slogan of Vinau was,Don't beat 'em; cheat 'em.     It would have to be something pretty nuclear for the other guy to takesuch a risk. The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. How much?     Thirty thousand credits.     Why, that's three times the usual rate!     The other will pay five times the usual rate.     Oh, all right, the delicate young man gave in. It was a terrificrisk he was agreeing to take, because, if the other was a criminal, hehimself would, upon assuming the body, assume responsibility for allthe crimes it had committed. But there was nothing else he could do.  He looked at himself in the mirror and found he had a fine new body;tall and strikingly handsome in a dark, coarse-featured way. Nothing tomatch the one he had lost, in his opinion, but there were probably manypeople who might find this one preferable. No identification in thepockets, but it wasn't necessary; he recognized the face. Not that itwas a very famous or even notorious one, but the dutchman was a carefulstudent of the wanted fax that had decorated public buildings fromtime immemorial, for he was ever mindful of the possibility that hemight one day find himself trapped unwittingly in the body of one ofthe men depicted there. And he knew that this particular man, thoughnot an important criminal in any sense of the word, was one whom thepolice had been ordered to burn on sight. The abolishing of capitalpunishment could not abolish the necessity for self-defense, and theman in question was not one who would let himself be captured easily,nor whom the police intended to capture easily.       This might be a lucky break for me after all     , the new tenant thought,as he tried to adjust himself to the body. It, too, despite its obviousrude health, was not a very comfortable fit.      I can do a lot with ahulk like this. And maybe I'm cleverer than the original owner; maybeI'll be able to get away with it.        IV     Look, Gabe, the girl said, don't try to fool me! I know youtoo well. And I know you have that man's—the real GabrielLockard's—body. She put unnecessary stardust on her nose as shewatched her husband's reflection in the dressing table mirror.     Lockard—Lockard's body, at any rate—sat up and felt his unshavenchin. That what he tell you?     No, he didn't tell me anything really—just suggested I ask youwhatever I want to know. But why else should he guard somebody heobviously hates the way he hates you? Only because he doesn't want tosee his body spoiled.     It      is     a pretty good body, isn't it? Gabe flexed softening musclesand made no attempt to deny her charge; very probably he was relievedat having someone with whom to share his secret.     Not as good as it must have been, the girl said, turning and lookingat him without admiration. Not if you keep on the way you're coursing.Gabe, why don't you...?     Give it back to him, eh? Lockard regarded his wife appraisingly.You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd be      his     wife then. That would benice—a sound mind in a sound body. But don't you think that's a littlemore than you deserve?     I wasn't thinking about that, Gabe, she said truthfully enough, forshe hadn't followed the idea to its logical conclusion. Of course I'dgo with you, she went on, now knowing she lied, when you got your ...old body back.       Sure     , she thought,      I'd keep going with you to farjeen houses andthrill-mills.     Actually she had accompanied him to a thrill-mill onlyonce, and from then on, despite all his threats, she had refused to gowith him again. But that once had been enough; nothing could ever washthat experience from her mind or her body.     You wouldn't be able to get your old body back, though, would you?she went on. You don't know where it's gone, and neither, I suppose,does he?     I don't want to know! he spat. I wouldn't want it if I could getit back. Whoever it adhered to probably killed himself as soon as helooked in a mirror. He swung long legs over the side of his bed.Christ, anything would be better than that! You can't imagine what ahulk I had!     Oh, yes, I can, she said incautiously. You must have had a body tomatch your character. Pity you could only change one.  ","The young woman who Lockard is sitting with at the bar at the beginning of the story is the woman who would eventually become his wife. Her name is Helen, but she is mostly referred to as Mrs. Lockard. By the time the helicar crash happens, they have been married, and by the time they are almost robbed, they have been married six months. Her role is most clear when she is talking to the stranger after the robbery. She is the one who explicitly pieces together that the stranger she has seen, although varying in form at each event, has been the same person. The gray suit, the fat man, and the scrawny man have all been the same person. It is her perspective that changes Lockard's life and his possible path for the future, and the two of them have been on the run from the stranger the whole time they've been married. She gets enough information from the stranger to be able to confront her husband about what's happening, allowing her to uncover the whole story."
"Who is the stranger in the gray suit and what is his significance? </s>     Bodyguard     By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM     Illustrated by CAVAT     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course       a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that       he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate!        The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So didthe light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man inthe gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner.     Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of thehumans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously andarrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superiorto anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she wasaccustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she wasalmost ordinary-looking.     As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merelyamused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemablyhideous.     Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was ashort man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women werein that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, thoughnot death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plasticsurgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century.     The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over hisclothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a ratherugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felthe was, which was what mattered.     Sorry, colleague, Gabe said lazily. All my fault. You must let mebuy you a replacement. He gestured to the bartender. Another of thesame for my fellow-man here.     The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a clothhastily supplied by the management.     You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill, Gabe said, taking outhis wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to lookat them. Here, have yourself a new suit on me.      You could use one     was implied.     And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had justset before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard'shandsome face.  Suddenly a restraining hand was laid upon his arm. Don't do that, thenondescript man who had been sitting in the corner advised. He removedthe glass from the little man's slackening grasp. You wouldn't want togo to jail because of him.     The ugly man gave him a bewildered stare. Then, seeing the forcesnow ranged against him—including his own belated prudence—were toostrong, he stumbled off. He hadn't really wanted to fight, only tosmash back, and now it was too late for that.     Gabe studied the newcomer curiously. So, it's you again?     The man in the gray suit smiled. Who else in any world would stand upfor you?     I should think you'd have given up by now. Not that I mind having youaround, of course, Gabriel added too quickly. You do come in usefulat times, you know.     So you don't mind having me around? The nondescript man smiled again.Then what are you running from, if not me? You can't be running fromyourself—you lost yourself a while back, remember?     Gabe ran a hand through his thick blond hair. Come on, have a drinkwith me, fellow-man, and let's let bygones be bygones. I owe yousomething—I admit that. Maybe we can even work this thing out.     I drank with you once too often, the nondescript man said. Andthings worked out fine, didn't they? For you. His eyes studied theother man's incredibly handsome young face, noted the suggestion ofbags under the eyes, the beginning of slackness at the lips, and werenot pleased with what they saw. Watch yourself, colleague, he warnedas he left. Soon you might not be worth the saving.     Who was that, Gabe? the girl asked.     He shrugged. I never saw him before in my life. Of course, knowinghim, she assumed he was lying, but, as a matter of fact, just then hehappened to have been telling the truth.  Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotelsuite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, ashe watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out againthat night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted acoin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond tothe letter combination      bodyguard     , he went out into the street.     If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would havebeen nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no realidentification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one foryears.     The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. Where to, fellow-man?the driver asked.     I'm new in the parish, the other man replied and let it hang there.     Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills?     But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head.     Games? the driver finally asked, although he could guess what waswanted by then. Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen?     Is there a good zarquil game in town?     The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in theteleview. A very ordinary face. Look, colleague, why don't you commitsuicide? It's cleaner and quicker.     I can't contact your attitude, the passenger said with a thinsmile. Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time ithappens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at athrill-mill. He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, andwhich the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy.     Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then? The driver spat out of thewindow. If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of thecab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em.     But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of acommission, wouldn't it? the other man asked coolly.     Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though.     I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun.     You're the dictator, the driver agreed sullenly.      II     It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in nocondition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn.     Let me take the controls, honey, the light-haired girl urged, but heshook his handsome head.     Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty, he said thickly,referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek.     Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so thatwhen they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the littletown, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashedon the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and ashort fat man was puffing toward them through the mist.     To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out ontothe dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined theyoung man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't thereat all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem toremember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a momentbefore the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames.     Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at himspeculatively. My guardian angel, he mumbled—shock had sobered hima little, but not enough. He sat up. Guess I'm not hurt or you'd havethrown me back in.     And that's no joke, the fat man agreed.     The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recallthat he had not been alone. How about Helen? She on course?     Seems to be, the fat man said. You all right, miss? he asked,glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern.           Mrs.     , Gabriel corrected. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. GabrielLockard, he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.Pretty bauble, isn't she?     I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard, the fat man said,looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-upfrom her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. I hopeyou'll be worthy of the name. The light given off by the flamingcar flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them.     There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town thelights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by thenewer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old andbeginning to slide downhill....     Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see.  There was the feeling that she had encountered the fat man before,which was, of course, absurd. She had an excellent memory for faces andhis was not included in her gallery. The girl pulled her thin jacketcloser about her chilly body. Aren't you going to introduce your—yourfriend to me, Gabe?     I don't know who he is, Gabe said almost merrily, except that he'sno friend of mine. Do you have a name, stranger?     Of course I have a name. The fat man extracted an identificationcard from his wallet and read it. Says here I'm Dominic Bianchi, andDominic Bianchi is a retail milgot dealer.... Only he isn't a retailmilgot dealer any more; the poor fellow went bankrupt a couple of weeksago, and now he isn't ... anything.     You saved our lives, the girl said. I'd like to give you some tokenof my—of our appreciation. Her hand reached toward her credit-carrierwith deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but onlycasually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciationheld little gratitude.     The fat man shook his head without rancor. I have plenty of money,thank you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard.... Come, he addressed her husband,if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in thefuture! Sometimes, he added musingly, I almost wish you would letsomething happen. Then my problem would not be any problem, would it?     Gabriel shivered. I'll be careful, he vowed. I promise—I'll becareful.       When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night,the fat man checked his personal possessions. He then requested a taxidriver to take him to the nearest zarquil game. The driver accepted thecommission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the othershad been; perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperateor despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was knowncolloquially as a flying dutchman, a man, or woman, who went fromone zarquil game to another, loving the thrill of the sport, if youcould call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope itextended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification.Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care.     Zarquil was extremely illegal, of course—so much so that there weremany legitimate citizens who weren't quite sure just what the wordimplied, knowing merely that it was one of those nameless horrors sodeliciously hinted at by the fax sheets under the generic term ofcrimes against nature. Actually the phrase was more appropriate tozarquil than to most of the other activities to which it was commonlyapplied. And this was one crime—for it was crime in law as well asnature—in which victim had to be considered as guilty as perpetrator;otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse.  Playing the game was fabulously expensive; it had to be to make itprofitable for the Vinzz to run it. Those odd creatures from Altair'sseventh planet cared nothing for the welfare of the completely alienhuman beings; all they wanted was to feather their own pockets withinterstellar credits, so that they could return to Vinau and buy manyslaves. For, on Vinau, bodies were of little account, and so to themzarquil was the equivalent of the terrestrial game musical chairs.Which was why they came to Terra to make profits—there has never beenbig money in musical chairs as such.     When the zarquil operators were apprehended, which was not frequent—asthey had strange powers, which, not being definable, were beyond thelaw—they suffered their sentences with equanimity. No Earth courtcould give an effective prison sentence to a creature whose lifespanned approximately two thousand terrestrial years. And capitalpunishment had become obsolete on Terra, which very possibly saved theterrestrials embarrassment, for it was not certain that their weaponscould kill the Vinzz ... or whether, in fact, the Vinzz merely expiredafter a period of years out of sheer boredom. Fortunately, becausetrade was more profitable than war, there had always been peace betweenVinau and Terra, and, for that reason, Terra could not bar the entranceof apparently respectable citizens of a friendly planet.     The taxi driver took the fat man to one of the rather seedy locales inwhich the zarquil games were usually found, for the Vinzz attempted toconduct their operations with as much unobtrusiveness as was possible.But the front door swung open on an interior that lacked the opulenceof the usual Vinoz set-up; it was down-right shabby, the dim olivelight hinting of squalor rather than forbidden pleasures. That wasthe trouble in these smaller towns—you ran greater risks of gettinginvolved in games where the players had not been carefully screened.     The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but,when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off intodarkside practices. Naturally the small-town houses were more likely tohave trouble in making ends meet, because everybody in the parish kneweverybody else far too well.     The fat man wondered whether that had been his quarry's motive incoming to such desolate, off-trail places—hoping that eventuallydisaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemedtoo logical for the man he was haunting.     However, beggars could not be choosers. The fat man paid off theheli-driver and entered the zarquil house. One? the small greencreature in the slightly frayed robe asked.     One, the fat man answered.      III     The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright raysfrom the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futilepatterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angularfeatures, made no attempt to follow. Instead, he bent over to examineGabriel Lockard's form, appropriately outstretched in the gutter. Onlyweighted out, he muttered, he'll be all right. Whatever possessed youtwo to come out to a place like this?     I really think Gabriel      must     be possessed.... the girl said, mostlyto herself. I had no idea of the kind of place it was going to beuntil he brought me here. The others were bad, but this is even worse.It almost seems as if he went around looking for trouble, doesn't it?     It does indeed, the stranger agreed, coughing a little. It wasgrowing colder and, on this world, the cities had no domes to protectthem from the climate, because it was Earth and the air was breathableand it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up.     The girl looked closely at him. You look different, but you      are     thesame man who pulled us out of that aircar crash, aren't you? And beforethat the man in the gray suit? And before that...?     The young man's cheekbones protruded as he smiled. Yes, I'm all ofthem.     Then what they say about the zarquil games is true? There are peoplewho go around changing their bodies like—like hats? Automatically shereached to adjust the expensive bit of blue synthetic on her moon-palehair, for she was always conscious of her appearance; if she had notbeen so before marriage, Gabriel would have taught her that.  He smiled again, but coughed instead of speaking.     But why do you do it?      Why!     Do you like it? Or is it because ofGabriel? She was growing a little frantic; there was menace hereand she could not understand it nor determine whether or not she wasincluded in its scope. Do you want to keep him from recognizing you;is that it?     Ask him.     He won't tell me; he never tells me anything. We just keep running. Ididn't recognize it as running at first, but now I realize that's whatwe've been doing ever since we were married. And running from you, Ithink?     There was no change of expression on the man's gaunt face, and shewondered how much control he had over a body that, though second- orthird- or fourth-hand, must be new to him. How well could he make itrespond? What was it like to step into another person's casing? But shemust not let herself think that way or she would find herself lookingfor a zarquil game. It would be one way of escaping Gabriel, but not,she thought, the best way; her body was much too good a one to risk socasually.  It was beginning to snow. Light, feathery flakes drifted down on herhusband's immobile body. She pulled her thick coat—of fur taken fromsome animal who had lived and died light-years away—more closely aboutherself. The thin young man began to cough again.     Overhead a tiny star seemed to detach itself from the pale flat diskof the Moon and hurl itself upward—one of the interstellar shipsembarking on its long voyage to distant suns. She wished that somehowshe could be on it, but she was here, on this solitary old world in abarren solar system, with her unconscious husband and a strange man whofollowed them, and it looked as if here she would stay ... all three ofthem would stay....     If you're after Gabriel, planning to hurt him, she asked, why thendo you keep helping him?     I am not helping      him     . And he knows that.     You'll change again tonight, won't you? she babbled. You alwayschange after you ... meet us? I think I'm beginning to be able toidentify you now, even when you're ... wearing a new body; there'ssomething about you that doesn't change.     Too bad he got married, the young man said. I could have followedhim for an eternity and he would never have been able to pick me outfrom the crowd. Too bad he got married anyway, he added, his voiceless impersonal, for your sake.     She had come to the same conclusion in her six months of marriage, butshe would not admit that to an outsider. Though this man was hardly anoutsider; he was part of their small family group—as long as she hadknown Gabriel, so long he must have known her. And she began to suspectthat he was even more closely involved than that.     Why must you change again? she persisted, obliquely approaching thesubject she feared. You have a pretty good body there. Why run therisk of getting a bad one?     This isn't a good body, he said. It's diseased. Sure, nobody'ssupposed to play the game who hasn't passed a thorough medicalexamination. But in the places to which your husband has been leadingme, they're often not too particular, as long as the player has plentyof foliage.     How—long will it last you?     Four or five months, if I'm careful. He smiled. But don't worry, ifthat's what you're doing; I'll get it passed on before then. It'll beexpensive—that's all. Bad landing for the guy who gets it, but thenit was tough on me too, wasn't it?     But how did you get into this ... pursuit? she asked again. And whyare you doing it? People didn't have any traffic with Gabriel Lockardfor fun, not after they got to know him. And this man certainly shouldknow him better than most.     Ask your husband.     The original Gabriel Lockard looked down at the prostrate,snow-powdered figure of the man who had stolen his body and his name,and stirred it with his toe. I'd better call a cab—he might freeze todeath.     He signaled and a cab came.     Tell him, when he comes to, he said to the girl as he and the driverlifted the heavy form of her husband into the helicar, that I'mgetting pretty tired of this. He stopped for a long spell of coughing.Tell him that sometimes I wonder whether cutting off my nose wouldn't,in the long run, be most beneficial for my face.  Sorry, the Vinzz said impersonally, in English that was perfectexcept for the slight dampening of the sibilants, but I'm afraid youcannot play.     Why not? The emaciated young man began to put on his clothes.     You know why. Your body is worthless. And this is a reputable house.     But I have plenty of money. The young man coughed. The Vinzzshrugged. I'll pay you twice the regular fee.     The green one shook his head. Regrettably, I do mean what I say. Thisgame is really clean.     In a town like this?     That is the reason we can afford to be honest. The Vinzz' tendrilsquivered in what the man had come to recognize as amusement throughlong, but necessarily superficial acquaintance with the Vinzz. Hisheavy robe of what looked like moss-green velvet, but might have beenvelvet-green moss, encrusted with oddly faceted alien jewels, swungwith him.     We do a lot of business here, he said unnecessarily, for the wholeset-up spelled wealth far beyond the dreams of the man, and he was byno means poor when it came to worldly goods. Why don't you try anothertown where they're not so particular?     The young man smiled wryly. Just his luck to stumble on a sunny game.He never liked to risk following his quarry in the same configuration.And even though only the girl had actually seen him this time, hewouldn't feel at ease until he had made the usual body-shift. Washe changing because of Gabriel, he wondered, or was he using his owndiscoverment and identification simply as an excuse to cover the factthat none of the bodies that fell to his lot ever seemed to fit him?Was he activated solely by revenge or as much by the hope that in thehazards of the game he might, impossible though it now seemed, some daywin another body that approached perfection as nearly as his originalcasing had?     He didn't know. However, there seemed to be no help for it now; hewould have to wait until they reached the next town, unless the girl,seeing him reappear in the same guise, would guess what had happenedand tell her husband. He himself had been a fool to admit to her thatthe hulk he inhabited was a sick one; he still couldn't understandhow he could so casually have entrusted her with so vital a piece ofinformation.  The Vinzz had been locking antennae with another of his kind. Now theydetached, and the first approached the man once more. There is, as ithappens, a body available for a private game, he lisped. No questionsto be asked or answered. All I can tell you is that it is in goodhealth.     The man hesitated. But unable to pass the screening? he murmuredaloud. A criminal then.     The green one's face—if you could call it a face—remained impassive.     Male?     Of course, the Vinzz said primly. His kind did have certain ultimatestandards to which they adhered rigidly, and one of those was thecurious tabu against mixed games, strictly enforced even though itkept them from tapping a vast source of potential players. There hadalso never been a recorded instance of humans and extraterrestrialsexchanging identities, but whether that was the result of tabu orbiological impossibility, no one could tell.     It might merely be prudence on the Vinzz' part—if it had everbeen proved that an alien life-form had desecrated a human body,Earthmen would clamor for war ... for on this planet humanity heldits self-bestowed purity of birthright dear—and the Vinzz, despitebeing unquestionably the stronger, were pragmatic pacifists. It hadbeen undoubtedly some rabid member of the anti-alien groups active onTerra who had started the rumor that the planetary slogan of Vinau was,Don't beat 'em; cheat 'em.     It would have to be something pretty nuclear for the other guy to takesuch a risk. The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. How much?     Thirty thousand credits.     Why, that's three times the usual rate!     The other will pay five times the usual rate.     Oh, all right, the delicate young man gave in. It was a terrificrisk he was agreeing to take, because, if the other was a criminal, hehimself would, upon assuming the body, assume responsibility for allthe crimes it had committed. But there was nothing else he could do.  He looked at himself in the mirror and found he had a fine new body;tall and strikingly handsome in a dark, coarse-featured way. Nothing tomatch the one he had lost, in his opinion, but there were probably manypeople who might find this one preferable. No identification in thepockets, but it wasn't necessary; he recognized the face. Not that itwas a very famous or even notorious one, but the dutchman was a carefulstudent of the wanted fax that had decorated public buildings fromtime immemorial, for he was ever mindful of the possibility that hemight one day find himself trapped unwittingly in the body of one ofthe men depicted there. And he knew that this particular man, thoughnot an important criminal in any sense of the word, was one whom thepolice had been ordered to burn on sight. The abolishing of capitalpunishment could not abolish the necessity for self-defense, and theman in question was not one who would let himself be captured easily,nor whom the police intended to capture easily.       This might be a lucky break for me after all     , the new tenant thought,as he tried to adjust himself to the body. It, too, despite its obviousrude health, was not a very comfortable fit.      I can do a lot with ahulk like this. And maybe I'm cleverer than the original owner; maybeI'll be able to get away with it.        IV     Look, Gabe, the girl said, don't try to fool me! I know youtoo well. And I know you have that man's—the real GabrielLockard's—body. She put unnecessary stardust on her nose as shewatched her husband's reflection in the dressing table mirror.     Lockard—Lockard's body, at any rate—sat up and felt his unshavenchin. That what he tell you?     No, he didn't tell me anything really—just suggested I ask youwhatever I want to know. But why else should he guard somebody heobviously hates the way he hates you? Only because he doesn't want tosee his body spoiled.     It      is     a pretty good body, isn't it? Gabe flexed softening musclesand made no attempt to deny her charge; very probably he was relievedat having someone with whom to share his secret.     Not as good as it must have been, the girl said, turning and lookingat him without admiration. Not if you keep on the way you're coursing.Gabe, why don't you...?     Give it back to him, eh? Lockard regarded his wife appraisingly.You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd be      his     wife then. That would benice—a sound mind in a sound body. But don't you think that's a littlemore than you deserve?     I wasn't thinking about that, Gabe, she said truthfully enough, forshe hadn't followed the idea to its logical conclusion. Of course I'dgo with you, she went on, now knowing she lied, when you got your ...old body back.       Sure     , she thought,      I'd keep going with you to farjeen houses andthrill-mills.     Actually she had accompanied him to a thrill-mill onlyonce, and from then on, despite all his threats, she had refused to gowith him again. But that once had been enough; nothing could ever washthat experience from her mind or her body.     You wouldn't be able to get your old body back, though, would you?she went on. You don't know where it's gone, and neither, I suppose,does he?     I don't want to know! he spat. I wouldn't want it if I could getit back. Whoever it adhered to probably killed himself as soon as helooked in a mirror. He swung long legs over the side of his bed.Christ, anything would be better than that! You can't imagine what ahulk I had!     Oh, yes, I can, she said incautiously. You must have had a body tomatch your character. Pity you could only change one.  ","The stranger in the gray suit at the bar in the beginning of the story happens to be the original Gabriel Lockard, and it is hinted that the original Lockard only switched bodies because the current one had convinced him to when they'd had too much to drink. The stranger is keeping an eye on the current Gabriel Lockard to protect the body from harm. He does this by participating in zarquil games, run by the alien race the Vinzz, which allows him to swap bodies with other people. If he is in a reputable area, there are careful checks to make sure that these bodies are healthy, but he ends up with a sick body partway through the story, which forces him to take the body of a criminal as his only option because nobody will buy the sick body from him. The stranger's desire to protect his original body pushes him to become obsessed with this task, and it is his only real goal. He follows Lockard throughout the story, switching bodies every time he is seen, which forces Lockard and his wife to flee from him, staying constantly on the run. Lockard is used to this stranger being around, and tries to avoid making him angry, but there is a sense that he is sick of being saved and wants to live his own life. Lockard even offers to buy the stranger a drink at the beginning to try to work something out, seemingly exhausted from being followed. His single-mindedness is shown by the fact that the stranger's password on his locker is ""bodyguard"", in reference to his original body."
"What are the zarquil games and what is their significance? </s>     Bodyguard     By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM     Illustrated by CAVAT     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course       a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that       he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate!        The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So didthe light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man inthe gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner.     Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of thehumans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously andarrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superiorto anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she wasaccustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she wasalmost ordinary-looking.     As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merelyamused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemablyhideous.     Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was ashort man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women werein that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, thoughnot death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plasticsurgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century.     The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over hisclothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a ratherugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felthe was, which was what mattered.     Sorry, colleague, Gabe said lazily. All my fault. You must let mebuy you a replacement. He gestured to the bartender. Another of thesame for my fellow-man here.     The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a clothhastily supplied by the management.     You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill, Gabe said, taking outhis wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to lookat them. Here, have yourself a new suit on me.      You could use one     was implied.     And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had justset before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard'shandsome face.  Suddenly a restraining hand was laid upon his arm. Don't do that, thenondescript man who had been sitting in the corner advised. He removedthe glass from the little man's slackening grasp. You wouldn't want togo to jail because of him.     The ugly man gave him a bewildered stare. Then, seeing the forcesnow ranged against him—including his own belated prudence—were toostrong, he stumbled off. He hadn't really wanted to fight, only tosmash back, and now it was too late for that.     Gabe studied the newcomer curiously. So, it's you again?     The man in the gray suit smiled. Who else in any world would stand upfor you?     I should think you'd have given up by now. Not that I mind having youaround, of course, Gabriel added too quickly. You do come in usefulat times, you know.     So you don't mind having me around? The nondescript man smiled again.Then what are you running from, if not me? You can't be running fromyourself—you lost yourself a while back, remember?     Gabe ran a hand through his thick blond hair. Come on, have a drinkwith me, fellow-man, and let's let bygones be bygones. I owe yousomething—I admit that. Maybe we can even work this thing out.     I drank with you once too often, the nondescript man said. Andthings worked out fine, didn't they? For you. His eyes studied theother man's incredibly handsome young face, noted the suggestion ofbags under the eyes, the beginning of slackness at the lips, and werenot pleased with what they saw. Watch yourself, colleague, he warnedas he left. Soon you might not be worth the saving.     Who was that, Gabe? the girl asked.     He shrugged. I never saw him before in my life. Of course, knowinghim, she assumed he was lying, but, as a matter of fact, just then hehappened to have been telling the truth.  Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotelsuite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, ashe watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out againthat night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted acoin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond tothe letter combination      bodyguard     , he went out into the street.     If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would havebeen nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no realidentification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one foryears.     The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. Where to, fellow-man?the driver asked.     I'm new in the parish, the other man replied and let it hang there.     Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills?     But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head.     Games? the driver finally asked, although he could guess what waswanted by then. Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen?     Is there a good zarquil game in town?     The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in theteleview. A very ordinary face. Look, colleague, why don't you commitsuicide? It's cleaner and quicker.     I can't contact your attitude, the passenger said with a thinsmile. Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time ithappens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at athrill-mill. He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, andwhich the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy.     Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then? The driver spat out of thewindow. If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of thecab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em.     But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of acommission, wouldn't it? the other man asked coolly.     Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though.     I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun.     You're the dictator, the driver agreed sullenly.      II     It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in nocondition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn.     Let me take the controls, honey, the light-haired girl urged, but heshook his handsome head.     Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty, he said thickly,referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek.     Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so thatwhen they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the littletown, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashedon the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and ashort fat man was puffing toward them through the mist.     To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out ontothe dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined theyoung man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't thereat all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem toremember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a momentbefore the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames.     Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at himspeculatively. My guardian angel, he mumbled—shock had sobered hima little, but not enough. He sat up. Guess I'm not hurt or you'd havethrown me back in.     And that's no joke, the fat man agreed.     The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recallthat he had not been alone. How about Helen? She on course?     Seems to be, the fat man said. You all right, miss? he asked,glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern.           Mrs.     , Gabriel corrected. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. GabrielLockard, he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.Pretty bauble, isn't she?     I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard, the fat man said,looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-upfrom her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. I hopeyou'll be worthy of the name. The light given off by the flamingcar flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them.     There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town thelights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by thenewer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old andbeginning to slide downhill....     Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see.  There was the feeling that she had encountered the fat man before,which was, of course, absurd. She had an excellent memory for faces andhis was not included in her gallery. The girl pulled her thin jacketcloser about her chilly body. Aren't you going to introduce your—yourfriend to me, Gabe?     I don't know who he is, Gabe said almost merrily, except that he'sno friend of mine. Do you have a name, stranger?     Of course I have a name. The fat man extracted an identificationcard from his wallet and read it. Says here I'm Dominic Bianchi, andDominic Bianchi is a retail milgot dealer.... Only he isn't a retailmilgot dealer any more; the poor fellow went bankrupt a couple of weeksago, and now he isn't ... anything.     You saved our lives, the girl said. I'd like to give you some tokenof my—of our appreciation. Her hand reached toward her credit-carrierwith deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but onlycasually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciationheld little gratitude.     The fat man shook his head without rancor. I have plenty of money,thank you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard.... Come, he addressed her husband,if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in thefuture! Sometimes, he added musingly, I almost wish you would letsomething happen. Then my problem would not be any problem, would it?     Gabriel shivered. I'll be careful, he vowed. I promise—I'll becareful.       When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night,the fat man checked his personal possessions. He then requested a taxidriver to take him to the nearest zarquil game. The driver accepted thecommission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the othershad been; perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperateor despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was knowncolloquially as a flying dutchman, a man, or woman, who went fromone zarquil game to another, loving the thrill of the sport, if youcould call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope itextended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification.Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care.     Zarquil was extremely illegal, of course—so much so that there weremany legitimate citizens who weren't quite sure just what the wordimplied, knowing merely that it was one of those nameless horrors sodeliciously hinted at by the fax sheets under the generic term ofcrimes against nature. Actually the phrase was more appropriate tozarquil than to most of the other activities to which it was commonlyapplied. And this was one crime—for it was crime in law as well asnature—in which victim had to be considered as guilty as perpetrator;otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse.  Playing the game was fabulously expensive; it had to be to make itprofitable for the Vinzz to run it. Those odd creatures from Altair'sseventh planet cared nothing for the welfare of the completely alienhuman beings; all they wanted was to feather their own pockets withinterstellar credits, so that they could return to Vinau and buy manyslaves. For, on Vinau, bodies were of little account, and so to themzarquil was the equivalent of the terrestrial game musical chairs.Which was why they came to Terra to make profits—there has never beenbig money in musical chairs as such.     When the zarquil operators were apprehended, which was not frequent—asthey had strange powers, which, not being definable, were beyond thelaw—they suffered their sentences with equanimity. No Earth courtcould give an effective prison sentence to a creature whose lifespanned approximately two thousand terrestrial years. And capitalpunishment had become obsolete on Terra, which very possibly saved theterrestrials embarrassment, for it was not certain that their weaponscould kill the Vinzz ... or whether, in fact, the Vinzz merely expiredafter a period of years out of sheer boredom. Fortunately, becausetrade was more profitable than war, there had always been peace betweenVinau and Terra, and, for that reason, Terra could not bar the entranceof apparently respectable citizens of a friendly planet.     The taxi driver took the fat man to one of the rather seedy locales inwhich the zarquil games were usually found, for the Vinzz attempted toconduct their operations with as much unobtrusiveness as was possible.But the front door swung open on an interior that lacked the opulenceof the usual Vinoz set-up; it was down-right shabby, the dim olivelight hinting of squalor rather than forbidden pleasures. That wasthe trouble in these smaller towns—you ran greater risks of gettinginvolved in games where the players had not been carefully screened.     The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but,when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off intodarkside practices. Naturally the small-town houses were more likely tohave trouble in making ends meet, because everybody in the parish kneweverybody else far too well.     The fat man wondered whether that had been his quarry's motive incoming to such desolate, off-trail places—hoping that eventuallydisaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemedtoo logical for the man he was haunting.     However, beggars could not be choosers. The fat man paid off theheli-driver and entered the zarquil house. One? the small greencreature in the slightly frayed robe asked.     One, the fat man answered.      III     The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright raysfrom the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futilepatterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angularfeatures, made no attempt to follow. Instead, he bent over to examineGabriel Lockard's form, appropriately outstretched in the gutter. Onlyweighted out, he muttered, he'll be all right. Whatever possessed youtwo to come out to a place like this?     I really think Gabriel      must     be possessed.... the girl said, mostlyto herself. I had no idea of the kind of place it was going to beuntil he brought me here. The others were bad, but this is even worse.It almost seems as if he went around looking for trouble, doesn't it?     It does indeed, the stranger agreed, coughing a little. It wasgrowing colder and, on this world, the cities had no domes to protectthem from the climate, because it was Earth and the air was breathableand it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up.     The girl looked closely at him. You look different, but you      are     thesame man who pulled us out of that aircar crash, aren't you? And beforethat the man in the gray suit? And before that...?     The young man's cheekbones protruded as he smiled. Yes, I'm all ofthem.     Then what they say about the zarquil games is true? There are peoplewho go around changing their bodies like—like hats? Automatically shereached to adjust the expensive bit of blue synthetic on her moon-palehair, for she was always conscious of her appearance; if she had notbeen so before marriage, Gabriel would have taught her that.  He smiled again, but coughed instead of speaking.     But why do you do it?      Why!     Do you like it? Or is it because ofGabriel? She was growing a little frantic; there was menace hereand she could not understand it nor determine whether or not she wasincluded in its scope. Do you want to keep him from recognizing you;is that it?     Ask him.     He won't tell me; he never tells me anything. We just keep running. Ididn't recognize it as running at first, but now I realize that's whatwe've been doing ever since we were married. And running from you, Ithink?     There was no change of expression on the man's gaunt face, and shewondered how much control he had over a body that, though second- orthird- or fourth-hand, must be new to him. How well could he make itrespond? What was it like to step into another person's casing? But shemust not let herself think that way or she would find herself lookingfor a zarquil game. It would be one way of escaping Gabriel, but not,she thought, the best way; her body was much too good a one to risk socasually.  It was beginning to snow. Light, feathery flakes drifted down on herhusband's immobile body. She pulled her thick coat—of fur taken fromsome animal who had lived and died light-years away—more closely aboutherself. The thin young man began to cough again.     Overhead a tiny star seemed to detach itself from the pale flat diskof the Moon and hurl itself upward—one of the interstellar shipsembarking on its long voyage to distant suns. She wished that somehowshe could be on it, but she was here, on this solitary old world in abarren solar system, with her unconscious husband and a strange man whofollowed them, and it looked as if here she would stay ... all three ofthem would stay....     If you're after Gabriel, planning to hurt him, she asked, why thendo you keep helping him?     I am not helping      him     . And he knows that.     You'll change again tonight, won't you? she babbled. You alwayschange after you ... meet us? I think I'm beginning to be able toidentify you now, even when you're ... wearing a new body; there'ssomething about you that doesn't change.     Too bad he got married, the young man said. I could have followedhim for an eternity and he would never have been able to pick me outfrom the crowd. Too bad he got married anyway, he added, his voiceless impersonal, for your sake.     She had come to the same conclusion in her six months of marriage, butshe would not admit that to an outsider. Though this man was hardly anoutsider; he was part of their small family group—as long as she hadknown Gabriel, so long he must have known her. And she began to suspectthat he was even more closely involved than that.     Why must you change again? she persisted, obliquely approaching thesubject she feared. You have a pretty good body there. Why run therisk of getting a bad one?     This isn't a good body, he said. It's diseased. Sure, nobody'ssupposed to play the game who hasn't passed a thorough medicalexamination. But in the places to which your husband has been leadingme, they're often not too particular, as long as the player has plentyof foliage.     How—long will it last you?     Four or five months, if I'm careful. He smiled. But don't worry, ifthat's what you're doing; I'll get it passed on before then. It'll beexpensive—that's all. Bad landing for the guy who gets it, but thenit was tough on me too, wasn't it?     But how did you get into this ... pursuit? she asked again. And whyare you doing it? People didn't have any traffic with Gabriel Lockardfor fun, not after they got to know him. And this man certainly shouldknow him better than most.     Ask your husband.     The original Gabriel Lockard looked down at the prostrate,snow-powdered figure of the man who had stolen his body and his name,and stirred it with his toe. I'd better call a cab—he might freeze todeath.     He signaled and a cab came.     Tell him, when he comes to, he said to the girl as he and the driverlifted the heavy form of her husband into the helicar, that I'mgetting pretty tired of this. He stopped for a long spell of coughing.Tell him that sometimes I wonder whether cutting off my nose wouldn't,in the long run, be most beneficial for my face.  Sorry, the Vinzz said impersonally, in English that was perfectexcept for the slight dampening of the sibilants, but I'm afraid youcannot play.     Why not? The emaciated young man began to put on his clothes.     You know why. Your body is worthless. And this is a reputable house.     But I have plenty of money. The young man coughed. The Vinzzshrugged. I'll pay you twice the regular fee.     The green one shook his head. Regrettably, I do mean what I say. Thisgame is really clean.     In a town like this?     That is the reason we can afford to be honest. The Vinzz' tendrilsquivered in what the man had come to recognize as amusement throughlong, but necessarily superficial acquaintance with the Vinzz. Hisheavy robe of what looked like moss-green velvet, but might have beenvelvet-green moss, encrusted with oddly faceted alien jewels, swungwith him.     We do a lot of business here, he said unnecessarily, for the wholeset-up spelled wealth far beyond the dreams of the man, and he was byno means poor when it came to worldly goods. Why don't you try anothertown where they're not so particular?     The young man smiled wryly. Just his luck to stumble on a sunny game.He never liked to risk following his quarry in the same configuration.And even though only the girl had actually seen him this time, hewouldn't feel at ease until he had made the usual body-shift. Washe changing because of Gabriel, he wondered, or was he using his owndiscoverment and identification simply as an excuse to cover the factthat none of the bodies that fell to his lot ever seemed to fit him?Was he activated solely by revenge or as much by the hope that in thehazards of the game he might, impossible though it now seemed, some daywin another body that approached perfection as nearly as his originalcasing had?     He didn't know. However, there seemed to be no help for it now; hewould have to wait until they reached the next town, unless the girl,seeing him reappear in the same guise, would guess what had happenedand tell her husband. He himself had been a fool to admit to her thatthe hulk he inhabited was a sick one; he still couldn't understandhow he could so casually have entrusted her with so vital a piece ofinformation.  The Vinzz had been locking antennae with another of his kind. Now theydetached, and the first approached the man once more. There is, as ithappens, a body available for a private game, he lisped. No questionsto be asked or answered. All I can tell you is that it is in goodhealth.     The man hesitated. But unable to pass the screening? he murmuredaloud. A criminal then.     The green one's face—if you could call it a face—remained impassive.     Male?     Of course, the Vinzz said primly. His kind did have certain ultimatestandards to which they adhered rigidly, and one of those was thecurious tabu against mixed games, strictly enforced even though itkept them from tapping a vast source of potential players. There hadalso never been a recorded instance of humans and extraterrestrialsexchanging identities, but whether that was the result of tabu orbiological impossibility, no one could tell.     It might merely be prudence on the Vinzz' part—if it had everbeen proved that an alien life-form had desecrated a human body,Earthmen would clamor for war ... for on this planet humanity heldits self-bestowed purity of birthright dear—and the Vinzz, despitebeing unquestionably the stronger, were pragmatic pacifists. It hadbeen undoubtedly some rabid member of the anti-alien groups active onTerra who had started the rumor that the planetary slogan of Vinau was,Don't beat 'em; cheat 'em.     It would have to be something pretty nuclear for the other guy to takesuch a risk. The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. How much?     Thirty thousand credits.     Why, that's three times the usual rate!     The other will pay five times the usual rate.     Oh, all right, the delicate young man gave in. It was a terrificrisk he was agreeing to take, because, if the other was a criminal, hehimself would, upon assuming the body, assume responsibility for allthe crimes it had committed. But there was nothing else he could do.  He looked at himself in the mirror and found he had a fine new body;tall and strikingly handsome in a dark, coarse-featured way. Nothing tomatch the one he had lost, in his opinion, but there were probably manypeople who might find this one preferable. No identification in thepockets, but it wasn't necessary; he recognized the face. Not that itwas a very famous or even notorious one, but the dutchman was a carefulstudent of the wanted fax that had decorated public buildings fromtime immemorial, for he was ever mindful of the possibility that hemight one day find himself trapped unwittingly in the body of one ofthe men depicted there. And he knew that this particular man, thoughnot an important criminal in any sense of the word, was one whom thepolice had been ordered to burn on sight. The abolishing of capitalpunishment could not abolish the necessity for self-defense, and theman in question was not one who would let himself be captured easily,nor whom the police intended to capture easily.       This might be a lucky break for me after all     , the new tenant thought,as he tried to adjust himself to the body. It, too, despite its obviousrude health, was not a very comfortable fit.      I can do a lot with ahulk like this. And maybe I'm cleverer than the original owner; maybeI'll be able to get away with it.        IV     Look, Gabe, the girl said, don't try to fool me! I know youtoo well. And I know you have that man's—the real GabrielLockard's—body. She put unnecessary stardust on her nose as shewatched her husband's reflection in the dressing table mirror.     Lockard—Lockard's body, at any rate—sat up and felt his unshavenchin. That what he tell you?     No, he didn't tell me anything really—just suggested I ask youwhatever I want to know. But why else should he guard somebody heobviously hates the way he hates you? Only because he doesn't want tosee his body spoiled.     It      is     a pretty good body, isn't it? Gabe flexed softening musclesand made no attempt to deny her charge; very probably he was relievedat having someone with whom to share his secret.     Not as good as it must have been, the girl said, turning and lookingat him without admiration. Not if you keep on the way you're coursing.Gabe, why don't you...?     Give it back to him, eh? Lockard regarded his wife appraisingly.You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd be      his     wife then. That would benice—a sound mind in a sound body. But don't you think that's a littlemore than you deserve?     I wasn't thinking about that, Gabe, she said truthfully enough, forshe hadn't followed the idea to its logical conclusion. Of course I'dgo with you, she went on, now knowing she lied, when you got your ...old body back.       Sure     , she thought,      I'd keep going with you to farjeen houses andthrill-mills.     Actually she had accompanied him to a thrill-mill onlyonce, and from then on, despite all his threats, she had refused to gowith him again. But that once had been enough; nothing could ever washthat experience from her mind or her body.     You wouldn't be able to get your old body back, though, would you?she went on. You don't know where it's gone, and neither, I suppose,does he?     I don't want to know! he spat. I wouldn't want it if I could getit back. Whoever it adhered to probably killed himself as soon as helooked in a mirror. He swung long legs over the side of his bed.Christ, anything would be better than that! You can't imagine what ahulk I had!     Oh, yes, I can, she said incautiously. You must have had a body tomatch your character. Pity you could only change one.  ","An alien race called the Vinzz, from Altair's seventh planet, run the zarquil games as a way to make money so that they can buy slaves. Through these games, humans are able to swap bodies so they can experience what it is like to live as someone else. People who participate frequently are known as flying dutchmen, and the stranger in the story is called this a few times. These games are illegal and dangerous, and you must have a lot of money to participate. In larger cities with more resources and oversight, all of the potential bodies go through a detailed vetting process to make sure that the body in question does not have any illnesses or a criminal past. When the stranger ends up with a sick body near the end of the story, his only option is to accept a body with a criminal past because nobody will accept an ill body at a reputable game. Public perception shows that society looks down on these games. The cab driver that the stranger meets explicitly says that he looks down on dutchmen, saying he hates them, and very reluctantly takes the stranger to a zarquil game because he is promised the money and he knows the stranger has a gun. It is this game that caused the original Gabriel Lockard to lose his body and identity, and it is through this game that he rotates through nameless people in order to follow the new Lockard to keep an eye on the body. "
"What is the relationship between Gabe Lockard and the stranger? </s>     Bodyguard     By CHRISTOPHER GRIMM     Illustrated by CAVAT     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        When overwhelming danger is constantly present,of course       a man is entitled to have a bodyguard. The annoyance was that       he had to do it himself ... and his body would not cooperate!        The man at the bar was exceptionally handsome, and he knew it. So didthe light-haired girl at his side, and so did the nondescript man inthe gray suit who was watching them from a booth in the corner.     Everyone in the room was aware of the big young man, and most of thehumans present were resentful, for he handled himself consciously andarrogantly, as if his appearance alone were enough to make him superiorto anyone. Even the girl with him was growing restless, for she wasaccustomed to adulation herself, and next to Gabriel Lockard she wasalmost ordinary-looking.     As for the extraterrestrials—it was a free bar—they were merelyamused, since to them all men were pathetically and irredeemablyhideous.     Gabe threw his arm wide in one of his expansive gestures. There was ashort man standing next to the pair—young, as most men and women werein that time, thanks to the science which could stave off decay, thoughnot death—but with no other apparent physical virtue, for plasticsurgery had not fulfilled its bright promise of the twentieth century.     The drink he had been raising to his lips splashed all over hisclothing; the glass shattered at his feet. Now he was not only a ratherugly little man, but also a rather ridiculous one—or at least he felthe was, which was what mattered.     Sorry, colleague, Gabe said lazily. All my fault. You must let mebuy you a replacement. He gestured to the bartender. Another of thesame for my fellow-man here.     The ugly man dabbed futilely at his dripping trousers with a clothhastily supplied by the management.     You must allow me to pay your cleaning bill, Gabe said, taking outhis wallet and extracting several credit notes without seeming to lookat them. Here, have yourself a new suit on me.      You could use one     was implied.     And that, coming on top of Gabriel Lockard's spectacular appearance,was too much. The ugly man picked up the drink the bartender had justset before him and started to hurl it, glass and all, into Lockard'shandsome face.  Suddenly a restraining hand was laid upon his arm. Don't do that, thenondescript man who had been sitting in the corner advised. He removedthe glass from the little man's slackening grasp. You wouldn't want togo to jail because of him.     The ugly man gave him a bewildered stare. Then, seeing the forcesnow ranged against him—including his own belated prudence—were toostrong, he stumbled off. He hadn't really wanted to fight, only tosmash back, and now it was too late for that.     Gabe studied the newcomer curiously. So, it's you again?     The man in the gray suit smiled. Who else in any world would stand upfor you?     I should think you'd have given up by now. Not that I mind having youaround, of course, Gabriel added too quickly. You do come in usefulat times, you know.     So you don't mind having me around? The nondescript man smiled again.Then what are you running from, if not me? You can't be running fromyourself—you lost yourself a while back, remember?     Gabe ran a hand through his thick blond hair. Come on, have a drinkwith me, fellow-man, and let's let bygones be bygones. I owe yousomething—I admit that. Maybe we can even work this thing out.     I drank with you once too often, the nondescript man said. Andthings worked out fine, didn't they? For you. His eyes studied theother man's incredibly handsome young face, noted the suggestion ofbags under the eyes, the beginning of slackness at the lips, and werenot pleased with what they saw. Watch yourself, colleague, he warnedas he left. Soon you might not be worth the saving.     Who was that, Gabe? the girl asked.     He shrugged. I never saw him before in my life. Of course, knowinghim, she assumed he was lying, but, as a matter of fact, just then hehappened to have been telling the truth.  Once the illuminators were extinguished in Gabriel Lockard's hotelsuite, it seemed reasonably certain to the man in the gray suit, ashe watched from the street, that his quarry would not go out againthat night. So he went to the nearest airstation. There he inserted acoin in a locker, into which he put most of his personal possessions,reserving only a sum of money. After setting the locker to respond tothe letter combination      bodyguard     , he went out into the street.     If he had met with a fatal accident at that point, there would havebeen nothing on his body to identify him. As a matter of fact, no realidentification was possible, for he was no one and had been no one foryears.     The nondescript man hailed a cruising helicab. Where to, fellow-man?the driver asked.     I'm new in the parish, the other man replied and let it hang there.     Oh...? Females...? Narcophagi...? Thrill-mills?     But to each of these questions the nondescript man shook his head.     Games? the driver finally asked, although he could guess what waswanted by then. Dice...? Roulette...? Farjeen?     Is there a good zarquil game in town?     The driver moved so he could see the face of the man behind him in theteleview. A very ordinary face. Look, colleague, why don't you commitsuicide? It's cleaner and quicker.     I can't contact your attitude, the passenger said with a thinsmile. Bet you've never tried the game yourself. Each time ithappens, there's a ... well, there's no experience to match it at athrill-mill. He gave a sigh that was almost an audible shudder, andwhich the driver misinterpreted as an expression of ecstasy.     Each time, eh? You're a dutchman then? The driver spat out of thewindow. If it wasn't for the nibble, I'd throw you right out of thecab. Without even bothering to take it down even. I hate dutchmen ...anybody with any legitimate feelings hates 'em.     But it would be silly to let personal prejudice stand in the way of acommission, wouldn't it? the other man asked coolly.     Of course. You'll need plenty of foliage, though.     I have sufficient funds. I also have a gun.     You're the dictator, the driver agreed sullenly.      II     It was a dark and rainy night in early fall. Gabe Lockard was in nocondition to drive the helicar. However, he was stubborn.     Let me take the controls, honey, the light-haired girl urged, but heshook his handsome head.     Show you I can do something 'sides look pretty, he said thickly,referring to an earlier and not amicable conversation they had held,and of which she still bore the reminder on one thickly made-up cheek.     Fortunately the car was flying low, contrary to regulations, so thatwhen they smashed into the beacon tower on the outskirts of the littletown, they didn't have far to fall. And hardly had their car crashedon the ground when the car that had been following them landed, and ashort fat man was puffing toward them through the mist.     To the girl's indignation, the stranger not only hauled Gabe out ontothe dripping grass first, but stopped and deliberately examined theyoung man by the light of his minilume, almost as if she weren't thereat all. Only when she started to struggle out by herself did he seem toremember her existence. He pulled her away from the wreck just a momentbefore the fuel tank exploded and the 'copter went up in flames.     Gabe opened his eyes and saw the fat man gazing down at himspeculatively. My guardian angel, he mumbled—shock had sobered hima little, but not enough. He sat up. Guess I'm not hurt or you'd havethrown me back in.     And that's no joke, the fat man agreed.     The girl shivered and at that moment Gabriel suddenly seemed to recallthat he had not been alone. How about Helen? She on course?     Seems to be, the fat man said. You all right, miss? he asked,glancing toward the girl without, she thought, much apparent concern.           Mrs.     , Gabriel corrected. Allow me to introduce you to Mrs. GabrielLockard, he said, bowing from his seated position toward the girl.Pretty bauble, isn't she?     I'm delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard, the fat man said,looking at her intently. His small eyes seemed to strip the make-upfrom her cheek and examine the livid bruise underneath. I hopeyou'll be worthy of the name. The light given off by the flamingcar flickered on his face and Gabriel's and, she supposed, hers too.Otherwise, darkness surrounded the three of them.     There were no public illuminators this far out—even in town thelights were dimming and not being replaced fast enough nor by thenewer models. The town, the civilization, the planet all were old andbeginning to slide downhill....     Gabe gave a short laugh, for no reason that she could see.  There was the feeling that she had encountered the fat man before,which was, of course, absurd. She had an excellent memory for faces andhis was not included in her gallery. The girl pulled her thin jacketcloser about her chilly body. Aren't you going to introduce your—yourfriend to me, Gabe?     I don't know who he is, Gabe said almost merrily, except that he'sno friend of mine. Do you have a name, stranger?     Of course I have a name. The fat man extracted an identificationcard from his wallet and read it. Says here I'm Dominic Bianchi, andDominic Bianchi is a retail milgot dealer.... Only he isn't a retailmilgot dealer any more; the poor fellow went bankrupt a couple of weeksago, and now he isn't ... anything.     You saved our lives, the girl said. I'd like to give you some tokenof my—of our appreciation. Her hand reached toward her credit-carrierwith deliberate insult. He might have saved her life, but onlycasually, as a by-product of some larger scheme, and her appreciationheld little gratitude.     The fat man shook his head without rancor. I have plenty of money,thank you, Mrs. Gabriel Lockard.... Come, he addressed her husband,if you get up, I'll drive you home. I warn you, be more careful in thefuture! Sometimes, he added musingly, I almost wish you would letsomething happen. Then my problem would not be any problem, would it?     Gabriel shivered. I'll be careful, he vowed. I promise—I'll becareful.       When he was sure that his charge was safely tucked in for the night,the fat man checked his personal possessions. He then requested a taxidriver to take him to the nearest zarquil game. The driver accepted thecommission phlegmatically. Perhaps he was more hardened than the othershad been; perhaps he was unaware that the fat man was not a desperateor despairing individual seeking one last chance, but what was knowncolloquially as a flying dutchman, a man, or woman, who went fromone zarquil game to another, loving the thrill of the sport, if youcould call it that, for its own sake, and not for the futile hope itextended and which was its sole shred of claim to moral justification.Perhaps—and this was the most likely hypothesis—he just didn't care.     Zarquil was extremely illegal, of course—so much so that there weremany legitimate citizens who weren't quite sure just what the wordimplied, knowing merely that it was one of those nameless horrors sodeliciously hinted at by the fax sheets under the generic term ofcrimes against nature. Actually the phrase was more appropriate tozarquil than to most of the other activities to which it was commonlyapplied. And this was one crime—for it was crime in law as well asnature—in which victim had to be considered as guilty as perpetrator;otherwise the whole legal structure of society would collapse.  Playing the game was fabulously expensive; it had to be to make itprofitable for the Vinzz to run it. Those odd creatures from Altair'sseventh planet cared nothing for the welfare of the completely alienhuman beings; all they wanted was to feather their own pockets withinterstellar credits, so that they could return to Vinau and buy manyslaves. For, on Vinau, bodies were of little account, and so to themzarquil was the equivalent of the terrestrial game musical chairs.Which was why they came to Terra to make profits—there has never beenbig money in musical chairs as such.     When the zarquil operators were apprehended, which was not frequent—asthey had strange powers, which, not being definable, were beyond thelaw—they suffered their sentences with equanimity. No Earth courtcould give an effective prison sentence to a creature whose lifespanned approximately two thousand terrestrial years. And capitalpunishment had become obsolete on Terra, which very possibly saved theterrestrials embarrassment, for it was not certain that their weaponscould kill the Vinzz ... or whether, in fact, the Vinzz merely expiredafter a period of years out of sheer boredom. Fortunately, becausetrade was more profitable than war, there had always been peace betweenVinau and Terra, and, for that reason, Terra could not bar the entranceof apparently respectable citizens of a friendly planet.     The taxi driver took the fat man to one of the rather seedy locales inwhich the zarquil games were usually found, for the Vinzz attempted toconduct their operations with as much unobtrusiveness as was possible.But the front door swung open on an interior that lacked the opulenceof the usual Vinoz set-up; it was down-right shabby, the dim olivelight hinting of squalor rather than forbidden pleasures. That wasthe trouble in these smaller towns—you ran greater risks of gettinginvolved in games where the players had not been carefully screened.     The Vinoz games were usually clean, because that paid off better, but,when profits were lacking, the Vinzz were capable of sliding off intodarkside practices. Naturally the small-town houses were more likely tohave trouble in making ends meet, because everybody in the parish kneweverybody else far too well.     The fat man wondered whether that had been his quarry's motive incoming to such desolate, off-trail places—hoping that eventuallydisaster would hit the one who pursued him. Somehow, such a plan seemedtoo logical for the man he was haunting.     However, beggars could not be choosers. The fat man paid off theheli-driver and entered the zarquil house. One? the small greencreature in the slightly frayed robe asked.     One, the fat man answered.      III     The would-be thief fled down the dark alley, with the hot bright raysfrom the stranger's gun lancing out after him in flamboyant but futilepatterns. The stranger, a thin young man with delicate, angularfeatures, made no attempt to follow. Instead, he bent over to examineGabriel Lockard's form, appropriately outstretched in the gutter. Onlyweighted out, he muttered, he'll be all right. Whatever possessed youtwo to come out to a place like this?     I really think Gabriel      must     be possessed.... the girl said, mostlyto herself. I had no idea of the kind of place it was going to beuntil he brought me here. The others were bad, but this is even worse.It almost seems as if he went around looking for trouble, doesn't it?     It does indeed, the stranger agreed, coughing a little. It wasgrowing colder and, on this world, the cities had no domes to protectthem from the climate, because it was Earth and the air was breathableand it wasn't worth the trouble of fixing up.     The girl looked closely at him. You look different, but you      are     thesame man who pulled us out of that aircar crash, aren't you? And beforethat the man in the gray suit? And before that...?     The young man's cheekbones protruded as he smiled. Yes, I'm all ofthem.     Then what they say about the zarquil games is true? There are peoplewho go around changing their bodies like—like hats? Automatically shereached to adjust the expensive bit of blue synthetic on her moon-palehair, for she was always conscious of her appearance; if she had notbeen so before marriage, Gabriel would have taught her that.  He smiled again, but coughed instead of speaking.     But why do you do it?      Why!     Do you like it? Or is it because ofGabriel? She was growing a little frantic; there was menace hereand she could not understand it nor determine whether or not she wasincluded in its scope. Do you want to keep him from recognizing you;is that it?     Ask him.     He won't tell me; he never tells me anything. We just keep running. Ididn't recognize it as running at first, but now I realize that's whatwe've been doing ever since we were married. And running from you, Ithink?     There was no change of expression on the man's gaunt face, and shewondered how much control he had over a body that, though second- orthird- or fourth-hand, must be new to him. How well could he make itrespond? What was it like to step into another person's casing? But shemust not let herself think that way or she would find herself lookingfor a zarquil game. It would be one way of escaping Gabriel, but not,she thought, the best way; her body was much too good a one to risk socasually.  It was beginning to snow. Light, feathery flakes drifted down on herhusband's immobile body. She pulled her thick coat—of fur taken fromsome animal who had lived and died light-years away—more closely aboutherself. The thin young man began to cough again.     Overhead a tiny star seemed to detach itself from the pale flat diskof the Moon and hurl itself upward—one of the interstellar shipsembarking on its long voyage to distant suns. She wished that somehowshe could be on it, but she was here, on this solitary old world in abarren solar system, with her unconscious husband and a strange man whofollowed them, and it looked as if here she would stay ... all three ofthem would stay....     If you're after Gabriel, planning to hurt him, she asked, why thendo you keep helping him?     I am not helping      him     . And he knows that.     You'll change again tonight, won't you? she babbled. You alwayschange after you ... meet us? I think I'm beginning to be able toidentify you now, even when you're ... wearing a new body; there'ssomething about you that doesn't change.     Too bad he got married, the young man said. I could have followedhim for an eternity and he would never have been able to pick me outfrom the crowd. Too bad he got married anyway, he added, his voiceless impersonal, for your sake.     She had come to the same conclusion in her six months of marriage, butshe would not admit that to an outsider. Though this man was hardly anoutsider; he was part of their small family group—as long as she hadknown Gabriel, so long he must have known her. And she began to suspectthat he was even more closely involved than that.     Why must you change again? she persisted, obliquely approaching thesubject she feared. You have a pretty good body there. Why run therisk of getting a bad one?     This isn't a good body, he said. It's diseased. Sure, nobody'ssupposed to play the game who hasn't passed a thorough medicalexamination. But in the places to which your husband has been leadingme, they're often not too particular, as long as the player has plentyof foliage.     How—long will it last you?     Four or five months, if I'm careful. He smiled. But don't worry, ifthat's what you're doing; I'll get it passed on before then. It'll beexpensive—that's all. Bad landing for the guy who gets it, but thenit was tough on me too, wasn't it?     But how did you get into this ... pursuit? she asked again. And whyare you doing it? People didn't have any traffic with Gabriel Lockardfor fun, not after they got to know him. And this man certainly shouldknow him better than most.     Ask your husband.     The original Gabriel Lockard looked down at the prostrate,snow-powdered figure of the man who had stolen his body and his name,and stirred it with his toe. I'd better call a cab—he might freeze todeath.     He signaled and a cab came.     Tell him, when he comes to, he said to the girl as he and the driverlifted the heavy form of her husband into the helicar, that I'mgetting pretty tired of this. He stopped for a long spell of coughing.Tell him that sometimes I wonder whether cutting off my nose wouldn't,in the long run, be most beneficial for my face.  Sorry, the Vinzz said impersonally, in English that was perfectexcept for the slight dampening of the sibilants, but I'm afraid youcannot play.     Why not? The emaciated young man began to put on his clothes.     You know why. Your body is worthless. And this is a reputable house.     But I have plenty of money. The young man coughed. The Vinzzshrugged. I'll pay you twice the regular fee.     The green one shook his head. Regrettably, I do mean what I say. Thisgame is really clean.     In a town like this?     That is the reason we can afford to be honest. The Vinzz' tendrilsquivered in what the man had come to recognize as amusement throughlong, but necessarily superficial acquaintance with the Vinzz. Hisheavy robe of what looked like moss-green velvet, but might have beenvelvet-green moss, encrusted with oddly faceted alien jewels, swungwith him.     We do a lot of business here, he said unnecessarily, for the wholeset-up spelled wealth far beyond the dreams of the man, and he was byno means poor when it came to worldly goods. Why don't you try anothertown where they're not so particular?     The young man smiled wryly. Just his luck to stumble on a sunny game.He never liked to risk following his quarry in the same configuration.And even though only the girl had actually seen him this time, hewouldn't feel at ease until he had made the usual body-shift. Washe changing because of Gabriel, he wondered, or was he using his owndiscoverment and identification simply as an excuse to cover the factthat none of the bodies that fell to his lot ever seemed to fit him?Was he activated solely by revenge or as much by the hope that in thehazards of the game he might, impossible though it now seemed, some daywin another body that approached perfection as nearly as his originalcasing had?     He didn't know. However, there seemed to be no help for it now; hewould have to wait until they reached the next town, unless the girl,seeing him reappear in the same guise, would guess what had happenedand tell her husband. He himself had been a fool to admit to her thatthe hulk he inhabited was a sick one; he still couldn't understandhow he could so casually have entrusted her with so vital a piece ofinformation.  The Vinzz had been locking antennae with another of his kind. Now theydetached, and the first approached the man once more. There is, as ithappens, a body available for a private game, he lisped. No questionsto be asked or answered. All I can tell you is that it is in goodhealth.     The man hesitated. But unable to pass the screening? he murmuredaloud. A criminal then.     The green one's face—if you could call it a face—remained impassive.     Male?     Of course, the Vinzz said primly. His kind did have certain ultimatestandards to which they adhered rigidly, and one of those was thecurious tabu against mixed games, strictly enforced even though itkept them from tapping a vast source of potential players. There hadalso never been a recorded instance of humans and extraterrestrialsexchanging identities, but whether that was the result of tabu orbiological impossibility, no one could tell.     It might merely be prudence on the Vinzz' part—if it had everbeen proved that an alien life-form had desecrated a human body,Earthmen would clamor for war ... for on this planet humanity heldits self-bestowed purity of birthright dear—and the Vinzz, despitebeing unquestionably the stronger, were pragmatic pacifists. It hadbeen undoubtedly some rabid member of the anti-alien groups active onTerra who had started the rumor that the planetary slogan of Vinau was,Don't beat 'em; cheat 'em.     It would have to be something pretty nuclear for the other guy to takesuch a risk. The man rubbed his chin thoughtfully. How much?     Thirty thousand credits.     Why, that's three times the usual rate!     The other will pay five times the usual rate.     Oh, all right, the delicate young man gave in. It was a terrificrisk he was agreeing to take, because, if the other was a criminal, hehimself would, upon assuming the body, assume responsibility for allthe crimes it had committed. But there was nothing else he could do.  He looked at himself in the mirror and found he had a fine new body;tall and strikingly handsome in a dark, coarse-featured way. Nothing tomatch the one he had lost, in his opinion, but there were probably manypeople who might find this one preferable. No identification in thepockets, but it wasn't necessary; he recognized the face. Not that itwas a very famous or even notorious one, but the dutchman was a carefulstudent of the wanted fax that had decorated public buildings fromtime immemorial, for he was ever mindful of the possibility that hemight one day find himself trapped unwittingly in the body of one ofthe men depicted there. And he knew that this particular man, thoughnot an important criminal in any sense of the word, was one whom thepolice had been ordered to burn on sight. The abolishing of capitalpunishment could not abolish the necessity for self-defense, and theman in question was not one who would let himself be captured easily,nor whom the police intended to capture easily.       This might be a lucky break for me after all     , the new tenant thought,as he tried to adjust himself to the body. It, too, despite its obviousrude health, was not a very comfortable fit.      I can do a lot with ahulk like this. And maybe I'm cleverer than the original owner; maybeI'll be able to get away with it.        IV     Look, Gabe, the girl said, don't try to fool me! I know youtoo well. And I know you have that man's—the real GabrielLockard's—body. She put unnecessary stardust on her nose as shewatched her husband's reflection in the dressing table mirror.     Lockard—Lockard's body, at any rate—sat up and felt his unshavenchin. That what he tell you?     No, he didn't tell me anything really—just suggested I ask youwhatever I want to know. But why else should he guard somebody heobviously hates the way he hates you? Only because he doesn't want tosee his body spoiled.     It      is     a pretty good body, isn't it? Gabe flexed softening musclesand made no attempt to deny her charge; very probably he was relievedat having someone with whom to share his secret.     Not as good as it must have been, the girl said, turning and lookingat him without admiration. Not if you keep on the way you're coursing.Gabe, why don't you...?     Give it back to him, eh? Lockard regarded his wife appraisingly.You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd be      his     wife then. That would benice—a sound mind in a sound body. But don't you think that's a littlemore than you deserve?     I wasn't thinking about that, Gabe, she said truthfully enough, forshe hadn't followed the idea to its logical conclusion. Of course I'dgo with you, she went on, now knowing she lied, when you got your ...old body back.       Sure     , she thought,      I'd keep going with you to farjeen houses andthrill-mills.     Actually she had accompanied him to a thrill-mill onlyonce, and from then on, despite all his threats, she had refused to gowith him again. But that once had been enough; nothing could ever washthat experience from her mind or her body.     You wouldn't be able to get your old body back, though, would you?she went on. You don't know where it's gone, and neither, I suppose,does he?     I don't want to know! he spat. I wouldn't want it if I could getit back. Whoever it adhered to probably killed himself as soon as helooked in a mirror. He swung long legs over the side of his bed.Christ, anything would be better than that! You can't imagine what ahulk I had!     Oh, yes, I can, she said incautiously. You must have had a body tomatch your character. Pity you could only change one.  ","The stranger is actually the original Gabriel Lockard, and the man we know as Lockard now is the man who took this body a while ago. The new Lockard has some sense of who the stranger is, though he knows he will never recognize him because the stranger switches bodies frequently. The stranger is keeping an eye out on his original body, trying to protect it, with a bit of hope that he may one day get it back. They have a tenuous and superficial relationship, with the new Lockard being somewhat hesitant about the stranger's involvement in his life. The stranger makes it clear that it is not Lockard he is protecting, but just the body he is in. Through this story, the stranger keeps a man from throwing a glass in Lockard's face at a bar, pulls Lockard and his wife out of a helicar crash, and stops a robbery from happening. There is bitterness and exhaustion on both sides of this relationship, and at the beginning of the story the new Lockard tries to offer the stranger a drink so they can sort things out, but the stranger refuses and it seems he would only be appeased if he had his original body back. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     The Winning of the Moon     BY KRIS NEVILLE     The enemy was friendly enough.     Trouble was—their friendship     was as dangerous as their hate!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast wasscheduled for the following morning.     Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions withthe three other Americans.     Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donnedtheir space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sunrose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadowslay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision.     Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with BaseGagarin. Will you please request the general to keep us informed onthe progress of the countdown?     Is Pinov, came the reply. Help?           Nyet     , said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. Count down.Progress. When—boom?     Is Pinov, came the reply.     Boom! Boom! said Major Winship in exasperation.     Boom! said Pinov happily.     When?     Boom—boom! said Pinov.     Oh, nuts. Major Winship cut out the circuit. They've got Pinov onemergency watch this morning, he explained to the other Americans.The one that doesn't speak English.     He's done it deliberately, said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the fourAmericans. How are we going to know when it's over?     No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while theshadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems.     Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, This is a little ridiculous. I'm goingto switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me. He sat transfixedfor several minutes. Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can'ttell a thing that's going on.     In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. Amoth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:no more.     Static?     Nope.     We'll get static on these things.     A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly.     Major Winship shifted restlessly. My reefer's gone on the fritz.Perspiration was trickling down his face.     Let's all go in, said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. It'sprobably over by now.     I'll try again, Major Winship said and switched to the emergencychannel. Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin?     Is Pinov. Help?           Nyet.          Pinov's still there, Major Winship said.     Tell him, 'Help', said Capt. Wilkins, so he'll get somebody we cantalk to.     I'll see them all in hell, first, Major Winship said.     Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. Thisis it, he said. I'm going in.     Let's all—     No. I've got to cool off.     Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here, Capt. Lawler said.The shot probably went off an hour ago.     The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all.     Maybe, Lt. Chandler said, it's buried too deep.     Maybe so, Major Winship said. But we can't have the dome fall downaround all our ears. He stood. Whew! You guys stay put.  He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, andthe temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper momentof pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped intothe illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second stepwhen the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated besidethe radio equipment. The ground moved again.     Charlie! Charlie!     I'm okay, Major Winship answered. Okay! Okay!     It's—     There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased.     Hey, Les, how's it look? Capt. Wilkins asked.     Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay?     Okay, Major Winship said. We told them this might happen, he addedbitterly.     There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding theirbreath.     I guess it's over, said Major Winship, getting to his feet. Wait abit more, there may be an after-shock. He switched once again to theemergency channel.     Is Pinov, came the supremely relaxed voice. Help?     Major Winship whinnied in disgust.       Nyet!      he snarled. To the otherAmericans: Our comrades seem unconcerned.     Tough.     They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled andsnapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at eachother. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communicationscompletely. It then abated to something in excess of normal.     Well, Lt. Chandler commented, even though we didn't build this thingto withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right.     I guess I was just— Major Winship began. Oh, hell! We're losingpressure. Where's the markers?     By the lug cabinet.     Got 'em, Major Winship said a moment later.     He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it awayand plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed asthough it were breathing and then it ruptured.     Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply whichhad cut in automatically with the pressure drop. You guys wait. It'son your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it.     He moved for the plastic sheeting.     We've lost about three feet of calk out here, Capt. Lawler said. Ican see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate.     Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. How's that?     Not yet.     I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It'ssprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads.     There was a splatter of static.     Damn! Major Winship said, they should have made these things moreflexible.     Still coming out.     Best I can do. Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowlyto slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on thefloor.     Come on in, he said dryly.  With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of thefive hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cablestrailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The livingspace was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks juttingout from the walls about six feet from the floor.     Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. Well,he said wryly, it doesn't smell as bad now.     Oops, said Major Winship. Just a second. They're coming in. Heswitched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov.     Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay?     This is Major Winship.     Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major?     Little leak. You?     Came through without damage. General Finogenov paused a moment. Whenno comment was forthcoming, he continued: Perhaps we built a bit morestrongly, Major.     You did this deliberately, Major Winship said testily.     No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I verymuch regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. Afterrepeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then tohave something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.Is there anything at all we can do?     Just leave us alone, thank you, Major Winship said and cut off thecommunication.     What'd they say? Capt. Wilkins asked.     Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this.     That's nice, Lt. Chandler said.     I'll be damned surprised, Major Winship said, if they got anyseismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's getthis leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound?     Larry, where's the inventory?     Les has got it.     Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted.     Larry, Major Winship said, why don't you get Earth?     Okay.     Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended.     Got the inventory sheet, Les?     Right here.     Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins hadenergized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leanedhis helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. We can'thear anything without any air.     Major Winship looked at the microphone. Well, I'll just report and—He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. Yes, he said.That's right, isn't it.     Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. Some days you don't mine atall, he said.     Les, have you found it?     It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here.     Well,      find     it.     Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. I saw it—     Skip, help look.     Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. Wehaven't got all day.     A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. Here itis! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff.     Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up.     Marker showed it over here, Major Winship said, inching over to thewall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger.     How does this stuff work? Capt. Lawler asked.     They huddled over the instruction sheet.     Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzleruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour beforeservice.     Major Winship said dryly, Never mind. I notice it hardens on contactwith air.     Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, Nowthat makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it?     How do they possibly think—?     Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference, Lt. Chandler said. Someair must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. Agorilla couldn't extrude it.     How're the other ones? asked Major Winship.     Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. Oh, they're allhard, too.     Who was supposed to check? demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation.     The only way you can check is to extrude it, Lt. Chandler said, andif it does extrude, you've ruined it.     That's that, Major Winship said. There's nothing for it but to yellhelp.      II     Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. TheSoviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom ofa natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to thetip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angledleft and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way tripof approximately thirty exhausting minutes.     Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.Wilkins stayed for company.     I want a cigarette in the worst way, Capt. Wilkins said.     So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unlesssomething else goes wrong.     As long as they'll loan us the calking compound, Capt. Wilkins said.     Yeah, yeah, Major Winship said.     Let's eat.     You got any concentrate? I'm empty.     I'll load you, Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily.     It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkinscursed twice during the operation. I'd hate to live in this thing forany period.     I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians, MajorWinship said. I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky piecesof junk around.     They ate.     Really horrible stuff.     Nutritious.     After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, Now I'd like a cup ofhot tea. I'm cooled off.     Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. What brought this on?     I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've gotbetter than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better thantwelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there'sonly seven of them right now. That's living.     They've been here six years longer, after all.     Finogenov had a      clay     samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His ownoffice is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. Anda wooden desk. A      wooden     desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everythingbig and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less—     They've got the power-plants for it.     Do you think he did that deliberately? Major Winship asked. I thinkhe's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin'sbuilt to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don'tsuppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure gotthe jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me?     You told me, Capt. Wilkins said.  After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, To hell with the Russianengineer.     If you've got all that power....     That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.Like a little kid.     Maybe they don't make aluminum desks.     They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet isaluminum. You know they're just showing off.     Let me wire you up, Capt. Wilkins said. We ought to report.     That's going to take awhile.     It's something to do while we wait.     I guess we ought to. Major Winship came down from the bunk andsat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed theequipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. Heunearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exteriorplate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.Okay?     Okay, Major Winship gestured.     They roused Earth.     This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, theAmerican moonbase.     At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he wasnow on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change hisair bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. Hereached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet.     This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship.     Just a moment.     Is everything all right?     Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed.     A-Okay, he said. Just a moment.     What's wrong? came the worried question. In the background, he heardsomeone say, I think there's something wrong.     Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in asavage grimace.     Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to facethrough their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrouslylarge to the other.     Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. Onearm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winshipcould no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effortwas not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry ininvoluntary realism.     This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth.     Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word Leak?     Air, Major Winship said silently.     Leak?     Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive.  Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack.     Oh.     Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged thespeaker in again.     ... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in!     We're here, Major Winship said.     All right? Are you all right?     We're all right. A-Okay. Major Winship, mindful of the extent of hispotential audience, took a deep breath. Earlier this morning, theSoviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the      ostensible     purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means ofseismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spiteof American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulatedstresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face ofvigorous American protests.     Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restrainingcables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle.     These protests have proved well founded, Major Winship continued.Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on towithstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. Nopersonnel were injured and there was no equipment damage.     Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle wasbeing inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winshipflicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation.     However, he continued, we did experience a minor leak in the dome,which is presently being repaired.     The Soviet Union, came the reply, has reported the disturbance andhas tendered their official apology. You want it?     It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum hasdestroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately threeweeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, sothat, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain thenecessary replacement.     The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gavethe conversation a tone of deliberation.     A new voice came on. We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We willbe able to deliver replacements in about ten days.     I will forward a coded report on the occurrence, Major Winship said.     Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leakrepaired?     The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out.     He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back.     Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from thetransmitter.     Wow! said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. Fora moment there, I thought....     What? Capt. Wilkins asked with interest.     I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenovto get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for aminute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in theworld listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see thenickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,that was rough.      III     Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. Itoccupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. Itwas a fifty-five gallon drum.     The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. What is      that     ? asked MajorWinship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight.     That, said Capt. Lawler, is the calking compound.     You're kidding, said Capt. Wilkins.     I am not kidding.     Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk.     Why didn't you just borrow a cupful? Major Winship said sarcastically.     It's this way, Lt. Chandler said. They didn't have anything but55-gallon drums of it.     Oh, my, said Capt. Wilkins. I suppose it's a steel drum. Thosethings must weigh....     Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong, Capt. Lawlersaid. He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quiteupset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad.     He's too damned suspicious, Major Winship said. You know and I knowwhy they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at melike an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in tryingto prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will bepublished in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet!     About this drum, Capt. Wilkins said.     Well, like I said, it's this way, Lt. Chandler resumed. I told himwe needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mixup. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have tocombine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a littlescale—     A little scale? asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome.     That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale.     Yeah, said Captain Lawler, and he looked at us with that mute,surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of littlescales.     Well, anyway, Lt. Chandler continued, he told us just to mix up thewhole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff thatgoes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don'tneed.     Somehow, that sounds like him, Major Winship said.     He had five or six of them.     Jesus! said Capt. Wilkins. That must be      three thousand pounds     ofcalking compound. Those people are insane.     The question is, Capt. Lawler said, 'How are we going to mix it?'It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly.     They thought over the problem for a while.     That will be a man-sized job, Major Winship said.     Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad, said Capt. Wilkins. If I tookthe compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... ifwe could....  It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer.     Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated.     Now, Major Winship said, we can either bring the drum inside or takethe mixer out there.     We're going to have to bring the drum in, Capt. Wilkins said.     Well, said Capt. Lawler, that will make it nice and cozy.     It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back andforth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table wasinterposing itself.     Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. Damn these suits, he said.     You've got it stuck between the bunk post.     I      know     that.     I don't think this is the way to do it, Major Winship said. Let'sback the drum out.     Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid ofCapt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it overto Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkinscarried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. Itrested uneasily on the uneven surface.     Now, let's go, said Major Winship.     Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum betweenthe main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.It's not the weight, it's the mass, said Capt. Wilkins brightly.     The hell it isn't the weight, said Lt. Chandler. That's heavy.     With my reefer out, said Major Winship, I'm the one it's rough on.He shook perspiration out of his eyes. They should figure a way to geta mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you'veforgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes.     It's the salt.     Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets, Major Winship said.I've never sweat so much since basic.     Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them?     No! Major Winship snapped.  With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixingattachment. I feel crowded, he said.     Cozy's the word.     Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that!     Sorry.     At length the mixer was in operation in the drum.     Works perfectly, said Capt. Wilkins proudly.     Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English.     You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the areathoroughly around the leak.     With what? asked Major Winship.     Sandpaper, I guess.     With sandpaper? Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid intothe drum. We don't have any sandpaper.     It's been a long day, Capt. Wilkins said.     Mix it thoroughly, Lt. Chandler mused. I guess that means let it mixfor about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service injust a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe.     I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air.     No, Capt. Lawler said. It sets by some kind of chemical action.General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind ofplastic.     Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak, MajorWinship said.     Say, I— interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concernin his voice. This is a hell of a time for this to occur tome. I just wasn't thinking, before.      You don't suppose it's aroom-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you?          Larry, said Major Winship, I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curingepoxy resin from—     Hey! exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. The mixer's stopped. He bent forwardand touched the drum. He jerked back. Ye Gods! that's hot! And it'sharder than a rock! It      is     an epoxy! Let's get out of here.     Huh?     Out! Out!     Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense ofurgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red.     Let's go! Capt. Wilkins said.     He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and becametemporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainlyin the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with thenecessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into themfrom behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of armsand legs.     At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.The table remained untouched.     When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, Get to one side, it may go offlike shrapnel. They obeyed.     What—what—what? Capt. Lawler stuttered.     They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on theother.     I'm going to try to look, Capt. Wilkins said. Let me go. Helumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteenfeet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind thetable, on a line of sight with the airlock.     I can see it, he said. It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's fallingover to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is gettingred, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh.     What? said Capt. Lawler.     Watch out! There.      There!      Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incrediblybright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flamelashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. Thetable was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly.       There went the air, Capt. Lawler commented.     We got T-Trouble, said Lt. Chandler.   ","On the surface of the moon, the American base (Freedom 19) is headed by Major Winship, with his three men, Captain Wilkins, Captain Lawler, and Lieutenant Chandler. The Soviets of Base Garagin are conducting a seismic test to learn more about the depths of the moon. The Americans protested it, as their base is not as strongly built, but the Russians went ahead anyway. With a language barrier and poor communication, the Americans don’t know when they are going to perform the test, so they stand outside in their suits waiting. After a few hours, a moonquake occurs, rippling through the surface. The quake caused a leak in their base, which Winship tries and fails to fix with a marker and a plastic sheet. He complains that the Russians did this on purpose, to try and force them off the moon, but they have three weeks of emergency air. They can try and fix it. They are unable to use the transmission since there is no air in the base. Winship orders his men to find the caulking solution, but it has hardened and dried out. He orders Lawler and Chandler to make the 60-minute-round-trip journey to Base Garagin to ask for help. Though Soviet General Finogenov denies it, Winship still wonders if this was intentional. Wilkins and Winship share a meal of gross nutrition tablets. Wilkins, the resident tech, hooks Winship up to the radio within his suit, so he can speak into the radio. With all the complicated wiring, Winship’s air supply is cut off, and he motions to Wilkins to fix it. Earth is on the line, but he tries to not make his problem known. After Wilkins fixes it, Winship informs them of their difficulties and is told that a replacement could arrive in 10 days and that the Russians formally apologized. Chandler and Lawler arrive with a 55-gallon barrel of caulking agent, along with another compound that must be mixed in. Displeased by the Russian’s excessiveness, the team figures out a way to successfully mix it. Wilkins creates an electric mixer, while the rest move the barrel inside the dome with great difficulty. They mix the barrel and quickly realize that it is a chemical epoxy, one that reacts to temperature. The heat of the mixer and the dome causes the epoxy to heat up drastically. The men escape to the airlock and watch as the barrel explodes, the fire it causes using up all their remaining oxygen. "
"Describe the relationship between the Soviets and the Americans. </s>     The Winning of the Moon     BY KRIS NEVILLE     The enemy was friendly enough.     Trouble was—their friendship     was as dangerous as their hate!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast wasscheduled for the following morning.     Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions withthe three other Americans.     Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donnedtheir space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sunrose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadowslay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision.     Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with BaseGagarin. Will you please request the general to keep us informed onthe progress of the countdown?     Is Pinov, came the reply. Help?           Nyet     , said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. Count down.Progress. When—boom?     Is Pinov, came the reply.     Boom! Boom! said Major Winship in exasperation.     Boom! said Pinov happily.     When?     Boom—boom! said Pinov.     Oh, nuts. Major Winship cut out the circuit. They've got Pinov onemergency watch this morning, he explained to the other Americans.The one that doesn't speak English.     He's done it deliberately, said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the fourAmericans. How are we going to know when it's over?     No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while theshadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems.     Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, This is a little ridiculous. I'm goingto switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me. He sat transfixedfor several minutes. Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can'ttell a thing that's going on.     In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. Amoth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:no more.     Static?     Nope.     We'll get static on these things.     A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly.     Major Winship shifted restlessly. My reefer's gone on the fritz.Perspiration was trickling down his face.     Let's all go in, said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. It'sprobably over by now.     I'll try again, Major Winship said and switched to the emergencychannel. Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin?     Is Pinov. Help?           Nyet.          Pinov's still there, Major Winship said.     Tell him, 'Help', said Capt. Wilkins, so he'll get somebody we cantalk to.     I'll see them all in hell, first, Major Winship said.     Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. Thisis it, he said. I'm going in.     Let's all—     No. I've got to cool off.     Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here, Capt. Lawler said.The shot probably went off an hour ago.     The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all.     Maybe, Lt. Chandler said, it's buried too deep.     Maybe so, Major Winship said. But we can't have the dome fall downaround all our ears. He stood. Whew! You guys stay put.  He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, andthe temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper momentof pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped intothe illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second stepwhen the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated besidethe radio equipment. The ground moved again.     Charlie! Charlie!     I'm okay, Major Winship answered. Okay! Okay!     It's—     There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased.     Hey, Les, how's it look? Capt. Wilkins asked.     Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay?     Okay, Major Winship said. We told them this might happen, he addedbitterly.     There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding theirbreath.     I guess it's over, said Major Winship, getting to his feet. Wait abit more, there may be an after-shock. He switched once again to theemergency channel.     Is Pinov, came the supremely relaxed voice. Help?     Major Winship whinnied in disgust.       Nyet!      he snarled. To the otherAmericans: Our comrades seem unconcerned.     Tough.     They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled andsnapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at eachother. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communicationscompletely. It then abated to something in excess of normal.     Well, Lt. Chandler commented, even though we didn't build this thingto withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right.     I guess I was just— Major Winship began. Oh, hell! We're losingpressure. Where's the markers?     By the lug cabinet.     Got 'em, Major Winship said a moment later.     He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it awayand plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed asthough it were breathing and then it ruptured.     Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply whichhad cut in automatically with the pressure drop. You guys wait. It'son your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it.     He moved for the plastic sheeting.     We've lost about three feet of calk out here, Capt. Lawler said. Ican see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate.     Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. How's that?     Not yet.     I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It'ssprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads.     There was a splatter of static.     Damn! Major Winship said, they should have made these things moreflexible.     Still coming out.     Best I can do. Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowlyto slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on thefloor.     Come on in, he said dryly.  With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of thefive hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cablestrailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The livingspace was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks juttingout from the walls about six feet from the floor.     Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. Well,he said wryly, it doesn't smell as bad now.     Oops, said Major Winship. Just a second. They're coming in. Heswitched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov.     Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay?     This is Major Winship.     Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major?     Little leak. You?     Came through without damage. General Finogenov paused a moment. Whenno comment was forthcoming, he continued: Perhaps we built a bit morestrongly, Major.     You did this deliberately, Major Winship said testily.     No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I verymuch regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. Afterrepeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then tohave something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.Is there anything at all we can do?     Just leave us alone, thank you, Major Winship said and cut off thecommunication.     What'd they say? Capt. Wilkins asked.     Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this.     That's nice, Lt. Chandler said.     I'll be damned surprised, Major Winship said, if they got anyseismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's getthis leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound?     Larry, where's the inventory?     Les has got it.     Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted.     Larry, Major Winship said, why don't you get Earth?     Okay.     Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended.     Got the inventory sheet, Les?     Right here.     Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins hadenergized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leanedhis helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. We can'thear anything without any air.     Major Winship looked at the microphone. Well, I'll just report and—He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. Yes, he said.That's right, isn't it.     Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. Some days you don't mine atall, he said.     Les, have you found it?     It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here.     Well,      find     it.     Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. I saw it—     Skip, help look.     Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. Wehaven't got all day.     A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. Here itis! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff.     Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up.     Marker showed it over here, Major Winship said, inching over to thewall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger.     How does this stuff work? Capt. Lawler asked.     They huddled over the instruction sheet.     Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzleruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour beforeservice.     Major Winship said dryly, Never mind. I notice it hardens on contactwith air.     Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, Nowthat makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it?     How do they possibly think—?     Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference, Lt. Chandler said. Someair must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. Agorilla couldn't extrude it.     How're the other ones? asked Major Winship.     Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. Oh, they're allhard, too.     Who was supposed to check? demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation.     The only way you can check is to extrude it, Lt. Chandler said, andif it does extrude, you've ruined it.     That's that, Major Winship said. There's nothing for it but to yellhelp.      II     Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. TheSoviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom ofa natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to thetip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angledleft and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way tripof approximately thirty exhausting minutes.     Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.Wilkins stayed for company.     I want a cigarette in the worst way, Capt. Wilkins said.     So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unlesssomething else goes wrong.     As long as they'll loan us the calking compound, Capt. Wilkins said.     Yeah, yeah, Major Winship said.     Let's eat.     You got any concentrate? I'm empty.     I'll load you, Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily.     It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkinscursed twice during the operation. I'd hate to live in this thing forany period.     I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians, MajorWinship said. I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky piecesof junk around.     They ate.     Really horrible stuff.     Nutritious.     After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, Now I'd like a cup ofhot tea. I'm cooled off.     Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. What brought this on?     I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've gotbetter than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better thantwelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there'sonly seven of them right now. That's living.     They've been here six years longer, after all.     Finogenov had a      clay     samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His ownoffice is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. Anda wooden desk. A      wooden     desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everythingbig and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less—     They've got the power-plants for it.     Do you think he did that deliberately? Major Winship asked. I thinkhe's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin'sbuilt to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don'tsuppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure gotthe jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me?     You told me, Capt. Wilkins said.  After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, To hell with the Russianengineer.     If you've got all that power....     That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.Like a little kid.     Maybe they don't make aluminum desks.     They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet isaluminum. You know they're just showing off.     Let me wire you up, Capt. Wilkins said. We ought to report.     That's going to take awhile.     It's something to do while we wait.     I guess we ought to. Major Winship came down from the bunk andsat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed theequipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. Heunearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exteriorplate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.Okay?     Okay, Major Winship gestured.     They roused Earth.     This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, theAmerican moonbase.     At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he wasnow on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change hisair bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. Hereached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet.     This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship.     Just a moment.     Is everything all right?     Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed.     A-Okay, he said. Just a moment.     What's wrong? came the worried question. In the background, he heardsomeone say, I think there's something wrong.     Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in asavage grimace.     Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to facethrough their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrouslylarge to the other.     Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. Onearm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winshipcould no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effortwas not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry ininvoluntary realism.     This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth.     Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word Leak?     Air, Major Winship said silently.     Leak?     Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive.  Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack.     Oh.     Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged thespeaker in again.     ... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in!     We're here, Major Winship said.     All right? Are you all right?     We're all right. A-Okay. Major Winship, mindful of the extent of hispotential audience, took a deep breath. Earlier this morning, theSoviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the      ostensible     purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means ofseismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spiteof American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulatedstresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face ofvigorous American protests.     Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restrainingcables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle.     These protests have proved well founded, Major Winship continued.Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on towithstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. Nopersonnel were injured and there was no equipment damage.     Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle wasbeing inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winshipflicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation.     However, he continued, we did experience a minor leak in the dome,which is presently being repaired.     The Soviet Union, came the reply, has reported the disturbance andhas tendered their official apology. You want it?     It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum hasdestroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately threeweeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, sothat, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain thenecessary replacement.     The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gavethe conversation a tone of deliberation.     A new voice came on. We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We willbe able to deliver replacements in about ten days.     I will forward a coded report on the occurrence, Major Winship said.     Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leakrepaired?     The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out.     He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back.     Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from thetransmitter.     Wow! said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. Fora moment there, I thought....     What? Capt. Wilkins asked with interest.     I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenovto get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for aminute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in theworld listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see thenickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,that was rough.      III     Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. Itoccupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. Itwas a fifty-five gallon drum.     The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. What is      that     ? asked MajorWinship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight.     That, said Capt. Lawler, is the calking compound.     You're kidding, said Capt. Wilkins.     I am not kidding.     Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk.     Why didn't you just borrow a cupful? Major Winship said sarcastically.     It's this way, Lt. Chandler said. They didn't have anything but55-gallon drums of it.     Oh, my, said Capt. Wilkins. I suppose it's a steel drum. Thosethings must weigh....     Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong, Capt. Lawlersaid. He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quiteupset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad.     He's too damned suspicious, Major Winship said. You know and I knowwhy they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at melike an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in tryingto prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will bepublished in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet!     About this drum, Capt. Wilkins said.     Well, like I said, it's this way, Lt. Chandler resumed. I told himwe needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mixup. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have tocombine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a littlescale—     A little scale? asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome.     That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale.     Yeah, said Captain Lawler, and he looked at us with that mute,surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of littlescales.     Well, anyway, Lt. Chandler continued, he told us just to mix up thewhole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff thatgoes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don'tneed.     Somehow, that sounds like him, Major Winship said.     He had five or six of them.     Jesus! said Capt. Wilkins. That must be      three thousand pounds     ofcalking compound. Those people are insane.     The question is, Capt. Lawler said, 'How are we going to mix it?'It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly.     They thought over the problem for a while.     That will be a man-sized job, Major Winship said.     Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad, said Capt. Wilkins. If I tookthe compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... ifwe could....  It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer.     Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated.     Now, Major Winship said, we can either bring the drum inside or takethe mixer out there.     We're going to have to bring the drum in, Capt. Wilkins said.     Well, said Capt. Lawler, that will make it nice and cozy.     It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back andforth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table wasinterposing itself.     Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. Damn these suits, he said.     You've got it stuck between the bunk post.     I      know     that.     I don't think this is the way to do it, Major Winship said. Let'sback the drum out.     Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid ofCapt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it overto Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkinscarried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. Itrested uneasily on the uneven surface.     Now, let's go, said Major Winship.     Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum betweenthe main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.It's not the weight, it's the mass, said Capt. Wilkins brightly.     The hell it isn't the weight, said Lt. Chandler. That's heavy.     With my reefer out, said Major Winship, I'm the one it's rough on.He shook perspiration out of his eyes. They should figure a way to geta mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you'veforgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes.     It's the salt.     Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets, Major Winship said.I've never sweat so much since basic.     Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them?     No! Major Winship snapped.  With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixingattachment. I feel crowded, he said.     Cozy's the word.     Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that!     Sorry.     At length the mixer was in operation in the drum.     Works perfectly, said Capt. Wilkins proudly.     Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English.     You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the areathoroughly around the leak.     With what? asked Major Winship.     Sandpaper, I guess.     With sandpaper? Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid intothe drum. We don't have any sandpaper.     It's been a long day, Capt. Wilkins said.     Mix it thoroughly, Lt. Chandler mused. I guess that means let it mixfor about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service injust a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe.     I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air.     No, Capt. Lawler said. It sets by some kind of chemical action.General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind ofplastic.     Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak, MajorWinship said.     Say, I— interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concernin his voice. This is a hell of a time for this to occur tome. I just wasn't thinking, before.      You don't suppose it's aroom-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you?          Larry, said Major Winship, I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curingepoxy resin from—     Hey! exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. The mixer's stopped. He bent forwardand touched the drum. He jerked back. Ye Gods! that's hot! And it'sharder than a rock! It      is     an epoxy! Let's get out of here.     Huh?     Out! Out!     Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense ofurgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red.     Let's go! Capt. Wilkins said.     He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and becametemporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainlyin the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with thenecessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into themfrom behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of armsand legs.     At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.The table remained untouched.     When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, Get to one side, it may go offlike shrapnel. They obeyed.     What—what—what? Capt. Lawler stuttered.     They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on theother.     I'm going to try to look, Capt. Wilkins said. Let me go. Helumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteenfeet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind thetable, on a line of sight with the airlock.     I can see it, he said. It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's fallingover to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is gettingred, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh.     What? said Capt. Lawler.     Watch out! There.      There!      Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incrediblybright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flamelashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. Thetable was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly.       There went the air, Capt. Lawler commented.     We got T-Trouble, said Lt. Chandler.   ","As can be seen from the beginning, Base Gagarin and the small group of Americans have a slightly contentious relationship. Even the title of the story, The Winning of the Moon, emphasizes the undercurrent of war and competition that informs the way they interact with each other. The story begins with potentially purposeful miscommunication between the Russians and the Americans. The Soviet base is running an underground seismic wave test, the likes of which could release after-shocks and tremors. Such a quake could damage the American dome, meager in comparison with Base Gagarin. The Soviets put Pinov on the line, who only speaks Russian. Without the ability to communicate, the Americans were stuck outside on the moon for hours, waiting to see if the seismic eruption could be seen or felt. Feeling like idiots, one goes inside, just as an aftershock causes a leak in their dome. They instantly blame the Russians, especially since the Americans protested such a test. This series of unfortunate events continues as the Americans quickly realize that their supplies are not able to fix the leak. They must ask the Russians for help, even after complaining to their home base about their actions. Base Gagarin is huge compared to the American dome. General Finogenov even has a wooden desk in his office, along with other earthly amenities that the Americans have been deprived of. The Russians have been on the moon for six years longer than the Americans, which could explain their extensive supplies. They give the Americans a 55-gallon mixture to fix the leak, however, the language barrier prevents them from realizing what kind of epoxy it is. This miscommunication leads to the barrel exploding and further destroying the American dome. It’s fair to say that it’s not smooth sailing on the moon. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     The Winning of the Moon     BY KRIS NEVILLE     The enemy was friendly enough.     Trouble was—their friendship     was as dangerous as their hate!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast wasscheduled for the following morning.     Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions withthe three other Americans.     Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donnedtheir space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sunrose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadowslay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision.     Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with BaseGagarin. Will you please request the general to keep us informed onthe progress of the countdown?     Is Pinov, came the reply. Help?           Nyet     , said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. Count down.Progress. When—boom?     Is Pinov, came the reply.     Boom! Boom! said Major Winship in exasperation.     Boom! said Pinov happily.     When?     Boom—boom! said Pinov.     Oh, nuts. Major Winship cut out the circuit. They've got Pinov onemergency watch this morning, he explained to the other Americans.The one that doesn't speak English.     He's done it deliberately, said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the fourAmericans. How are we going to know when it's over?     No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while theshadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems.     Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, This is a little ridiculous. I'm goingto switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me. He sat transfixedfor several minutes. Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can'ttell a thing that's going on.     In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. Amoth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:no more.     Static?     Nope.     We'll get static on these things.     A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly.     Major Winship shifted restlessly. My reefer's gone on the fritz.Perspiration was trickling down his face.     Let's all go in, said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. It'sprobably over by now.     I'll try again, Major Winship said and switched to the emergencychannel. Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin?     Is Pinov. Help?           Nyet.          Pinov's still there, Major Winship said.     Tell him, 'Help', said Capt. Wilkins, so he'll get somebody we cantalk to.     I'll see them all in hell, first, Major Winship said.     Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. Thisis it, he said. I'm going in.     Let's all—     No. I've got to cool off.     Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here, Capt. Lawler said.The shot probably went off an hour ago.     The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all.     Maybe, Lt. Chandler said, it's buried too deep.     Maybe so, Major Winship said. But we can't have the dome fall downaround all our ears. He stood. Whew! You guys stay put.  He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, andthe temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper momentof pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped intothe illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second stepwhen the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated besidethe radio equipment. The ground moved again.     Charlie! Charlie!     I'm okay, Major Winship answered. Okay! Okay!     It's—     There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased.     Hey, Les, how's it look? Capt. Wilkins asked.     Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay?     Okay, Major Winship said. We told them this might happen, he addedbitterly.     There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding theirbreath.     I guess it's over, said Major Winship, getting to his feet. Wait abit more, there may be an after-shock. He switched once again to theemergency channel.     Is Pinov, came the supremely relaxed voice. Help?     Major Winship whinnied in disgust.       Nyet!      he snarled. To the otherAmericans: Our comrades seem unconcerned.     Tough.     They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled andsnapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at eachother. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communicationscompletely. It then abated to something in excess of normal.     Well, Lt. Chandler commented, even though we didn't build this thingto withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right.     I guess I was just— Major Winship began. Oh, hell! We're losingpressure. Where's the markers?     By the lug cabinet.     Got 'em, Major Winship said a moment later.     He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it awayand plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed asthough it were breathing and then it ruptured.     Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply whichhad cut in automatically with the pressure drop. You guys wait. It'son your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it.     He moved for the plastic sheeting.     We've lost about three feet of calk out here, Capt. Lawler said. Ican see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate.     Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. How's that?     Not yet.     I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It'ssprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads.     There was a splatter of static.     Damn! Major Winship said, they should have made these things moreflexible.     Still coming out.     Best I can do. Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowlyto slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on thefloor.     Come on in, he said dryly.  With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of thefive hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cablestrailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The livingspace was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks juttingout from the walls about six feet from the floor.     Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. Well,he said wryly, it doesn't smell as bad now.     Oops, said Major Winship. Just a second. They're coming in. Heswitched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov.     Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay?     This is Major Winship.     Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major?     Little leak. You?     Came through without damage. General Finogenov paused a moment. Whenno comment was forthcoming, he continued: Perhaps we built a bit morestrongly, Major.     You did this deliberately, Major Winship said testily.     No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I verymuch regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. Afterrepeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then tohave something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.Is there anything at all we can do?     Just leave us alone, thank you, Major Winship said and cut off thecommunication.     What'd they say? Capt. Wilkins asked.     Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this.     That's nice, Lt. Chandler said.     I'll be damned surprised, Major Winship said, if they got anyseismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's getthis leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound?     Larry, where's the inventory?     Les has got it.     Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted.     Larry, Major Winship said, why don't you get Earth?     Okay.     Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended.     Got the inventory sheet, Les?     Right here.     Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins hadenergized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leanedhis helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. We can'thear anything without any air.     Major Winship looked at the microphone. Well, I'll just report and—He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. Yes, he said.That's right, isn't it.     Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. Some days you don't mine atall, he said.     Les, have you found it?     It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here.     Well,      find     it.     Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. I saw it—     Skip, help look.     Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. Wehaven't got all day.     A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. Here itis! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff.     Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up.     Marker showed it over here, Major Winship said, inching over to thewall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger.     How does this stuff work? Capt. Lawler asked.     They huddled over the instruction sheet.     Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzleruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour beforeservice.     Major Winship said dryly, Never mind. I notice it hardens on contactwith air.     Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, Nowthat makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it?     How do they possibly think—?     Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference, Lt. Chandler said. Someair must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. Agorilla couldn't extrude it.     How're the other ones? asked Major Winship.     Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. Oh, they're allhard, too.     Who was supposed to check? demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation.     The only way you can check is to extrude it, Lt. Chandler said, andif it does extrude, you've ruined it.     That's that, Major Winship said. There's nothing for it but to yellhelp.      II     Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. TheSoviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom ofa natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to thetip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angledleft and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way tripof approximately thirty exhausting minutes.     Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.Wilkins stayed for company.     I want a cigarette in the worst way, Capt. Wilkins said.     So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unlesssomething else goes wrong.     As long as they'll loan us the calking compound, Capt. Wilkins said.     Yeah, yeah, Major Winship said.     Let's eat.     You got any concentrate? I'm empty.     I'll load you, Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily.     It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkinscursed twice during the operation. I'd hate to live in this thing forany period.     I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians, MajorWinship said. I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky piecesof junk around.     They ate.     Really horrible stuff.     Nutritious.     After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, Now I'd like a cup ofhot tea. I'm cooled off.     Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. What brought this on?     I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've gotbetter than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better thantwelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there'sonly seven of them right now. That's living.     They've been here six years longer, after all.     Finogenov had a      clay     samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His ownoffice is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. Anda wooden desk. A      wooden     desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everythingbig and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less—     They've got the power-plants for it.     Do you think he did that deliberately? Major Winship asked. I thinkhe's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin'sbuilt to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don'tsuppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure gotthe jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me?     You told me, Capt. Wilkins said.  After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, To hell with the Russianengineer.     If you've got all that power....     That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.Like a little kid.     Maybe they don't make aluminum desks.     They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet isaluminum. You know they're just showing off.     Let me wire you up, Capt. Wilkins said. We ought to report.     That's going to take awhile.     It's something to do while we wait.     I guess we ought to. Major Winship came down from the bunk andsat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed theequipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. Heunearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exteriorplate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.Okay?     Okay, Major Winship gestured.     They roused Earth.     This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, theAmerican moonbase.     At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he wasnow on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change hisair bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. Hereached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet.     This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship.     Just a moment.     Is everything all right?     Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed.     A-Okay, he said. Just a moment.     What's wrong? came the worried question. In the background, he heardsomeone say, I think there's something wrong.     Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in asavage grimace.     Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to facethrough their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrouslylarge to the other.     Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. Onearm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winshipcould no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effortwas not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry ininvoluntary realism.     This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth.     Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word Leak?     Air, Major Winship said silently.     Leak?     Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive.  Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack.     Oh.     Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged thespeaker in again.     ... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in!     We're here, Major Winship said.     All right? Are you all right?     We're all right. A-Okay. Major Winship, mindful of the extent of hispotential audience, took a deep breath. Earlier this morning, theSoviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the      ostensible     purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means ofseismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spiteof American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulatedstresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face ofvigorous American protests.     Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restrainingcables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle.     These protests have proved well founded, Major Winship continued.Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on towithstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. Nopersonnel were injured and there was no equipment damage.     Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle wasbeing inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winshipflicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation.     However, he continued, we did experience a minor leak in the dome,which is presently being repaired.     The Soviet Union, came the reply, has reported the disturbance andhas tendered their official apology. You want it?     It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum hasdestroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately threeweeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, sothat, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain thenecessary replacement.     The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gavethe conversation a tone of deliberation.     A new voice came on. We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We willbe able to deliver replacements in about ten days.     I will forward a coded report on the occurrence, Major Winship said.     Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leakrepaired?     The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out.     He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back.     Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from thetransmitter.     Wow! said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. Fora moment there, I thought....     What? Capt. Wilkins asked with interest.     I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenovto get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for aminute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in theworld listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see thenickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,that was rough.      III     Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. Itoccupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. Itwas a fifty-five gallon drum.     The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. What is      that     ? asked MajorWinship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight.     That, said Capt. Lawler, is the calking compound.     You're kidding, said Capt. Wilkins.     I am not kidding.     Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk.     Why didn't you just borrow a cupful? Major Winship said sarcastically.     It's this way, Lt. Chandler said. They didn't have anything but55-gallon drums of it.     Oh, my, said Capt. Wilkins. I suppose it's a steel drum. Thosethings must weigh....     Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong, Capt. Lawlersaid. He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quiteupset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad.     He's too damned suspicious, Major Winship said. You know and I knowwhy they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at melike an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in tryingto prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will bepublished in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet!     About this drum, Capt. Wilkins said.     Well, like I said, it's this way, Lt. Chandler resumed. I told himwe needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mixup. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have tocombine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a littlescale—     A little scale? asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome.     That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale.     Yeah, said Captain Lawler, and he looked at us with that mute,surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of littlescales.     Well, anyway, Lt. Chandler continued, he told us just to mix up thewhole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff thatgoes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don'tneed.     Somehow, that sounds like him, Major Winship said.     He had five or six of them.     Jesus! said Capt. Wilkins. That must be      three thousand pounds     ofcalking compound. Those people are insane.     The question is, Capt. Lawler said, 'How are we going to mix it?'It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly.     They thought over the problem for a while.     That will be a man-sized job, Major Winship said.     Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad, said Capt. Wilkins. If I tookthe compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... ifwe could....  It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer.     Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated.     Now, Major Winship said, we can either bring the drum inside or takethe mixer out there.     We're going to have to bring the drum in, Capt. Wilkins said.     Well, said Capt. Lawler, that will make it nice and cozy.     It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back andforth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table wasinterposing itself.     Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. Damn these suits, he said.     You've got it stuck between the bunk post.     I      know     that.     I don't think this is the way to do it, Major Winship said. Let'sback the drum out.     Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid ofCapt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it overto Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkinscarried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. Itrested uneasily on the uneven surface.     Now, let's go, said Major Winship.     Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum betweenthe main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.It's not the weight, it's the mass, said Capt. Wilkins brightly.     The hell it isn't the weight, said Lt. Chandler. That's heavy.     With my reefer out, said Major Winship, I'm the one it's rough on.He shook perspiration out of his eyes. They should figure a way to geta mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you'veforgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes.     It's the salt.     Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets, Major Winship said.I've never sweat so much since basic.     Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them?     No! Major Winship snapped.  With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixingattachment. I feel crowded, he said.     Cozy's the word.     Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that!     Sorry.     At length the mixer was in operation in the drum.     Works perfectly, said Capt. Wilkins proudly.     Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English.     You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the areathoroughly around the leak.     With what? asked Major Winship.     Sandpaper, I guess.     With sandpaper? Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid intothe drum. We don't have any sandpaper.     It's been a long day, Capt. Wilkins said.     Mix it thoroughly, Lt. Chandler mused. I guess that means let it mixfor about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service injust a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe.     I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air.     No, Capt. Lawler said. It sets by some kind of chemical action.General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind ofplastic.     Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak, MajorWinship said.     Say, I— interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concernin his voice. This is a hell of a time for this to occur tome. I just wasn't thinking, before.      You don't suppose it's aroom-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you?          Larry, said Major Winship, I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curingepoxy resin from—     Hey! exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. The mixer's stopped. He bent forwardand touched the drum. He jerked back. Ye Gods! that's hot! And it'sharder than a rock! It      is     an epoxy! Let's get out of here.     Huh?     Out! Out!     Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense ofurgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red.     Let's go! Capt. Wilkins said.     He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and becametemporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainlyin the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with thenecessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into themfrom behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of armsand legs.     At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.The table remained untouched.     When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, Get to one side, it may go offlike shrapnel. They obeyed.     What—what—what? Capt. Lawler stuttered.     They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on theother.     I'm going to try to look, Capt. Wilkins said. Let me go. Helumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteenfeet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind thetable, on a line of sight with the airlock.     I can see it, he said. It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's fallingover to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is gettingred, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh.     What? said Capt. Lawler.     Watch out! There.      There!      Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incrediblybright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flamelashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. Thetable was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly.       There went the air, Capt. Lawler commented.     We got T-Trouble, said Lt. Chandler.   ","The Winning of the Moon by Kris Neville takes place on the moon, although exactly what moon is never specified. The moon itself has a fairly uneven surface, especially after the moonquake rips through its bases. Most of the story takes place inside of the American base, a mere 500 square feet. It is cramped inside, filled to the brim with equipment, tools, and supplies necessary for the moon. The American men slept on bunks that rose up from the floor. Cables hung from the ceiling and snaked across the walls, bringing energy into the dome using solar power. The base itself is in the shape of a dome with an airlock leading to the outside. The Russian base, Base Gagarin, is incredibly different. They’ve got three buildings that make up the base, the biggest of which is 3,000 square feet. With luxuries like wooden furniture, fresh lemons from Earth, and nutmeg, the Soviet base has everything the Americans lacked. "
"What is the significance of the seismic test the Russians conduct? </s>     The Winning of the Moon     BY KRIS NEVILLE     The enemy was friendly enough.     Trouble was—their friendship     was as dangerous as their hate!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast wasscheduled for the following morning.     Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions withthe three other Americans.     Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donnedtheir space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sunrose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadowslay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision.     Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with BaseGagarin. Will you please request the general to keep us informed onthe progress of the countdown?     Is Pinov, came the reply. Help?           Nyet     , said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. Count down.Progress. When—boom?     Is Pinov, came the reply.     Boom! Boom! said Major Winship in exasperation.     Boom! said Pinov happily.     When?     Boom—boom! said Pinov.     Oh, nuts. Major Winship cut out the circuit. They've got Pinov onemergency watch this morning, he explained to the other Americans.The one that doesn't speak English.     He's done it deliberately, said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the fourAmericans. How are we going to know when it's over?     No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while theshadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems.     Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, This is a little ridiculous. I'm goingto switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me. He sat transfixedfor several minutes. Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can'ttell a thing that's going on.     In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. Amoth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:no more.     Static?     Nope.     We'll get static on these things.     A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly.     Major Winship shifted restlessly. My reefer's gone on the fritz.Perspiration was trickling down his face.     Let's all go in, said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. It'sprobably over by now.     I'll try again, Major Winship said and switched to the emergencychannel. Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin?     Is Pinov. Help?           Nyet.          Pinov's still there, Major Winship said.     Tell him, 'Help', said Capt. Wilkins, so he'll get somebody we cantalk to.     I'll see them all in hell, first, Major Winship said.     Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. Thisis it, he said. I'm going in.     Let's all—     No. I've got to cool off.     Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here, Capt. Lawler said.The shot probably went off an hour ago.     The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all.     Maybe, Lt. Chandler said, it's buried too deep.     Maybe so, Major Winship said. But we can't have the dome fall downaround all our ears. He stood. Whew! You guys stay put.  He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, andthe temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper momentof pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped intothe illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second stepwhen the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated besidethe radio equipment. The ground moved again.     Charlie! Charlie!     I'm okay, Major Winship answered. Okay! Okay!     It's—     There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased.     Hey, Les, how's it look? Capt. Wilkins asked.     Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay?     Okay, Major Winship said. We told them this might happen, he addedbitterly.     There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding theirbreath.     I guess it's over, said Major Winship, getting to his feet. Wait abit more, there may be an after-shock. He switched once again to theemergency channel.     Is Pinov, came the supremely relaxed voice. Help?     Major Winship whinnied in disgust.       Nyet!      he snarled. To the otherAmericans: Our comrades seem unconcerned.     Tough.     They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled andsnapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at eachother. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communicationscompletely. It then abated to something in excess of normal.     Well, Lt. Chandler commented, even though we didn't build this thingto withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right.     I guess I was just— Major Winship began. Oh, hell! We're losingpressure. Where's the markers?     By the lug cabinet.     Got 'em, Major Winship said a moment later.     He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it awayand plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed asthough it were breathing and then it ruptured.     Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply whichhad cut in automatically with the pressure drop. You guys wait. It'son your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it.     He moved for the plastic sheeting.     We've lost about three feet of calk out here, Capt. Lawler said. Ican see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate.     Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. How's that?     Not yet.     I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It'ssprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads.     There was a splatter of static.     Damn! Major Winship said, they should have made these things moreflexible.     Still coming out.     Best I can do. Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowlyto slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on thefloor.     Come on in, he said dryly.  With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of thefive hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cablestrailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The livingspace was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks juttingout from the walls about six feet from the floor.     Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. Well,he said wryly, it doesn't smell as bad now.     Oops, said Major Winship. Just a second. They're coming in. Heswitched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov.     Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay?     This is Major Winship.     Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major?     Little leak. You?     Came through without damage. General Finogenov paused a moment. Whenno comment was forthcoming, he continued: Perhaps we built a bit morestrongly, Major.     You did this deliberately, Major Winship said testily.     No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I verymuch regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. Afterrepeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then tohave something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.Is there anything at all we can do?     Just leave us alone, thank you, Major Winship said and cut off thecommunication.     What'd they say? Capt. Wilkins asked.     Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this.     That's nice, Lt. Chandler said.     I'll be damned surprised, Major Winship said, if they got anyseismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's getthis leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound?     Larry, where's the inventory?     Les has got it.     Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted.     Larry, Major Winship said, why don't you get Earth?     Okay.     Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended.     Got the inventory sheet, Les?     Right here.     Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins hadenergized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leanedhis helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. We can'thear anything without any air.     Major Winship looked at the microphone. Well, I'll just report and—He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. Yes, he said.That's right, isn't it.     Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. Some days you don't mine atall, he said.     Les, have you found it?     It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here.     Well,      find     it.     Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. I saw it—     Skip, help look.     Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. Wehaven't got all day.     A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. Here itis! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff.     Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up.     Marker showed it over here, Major Winship said, inching over to thewall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger.     How does this stuff work? Capt. Lawler asked.     They huddled over the instruction sheet.     Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzleruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour beforeservice.     Major Winship said dryly, Never mind. I notice it hardens on contactwith air.     Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, Nowthat makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it?     How do they possibly think—?     Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference, Lt. Chandler said. Someair must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. Agorilla couldn't extrude it.     How're the other ones? asked Major Winship.     Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. Oh, they're allhard, too.     Who was supposed to check? demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation.     The only way you can check is to extrude it, Lt. Chandler said, andif it does extrude, you've ruined it.     That's that, Major Winship said. There's nothing for it but to yellhelp.      II     Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. TheSoviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom ofa natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to thetip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angledleft and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way tripof approximately thirty exhausting minutes.     Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.Wilkins stayed for company.     I want a cigarette in the worst way, Capt. Wilkins said.     So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unlesssomething else goes wrong.     As long as they'll loan us the calking compound, Capt. Wilkins said.     Yeah, yeah, Major Winship said.     Let's eat.     You got any concentrate? I'm empty.     I'll load you, Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily.     It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkinscursed twice during the operation. I'd hate to live in this thing forany period.     I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians, MajorWinship said. I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky piecesof junk around.     They ate.     Really horrible stuff.     Nutritious.     After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, Now I'd like a cup ofhot tea. I'm cooled off.     Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. What brought this on?     I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've gotbetter than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better thantwelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there'sonly seven of them right now. That's living.     They've been here six years longer, after all.     Finogenov had a      clay     samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His ownoffice is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. Anda wooden desk. A      wooden     desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everythingbig and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less—     They've got the power-plants for it.     Do you think he did that deliberately? Major Winship asked. I thinkhe's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin'sbuilt to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don'tsuppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure gotthe jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me?     You told me, Capt. Wilkins said.  After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, To hell with the Russianengineer.     If you've got all that power....     That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.Like a little kid.     Maybe they don't make aluminum desks.     They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet isaluminum. You know they're just showing off.     Let me wire you up, Capt. Wilkins said. We ought to report.     That's going to take awhile.     It's something to do while we wait.     I guess we ought to. Major Winship came down from the bunk andsat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed theequipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. Heunearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exteriorplate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.Okay?     Okay, Major Winship gestured.     They roused Earth.     This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, theAmerican moonbase.     At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he wasnow on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change hisair bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. Hereached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet.     This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship.     Just a moment.     Is everything all right?     Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed.     A-Okay, he said. Just a moment.     What's wrong? came the worried question. In the background, he heardsomeone say, I think there's something wrong.     Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in asavage grimace.     Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to facethrough their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrouslylarge to the other.     Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. Onearm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winshipcould no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effortwas not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry ininvoluntary realism.     This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth.     Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word Leak?     Air, Major Winship said silently.     Leak?     Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive.  Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack.     Oh.     Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged thespeaker in again.     ... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in!     We're here, Major Winship said.     All right? Are you all right?     We're all right. A-Okay. Major Winship, mindful of the extent of hispotential audience, took a deep breath. Earlier this morning, theSoviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the      ostensible     purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means ofseismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spiteof American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulatedstresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face ofvigorous American protests.     Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restrainingcables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle.     These protests have proved well founded, Major Winship continued.Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on towithstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. Nopersonnel were injured and there was no equipment damage.     Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle wasbeing inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winshipflicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation.     However, he continued, we did experience a minor leak in the dome,which is presently being repaired.     The Soviet Union, came the reply, has reported the disturbance andhas tendered their official apology. You want it?     It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum hasdestroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately threeweeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, sothat, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain thenecessary replacement.     The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gavethe conversation a tone of deliberation.     A new voice came on. We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We willbe able to deliver replacements in about ten days.     I will forward a coded report on the occurrence, Major Winship said.     Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leakrepaired?     The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out.     He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back.     Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from thetransmitter.     Wow! said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. Fora moment there, I thought....     What? Capt. Wilkins asked with interest.     I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenovto get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for aminute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in theworld listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see thenickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,that was rough.      III     Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. Itoccupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. Itwas a fifty-five gallon drum.     The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. What is      that     ? asked MajorWinship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight.     That, said Capt. Lawler, is the calking compound.     You're kidding, said Capt. Wilkins.     I am not kidding.     Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk.     Why didn't you just borrow a cupful? Major Winship said sarcastically.     It's this way, Lt. Chandler said. They didn't have anything but55-gallon drums of it.     Oh, my, said Capt. Wilkins. I suppose it's a steel drum. Thosethings must weigh....     Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong, Capt. Lawlersaid. He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quiteupset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad.     He's too damned suspicious, Major Winship said. You know and I knowwhy they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at melike an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in tryingto prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will bepublished in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet!     About this drum, Capt. Wilkins said.     Well, like I said, it's this way, Lt. Chandler resumed. I told himwe needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mixup. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have tocombine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a littlescale—     A little scale? asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome.     That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale.     Yeah, said Captain Lawler, and he looked at us with that mute,surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of littlescales.     Well, anyway, Lt. Chandler continued, he told us just to mix up thewhole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff thatgoes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don'tneed.     Somehow, that sounds like him, Major Winship said.     He had five or six of them.     Jesus! said Capt. Wilkins. That must be      three thousand pounds     ofcalking compound. Those people are insane.     The question is, Capt. Lawler said, 'How are we going to mix it?'It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly.     They thought over the problem for a while.     That will be a man-sized job, Major Winship said.     Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad, said Capt. Wilkins. If I tookthe compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... ifwe could....  It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer.     Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated.     Now, Major Winship said, we can either bring the drum inside or takethe mixer out there.     We're going to have to bring the drum in, Capt. Wilkins said.     Well, said Capt. Lawler, that will make it nice and cozy.     It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back andforth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table wasinterposing itself.     Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. Damn these suits, he said.     You've got it stuck between the bunk post.     I      know     that.     I don't think this is the way to do it, Major Winship said. Let'sback the drum out.     Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid ofCapt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it overto Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkinscarried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. Itrested uneasily on the uneven surface.     Now, let's go, said Major Winship.     Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum betweenthe main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.It's not the weight, it's the mass, said Capt. Wilkins brightly.     The hell it isn't the weight, said Lt. Chandler. That's heavy.     With my reefer out, said Major Winship, I'm the one it's rough on.He shook perspiration out of his eyes. They should figure a way to geta mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you'veforgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes.     It's the salt.     Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets, Major Winship said.I've never sweat so much since basic.     Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them?     No! Major Winship snapped.  With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixingattachment. I feel crowded, he said.     Cozy's the word.     Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that!     Sorry.     At length the mixer was in operation in the drum.     Works perfectly, said Capt. Wilkins proudly.     Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English.     You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the areathoroughly around the leak.     With what? asked Major Winship.     Sandpaper, I guess.     With sandpaper? Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid intothe drum. We don't have any sandpaper.     It's been a long day, Capt. Wilkins said.     Mix it thoroughly, Lt. Chandler mused. I guess that means let it mixfor about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service injust a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe.     I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air.     No, Capt. Lawler said. It sets by some kind of chemical action.General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind ofplastic.     Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak, MajorWinship said.     Say, I— interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concernin his voice. This is a hell of a time for this to occur tome. I just wasn't thinking, before.      You don't suppose it's aroom-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you?          Larry, said Major Winship, I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curingepoxy resin from—     Hey! exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. The mixer's stopped. He bent forwardand touched the drum. He jerked back. Ye Gods! that's hot! And it'sharder than a rock! It      is     an epoxy! Let's get out of here.     Huh?     Out! Out!     Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense ofurgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red.     Let's go! Capt. Wilkins said.     He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and becametemporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainlyin the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with thenecessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into themfrom behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of armsand legs.     At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.The table remained untouched.     When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, Get to one side, it may go offlike shrapnel. They obeyed.     What—what—what? Capt. Lawler stuttered.     They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on theother.     I'm going to try to look, Capt. Wilkins said. Let me go. Helumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteenfeet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind thetable, on a line of sight with the airlock.     I can see it, he said. It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's fallingover to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is gettingred, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh.     What? said Capt. Lawler.     Watch out! There.      There!      Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incrediblybright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flamelashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. Thetable was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly.       There went the air, Capt. Lawler commented.     We got T-Trouble, said Lt. Chandler.   ","After the Russians conduct their seismic test, a moonquake erupts and tears a leak in the American dome. This leak is significant because it is the first of a series of slightly cataclysmic events. As well, it highlights the strained and tense relationship between the Russians and the Americans. Major Winship accused the Russians of deliberately injuring their base, further showing how contentious their relationship is. General Finogenov ardently denies this, however, and says that their base had no damage at all. After trying and failing to fix the leak with their own supplies, two of the Americans are forced to travel to Base Gagarin and borrow their resin. This ends up backfiring, however, as the epoxy quickly heats up and explodes as they mix the two components together. The explosion further damages the dome and takes away the American’s entire air supply. As well, the seismic testing was greatly discouraged and protested by the Americans. "
"Who is Major Winship, and what happens to him throughout the story? </s>     The Winning of the Moon     BY KRIS NEVILLE     The enemy was friendly enough.     Trouble was—their friendship     was as dangerous as their hate!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      General Finogenov notified Major Winship that the underground blast wasscheduled for the following morning.     Major Winship, after receiving the message, discussed precautions withthe three other Americans.     Next morning, before the sunlight exploded, the four of them donnedtheir space suits and went and sat outside the dome, waiting. The sunrose with its bright, silent clap of radiance. Black pools of shadowslay in harsh contrast, their edges drawn with geometric precision.     Major Winship attempted unsuccessfully to communicate with BaseGagarin. Will you please request the general to keep us informed onthe progress of the countdown?     Is Pinov, came the reply. Help?           Nyet     , said Major Winship, exhausting his Russian. Count down.Progress. When—boom?     Is Pinov, came the reply.     Boom! Boom! said Major Winship in exasperation.     Boom! said Pinov happily.     When?     Boom—boom! said Pinov.     Oh, nuts. Major Winship cut out the circuit. They've got Pinov onemergency watch this morning, he explained to the other Americans.The one that doesn't speak English.     He's done it deliberately, said Capt. Wilkins, the eldest of the fourAmericans. How are we going to know when it's over?     No one bothered to respond. They sat for a while in silence while theshadows evaporated. One by one they clicked on their cooling systems.     Ultimately, Lt. Chandler said, This is a little ridiculous. I'm goingto switch over to their channel. Rap if you want me. He sat transfixedfor several minutes. Ah, it's all Russian. Jabbering away. I can'ttell a thing that's going on.     In the airless void of the moon, the blast itself would be silent. Amoth's wing of dust would, perhaps, rise and settle beyond the horizon:no more.     Static?     Nope.     We'll get static on these things.     A small infinity seemed to pass very slowly.     Major Winship shifted restlessly. My reefer's gone on the fritz.Perspiration was trickling down his face.     Let's all go in, said the fourth American, Capt. Lawler. It'sprobably over by now.     I'll try again, Major Winship said and switched to the emergencychannel. Base Gagarin? Base Gagarin?     Is Pinov. Help?           Nyet.          Pinov's still there, Major Winship said.     Tell him, 'Help', said Capt. Wilkins, so he'll get somebody we cantalk to.     I'll see them all in hell, first, Major Winship said.     Five minutes later, the perspiration was rivers across his face. Thisis it, he said. I'm going in.     Let's all—     No. I've got to cool off.     Hell, Charlie, I feel stupid sitting out here, Capt. Lawler said.The shot probably went off an hour ago.     The static level hasn't gone up much, if at all.     Maybe, Lt. Chandler said, it's buried too deep.     Maybe so, Major Winship said. But we can't have the dome fall downaround all our ears. He stood. Whew! You guys stay put.  He crossed with the floating moon-motion to the airlock and entered,closing the door behind him. The darkness slowly filled with air, andthe temperature inside the suit declined steadily. At the proper momentof pressure, the inner lock slid open and Major Winship stepped intothe illuminated central area. His foot was lifted for the second stepwhen the floor beneath him rose and fell gently, pitching him forward,off balance. He stumbled against the table and ended up seated besidethe radio equipment. The ground moved again.     Charlie! Charlie!     I'm okay, Major Winship answered. Okay! Okay!     It's—     There was additional surface movement. The movement ceased.     Hey, Les, how's it look? Capt. Wilkins asked.     Okay from this side. Charlie, you still okay?     Okay, Major Winship said. We told them this might happen, he addedbitterly.     There was a wait during which everyone seemed to be holding theirbreath.     I guess it's over, said Major Winship, getting to his feet. Wait abit more, there may be an after-shock. He switched once again to theemergency channel.     Is Pinov, came the supremely relaxed voice. Help?     Major Winship whinnied in disgust.       Nyet!      he snarled. To the otherAmericans: Our comrades seem unconcerned.     Tough.     They began to get the static for the first time. It crackled andsnapped in their speakers. They made sounds of disapproval at eachother. For a minute or two, static blanked out the communicationscompletely. It then abated to something in excess of normal.     Well, Lt. Chandler commented, even though we didn't build this thingto withstand a moonquake, it seems to have stood up all right.     I guess I was just— Major Winship began. Oh, hell! We're losingpressure. Where's the markers?     By the lug cabinet.     Got 'em, Major Winship said a moment later.     He peeled back a marker and let it fall. Air currents whisked it awayand plastered it against a riveted seam of the dome. It pulsed asthough it were breathing and then it ruptured.     Major Winship moved quickly to cut out the emergency air supply whichhad cut in automatically with the pressure drop. You guys wait. It'son your right side, midway up. I'll try to sheet it.     He moved for the plastic sheeting.     We've lost about three feet of calk out here, Capt. Lawler said. Ican see more ripping loose. You're losing pressure fast at this rate.     Major Winship pressed the sheeting over the leak. How's that?     Not yet.     I don't think I've got enough pressure left to hold it, now. It'ssprung a little, and I can't get it to conform over the rivet heads.     There was a splatter of static.     Damn! Major Winship said, they should have made these things moreflexible.     Still coming out.     Best I can do. Major Winship stepped back. The sheet began slowlyto slide downward, then it fell away completely and lay limply on thefloor.     Come on in, he said dryly.  With the four of them inside, it was somewhat cramped. Most of thefive hundred square feet was filled with equipment. Electrical cablestrailed loosely along the walls and were festooned from the ceiling,radiating from the connections to the outside solar cells. The livingspace was more restricted than in a submarine, with the bunks juttingout from the walls about six feet from the floor.     Lt. Chandler mounted one of the bunks to give them more room. Well,he said wryly, it doesn't smell as bad now.     Oops, said Major Winship. Just a second. They're coming in. Heswitched over to the emergency channel. It was General Finogenov.     Major Winship! Hello! Hello, hello, hello. You A Okay?     This is Major Winship.     Oh! Excellent, very good. Any damage, Major?     Little leak. You?     Came through without damage. General Finogenov paused a moment. Whenno comment was forthcoming, he continued: Perhaps we built a bit morestrongly, Major.     You did this deliberately, Major Winship said testily.     No, no. Oh, no, no, no, no. Major Winship, please believe me. I verymuch regret this. Very much so. I am very distressed. Depressed. Afterrepeatedly assuring you there was no danger of a quake—and then tohave something like this happen. Oh, this is very embarrassing to me.Is there anything at all we can do?     Just leave us alone, thank you, Major Winship said and cut off thecommunication.     What'd they say? Capt. Wilkins asked.     Larry, General Finogenov said he was very embarrassed by this.     That's nice, Lt. Chandler said.     I'll be damned surprised, Major Winship said, if they got anyseismic data out of that shot.... Well, to hell with them, let's getthis leak fixed. Skip, can you get the calking compound?     Larry, where's the inventory?     Les has got it.     Lt. Chandler got down from the bunk and Capt. Wilkins mounted.     Larry, Major Winship said, why don't you get Earth?     Okay.     Capt. Wilkins got down from the bunk and Capt. Lawler ascended.     Got the inventory sheet, Les?     Right here.     Squeezed in front of the massive transmitter, Capt. Wilkins hadenergized the circuits. There was a puzzled look on his face. He leanedhis helmet against the speaker and then shook his head sadly. We can'thear anything without any air.     Major Winship looked at the microphone. Well, I'll just report and—He started to pick up the microphone and reconsidered. Yes, he said.That's right, isn't it.     Capt. Wilkins flicked off the transmitter. Some days you don't mine atall, he said.     Les, have you found it?     It's around here somewhere. Supposed to be back here.     Well,      find     it.     Lt. Chandler began moving boxes. I saw it—     Skip, help look.     Capt. Lawler got down from the bunk and Major Winship mounted. Wehaven't got all day.     A few minutes later, Lt. Chandler issued the triumphant cry. Here itis! Dozen tubes. Squeeze tubes. It's the new stuff.     Major Winship got down and Capt. Wilkins got up.     Marker showed it over here, Major Winship said, inching over to thewall. He traced the leak with a metallic finger.     How does this stuff work? Capt. Lawler asked.     They huddled over the instruction sheet.     Let's see. Squeeze the tube until the diaphragm at the nozzleruptures. Extrude paste into seam. Allow to harden one hour beforeservice.     Major Winship said dryly, Never mind. I notice it hardens on contactwith air.     Capt. Wilkins lay back on the bunk and stared upward. He said, Nowthat makes a weird kind of sense, doesn't it?     How do they possibly think—?     Gentlemen! It doesn't make any difference, Lt. Chandler said. Someair must already have leaked into this one. It's hard as a rock. Agorilla couldn't extrude it.     How're the other ones? asked Major Winship.     Lt. Chandler turned and made a quick examination. Oh, they're allhard, too.     Who was supposed to check? demanded Capt. Wilkins in exasperation.     The only way you can check is to extrude it, Lt. Chandler said, andif it does extrude, you've ruined it.     That's that, Major Winship said. There's nothing for it but to yellhelp.      II     Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler took the land car to Base Gagarin. TheSoviet base was situated some ten miles toward sunset at the bottom ofa natural fold in the surface. The route was moderately direct to thetip of the gently rolling ridge. At that point, the best pathway angledleft and made an S-shaped descent to the basin. It was a one-way tripof approximately thirty exhausting minutes.     Major Winship, with his deficient reefer, remained behind. Capt.Wilkins stayed for company.     I want a cigarette in the worst way, Capt. Wilkins said.     So do I, Larry. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours. Unlesssomething else goes wrong.     As long as they'll loan us the calking compound, Capt. Wilkins said.     Yeah, yeah, Major Winship said.     Let's eat.     You got any concentrate? I'm empty.     I'll load you, Capt. Wilkins volunteered wearily.     It was an awkward operation that took several minutes. Capt. Wilkinscursed twice during the operation. I'd hate to live in this thing forany period.     I think these suits are one thing we've got over the Russians, MajorWinship said. I don't see how they can manipulate those bulky piecesof junk around.     They ate.     Really horrible stuff.     Nutritious.     After the meal, Major Winship said reflectively, Now I'd like a cup ofhot tea. I'm cooled off.     Capt. Wilkins raised eyebrows. What brought this on?     I was just thinking.... They really got it made, Larry. They've gotbetter than three thousand square feet in the main dome and better thantwelve hundred square feet in each of the two little ones. And there'sonly seven of them right now. That's living.     They've been here six years longer, after all.     Finogenov had a      clay     samovar sent up. Lemon and nutmeg, too. Real,by God, fresh lemons for the tea, the last time I was there. His ownoffice is about ten by ten. Think of that. One hundred square feet. Anda wooden desk. A      wooden     desk. And a chair. A wooden chair. Everythingbig and heavy. Everything. Weight, hell. Fifty pounds more or less—     They've got the power-plants for it.     Do you think he did that deliberately? Major Winship asked. I thinkhe's trying to force us off. I think he hoped for the quake. Gagarin'sbuilt to take it, I'll say that. Looks like it, anyhow. You don'tsuppose they planned this all along? Even if they didn't, they sure gotthe jump on us again, didn't they? I told you what he told me?     You told me, Capt. Wilkins said.  After a moment, Major Winship said bitterly, To hell with the Russianengineer.     If you've got all that power....     That's the thing. That's the thing that gripes me, know what I mean?It's just insane to send up a heavy wooden desk. That's showing off.Like a little kid.     Maybe they don't make aluminum desks.     They've—got—aluminum. Half of everything on the whole planet isaluminum. You know they're just showing off.     Let me wire you up, Capt. Wilkins said. We ought to report.     That's going to take awhile.     It's something to do while we wait.     I guess we ought to. Major Winship came down from the bunk andsat with his back toward the transmitter. Capt. Wilkins slewed theequipment around until the emergency jacks were accessible. Heunearthed the appropriate cable and began unscrewing the exteriorplate to the small transmitter-receiver set on Major Winship's back.Eventually, trailing wires, Major Winship was coupled into the network.Okay?     Okay, Major Winship gestured.     They roused Earth.     This is Major Charles Winship, Commanding Officer, Freedom 19, theAmerican moonbase.     At this point, Major Winship observed for the first time that he wasnow on emergency air. He started to ask Capt. Wilkins to change hisair bottle, but then he realized his communications were cut off. Hereached over and rapped Capt. Wilkins' helmet.     This is the Cape. Come in, Major Winship.     Just a moment.     Is everything all right?     Major Winship was squirming nervously, obviously perturbed.     A-Okay, he said. Just a moment.     What's wrong? came the worried question. In the background, he heardsomeone say, I think there's something wrong.     Capt. Wilkins peered intently. Major Winship contorted his face in asavage grimace.     Capt. Wilkins raised his eyebrows in alarm. They were face to facethrough their helmets, close together. Each face appeared monstrouslylarge to the other.     Major Winship made a strangling motion and reached for his throat. Onearm tangled a cable and jerked the speaker jack loose. Major Winshipcould no longer hear the alarmed expressions from the Cape. The effortwas not entirely subvocal, since he emitted a little gasping cry ininvoluntary realism.     This, in the course of some 90 seconds, was transmitted to Earth.     Capt. Wilkins's lips were desperately forming the word Leak?     Air, Major Winship said silently.     Leak?     Bottle! Bottle! Bottle! It was a frog-like, unvocal expletive.  Comprehension dawned. Capt. Wilkins nodded and started to turn away.Major Winship caught his arm and nodded his head toward the loose jack.     Oh.     Capt. Wilkins nodded and smiled. He reached across and plugged thespeaker in again.     ... Freedom 19! Hello, Freedom 19! Come in!     We're here, Major Winship said.     All right? Are you all right?     We're all right. A-Okay. Major Winship, mindful of the extent of hispotential audience, took a deep breath. Earlier this morning, theSoviet Union fired an underground atomic device for the      ostensible     purpose of investigating the composition of the lunar mass by means ofseismic analysis of the resultant shock waves. This was done in spiteof American warnings that such a disturbance might release accumulatedstresses in the long undisturbed satellite, and was done in the face ofvigorous American protests.     Capt. Wilkins tapped his helmet and gestured for him to swivel around.The turn was uncomfortably tight and complicated by the restrainingcables. Capt. Wilkins began replacement of the air bottle.     These protests have proved well founded, Major Winship continued.Immediately following the detonation, Freedom 19 was called on towithstand a moderately severe shifting of the Lunar surface. Nopersonnel were injured and there was no equipment damage.     Capt. Wilkins tapped his shoulder to indicate the new air bottle wasbeing inserted. Another tap indicated it was seated. Major Winshipflicked the appropriate chest button and nodded in appreciation.     However, he continued, we did experience a minor leak in the dome,which is presently being repaired.     The Soviet Union, came the reply, has reported the disturbance andhas tendered their official apology. You want it?     It can wait until later. Send it by mail for all I care. Vacuum hasdestroyed our organic air reconditioner. We have approximately threeweeks of emergency air. However, Base Gagarin reports no damage, sothat, in the event we exhaust our air, we will be able to obtain thenecessary replacement.     The wait of a little better than three seconds for the response gavethe conversation a tone of deliberation.     A new voice came on. We tried to contact you earlier, Major. We willbe able to deliver replacements in about ten days.     I will forward a coded report on the occurrence, Major Winship said.     Let us hear from you again in ... about three hours. Is the leakrepaired?     The leak has not yet been repaired. Over and out.     He nodded to Capt. Wilkins and leaned back.     Methodically, Capt. Wilkins set about disconnecting the major from thetransmitter.     Wow! said Major Winship when he was once more in communication. Fora moment there, I thought....     What? Capt. Wilkins asked with interest.     I could see myself asking them to ask the Russians to ask Finogenovto get on the emergency channel to ask you to charge the air bottle.I never felt so ... idiotic is not quite strong enough ... there for aminute in my whole life. I didn't know how much emergency air was left,and I thought, my God, I'll never live this down. All the hams in theworld listening, while I try to explain the situation. I could see thenickname being entered in my files: aka. The Airless Idiot. I tell you,that was rough.      III     Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler returned with the calking compound. Itoccupied the rear section of the land car. Lt. Chandler sat atop it. Itwas a fifty-five gallon drum.     The airlock to Freedom 19 was open. What is      that     ? asked MajorWinship, squinting out into the glaring sunlight.     That, said Capt. Lawler, is the calking compound.     You're kidding, said Capt. Wilkins.     I am not kidding.     Capt. Lawler and Lt. Chandler came inside. Capt. Wilkins mounted a bunk.     Why didn't you just borrow a cupful? Major Winship said sarcastically.     It's this way, Lt. Chandler said. They didn't have anything but55-gallon drums of it.     Oh, my, said Capt. Wilkins. I suppose it's a steel drum. Thosethings must weigh....     Actually, I think you guys have got the general wrong, Capt. Lawlersaid. He was out, himself, to greet us. I think he was really quiteupset by the quake. Probably because his people had misfigured so bad.     He's too damned suspicious, Major Winship said. You know and I knowwhy they set that blast off. I tried to tell him. Hell. He looks at melike an emasculated owl and wants to know our ulterior motive in tryingto prevent a purely scientific experiment, the results of which will bepublished in the technical press for the good of everybody. I'll bet!     About this drum, Capt. Wilkins said.     Well, like I said, it's this way, Lt. Chandler resumed. I told himwe needed about a pint. Maybe a quart. But this stuff you have to mixup. He only had these drums. There's two parts to it, and you have tocombine them in just the right proportion. He told me to take a littlescale—     A little scale? asked Capt. Wilkins, rolling his eyes at the dome.     That's what I told him. We don't have any little scale.     Yeah, said Captain Lawler, and he looked at us with that mute,surprised look, like everybody, everywhere has dozens of littlescales.     Well, anyway, Lt. Chandler continued, he told us just to mix up thewhole fifty-five gallon drum. There's a little bucket of stuff thatgoes in, and it's measured just right. We can throw away what we don'tneed.     Somehow, that sounds like him, Major Winship said.     He had five or six of them.     Jesus! said Capt. Wilkins. That must be      three thousand pounds     ofcalking compound. Those people are insane.     The question is, Capt. Lawler said, 'How are we going to mix it?'It's supposed to be mixed thoroughly.     They thought over the problem for a while.     That will be a man-sized job, Major Winship said.     Let's see, Charlie. Maybe not too bad, said Capt. Wilkins. If I tookthe compressor motor, we could make up a shaft and ... let's see ... ifwe could....  It took the better part of an hour to rig up the electric mixer.     Capt. Wilkins was profusely congratulated.     Now, Major Winship said, we can either bring the drum inside or takethe mixer out there.     We're going to have to bring the drum in, Capt. Wilkins said.     Well, said Capt. Lawler, that will make it nice and cozy.     It took the four of them to roll the drum inside, rocking it back andforth through the airlock. At that time, it was apparent the table wasinterposing itself.     Lt. Chandler tried to dismantle the table. Damn these suits, he said.     You've got it stuck between the bunk post.     I      know     that.     I don't think this is the way to do it, Major Winship said. Let'sback the drum out.     Reluctantly, they backed the drum out and deposited it. With the aid ofCapt. Lawler, Lt. Chandler got the table unstuck. They passed it overto Major Winship, who handed it out to Capt. Wilkins. Captain Wilkinscarried it around the drum of calking compound and set it down. Itrested uneasily on the uneven surface.     Now, let's go, said Major Winship.     Eventually, they accomplished the moving. They wedged the drum betweenthe main air-supply tank and the transmitter. They were all perspiring.It's not the weight, it's the mass, said Capt. Wilkins brightly.     The hell it isn't the weight, said Lt. Chandler. That's heavy.     With my reefer out, said Major Winship, I'm the one it's rough on.He shook perspiration out of his eyes. They should figure a way to geta mop in here, or a towel, or a sponge, or something. I'll bet you'veforgotten how much sweat stings in the eyes.     It's the salt.     Speaking of salt. I wish I had some salt tablets, Major Winship said.I've never sweat so much since basic.     Want to bet Finogenov hasn't got a bushel of them?     No! Major Winship snapped.  With the drum of calking compound inside, both Capt. Lawler and Lt.Chandler retreated to the bunks. Capt. Wilkins maneuvered the mixingattachment. I feel crowded, he said.     Cozy's the word.     Watch it! Watch it! You almost hit me in the face plate with that!     Sorry.     At length the mixer was in operation in the drum.     Works perfectly, said Capt. Wilkins proudly.     Now what, Skip? The instructions aren't in English.     You're supposed to dump the bucket of stuff in. Then clean the areathoroughly around the leak.     With what? asked Major Winship.     Sandpaper, I guess.     With sandpaper? Major Winship said, emptying the bucket of fluid intothe drum. We don't have any sandpaper.     It's been a long day, Capt. Wilkins said.     Mix it thoroughly, Lt. Chandler mused. I guess that means let it mixfor about ten minutes or so. Then you apply it. It sets for service injust a little bit, Finogenov said. An hour or so, maybe.     I hope this doesn't set on exposure to air.     No, Capt. Lawler said. It sets by some kind of chemical action.General Finogenov wasn't sure of the English name for it. Some kind ofplastic.     Let's come back to how we're going to clean around the leak, MajorWinship said.     Say, I— interrupted Capt. Wilkins. There was a trace of concernin his voice. This is a hell of a time for this to occur tome. I just wasn't thinking, before.      You don't suppose it's aroom-temperature-curing epoxy resin, do you?          Larry, said Major Winship, I wouldn't know a room-temperature-curingepoxy resin from—     Hey! exclaimed Capt. Wilkins. The mixer's stopped. He bent forwardand touched the drum. He jerked back. Ye Gods! that's hot! And it'sharder than a rock! It      is     an epoxy! Let's get out of here.     Huh?     Out! Out!     Major Winship, Lt. Chandler, and Capt. Lawler, recognizing the sense ofurgency, simultaneously glanced at the drum. It was glowing cherry red.     Let's go! Capt. Wilkins said.     He and the Major reached the airlock at the same time and becametemporarily engaged with each other. Movement was somewhat ungainlyin the space suits under the best of conditions, and now, with thenecessity for speed, was doubly so. The other two crashed into themfrom behind, and they spewed forth from the dome in a tangle of armsand legs.     At the table, they separated, two going to the left, two to the right.The table remained untouched.     When they halted, Capt. Wilkins said, Get to one side, it may go offlike shrapnel. They obeyed.     What—what—what? Capt. Lawler stuttered.     They were still separated, two on one side of the airlock, two on theother.     I'm going to try to look, Capt. Wilkins said. Let me go. Helumbered directly away from the dome for a distance of about fifteenfeet, then turned and positioned himself, some five feet behind thetable, on a line of sight with the airlock.     I can see it, he said. It's getting redder. It's ... it's ...melting, yes. Melting down at the bottom a little. Now it's fallingover to one side and laying on the air tank. The air tank is gettingred, too. I'm afraid ... it's weakening it.... Redder. Oh, oh.     What? said Capt. Lawler.     Watch out! There.      There!      Capt. Wilkins leaped from his position.He was still floating toward the ground when there was an incrediblybright flare from inside the dome, and a great, silent tongue of flamelashed through the airlock and rolled across the lunar surface. Thetable was sent tumbling. The flame was gone almost instantly.       There went the air, Capt. Lawler commented.     We got T-Trouble, said Lt. Chandler.   ","Major Winship is one of the few Americans who is currently living on base on the surface of the moon. He is in charge as the Commanding Officer of Freedom 19, as he outranks both the Captains and the first Lieutenant. After watching the moonquake shake the surface from inside the base, Major Winship quickly realizes that the quake ripped a hole in the dome itself. He attempts to fix it with a marker, then with a plastic sheet, but both fail. Their caulking compound has hardened and is completely unusable. Winship accuses the Russians of causing the quake and leak on purpose, but the General vehemently denies his claims. They try to call into Earth but realize that without air, there’d be no sound. So, they have to find another way.  Stuck in his suit until they can restore air to the base, Winship sends Lt. Chandler and Capt. Lawler to ask the Soviets for help. Winship shares a meal with Wilkins, and then the Captain connected to Winship with a series of wires to the radio. This way he’d be able to communicate while in his suit. He suffers a major mistake with the wiring, however, when his air supply is cut off. He motions to Wilkins who saves him, reconnecting the lost cable, and Winship lets those on Earth know what happened. They let him know that they’ve received a formal apology and that they will send a replacement in ten days’ time. Once Chandler and Lawler return, Winship is faced with a new problem: how to mix and activate the 55-gallon fix for the leak. Wilkins creates an electric mixer, and they bring the barrel inside to mix. The barrel becomes red-hot and looks to be on the verge of combustion. The men scramble and get to the airlock. The barrel explodes and the flames use up all the oxygen. Winship is faced with an even greater problem now: how to survive. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN     BY ALEXEI PANSHIN     The ancient rule was sink or swim—swim     in the miasma of a planet without     spaceflight, or sink to utter destruction!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The horses and packs were loaded before we went aboard the scoutship.The scout bay is no more than a great oversized airlock with a dozensmall ships squatting over their tubes, but it was the last of the Shipthat I might ever see, so I took a long final look from the top of theramp.     There were sixteen of us girls and thirteen boys. We took our placesin the seats in the center of the scout. Riggy Allen made a joke thatnobody bothered to laugh at, and then we were all silent. I was feelinglost and just beginning to enjoy it when Jimmy Dentremont came over tome. He's red-headed and has a face that makes him look about ten. Anintelligent runt like me.     He said what I expected. Mia, do you want to go partners if we can gettogether when we get down?     I guess he thought that because we were always matched on study I likedhim. Well, I did when I wasn't mad at him, but now I had that crackhe'd made about being a snob in mind, so I said, Not likely. I want tocome back alive. It wasn't fair, but it was a good crack and he wentback to his place without saying anything.     My name is Mia Havero. I'm fourteen, of course, or I wouldn't betelling this. I'm short, dark and scrawny, though I don't expect thatscrawniness to last much longer. Mother is very good looking. In themeantime, I've got brains as a consolation.     After we were all settled, George Fuhonin, the pilot, raised the ramps.We sat there for five minutes while they bled air out of our tube andthen we just ... dropped. My stomach turned flips. We didn't have toleave that way, but George thinks it's fun to be a hot pilot.     Thinking it over, I was almost sorry I'd been stinking to Jimmy D. He'sthe only competition I have my own age. The trouble is, you don't gopartners with the competition, do you? Besides, there was still thatcrack about being a snob.     The planet chosen for our Trial was called Tintera. The last contactthe Ship had had with it—and we were the ones who dropped them—wasalmost 150 years ago. No contact since. That had made the Councildebate a little before they dropped us there, but they decided it wasall right in the end. It didn't make any practical difference to uskids because they never tell you anything about the place they're goingto drop you. All I knew was the name. I wouldn't have known that muchif Daddy weren't Chairman of the Council.     I felt like crawling in a corner of the ship and crying, but nobodyelse was breaking down, so I didn't. I did feel miserable. I cried whenI said good-by to Mother and Daddy—a real emotional scene—but thatwasn't in public.  It wasn't the chance of not coming back that bothered me really,because I never believed that I wouldn't. The thought that made meunhappy was that I would have to be on a planet for a whole month.Planets make me feel wretched.     The gravity is always wrong, for one thing. Either your arches andcalves ache or every time you step you think you're going to trip ona piece of fluff and break your neck. There are vegetables everywhereand little grubby things just looking for      you     to crawl on. If youcan think of anything creepier than that, you've got a real nastyimagination. Worst of all, planets stink. Every single one smells—I'vebeen on enough to know that. A planet is all right for a Mud-eater, butnot for me.     We have a place in the Ship like that—the Third Level—but it's only athousand square miles and any time it gets on your nerves you can go upa level or down a level and be back in civilization.     When we reached Tintera, they started dropping us. We swung over thesea from the morning side and then dropped low over gray-green forestedhills. Finally George spotted a clear area and dropped into it. Theydon't care what order you go in, so Jimmy D. jumped up, grabbed hisgear and then led his horse down the ramp. I think he was stillsmarting from the slap I'd given him.     In a minute we were airborne again. I wondered if I would ever seeJimmy—if he would get back alive.     It's no game we play. When we turn fourteen, they drop us on thenearest colonized planet and come back one month later. That may soundlike fun to you, but a lot of us never come back alive.     Don't think I was helpless. I'm hell on wheels. They don't let us growfor fourteen years and then kick us out to die. They prepare us. Theydo figure, though, that if you can't keep yourself alive by the timeyou're fourteen, you're too stupid, foolish or unlucky to be any use tothe Ship. There's sense behind it. It means that everybody on the Shipis a person who can take care of himself if he has to. Daddy says thatsomething has to be done in a closed society to keep the populationfrom decaying mentally and physically, and this is it. And it helps tokeep the population steady.     I began to check my gear out—sonic pistol, pickup signal so I could befound at the end of the month, saddle and cinches, food and clothes.Venie Morlock has got a crush on Jimmy D., and when she saw me startgetting ready to go, she began to check her gear, too. At our nextlanding, I grabbed Ninc's reins and cut Venie out smoothly. It didn'thave anything to do with Jimmy. I just couldn't stand to put off thebad moment any longer.     The ship lifted impersonally away from Ninc and me like a rising bird,and in just a moment it was gone. Its gray-blue color was almost thecolor of the half-overcast sky, so I was never sure when I saw it last.      II     The first night was hell, I guess because I'm not used to having thelights out. That's when you really start to feel lonely, being alone inthe dark. When the sun disappears, somehow you wonder in your stomachif it's really going to come back. But I lived through it—one day inthirty gone.     I rode in a spiral search pattern during the next two days. I had threethings in mind—stay alive, find people and find some of the others.The first was automatic. The second was to find out if there was a slotI could fit into for a month. If not, I would have to find a place tocamp out, as nasty as that would be. The third was to join forces,though not with that meatball Jimmy D.     No, he isn't really a meatball. The trouble is that I don't takenothing from nobody, especially him, and he doesn't take nothing fromnobody, especially me. So we do a lot of fighting.     I had a good month for Trial. My birthday is in November—too close toYear End Holiday for my taste, but this year it was all right. It wasspring on Tintera, but it was December in the Ship, and after we gotback we had five days of Holiday to celebrate. It gave me something tolook forward to.     In two days of riding, I ran onto nothing but a few odd-lookinganimals. I shot one small one and ate it. It turned out to taste prettygood, though not as good as a slice from Hambone No. 4, to my mind thebest meat vat on the Ship. I've eaten things so gruey-looking that Iwondered that anybody had the guts to try them in the first place andthey've turned out to taste good. And I've seen things that looked goodthat I couldn't keep on my stomach. So I guess I was lucky.     On the third day, I found the road. I brought Ninc down off thehillside, losing sight of the road in the trees, and then reachingit in the level below. It was narrow and made of sand spread over ahard base. Out of the marks in the sand, I could pick out the tracksof horses and both narrow and wide wheels. Other tracks I couldn'tidentify.     One of the smartest moves in history was to include horses whenthey dropped the colonies. I say they because, while we did theactual dropping, the idea originated with the whole evac plan back onEarth. Considering how short a time it was in which the colonies wereestablished, there was not time to set up industry, so they had to havedraft animals.     The first of the Great Ships was finished in 2025. One of the eight,as well as the two that were being built then, went up with everythingelse in the Solar System in 2041. In that sixteen years 112 colonieswere planted. I don't know how many of those planets had animals that      could     have been substituted but, even if they had, they would havehad to be domesticated from scratch. That would have been stupid. I'llbet that half the colonies would have failed if they hadn't had horses.  We'd come in from the west over the ocean, so I traveled east on theroad. That much water makes me nervous, and roads have to go somewhere.     I came on my first travelers three hours later. I rounded a tree-linedbend, ducking an overhanging branch, and pulled Ninc to a stop. Therewere five men on horseback herding a bunch of the ugliest creaturesalive.     They were green and grotesque. They had squat bodies, long limbs andknobby bulges at their joints. They had square, flat animal masks forfaces. But they walked on their hind legs and they had paws that werealmost hands, and that was enough to make them seem almost human. Theymade a wordless, chilling, lowing sound as they milled and ploddedalong.     I started Ninc up again and moved slowly to catch up with them. All themen on horseback had guns in saddle boots. They looked as nervous ascats with kittens. One of them had a string of packhorses on a lineand he saw me and called to another who seemed to be the leader. Thatone wheeled his black horse and rode back toward me.     He was a middle-aged man, maybe as old as my Daddy. He was large and hehad a hard face. Normal enough, but hard. He pulled to a halt when wereached each other, but I kept going. He had to come around and followme. I believe in judging a person by his face. A man can't help theface he owns, but he can help the expression he wears on it. If a manlooks mean, I generally believe that he is. This one looked mean. Thatwas why I kept riding.     He said, What be you doing out here, boy? Be you out of your head?There be escaped Losels in these woods.     I told you I hadn't finished filling out yet, but I hadn't thought itwas that bad. I wasn't ready to make a fight over the point, though.Generally, I can't keep my bloody mouth shut, but now I didn't sayanything. It seemed smart.     Where be you from? he asked.     I pointed to the road behind us.     And where be you going?     I pointed ahead. No other way to go.     He seemed exasperated. I have that effect sometimes. Even on Mother andDaddy, who should know better.     We were coming up on the others now, and the man said, Maybe you'dbetter ride on from here with us. For protection.     He had an odd way of twisting his sounds, almost as though he had amouthful of mush. I wondered whether he were just an oddball or whethereverybody here spoke the same way. I'd never heard InternationalEnglish spoken any way but one, even on the planet Daddy made me visitwith him.     One of the other outriders came easing by then. I suppose they'd beenwatching us all the while. He called to the hard man.     He be awfully small, Horst. I doubt me a Losel'd even notice him atall. We mought as well throw him back again.     The rider looked at me. When I didn't dissolve in terror as heexpected, he shrugged and one of the other men laughed.     The hard man said to the others, This boy will be riding along with usto Forton for protection.     I looked down at the plodding, unhappy creatures they were drivingalong and one looked back at me with dull, expressionless golden eyes.I felt uncomfortable.     I said, I don't think so.     What the man did then surprised me. He said, I do think so, andreached for the rifle in his saddle boot.     I whipped my sonic pistol out so fast that he was caught leaning overwith the rifle half out. His jaw dropped. He knew what I held and hedidn't want to be fried.     I said, Ease your rifles out and drop them gently to the ground.     They did, watching me all the while with wary expressions.     When all the rifles were on the ground, I said, All right, let's go.     They didn't want to move. They didn't want to leave the rifles. Icould see that. Horst didn't say anything. He just watched me withnarrowed eyes. But one of the others held up a hand and in wheedlingtones said, Look here, kid....     Shut up, I said, in as mean a voice as I could muster, and he did. Itsurprised me. I didn't think I sounded      that     mean. I decided he justdidn't trust the crazy kid not to shoot.     After twenty minutes of easy riding for us and hard walking for thecreatures, I said, If you want your rifles, you can go back and getthem now. I dug my heels into Ninc's sides and rode on. At the nextbend I looked back and saw four of them holding their packhorses andthe creatures still while one beat a dust-raising retreat down the road.     I put this episode in the file and hold for analysis section in mymind and rode on, feeling good. I think I even giggled once. SometimesI even convince myself that I'm hell on wheels.      III     When I was nine, my Daddy gave me a painted wooden doll that mygreat-grandmother brought from Earth. The thing is that inside it,nestled one in another, are eleven more dolls, each one smaller thanthe last. I like to watch people when they open it for the first time.     My face must have been like that as I rode along the road.     The country leveled into a great rolling valley and the trees gaveway to great farms and fields. In the fields, working, were some ofthe green creatures, which surprised me since the ones I'd seen beforehadn't seemed smart enough to count to one, let alone do any work.     But it relieved me. I thought they might have been eating them orsomething.     I passed two crossroads and started to meet more people, but nobodyquestioned me. I met people on horseback, and twice I met trucks movingsilently past. And I overtook a wagon driven by the oldest man I'veseen in my life. He waved to me, and I waved back.     Near the end of the afternoon I came to the town, and there I receiveda jolt that sickened me.     By the time I came out on the other side, I was sick. My hands werecold and sweaty and my head was spinning, and I wanted to kick Ninc toa gallop.     I rode slowly in, looking all around, missing nothing. The town was allstone, wood and brick. Out of date. Out of time, really. There wereno machines more complicated than the trucks I'd seen earlier. At theedge of town, I passed a newspaper office with a headline pasted in thewindow—INVASION! I remember that. I wondered about it.     But I looked most closely at the people. In all that town, I didn'tsee one girl over ten years old and no grown-up women at all. Therewere little kids, there were boys and there were men, but no girls. Allthe boys and men wore pants, and so did I, which must have been whyHorst and his buddies assumed I was a boy. It wasn't flattering; butI decided I'd not tell anybody different until I found what made theclocks tick on this planet.     But that wasn't what bothered me. It was the kids. My God! Theyswarmed. I saw a family come out of a house—a father and      four     children. It was the most foul thing I've ever seen. It struck methen—these people were Free Birthers! I felt a wave of nausea and Iclosed my eyes until it passed.  The first thing you learn in school is that if it weren't for idiot andcriminal people like these, Earth would never have been destroyed. Theevacuation would never have had to take place, and eight billion peoplewouldn't have died. There wouldn't have      been     eight billion people.But, no. They bred and they spread and they devoured everything intheir path like a cancer. They gobbled up all the resources that Earthhad and crowded and shoved one another until the final war came.     I am lucky. My great-great-grandparents were among those who had enoughforesight to see what was coming. If it hadn't been for them and someothers like them, there wouldn't be any humans left anywhere. And Iwouldn't be here. That may not scare you, but it scares me.     What happened before, when people didn't use their heads and wound upblowing the Solar System apart, is something nobody should forget. Theolder people don't let us forget. But these people had, and that theCouncil should know.     For the first time since I landed on Tintera, I felt      really     frightened. There was too much going on that I didn't understand. Ifelt a blind urge to get away, and when I reached the edge of town, Iwhomped Ninc a good one and gave him his head.     I let him run for almost a mile before I pulled him down to a walkagain. I couldn't help wishing for Jimmy D. Whatever else he is, he'ssmart and brains I needed.     How do you find out what's going on? Eavesdrop? That's a lousy method.For one thing, people can't be depended on to talk about the things youwant to hear. For another, you're likely to get caught. Ask somebody?Who? Make the mistake of bracing a fellow like Horst and you might windup with a sore head and an empty pocket. The best thing I could thinkof was to find a library, but that might be a job.     I'd had two bad shocks on this day, but they weren't the last. In thelate afternoon, when the sun was starting to sink and a cool wind wasstarting to ripple the tree leaves, I saw the scoutship high in thesky. The dying sun colored it a deep red. Back again? I wondered whathad gone wrong.     I reached down into my saddlebag and brought out my contact signal.The scoutship swung up in the sky in a familiar movement calculated todrop the stomach out of everybody aboard. George Fuhonin's style. Itriggered the signal, my heart turning flips all the while. I didn'tknow why he was back, but I wasn't really sorry.     The ship swung around until it was coming back on a path almost over myhead, going in the same direction. Then it went into a slip and startedbucking so hard that I knew this wasn't hot piloting at all, just plainidiot stutter-fingered stupidity at the controls. As it skidded by meoverhead, I got a good look at it and knew that it wasn't one of ours.Not too different, but not ours.       One more enigma. Where was it from? Not here. Even if you know how, andwe wouldn't tell these Mud-eaters how, a scoutship is something thattakes an advanced technology to build.  I felt defeated and tired. Not much farther along the road, I came toa campsite with two wagons pulled in for the night, and I couldn'thelp but pull in myself. The campsite was large and had two permanentbuildings on it. One was a well enclosure and the other was little morethan a high-walled pen. It didn't even have a roof.     I set up camp and ate my dinner. In the wagon closest to me were a man,his wife and their three children. The kids were running around andplaying, and one of them ran close to the high-walled pen. His fathercame and pulled him away.     The kids weren't to blame for their parents, but when one of them saidhello to me, I didn't even answer. I know how lousy I would feel if Ihad two or three brothers and sisters, but it didn't strike me untilthat moment that it wouldn't even seem out of the ordinary to thesekids. Isn't that horrible?     About the time I finished eating, and before it grew dark, the old manI had seen earlier in the day drove his wagon in. He fascinated me. Hehad white hair, something I had read about in stories but had neverseen before.     When nightfall came, they started a large fire. Everybody gatheredaround. There was singing for awhile, and then the father of thechildren tried to pack them off to bed. But they weren't ready to go,so the old man started telling them a story. In the old man's oddaccent, and sitting there in the campfire light surrounded by darkness,it seemed just right.     It was about an old witch named Baba Yaga who lived in the forest ina house that stood on chicken legs. She was the nasty stepmother of anice little girl, and to get rid of the kid, she sent her on a phonyerrand into the deep dark woods at nightfall. I could appreciate thepoor girl's position. All the little girl had to help her were thehandkerchief, the comb and the pearl that she had inherited from herdear dead mother. But, as it turned out, they were just enough todefeat nasty old Baba Yaga and bring the girl safely home.     I wished for the same for myself.     The old man had just finished and they were starting to drag the kidsoff to bed when there was a commotion on the road at the edge of thecamp. I looked but my eyes were adjusted to the light of the fire and Icouldn't see far into the dark.     A voice there said, I'll be damned if I'll take another day like thisone, Horst. We should have been here hours ago. It be your fault we'renot.     Horst growled a retort. I decided that it was time for me to leave thecampfire. I got up and eased away as Horst and his men came up to thefire, and cut back to where Ninc was parked. I grabbed up my blanketsand mattress and started to roll them up. I had a pretty good idea nowwhat they used the high-walled pen for.     I should have known that they would have to pen the animals up for thenight. I should have used my head. I hadn't and now it was time to takeleave.     I never got the chance.  I was just heaving the saddle up on Ninc when I felt a hand on myshoulder and I was swung around.     Well, well. Horst, look who we have here, he called. It was the onewho'd made the joke about me being beneath the notice of a Losel. Hewas alone with me now, but with that call the others would be up fast.     I brought the saddle around as hard as I could and then up, and hewent down. He started to get up again, so I dropped the saddle on himand reached inside my jacket for my gun. Somebody grabbed me then frombehind and pinned my arms to my side.     I opened my mouth to scream—I have a good scream—but a rough smellyhand clamped down over it before I had a chance to get more than alungful of air. I bit down hard—5000 lbs. psi, I'm told—but hedidn't let me go. I started to kick, but Horst jerked me off my feetand dragged me off.     When we were behind the pen and out of earshot of the fire, he stoppeddragging me and dropped me in a heap. Make any noise, he said, andI'll hurt you.     That was a silly way to put it, but somehow it said more than if he'dthreatened to break my arm or my head. It left him a latitude of thingsto do if he pleased. He examined his hand. There was enough moonlightfor that. I ought to club you anyway, he said.     The one I'd dropped the saddle on came up then. The others were puttingthe animals in the pen. He started to kick me, but Horst stopped him.     No, he said. Look through the kid's gear, bring the horse and whatwe can use.     The other one didn't move. Get going, Jack, Horst said in a menacingtone and they stood toe to toe for a long moment before Jack finallybacked down. It seemed to me that Horst wasn't so much objecting to mebeing kicked, but was rather establishing who did the kicking in hisbunch.     But I wasn't done yet. I was scared, but I still had the pistol undermy jacket.     Horst turned back to me and I said, You can't do this and get awaywith it.     He said, Look, boy. You may not know it, but you be in a lot oftrouble. So don't give me a hard time.     He still thought I was a boy. It was not time to correct him, but Ididn't like to see the point go unchallenged. It was unflattering.     The courts won't let you get away with this, I said. I'd passeda courthouse in the town with a carved motto over the doors: EQUALJUSTICE UNDER THE LAW or TRUTH OUR SHIELD AND JUSTICE OUR SWORD orsomething stuffy like that.     He laughed, not a phony, villian-type laugh, but a real laugh, so Iknew I'd goofed.     Boy, boy. Don't talk about the courts. I be doing you a favor. I betaking what I can use of your gear, but I be letting you go. You go tocourt and they'll take everything and lock you up besides. I be leavingyou your freedom.     Why would they be doing that? I asked. I slipped my hand under myjacket.     Every time you open your mouth you shout that you be off one of theShips, Horst said. That be enough. They already have one of you bratsin jail in Forton.     I was about to bring my gun out when up came Jack leading Ninc, withall my stuff loaded on. I mentally thanked him.     He said, The kid's got some good equipment. But I can't make out whatthis be for. He held out my pickup signal.     Horst looked at it, then handed it back. Throw it away, he said.     I leveled my gun at them—Hell on Wheels strikes again! I said, Handthat over to me.     Horst made a disgusted sound.     Don't make any noise, I said, or you'll fry. Now hand it over.     I stowed it away, then paused with one hand on the leather horn of thesaddle. What's the name of the kid in jail in Forton.     I can't remember, he said. But it be coming to me. Hold on.     I waited. Then suddenly my arm was hit a numbing blow from behindand the gun went flying. Jack pounced after it and Horst said, Goodenough, to the others who'd come up behind me.     I felt like a fool.     Horst stalked over and got the signal. He dropped it on the ground andsaid in a voice far colder than mine could ever be, because it wasnatural and mine wasn't, The piece be yours. Then he tromped on ituntil it cracked and fell apart.     Then he said, Pull a gun on me twice. Twice. He slapped me so hardthat my ears rang. You dirty little punk.     I said calmly, You big louse.     It was a time I would have done better to keep my mouth shut. All I canremember is a flash of pain as his fist crunched against the side of myface and then nothing.     Brains are no good if you don't use them.   ","The story begins on a scoutship with 29 fourteen-year-olds. The narrator of the story is Mia Havero, she is short and skinny. Her father is the Chairman of the Council. The fourteen-year-olds are being dropped on a planet called Tintera for their Trial. Mia details her dislike of the planet. She rides on her horse Ninc for three days before she comes across other people. The men and Mia get into a disagreement because she does not want to join them. Mia proceeds to point her weapon and them. She tells them to drop their rifles on the ground and only lets them return to retrieve them once Mia and the men are a 20-minute ride away from the weapons. Mia continues on riding her horse and passes a town where she meets more people. Eventually, Mia ends up at a campsite where she intends to rest and eat. However, the men who she encountered before and flashed her weapon at, find her at the campsite. She is grabbed from behind. The men have their grip on her, preventing her from escaping from them. The men destroy her pickup signal and she is punched in the face by one of the men. "
"What was Mia taught about Earth being destroyed? </s>     DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN     BY ALEXEI PANSHIN     The ancient rule was sink or swim—swim     in the miasma of a planet without     spaceflight, or sink to utter destruction!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The horses and packs were loaded before we went aboard the scoutship.The scout bay is no more than a great oversized airlock with a dozensmall ships squatting over their tubes, but it was the last of the Shipthat I might ever see, so I took a long final look from the top of theramp.     There were sixteen of us girls and thirteen boys. We took our placesin the seats in the center of the scout. Riggy Allen made a joke thatnobody bothered to laugh at, and then we were all silent. I was feelinglost and just beginning to enjoy it when Jimmy Dentremont came over tome. He's red-headed and has a face that makes him look about ten. Anintelligent runt like me.     He said what I expected. Mia, do you want to go partners if we can gettogether when we get down?     I guess he thought that because we were always matched on study I likedhim. Well, I did when I wasn't mad at him, but now I had that crackhe'd made about being a snob in mind, so I said, Not likely. I want tocome back alive. It wasn't fair, but it was a good crack and he wentback to his place without saying anything.     My name is Mia Havero. I'm fourteen, of course, or I wouldn't betelling this. I'm short, dark and scrawny, though I don't expect thatscrawniness to last much longer. Mother is very good looking. In themeantime, I've got brains as a consolation.     After we were all settled, George Fuhonin, the pilot, raised the ramps.We sat there for five minutes while they bled air out of our tube andthen we just ... dropped. My stomach turned flips. We didn't have toleave that way, but George thinks it's fun to be a hot pilot.     Thinking it over, I was almost sorry I'd been stinking to Jimmy D. He'sthe only competition I have my own age. The trouble is, you don't gopartners with the competition, do you? Besides, there was still thatcrack about being a snob.     The planet chosen for our Trial was called Tintera. The last contactthe Ship had had with it—and we were the ones who dropped them—wasalmost 150 years ago. No contact since. That had made the Councildebate a little before they dropped us there, but they decided it wasall right in the end. It didn't make any practical difference to uskids because they never tell you anything about the place they're goingto drop you. All I knew was the name. I wouldn't have known that muchif Daddy weren't Chairman of the Council.     I felt like crawling in a corner of the ship and crying, but nobodyelse was breaking down, so I didn't. I did feel miserable. I cried whenI said good-by to Mother and Daddy—a real emotional scene—but thatwasn't in public.  It wasn't the chance of not coming back that bothered me really,because I never believed that I wouldn't. The thought that made meunhappy was that I would have to be on a planet for a whole month.Planets make me feel wretched.     The gravity is always wrong, for one thing. Either your arches andcalves ache or every time you step you think you're going to trip ona piece of fluff and break your neck. There are vegetables everywhereand little grubby things just looking for      you     to crawl on. If youcan think of anything creepier than that, you've got a real nastyimagination. Worst of all, planets stink. Every single one smells—I'vebeen on enough to know that. A planet is all right for a Mud-eater, butnot for me.     We have a place in the Ship like that—the Third Level—but it's only athousand square miles and any time it gets on your nerves you can go upa level or down a level and be back in civilization.     When we reached Tintera, they started dropping us. We swung over thesea from the morning side and then dropped low over gray-green forestedhills. Finally George spotted a clear area and dropped into it. Theydon't care what order you go in, so Jimmy D. jumped up, grabbed hisgear and then led his horse down the ramp. I think he was stillsmarting from the slap I'd given him.     In a minute we were airborne again. I wondered if I would ever seeJimmy—if he would get back alive.     It's no game we play. When we turn fourteen, they drop us on thenearest colonized planet and come back one month later. That may soundlike fun to you, but a lot of us never come back alive.     Don't think I was helpless. I'm hell on wheels. They don't let us growfor fourteen years and then kick us out to die. They prepare us. Theydo figure, though, that if you can't keep yourself alive by the timeyou're fourteen, you're too stupid, foolish or unlucky to be any use tothe Ship. There's sense behind it. It means that everybody on the Shipis a person who can take care of himself if he has to. Daddy says thatsomething has to be done in a closed society to keep the populationfrom decaying mentally and physically, and this is it. And it helps tokeep the population steady.     I began to check my gear out—sonic pistol, pickup signal so I could befound at the end of the month, saddle and cinches, food and clothes.Venie Morlock has got a crush on Jimmy D., and when she saw me startgetting ready to go, she began to check her gear, too. At our nextlanding, I grabbed Ninc's reins and cut Venie out smoothly. It didn'thave anything to do with Jimmy. I just couldn't stand to put off thebad moment any longer.     The ship lifted impersonally away from Ninc and me like a rising bird,and in just a moment it was gone. Its gray-blue color was almost thecolor of the half-overcast sky, so I was never sure when I saw it last.      II     The first night was hell, I guess because I'm not used to having thelights out. That's when you really start to feel lonely, being alone inthe dark. When the sun disappears, somehow you wonder in your stomachif it's really going to come back. But I lived through it—one day inthirty gone.     I rode in a spiral search pattern during the next two days. I had threethings in mind—stay alive, find people and find some of the others.The first was automatic. The second was to find out if there was a slotI could fit into for a month. If not, I would have to find a place tocamp out, as nasty as that would be. The third was to join forces,though not with that meatball Jimmy D.     No, he isn't really a meatball. The trouble is that I don't takenothing from nobody, especially him, and he doesn't take nothing fromnobody, especially me. So we do a lot of fighting.     I had a good month for Trial. My birthday is in November—too close toYear End Holiday for my taste, but this year it was all right. It wasspring on Tintera, but it was December in the Ship, and after we gotback we had five days of Holiday to celebrate. It gave me something tolook forward to.     In two days of riding, I ran onto nothing but a few odd-lookinganimals. I shot one small one and ate it. It turned out to taste prettygood, though not as good as a slice from Hambone No. 4, to my mind thebest meat vat on the Ship. I've eaten things so gruey-looking that Iwondered that anybody had the guts to try them in the first place andthey've turned out to taste good. And I've seen things that looked goodthat I couldn't keep on my stomach. So I guess I was lucky.     On the third day, I found the road. I brought Ninc down off thehillside, losing sight of the road in the trees, and then reachingit in the level below. It was narrow and made of sand spread over ahard base. Out of the marks in the sand, I could pick out the tracksof horses and both narrow and wide wheels. Other tracks I couldn'tidentify.     One of the smartest moves in history was to include horses whenthey dropped the colonies. I say they because, while we did theactual dropping, the idea originated with the whole evac plan back onEarth. Considering how short a time it was in which the colonies wereestablished, there was not time to set up industry, so they had to havedraft animals.     The first of the Great Ships was finished in 2025. One of the eight,as well as the two that were being built then, went up with everythingelse in the Solar System in 2041. In that sixteen years 112 colonieswere planted. I don't know how many of those planets had animals that      could     have been substituted but, even if they had, they would havehad to be domesticated from scratch. That would have been stupid. I'llbet that half the colonies would have failed if they hadn't had horses.  We'd come in from the west over the ocean, so I traveled east on theroad. That much water makes me nervous, and roads have to go somewhere.     I came on my first travelers three hours later. I rounded a tree-linedbend, ducking an overhanging branch, and pulled Ninc to a stop. Therewere five men on horseback herding a bunch of the ugliest creaturesalive.     They were green and grotesque. They had squat bodies, long limbs andknobby bulges at their joints. They had square, flat animal masks forfaces. But they walked on their hind legs and they had paws that werealmost hands, and that was enough to make them seem almost human. Theymade a wordless, chilling, lowing sound as they milled and ploddedalong.     I started Ninc up again and moved slowly to catch up with them. All themen on horseback had guns in saddle boots. They looked as nervous ascats with kittens. One of them had a string of packhorses on a lineand he saw me and called to another who seemed to be the leader. Thatone wheeled his black horse and rode back toward me.     He was a middle-aged man, maybe as old as my Daddy. He was large and hehad a hard face. Normal enough, but hard. He pulled to a halt when wereached each other, but I kept going. He had to come around and followme. I believe in judging a person by his face. A man can't help theface he owns, but he can help the expression he wears on it. If a manlooks mean, I generally believe that he is. This one looked mean. Thatwas why I kept riding.     He said, What be you doing out here, boy? Be you out of your head?There be escaped Losels in these woods.     I told you I hadn't finished filling out yet, but I hadn't thought itwas that bad. I wasn't ready to make a fight over the point, though.Generally, I can't keep my bloody mouth shut, but now I didn't sayanything. It seemed smart.     Where be you from? he asked.     I pointed to the road behind us.     And where be you going?     I pointed ahead. No other way to go.     He seemed exasperated. I have that effect sometimes. Even on Mother andDaddy, who should know better.     We were coming up on the others now, and the man said, Maybe you'dbetter ride on from here with us. For protection.     He had an odd way of twisting his sounds, almost as though he had amouthful of mush. I wondered whether he were just an oddball or whethereverybody here spoke the same way. I'd never heard InternationalEnglish spoken any way but one, even on the planet Daddy made me visitwith him.     One of the other outriders came easing by then. I suppose they'd beenwatching us all the while. He called to the hard man.     He be awfully small, Horst. I doubt me a Losel'd even notice him atall. We mought as well throw him back again.     The rider looked at me. When I didn't dissolve in terror as heexpected, he shrugged and one of the other men laughed.     The hard man said to the others, This boy will be riding along with usto Forton for protection.     I looked down at the plodding, unhappy creatures they were drivingalong and one looked back at me with dull, expressionless golden eyes.I felt uncomfortable.     I said, I don't think so.     What the man did then surprised me. He said, I do think so, andreached for the rifle in his saddle boot.     I whipped my sonic pistol out so fast that he was caught leaning overwith the rifle half out. His jaw dropped. He knew what I held and hedidn't want to be fried.     I said, Ease your rifles out and drop them gently to the ground.     They did, watching me all the while with wary expressions.     When all the rifles were on the ground, I said, All right, let's go.     They didn't want to move. They didn't want to leave the rifles. Icould see that. Horst didn't say anything. He just watched me withnarrowed eyes. But one of the others held up a hand and in wheedlingtones said, Look here, kid....     Shut up, I said, in as mean a voice as I could muster, and he did. Itsurprised me. I didn't think I sounded      that     mean. I decided he justdidn't trust the crazy kid not to shoot.     After twenty minutes of easy riding for us and hard walking for thecreatures, I said, If you want your rifles, you can go back and getthem now. I dug my heels into Ninc's sides and rode on. At the nextbend I looked back and saw four of them holding their packhorses andthe creatures still while one beat a dust-raising retreat down the road.     I put this episode in the file and hold for analysis section in mymind and rode on, feeling good. I think I even giggled once. SometimesI even convince myself that I'm hell on wheels.      III     When I was nine, my Daddy gave me a painted wooden doll that mygreat-grandmother brought from Earth. The thing is that inside it,nestled one in another, are eleven more dolls, each one smaller thanthe last. I like to watch people when they open it for the first time.     My face must have been like that as I rode along the road.     The country leveled into a great rolling valley and the trees gaveway to great farms and fields. In the fields, working, were some ofthe green creatures, which surprised me since the ones I'd seen beforehadn't seemed smart enough to count to one, let alone do any work.     But it relieved me. I thought they might have been eating them orsomething.     I passed two crossroads and started to meet more people, but nobodyquestioned me. I met people on horseback, and twice I met trucks movingsilently past. And I overtook a wagon driven by the oldest man I'veseen in my life. He waved to me, and I waved back.     Near the end of the afternoon I came to the town, and there I receiveda jolt that sickened me.     By the time I came out on the other side, I was sick. My hands werecold and sweaty and my head was spinning, and I wanted to kick Ninc toa gallop.     I rode slowly in, looking all around, missing nothing. The town was allstone, wood and brick. Out of date. Out of time, really. There wereno machines more complicated than the trucks I'd seen earlier. At theedge of town, I passed a newspaper office with a headline pasted in thewindow—INVASION! I remember that. I wondered about it.     But I looked most closely at the people. In all that town, I didn'tsee one girl over ten years old and no grown-up women at all. Therewere little kids, there were boys and there were men, but no girls. Allthe boys and men wore pants, and so did I, which must have been whyHorst and his buddies assumed I was a boy. It wasn't flattering; butI decided I'd not tell anybody different until I found what made theclocks tick on this planet.     But that wasn't what bothered me. It was the kids. My God! Theyswarmed. I saw a family come out of a house—a father and      four     children. It was the most foul thing I've ever seen. It struck methen—these people were Free Birthers! I felt a wave of nausea and Iclosed my eyes until it passed.  The first thing you learn in school is that if it weren't for idiot andcriminal people like these, Earth would never have been destroyed. Theevacuation would never have had to take place, and eight billion peoplewouldn't have died. There wouldn't have      been     eight billion people.But, no. They bred and they spread and they devoured everything intheir path like a cancer. They gobbled up all the resources that Earthhad and crowded and shoved one another until the final war came.     I am lucky. My great-great-grandparents were among those who had enoughforesight to see what was coming. If it hadn't been for them and someothers like them, there wouldn't be any humans left anywhere. And Iwouldn't be here. That may not scare you, but it scares me.     What happened before, when people didn't use their heads and wound upblowing the Solar System apart, is something nobody should forget. Theolder people don't let us forget. But these people had, and that theCouncil should know.     For the first time since I landed on Tintera, I felt      really     frightened. There was too much going on that I didn't understand. Ifelt a blind urge to get away, and when I reached the edge of town, Iwhomped Ninc a good one and gave him his head.     I let him run for almost a mile before I pulled him down to a walkagain. I couldn't help wishing for Jimmy D. Whatever else he is, he'ssmart and brains I needed.     How do you find out what's going on? Eavesdrop? That's a lousy method.For one thing, people can't be depended on to talk about the things youwant to hear. For another, you're likely to get caught. Ask somebody?Who? Make the mistake of bracing a fellow like Horst and you might windup with a sore head and an empty pocket. The best thing I could thinkof was to find a library, but that might be a job.     I'd had two bad shocks on this day, but they weren't the last. In thelate afternoon, when the sun was starting to sink and a cool wind wasstarting to ripple the tree leaves, I saw the scoutship high in thesky. The dying sun colored it a deep red. Back again? I wondered whathad gone wrong.     I reached down into my saddlebag and brought out my contact signal.The scoutship swung up in the sky in a familiar movement calculated todrop the stomach out of everybody aboard. George Fuhonin's style. Itriggered the signal, my heart turning flips all the while. I didn'tknow why he was back, but I wasn't really sorry.     The ship swung around until it was coming back on a path almost over myhead, going in the same direction. Then it went into a slip and startedbucking so hard that I knew this wasn't hot piloting at all, just plainidiot stutter-fingered stupidity at the controls. As it skidded by meoverhead, I got a good look at it and knew that it wasn't one of ours.Not too different, but not ours.       One more enigma. Where was it from? Not here. Even if you know how, andwe wouldn't tell these Mud-eaters how, a scoutship is something thattakes an advanced technology to build.  I felt defeated and tired. Not much farther along the road, I came toa campsite with two wagons pulled in for the night, and I couldn'thelp but pull in myself. The campsite was large and had two permanentbuildings on it. One was a well enclosure and the other was little morethan a high-walled pen. It didn't even have a roof.     I set up camp and ate my dinner. In the wagon closest to me were a man,his wife and their three children. The kids were running around andplaying, and one of them ran close to the high-walled pen. His fathercame and pulled him away.     The kids weren't to blame for their parents, but when one of them saidhello to me, I didn't even answer. I know how lousy I would feel if Ihad two or three brothers and sisters, but it didn't strike me untilthat moment that it wouldn't even seem out of the ordinary to thesekids. Isn't that horrible?     About the time I finished eating, and before it grew dark, the old manI had seen earlier in the day drove his wagon in. He fascinated me. Hehad white hair, something I had read about in stories but had neverseen before.     When nightfall came, they started a large fire. Everybody gatheredaround. There was singing for awhile, and then the father of thechildren tried to pack them off to bed. But they weren't ready to go,so the old man started telling them a story. In the old man's oddaccent, and sitting there in the campfire light surrounded by darkness,it seemed just right.     It was about an old witch named Baba Yaga who lived in the forest ina house that stood on chicken legs. She was the nasty stepmother of anice little girl, and to get rid of the kid, she sent her on a phonyerrand into the deep dark woods at nightfall. I could appreciate thepoor girl's position. All the little girl had to help her were thehandkerchief, the comb and the pearl that she had inherited from herdear dead mother. But, as it turned out, they were just enough todefeat nasty old Baba Yaga and bring the girl safely home.     I wished for the same for myself.     The old man had just finished and they were starting to drag the kidsoff to bed when there was a commotion on the road at the edge of thecamp. I looked but my eyes were adjusted to the light of the fire and Icouldn't see far into the dark.     A voice there said, I'll be damned if I'll take another day like thisone, Horst. We should have been here hours ago. It be your fault we'renot.     Horst growled a retort. I decided that it was time for me to leave thecampfire. I got up and eased away as Horst and his men came up to thefire, and cut back to where Ninc was parked. I grabbed up my blanketsand mattress and started to roll them up. I had a pretty good idea nowwhat they used the high-walled pen for.     I should have known that they would have to pen the animals up for thenight. I should have used my head. I hadn't and now it was time to takeleave.     I never got the chance.  I was just heaving the saddle up on Ninc when I felt a hand on myshoulder and I was swung around.     Well, well. Horst, look who we have here, he called. It was the onewho'd made the joke about me being beneath the notice of a Losel. Hewas alone with me now, but with that call the others would be up fast.     I brought the saddle around as hard as I could and then up, and hewent down. He started to get up again, so I dropped the saddle on himand reached inside my jacket for my gun. Somebody grabbed me then frombehind and pinned my arms to my side.     I opened my mouth to scream—I have a good scream—but a rough smellyhand clamped down over it before I had a chance to get more than alungful of air. I bit down hard—5000 lbs. psi, I'm told—but hedidn't let me go. I started to kick, but Horst jerked me off my feetand dragged me off.     When we were behind the pen and out of earshot of the fire, he stoppeddragging me and dropped me in a heap. Make any noise, he said, andI'll hurt you.     That was a silly way to put it, but somehow it said more than if he'dthreatened to break my arm or my head. It left him a latitude of thingsto do if he pleased. He examined his hand. There was enough moonlightfor that. I ought to club you anyway, he said.     The one I'd dropped the saddle on came up then. The others were puttingthe animals in the pen. He started to kick me, but Horst stopped him.     No, he said. Look through the kid's gear, bring the horse and whatwe can use.     The other one didn't move. Get going, Jack, Horst said in a menacingtone and they stood toe to toe for a long moment before Jack finallybacked down. It seemed to me that Horst wasn't so much objecting to mebeing kicked, but was rather establishing who did the kicking in hisbunch.     But I wasn't done yet. I was scared, but I still had the pistol undermy jacket.     Horst turned back to me and I said, You can't do this and get awaywith it.     He said, Look, boy. You may not know it, but you be in a lot oftrouble. So don't give me a hard time.     He still thought I was a boy. It was not time to correct him, but Ididn't like to see the point go unchallenged. It was unflattering.     The courts won't let you get away with this, I said. I'd passeda courthouse in the town with a carved motto over the doors: EQUALJUSTICE UNDER THE LAW or TRUTH OUR SHIELD AND JUSTICE OUR SWORD orsomething stuffy like that.     He laughed, not a phony, villian-type laugh, but a real laugh, so Iknew I'd goofed.     Boy, boy. Don't talk about the courts. I be doing you a favor. I betaking what I can use of your gear, but I be letting you go. You go tocourt and they'll take everything and lock you up besides. I be leavingyou your freedom.     Why would they be doing that? I asked. I slipped my hand under myjacket.     Every time you open your mouth you shout that you be off one of theShips, Horst said. That be enough. They already have one of you bratsin jail in Forton.     I was about to bring my gun out when up came Jack leading Ninc, withall my stuff loaded on. I mentally thanked him.     He said, The kid's got some good equipment. But I can't make out whatthis be for. He held out my pickup signal.     Horst looked at it, then handed it back. Throw it away, he said.     I leveled my gun at them—Hell on Wheels strikes again! I said, Handthat over to me.     Horst made a disgusted sound.     Don't make any noise, I said, or you'll fry. Now hand it over.     I stowed it away, then paused with one hand on the leather horn of thesaddle. What's the name of the kid in jail in Forton.     I can't remember, he said. But it be coming to me. Hold on.     I waited. Then suddenly my arm was hit a numbing blow from behindand the gun went flying. Jack pounced after it and Horst said, Goodenough, to the others who'd come up behind me.     I felt like a fool.     Horst stalked over and got the signal. He dropped it on the ground andsaid in a voice far colder than mine could ever be, because it wasnatural and mine wasn't, The piece be yours. Then he tromped on ituntil it cracked and fell apart.     Then he said, Pull a gun on me twice. Twice. He slapped me so hardthat my ears rang. You dirty little punk.     I said calmly, You big louse.     It was a time I would have done better to keep my mouth shut. All I canremember is a flash of pain as his fist crunched against the side of myface and then nothing.     Brains are no good if you don't use them.   ","Mia is taught that those who destroyed Earth were not smart and that they deserve punishment for their actions. According to her, Earth was evacuated because of overpopulation. People had too many children that required more resources than Earth was capable of providing. Consequently, there was a fight over the remaining resources that caused a war. Mia has great-great-grandparents that were among those who anticipated the destruction of Earth and prepared to leave. In addition, Mia talks about how humans left Earth. She says there were Great Ships built around 2025. The Great Ships and other things went into the Solar System in 2041. The humans that escaped established 112 colonies in the first 16 years. During this retelling of what she was taught, she emphasizes that horses were important to the success of the new colonies. "
"What about the planet Tintera does Mia note is different than what she is used to? </s>     DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN     BY ALEXEI PANSHIN     The ancient rule was sink or swim—swim     in the miasma of a planet without     spaceflight, or sink to utter destruction!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The horses and packs were loaded before we went aboard the scoutship.The scout bay is no more than a great oversized airlock with a dozensmall ships squatting over their tubes, but it was the last of the Shipthat I might ever see, so I took a long final look from the top of theramp.     There were sixteen of us girls and thirteen boys. We took our placesin the seats in the center of the scout. Riggy Allen made a joke thatnobody bothered to laugh at, and then we were all silent. I was feelinglost and just beginning to enjoy it when Jimmy Dentremont came over tome. He's red-headed and has a face that makes him look about ten. Anintelligent runt like me.     He said what I expected. Mia, do you want to go partners if we can gettogether when we get down?     I guess he thought that because we were always matched on study I likedhim. Well, I did when I wasn't mad at him, but now I had that crackhe'd made about being a snob in mind, so I said, Not likely. I want tocome back alive. It wasn't fair, but it was a good crack and he wentback to his place without saying anything.     My name is Mia Havero. I'm fourteen, of course, or I wouldn't betelling this. I'm short, dark and scrawny, though I don't expect thatscrawniness to last much longer. Mother is very good looking. In themeantime, I've got brains as a consolation.     After we were all settled, George Fuhonin, the pilot, raised the ramps.We sat there for five minutes while they bled air out of our tube andthen we just ... dropped. My stomach turned flips. We didn't have toleave that way, but George thinks it's fun to be a hot pilot.     Thinking it over, I was almost sorry I'd been stinking to Jimmy D. He'sthe only competition I have my own age. The trouble is, you don't gopartners with the competition, do you? Besides, there was still thatcrack about being a snob.     The planet chosen for our Trial was called Tintera. The last contactthe Ship had had with it—and we were the ones who dropped them—wasalmost 150 years ago. No contact since. That had made the Councildebate a little before they dropped us there, but they decided it wasall right in the end. It didn't make any practical difference to uskids because they never tell you anything about the place they're goingto drop you. All I knew was the name. I wouldn't have known that muchif Daddy weren't Chairman of the Council.     I felt like crawling in a corner of the ship and crying, but nobodyelse was breaking down, so I didn't. I did feel miserable. I cried whenI said good-by to Mother and Daddy—a real emotional scene—but thatwasn't in public.  It wasn't the chance of not coming back that bothered me really,because I never believed that I wouldn't. The thought that made meunhappy was that I would have to be on a planet for a whole month.Planets make me feel wretched.     The gravity is always wrong, for one thing. Either your arches andcalves ache or every time you step you think you're going to trip ona piece of fluff and break your neck. There are vegetables everywhereand little grubby things just looking for      you     to crawl on. If youcan think of anything creepier than that, you've got a real nastyimagination. Worst of all, planets stink. Every single one smells—I'vebeen on enough to know that. A planet is all right for a Mud-eater, butnot for me.     We have a place in the Ship like that—the Third Level—but it's only athousand square miles and any time it gets on your nerves you can go upa level or down a level and be back in civilization.     When we reached Tintera, they started dropping us. We swung over thesea from the morning side and then dropped low over gray-green forestedhills. Finally George spotted a clear area and dropped into it. Theydon't care what order you go in, so Jimmy D. jumped up, grabbed hisgear and then led his horse down the ramp. I think he was stillsmarting from the slap I'd given him.     In a minute we were airborne again. I wondered if I would ever seeJimmy—if he would get back alive.     It's no game we play. When we turn fourteen, they drop us on thenearest colonized planet and come back one month later. That may soundlike fun to you, but a lot of us never come back alive.     Don't think I was helpless. I'm hell on wheels. They don't let us growfor fourteen years and then kick us out to die. They prepare us. Theydo figure, though, that if you can't keep yourself alive by the timeyou're fourteen, you're too stupid, foolish or unlucky to be any use tothe Ship. There's sense behind it. It means that everybody on the Shipis a person who can take care of himself if he has to. Daddy says thatsomething has to be done in a closed society to keep the populationfrom decaying mentally and physically, and this is it. And it helps tokeep the population steady.     I began to check my gear out—sonic pistol, pickup signal so I could befound at the end of the month, saddle and cinches, food and clothes.Venie Morlock has got a crush on Jimmy D., and when she saw me startgetting ready to go, she began to check her gear, too. At our nextlanding, I grabbed Ninc's reins and cut Venie out smoothly. It didn'thave anything to do with Jimmy. I just couldn't stand to put off thebad moment any longer.     The ship lifted impersonally away from Ninc and me like a rising bird,and in just a moment it was gone. Its gray-blue color was almost thecolor of the half-overcast sky, so I was never sure when I saw it last.      II     The first night was hell, I guess because I'm not used to having thelights out. That's when you really start to feel lonely, being alone inthe dark. When the sun disappears, somehow you wonder in your stomachif it's really going to come back. But I lived through it—one day inthirty gone.     I rode in a spiral search pattern during the next two days. I had threethings in mind—stay alive, find people and find some of the others.The first was automatic. The second was to find out if there was a slotI could fit into for a month. If not, I would have to find a place tocamp out, as nasty as that would be. The third was to join forces,though not with that meatball Jimmy D.     No, he isn't really a meatball. The trouble is that I don't takenothing from nobody, especially him, and he doesn't take nothing fromnobody, especially me. So we do a lot of fighting.     I had a good month for Trial. My birthday is in November—too close toYear End Holiday for my taste, but this year it was all right. It wasspring on Tintera, but it was December in the Ship, and after we gotback we had five days of Holiday to celebrate. It gave me something tolook forward to.     In two days of riding, I ran onto nothing but a few odd-lookinganimals. I shot one small one and ate it. It turned out to taste prettygood, though not as good as a slice from Hambone No. 4, to my mind thebest meat vat on the Ship. I've eaten things so gruey-looking that Iwondered that anybody had the guts to try them in the first place andthey've turned out to taste good. And I've seen things that looked goodthat I couldn't keep on my stomach. So I guess I was lucky.     On the third day, I found the road. I brought Ninc down off thehillside, losing sight of the road in the trees, and then reachingit in the level below. It was narrow and made of sand spread over ahard base. Out of the marks in the sand, I could pick out the tracksof horses and both narrow and wide wheels. Other tracks I couldn'tidentify.     One of the smartest moves in history was to include horses whenthey dropped the colonies. I say they because, while we did theactual dropping, the idea originated with the whole evac plan back onEarth. Considering how short a time it was in which the colonies wereestablished, there was not time to set up industry, so they had to havedraft animals.     The first of the Great Ships was finished in 2025. One of the eight,as well as the two that were being built then, went up with everythingelse in the Solar System in 2041. In that sixteen years 112 colonieswere planted. I don't know how many of those planets had animals that      could     have been substituted but, even if they had, they would havehad to be domesticated from scratch. That would have been stupid. I'llbet that half the colonies would have failed if they hadn't had horses.  We'd come in from the west over the ocean, so I traveled east on theroad. That much water makes me nervous, and roads have to go somewhere.     I came on my first travelers three hours later. I rounded a tree-linedbend, ducking an overhanging branch, and pulled Ninc to a stop. Therewere five men on horseback herding a bunch of the ugliest creaturesalive.     They were green and grotesque. They had squat bodies, long limbs andknobby bulges at their joints. They had square, flat animal masks forfaces. But they walked on their hind legs and they had paws that werealmost hands, and that was enough to make them seem almost human. Theymade a wordless, chilling, lowing sound as they milled and ploddedalong.     I started Ninc up again and moved slowly to catch up with them. All themen on horseback had guns in saddle boots. They looked as nervous ascats with kittens. One of them had a string of packhorses on a lineand he saw me and called to another who seemed to be the leader. Thatone wheeled his black horse and rode back toward me.     He was a middle-aged man, maybe as old as my Daddy. He was large and hehad a hard face. Normal enough, but hard. He pulled to a halt when wereached each other, but I kept going. He had to come around and followme. I believe in judging a person by his face. A man can't help theface he owns, but he can help the expression he wears on it. If a manlooks mean, I generally believe that he is. This one looked mean. Thatwas why I kept riding.     He said, What be you doing out here, boy? Be you out of your head?There be escaped Losels in these woods.     I told you I hadn't finished filling out yet, but I hadn't thought itwas that bad. I wasn't ready to make a fight over the point, though.Generally, I can't keep my bloody mouth shut, but now I didn't sayanything. It seemed smart.     Where be you from? he asked.     I pointed to the road behind us.     And where be you going?     I pointed ahead. No other way to go.     He seemed exasperated. I have that effect sometimes. Even on Mother andDaddy, who should know better.     We were coming up on the others now, and the man said, Maybe you'dbetter ride on from here with us. For protection.     He had an odd way of twisting his sounds, almost as though he had amouthful of mush. I wondered whether he were just an oddball or whethereverybody here spoke the same way. I'd never heard InternationalEnglish spoken any way but one, even on the planet Daddy made me visitwith him.     One of the other outriders came easing by then. I suppose they'd beenwatching us all the while. He called to the hard man.     He be awfully small, Horst. I doubt me a Losel'd even notice him atall. We mought as well throw him back again.     The rider looked at me. When I didn't dissolve in terror as heexpected, he shrugged and one of the other men laughed.     The hard man said to the others, This boy will be riding along with usto Forton for protection.     I looked down at the plodding, unhappy creatures they were drivingalong and one looked back at me with dull, expressionless golden eyes.I felt uncomfortable.     I said, I don't think so.     What the man did then surprised me. He said, I do think so, andreached for the rifle in his saddle boot.     I whipped my sonic pistol out so fast that he was caught leaning overwith the rifle half out. His jaw dropped. He knew what I held and hedidn't want to be fried.     I said, Ease your rifles out and drop them gently to the ground.     They did, watching me all the while with wary expressions.     When all the rifles were on the ground, I said, All right, let's go.     They didn't want to move. They didn't want to leave the rifles. Icould see that. Horst didn't say anything. He just watched me withnarrowed eyes. But one of the others held up a hand and in wheedlingtones said, Look here, kid....     Shut up, I said, in as mean a voice as I could muster, and he did. Itsurprised me. I didn't think I sounded      that     mean. I decided he justdidn't trust the crazy kid not to shoot.     After twenty minutes of easy riding for us and hard walking for thecreatures, I said, If you want your rifles, you can go back and getthem now. I dug my heels into Ninc's sides and rode on. At the nextbend I looked back and saw four of them holding their packhorses andthe creatures still while one beat a dust-raising retreat down the road.     I put this episode in the file and hold for analysis section in mymind and rode on, feeling good. I think I even giggled once. SometimesI even convince myself that I'm hell on wheels.      III     When I was nine, my Daddy gave me a painted wooden doll that mygreat-grandmother brought from Earth. The thing is that inside it,nestled one in another, are eleven more dolls, each one smaller thanthe last. I like to watch people when they open it for the first time.     My face must have been like that as I rode along the road.     The country leveled into a great rolling valley and the trees gaveway to great farms and fields. In the fields, working, were some ofthe green creatures, which surprised me since the ones I'd seen beforehadn't seemed smart enough to count to one, let alone do any work.     But it relieved me. I thought they might have been eating them orsomething.     I passed two crossroads and started to meet more people, but nobodyquestioned me. I met people on horseback, and twice I met trucks movingsilently past. And I overtook a wagon driven by the oldest man I'veseen in my life. He waved to me, and I waved back.     Near the end of the afternoon I came to the town, and there I receiveda jolt that sickened me.     By the time I came out on the other side, I was sick. My hands werecold and sweaty and my head was spinning, and I wanted to kick Ninc toa gallop.     I rode slowly in, looking all around, missing nothing. The town was allstone, wood and brick. Out of date. Out of time, really. There wereno machines more complicated than the trucks I'd seen earlier. At theedge of town, I passed a newspaper office with a headline pasted in thewindow—INVASION! I remember that. I wondered about it.     But I looked most closely at the people. In all that town, I didn'tsee one girl over ten years old and no grown-up women at all. Therewere little kids, there were boys and there were men, but no girls. Allthe boys and men wore pants, and so did I, which must have been whyHorst and his buddies assumed I was a boy. It wasn't flattering; butI decided I'd not tell anybody different until I found what made theclocks tick on this planet.     But that wasn't what bothered me. It was the kids. My God! Theyswarmed. I saw a family come out of a house—a father and      four     children. It was the most foul thing I've ever seen. It struck methen—these people were Free Birthers! I felt a wave of nausea and Iclosed my eyes until it passed.  The first thing you learn in school is that if it weren't for idiot andcriminal people like these, Earth would never have been destroyed. Theevacuation would never have had to take place, and eight billion peoplewouldn't have died. There wouldn't have      been     eight billion people.But, no. They bred and they spread and they devoured everything intheir path like a cancer. They gobbled up all the resources that Earthhad and crowded and shoved one another until the final war came.     I am lucky. My great-great-grandparents were among those who had enoughforesight to see what was coming. If it hadn't been for them and someothers like them, there wouldn't be any humans left anywhere. And Iwouldn't be here. That may not scare you, but it scares me.     What happened before, when people didn't use their heads and wound upblowing the Solar System apart, is something nobody should forget. Theolder people don't let us forget. But these people had, and that theCouncil should know.     For the first time since I landed on Tintera, I felt      really     frightened. There was too much going on that I didn't understand. Ifelt a blind urge to get away, and when I reached the edge of town, Iwhomped Ninc a good one and gave him his head.     I let him run for almost a mile before I pulled him down to a walkagain. I couldn't help wishing for Jimmy D. Whatever else he is, he'ssmart and brains I needed.     How do you find out what's going on? Eavesdrop? That's a lousy method.For one thing, people can't be depended on to talk about the things youwant to hear. For another, you're likely to get caught. Ask somebody?Who? Make the mistake of bracing a fellow like Horst and you might windup with a sore head and an empty pocket. The best thing I could thinkof was to find a library, but that might be a job.     I'd had two bad shocks on this day, but they weren't the last. In thelate afternoon, when the sun was starting to sink and a cool wind wasstarting to ripple the tree leaves, I saw the scoutship high in thesky. The dying sun colored it a deep red. Back again? I wondered whathad gone wrong.     I reached down into my saddlebag and brought out my contact signal.The scoutship swung up in the sky in a familiar movement calculated todrop the stomach out of everybody aboard. George Fuhonin's style. Itriggered the signal, my heart turning flips all the while. I didn'tknow why he was back, but I wasn't really sorry.     The ship swung around until it was coming back on a path almost over myhead, going in the same direction. Then it went into a slip and startedbucking so hard that I knew this wasn't hot piloting at all, just plainidiot stutter-fingered stupidity at the controls. As it skidded by meoverhead, I got a good look at it and knew that it wasn't one of ours.Not too different, but not ours.       One more enigma. Where was it from? Not here. Even if you know how, andwe wouldn't tell these Mud-eaters how, a scoutship is something thattakes an advanced technology to build.  I felt defeated and tired. Not much farther along the road, I came toa campsite with two wagons pulled in for the night, and I couldn'thelp but pull in myself. The campsite was large and had two permanentbuildings on it. One was a well enclosure and the other was little morethan a high-walled pen. It didn't even have a roof.     I set up camp and ate my dinner. In the wagon closest to me were a man,his wife and their three children. The kids were running around andplaying, and one of them ran close to the high-walled pen. His fathercame and pulled him away.     The kids weren't to blame for their parents, but when one of them saidhello to me, I didn't even answer. I know how lousy I would feel if Ihad two or three brothers and sisters, but it didn't strike me untilthat moment that it wouldn't even seem out of the ordinary to thesekids. Isn't that horrible?     About the time I finished eating, and before it grew dark, the old manI had seen earlier in the day drove his wagon in. He fascinated me. Hehad white hair, something I had read about in stories but had neverseen before.     When nightfall came, they started a large fire. Everybody gatheredaround. There was singing for awhile, and then the father of thechildren tried to pack them off to bed. But they weren't ready to go,so the old man started telling them a story. In the old man's oddaccent, and sitting there in the campfire light surrounded by darkness,it seemed just right.     It was about an old witch named Baba Yaga who lived in the forest ina house that stood on chicken legs. She was the nasty stepmother of anice little girl, and to get rid of the kid, she sent her on a phonyerrand into the deep dark woods at nightfall. I could appreciate thepoor girl's position. All the little girl had to help her were thehandkerchief, the comb and the pearl that she had inherited from herdear dead mother. But, as it turned out, they were just enough todefeat nasty old Baba Yaga and bring the girl safely home.     I wished for the same for myself.     The old man had just finished and they were starting to drag the kidsoff to bed when there was a commotion on the road at the edge of thecamp. I looked but my eyes were adjusted to the light of the fire and Icouldn't see far into the dark.     A voice there said, I'll be damned if I'll take another day like thisone, Horst. We should have been here hours ago. It be your fault we'renot.     Horst growled a retort. I decided that it was time for me to leave thecampfire. I got up and eased away as Horst and his men came up to thefire, and cut back to where Ninc was parked. I grabbed up my blanketsand mattress and started to roll them up. I had a pretty good idea nowwhat they used the high-walled pen for.     I should have known that they would have to pen the animals up for thenight. I should have used my head. I hadn't and now it was time to takeleave.     I never got the chance.  I was just heaving the saddle up on Ninc when I felt a hand on myshoulder and I was swung around.     Well, well. Horst, look who we have here, he called. It was the onewho'd made the joke about me being beneath the notice of a Losel. Hewas alone with me now, but with that call the others would be up fast.     I brought the saddle around as hard as I could and then up, and hewent down. He started to get up again, so I dropped the saddle on himand reached inside my jacket for my gun. Somebody grabbed me then frombehind and pinned my arms to my side.     I opened my mouth to scream—I have a good scream—but a rough smellyhand clamped down over it before I had a chance to get more than alungful of air. I bit down hard—5000 lbs. psi, I'm told—but hedidn't let me go. I started to kick, but Horst jerked me off my feetand dragged me off.     When we were behind the pen and out of earshot of the fire, he stoppeddragging me and dropped me in a heap. Make any noise, he said, andI'll hurt you.     That was a silly way to put it, but somehow it said more than if he'dthreatened to break my arm or my head. It left him a latitude of thingsto do if he pleased. He examined his hand. There was enough moonlightfor that. I ought to club you anyway, he said.     The one I'd dropped the saddle on came up then. The others were puttingthe animals in the pen. He started to kick me, but Horst stopped him.     No, he said. Look through the kid's gear, bring the horse and whatwe can use.     The other one didn't move. Get going, Jack, Horst said in a menacingtone and they stood toe to toe for a long moment before Jack finallybacked down. It seemed to me that Horst wasn't so much objecting to mebeing kicked, but was rather establishing who did the kicking in hisbunch.     But I wasn't done yet. I was scared, but I still had the pistol undermy jacket.     Horst turned back to me and I said, You can't do this and get awaywith it.     He said, Look, boy. You may not know it, but you be in a lot oftrouble. So don't give me a hard time.     He still thought I was a boy. It was not time to correct him, but Ididn't like to see the point go unchallenged. It was unflattering.     The courts won't let you get away with this, I said. I'd passeda courthouse in the town with a carved motto over the doors: EQUALJUSTICE UNDER THE LAW or TRUTH OUR SHIELD AND JUSTICE OUR SWORD orsomething stuffy like that.     He laughed, not a phony, villian-type laugh, but a real laugh, so Iknew I'd goofed.     Boy, boy. Don't talk about the courts. I be doing you a favor. I betaking what I can use of your gear, but I be letting you go. You go tocourt and they'll take everything and lock you up besides. I be leavingyou your freedom.     Why would they be doing that? I asked. I slipped my hand under myjacket.     Every time you open your mouth you shout that you be off one of theShips, Horst said. That be enough. They already have one of you bratsin jail in Forton.     I was about to bring my gun out when up came Jack leading Ninc, withall my stuff loaded on. I mentally thanked him.     He said, The kid's got some good equipment. But I can't make out whatthis be for. He held out my pickup signal.     Horst looked at it, then handed it back. Throw it away, he said.     I leveled my gun at them—Hell on Wheels strikes again! I said, Handthat over to me.     Horst made a disgusted sound.     Don't make any noise, I said, or you'll fry. Now hand it over.     I stowed it away, then paused with one hand on the leather horn of thesaddle. What's the name of the kid in jail in Forton.     I can't remember, he said. But it be coming to me. Hold on.     I waited. Then suddenly my arm was hit a numbing blow from behindand the gun went flying. Jack pounced after it and Horst said, Goodenough, to the others who'd come up behind me.     I felt like a fool.     Horst stalked over and got the signal. He dropped it on the ground andsaid in a voice far colder than mine could ever be, because it wasnatural and mine wasn't, The piece be yours. Then he tromped on ituntil it cracked and fell apart.     Then he said, Pull a gun on me twice. Twice. He slapped me so hardthat my ears rang. You dirty little punk.     I said calmly, You big louse.     It was a time I would have done better to keep my mouth shut. All I canremember is a flash of pain as his fist crunched against the side of myface and then nothing.     Brains are no good if you don't use them.   ","Mia discusses how she does not like different planets for many reasons, gravity included. In addition, she does not like the idea of animals that can crawl on her or vegetation existing unintentionally. She also does not like the smells of different planets. When Mia sees individuals with more than one child, she becomes nauseous at the sight. To Mia, that seems reckless to have so many children as she is taught that it was the cause of Earth’s destruction. Another occurrence that Mia finds interesting is when she sees an old man during her travels. She is fascinated by his white hair, which she notes that she had never seen in person before. "
"What happens at fourteen for the inhabitants of the Ship and why? </s>     DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN     BY ALEXEI PANSHIN     The ancient rule was sink or swim—swim     in the miasma of a planet without     spaceflight, or sink to utter destruction!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The horses and packs were loaded before we went aboard the scoutship.The scout bay is no more than a great oversized airlock with a dozensmall ships squatting over their tubes, but it was the last of the Shipthat I might ever see, so I took a long final look from the top of theramp.     There were sixteen of us girls and thirteen boys. We took our placesin the seats in the center of the scout. Riggy Allen made a joke thatnobody bothered to laugh at, and then we were all silent. I was feelinglost and just beginning to enjoy it when Jimmy Dentremont came over tome. He's red-headed and has a face that makes him look about ten. Anintelligent runt like me.     He said what I expected. Mia, do you want to go partners if we can gettogether when we get down?     I guess he thought that because we were always matched on study I likedhim. Well, I did when I wasn't mad at him, but now I had that crackhe'd made about being a snob in mind, so I said, Not likely. I want tocome back alive. It wasn't fair, but it was a good crack and he wentback to his place without saying anything.     My name is Mia Havero. I'm fourteen, of course, or I wouldn't betelling this. I'm short, dark and scrawny, though I don't expect thatscrawniness to last much longer. Mother is very good looking. In themeantime, I've got brains as a consolation.     After we were all settled, George Fuhonin, the pilot, raised the ramps.We sat there for five minutes while they bled air out of our tube andthen we just ... dropped. My stomach turned flips. We didn't have toleave that way, but George thinks it's fun to be a hot pilot.     Thinking it over, I was almost sorry I'd been stinking to Jimmy D. He'sthe only competition I have my own age. The trouble is, you don't gopartners with the competition, do you? Besides, there was still thatcrack about being a snob.     The planet chosen for our Trial was called Tintera. The last contactthe Ship had had with it—and we were the ones who dropped them—wasalmost 150 years ago. No contact since. That had made the Councildebate a little before they dropped us there, but they decided it wasall right in the end. It didn't make any practical difference to uskids because they never tell you anything about the place they're goingto drop you. All I knew was the name. I wouldn't have known that muchif Daddy weren't Chairman of the Council.     I felt like crawling in a corner of the ship and crying, but nobodyelse was breaking down, so I didn't. I did feel miserable. I cried whenI said good-by to Mother and Daddy—a real emotional scene—but thatwasn't in public.  It wasn't the chance of not coming back that bothered me really,because I never believed that I wouldn't. The thought that made meunhappy was that I would have to be on a planet for a whole month.Planets make me feel wretched.     The gravity is always wrong, for one thing. Either your arches andcalves ache or every time you step you think you're going to trip ona piece of fluff and break your neck. There are vegetables everywhereand little grubby things just looking for      you     to crawl on. If youcan think of anything creepier than that, you've got a real nastyimagination. Worst of all, planets stink. Every single one smells—I'vebeen on enough to know that. A planet is all right for a Mud-eater, butnot for me.     We have a place in the Ship like that—the Third Level—but it's only athousand square miles and any time it gets on your nerves you can go upa level or down a level and be back in civilization.     When we reached Tintera, they started dropping us. We swung over thesea from the morning side and then dropped low over gray-green forestedhills. Finally George spotted a clear area and dropped into it. Theydon't care what order you go in, so Jimmy D. jumped up, grabbed hisgear and then led his horse down the ramp. I think he was stillsmarting from the slap I'd given him.     In a minute we were airborne again. I wondered if I would ever seeJimmy—if he would get back alive.     It's no game we play. When we turn fourteen, they drop us on thenearest colonized planet and come back one month later. That may soundlike fun to you, but a lot of us never come back alive.     Don't think I was helpless. I'm hell on wheels. They don't let us growfor fourteen years and then kick us out to die. They prepare us. Theydo figure, though, that if you can't keep yourself alive by the timeyou're fourteen, you're too stupid, foolish or unlucky to be any use tothe Ship. There's sense behind it. It means that everybody on the Shipis a person who can take care of himself if he has to. Daddy says thatsomething has to be done in a closed society to keep the populationfrom decaying mentally and physically, and this is it. And it helps tokeep the population steady.     I began to check my gear out—sonic pistol, pickup signal so I could befound at the end of the month, saddle and cinches, food and clothes.Venie Morlock has got a crush on Jimmy D., and when she saw me startgetting ready to go, she began to check her gear, too. At our nextlanding, I grabbed Ninc's reins and cut Venie out smoothly. It didn'thave anything to do with Jimmy. I just couldn't stand to put off thebad moment any longer.     The ship lifted impersonally away from Ninc and me like a rising bird,and in just a moment it was gone. Its gray-blue color was almost thecolor of the half-overcast sky, so I was never sure when I saw it last.      II     The first night was hell, I guess because I'm not used to having thelights out. That's when you really start to feel lonely, being alone inthe dark. When the sun disappears, somehow you wonder in your stomachif it's really going to come back. But I lived through it—one day inthirty gone.     I rode in a spiral search pattern during the next two days. I had threethings in mind—stay alive, find people and find some of the others.The first was automatic. The second was to find out if there was a slotI could fit into for a month. If not, I would have to find a place tocamp out, as nasty as that would be. The third was to join forces,though not with that meatball Jimmy D.     No, he isn't really a meatball. The trouble is that I don't takenothing from nobody, especially him, and he doesn't take nothing fromnobody, especially me. So we do a lot of fighting.     I had a good month for Trial. My birthday is in November—too close toYear End Holiday for my taste, but this year it was all right. It wasspring on Tintera, but it was December in the Ship, and after we gotback we had five days of Holiday to celebrate. It gave me something tolook forward to.     In two days of riding, I ran onto nothing but a few odd-lookinganimals. I shot one small one and ate it. It turned out to taste prettygood, though not as good as a slice from Hambone No. 4, to my mind thebest meat vat on the Ship. I've eaten things so gruey-looking that Iwondered that anybody had the guts to try them in the first place andthey've turned out to taste good. And I've seen things that looked goodthat I couldn't keep on my stomach. So I guess I was lucky.     On the third day, I found the road. I brought Ninc down off thehillside, losing sight of the road in the trees, and then reachingit in the level below. It was narrow and made of sand spread over ahard base. Out of the marks in the sand, I could pick out the tracksof horses and both narrow and wide wheels. Other tracks I couldn'tidentify.     One of the smartest moves in history was to include horses whenthey dropped the colonies. I say they because, while we did theactual dropping, the idea originated with the whole evac plan back onEarth. Considering how short a time it was in which the colonies wereestablished, there was not time to set up industry, so they had to havedraft animals.     The first of the Great Ships was finished in 2025. One of the eight,as well as the two that were being built then, went up with everythingelse in the Solar System in 2041. In that sixteen years 112 colonieswere planted. I don't know how many of those planets had animals that      could     have been substituted but, even if they had, they would havehad to be domesticated from scratch. That would have been stupid. I'llbet that half the colonies would have failed if they hadn't had horses.  We'd come in from the west over the ocean, so I traveled east on theroad. That much water makes me nervous, and roads have to go somewhere.     I came on my first travelers three hours later. I rounded a tree-linedbend, ducking an overhanging branch, and pulled Ninc to a stop. Therewere five men on horseback herding a bunch of the ugliest creaturesalive.     They were green and grotesque. They had squat bodies, long limbs andknobby bulges at their joints. They had square, flat animal masks forfaces. But they walked on their hind legs and they had paws that werealmost hands, and that was enough to make them seem almost human. Theymade a wordless, chilling, lowing sound as they milled and ploddedalong.     I started Ninc up again and moved slowly to catch up with them. All themen on horseback had guns in saddle boots. They looked as nervous ascats with kittens. One of them had a string of packhorses on a lineand he saw me and called to another who seemed to be the leader. Thatone wheeled his black horse and rode back toward me.     He was a middle-aged man, maybe as old as my Daddy. He was large and hehad a hard face. Normal enough, but hard. He pulled to a halt when wereached each other, but I kept going. He had to come around and followme. I believe in judging a person by his face. A man can't help theface he owns, but he can help the expression he wears on it. If a manlooks mean, I generally believe that he is. This one looked mean. Thatwas why I kept riding.     He said, What be you doing out here, boy? Be you out of your head?There be escaped Losels in these woods.     I told you I hadn't finished filling out yet, but I hadn't thought itwas that bad. I wasn't ready to make a fight over the point, though.Generally, I can't keep my bloody mouth shut, but now I didn't sayanything. It seemed smart.     Where be you from? he asked.     I pointed to the road behind us.     And where be you going?     I pointed ahead. No other way to go.     He seemed exasperated. I have that effect sometimes. Even on Mother andDaddy, who should know better.     We were coming up on the others now, and the man said, Maybe you'dbetter ride on from here with us. For protection.     He had an odd way of twisting his sounds, almost as though he had amouthful of mush. I wondered whether he were just an oddball or whethereverybody here spoke the same way. I'd never heard InternationalEnglish spoken any way but one, even on the planet Daddy made me visitwith him.     One of the other outriders came easing by then. I suppose they'd beenwatching us all the while. He called to the hard man.     He be awfully small, Horst. I doubt me a Losel'd even notice him atall. We mought as well throw him back again.     The rider looked at me. When I didn't dissolve in terror as heexpected, he shrugged and one of the other men laughed.     The hard man said to the others, This boy will be riding along with usto Forton for protection.     I looked down at the plodding, unhappy creatures they were drivingalong and one looked back at me with dull, expressionless golden eyes.I felt uncomfortable.     I said, I don't think so.     What the man did then surprised me. He said, I do think so, andreached for the rifle in his saddle boot.     I whipped my sonic pistol out so fast that he was caught leaning overwith the rifle half out. His jaw dropped. He knew what I held and hedidn't want to be fried.     I said, Ease your rifles out and drop them gently to the ground.     They did, watching me all the while with wary expressions.     When all the rifles were on the ground, I said, All right, let's go.     They didn't want to move. They didn't want to leave the rifles. Icould see that. Horst didn't say anything. He just watched me withnarrowed eyes. But one of the others held up a hand and in wheedlingtones said, Look here, kid....     Shut up, I said, in as mean a voice as I could muster, and he did. Itsurprised me. I didn't think I sounded      that     mean. I decided he justdidn't trust the crazy kid not to shoot.     After twenty minutes of easy riding for us and hard walking for thecreatures, I said, If you want your rifles, you can go back and getthem now. I dug my heels into Ninc's sides and rode on. At the nextbend I looked back and saw four of them holding their packhorses andthe creatures still while one beat a dust-raising retreat down the road.     I put this episode in the file and hold for analysis section in mymind and rode on, feeling good. I think I even giggled once. SometimesI even convince myself that I'm hell on wheels.      III     When I was nine, my Daddy gave me a painted wooden doll that mygreat-grandmother brought from Earth. The thing is that inside it,nestled one in another, are eleven more dolls, each one smaller thanthe last. I like to watch people when they open it for the first time.     My face must have been like that as I rode along the road.     The country leveled into a great rolling valley and the trees gaveway to great farms and fields. In the fields, working, were some ofthe green creatures, which surprised me since the ones I'd seen beforehadn't seemed smart enough to count to one, let alone do any work.     But it relieved me. I thought they might have been eating them orsomething.     I passed two crossroads and started to meet more people, but nobodyquestioned me. I met people on horseback, and twice I met trucks movingsilently past. And I overtook a wagon driven by the oldest man I'veseen in my life. He waved to me, and I waved back.     Near the end of the afternoon I came to the town, and there I receiveda jolt that sickened me.     By the time I came out on the other side, I was sick. My hands werecold and sweaty and my head was spinning, and I wanted to kick Ninc toa gallop.     I rode slowly in, looking all around, missing nothing. The town was allstone, wood and brick. Out of date. Out of time, really. There wereno machines more complicated than the trucks I'd seen earlier. At theedge of town, I passed a newspaper office with a headline pasted in thewindow—INVASION! I remember that. I wondered about it.     But I looked most closely at the people. In all that town, I didn'tsee one girl over ten years old and no grown-up women at all. Therewere little kids, there were boys and there were men, but no girls. Allthe boys and men wore pants, and so did I, which must have been whyHorst and his buddies assumed I was a boy. It wasn't flattering; butI decided I'd not tell anybody different until I found what made theclocks tick on this planet.     But that wasn't what bothered me. It was the kids. My God! Theyswarmed. I saw a family come out of a house—a father and      four     children. It was the most foul thing I've ever seen. It struck methen—these people were Free Birthers! I felt a wave of nausea and Iclosed my eyes until it passed.  The first thing you learn in school is that if it weren't for idiot andcriminal people like these, Earth would never have been destroyed. Theevacuation would never have had to take place, and eight billion peoplewouldn't have died. There wouldn't have      been     eight billion people.But, no. They bred and they spread and they devoured everything intheir path like a cancer. They gobbled up all the resources that Earthhad and crowded and shoved one another until the final war came.     I am lucky. My great-great-grandparents were among those who had enoughforesight to see what was coming. If it hadn't been for them and someothers like them, there wouldn't be any humans left anywhere. And Iwouldn't be here. That may not scare you, but it scares me.     What happened before, when people didn't use their heads and wound upblowing the Solar System apart, is something nobody should forget. Theolder people don't let us forget. But these people had, and that theCouncil should know.     For the first time since I landed on Tintera, I felt      really     frightened. There was too much going on that I didn't understand. Ifelt a blind urge to get away, and when I reached the edge of town, Iwhomped Ninc a good one and gave him his head.     I let him run for almost a mile before I pulled him down to a walkagain. I couldn't help wishing for Jimmy D. Whatever else he is, he'ssmart and brains I needed.     How do you find out what's going on? Eavesdrop? That's a lousy method.For one thing, people can't be depended on to talk about the things youwant to hear. For another, you're likely to get caught. Ask somebody?Who? Make the mistake of bracing a fellow like Horst and you might windup with a sore head and an empty pocket. The best thing I could thinkof was to find a library, but that might be a job.     I'd had two bad shocks on this day, but they weren't the last. In thelate afternoon, when the sun was starting to sink and a cool wind wasstarting to ripple the tree leaves, I saw the scoutship high in thesky. The dying sun colored it a deep red. Back again? I wondered whathad gone wrong.     I reached down into my saddlebag and brought out my contact signal.The scoutship swung up in the sky in a familiar movement calculated todrop the stomach out of everybody aboard. George Fuhonin's style. Itriggered the signal, my heart turning flips all the while. I didn'tknow why he was back, but I wasn't really sorry.     The ship swung around until it was coming back on a path almost over myhead, going in the same direction. Then it went into a slip and startedbucking so hard that I knew this wasn't hot piloting at all, just plainidiot stutter-fingered stupidity at the controls. As it skidded by meoverhead, I got a good look at it and knew that it wasn't one of ours.Not too different, but not ours.       One more enigma. Where was it from? Not here. Even if you know how, andwe wouldn't tell these Mud-eaters how, a scoutship is something thattakes an advanced technology to build.  I felt defeated and tired. Not much farther along the road, I came toa campsite with two wagons pulled in for the night, and I couldn'thelp but pull in myself. The campsite was large and had two permanentbuildings on it. One was a well enclosure and the other was little morethan a high-walled pen. It didn't even have a roof.     I set up camp and ate my dinner. In the wagon closest to me were a man,his wife and their three children. The kids were running around andplaying, and one of them ran close to the high-walled pen. His fathercame and pulled him away.     The kids weren't to blame for their parents, but when one of them saidhello to me, I didn't even answer. I know how lousy I would feel if Ihad two or three brothers and sisters, but it didn't strike me untilthat moment that it wouldn't even seem out of the ordinary to thesekids. Isn't that horrible?     About the time I finished eating, and before it grew dark, the old manI had seen earlier in the day drove his wagon in. He fascinated me. Hehad white hair, something I had read about in stories but had neverseen before.     When nightfall came, they started a large fire. Everybody gatheredaround. There was singing for awhile, and then the father of thechildren tried to pack them off to bed. But they weren't ready to go,so the old man started telling them a story. In the old man's oddaccent, and sitting there in the campfire light surrounded by darkness,it seemed just right.     It was about an old witch named Baba Yaga who lived in the forest ina house that stood on chicken legs. She was the nasty stepmother of anice little girl, and to get rid of the kid, she sent her on a phonyerrand into the deep dark woods at nightfall. I could appreciate thepoor girl's position. All the little girl had to help her were thehandkerchief, the comb and the pearl that she had inherited from herdear dead mother. But, as it turned out, they were just enough todefeat nasty old Baba Yaga and bring the girl safely home.     I wished for the same for myself.     The old man had just finished and they were starting to drag the kidsoff to bed when there was a commotion on the road at the edge of thecamp. I looked but my eyes were adjusted to the light of the fire and Icouldn't see far into the dark.     A voice there said, I'll be damned if I'll take another day like thisone, Horst. We should have been here hours ago. It be your fault we'renot.     Horst growled a retort. I decided that it was time for me to leave thecampfire. I got up and eased away as Horst and his men came up to thefire, and cut back to where Ninc was parked. I grabbed up my blanketsand mattress and started to roll them up. I had a pretty good idea nowwhat they used the high-walled pen for.     I should have known that they would have to pen the animals up for thenight. I should have used my head. I hadn't and now it was time to takeleave.     I never got the chance.  I was just heaving the saddle up on Ninc when I felt a hand on myshoulder and I was swung around.     Well, well. Horst, look who we have here, he called. It was the onewho'd made the joke about me being beneath the notice of a Losel. Hewas alone with me now, but with that call the others would be up fast.     I brought the saddle around as hard as I could and then up, and hewent down. He started to get up again, so I dropped the saddle on himand reached inside my jacket for my gun. Somebody grabbed me then frombehind and pinned my arms to my side.     I opened my mouth to scream—I have a good scream—but a rough smellyhand clamped down over it before I had a chance to get more than alungful of air. I bit down hard—5000 lbs. psi, I'm told—but hedidn't let me go. I started to kick, but Horst jerked me off my feetand dragged me off.     When we were behind the pen and out of earshot of the fire, he stoppeddragging me and dropped me in a heap. Make any noise, he said, andI'll hurt you.     That was a silly way to put it, but somehow it said more than if he'dthreatened to break my arm or my head. It left him a latitude of thingsto do if he pleased. He examined his hand. There was enough moonlightfor that. I ought to club you anyway, he said.     The one I'd dropped the saddle on came up then. The others were puttingthe animals in the pen. He started to kick me, but Horst stopped him.     No, he said. Look through the kid's gear, bring the horse and whatwe can use.     The other one didn't move. Get going, Jack, Horst said in a menacingtone and they stood toe to toe for a long moment before Jack finallybacked down. It seemed to me that Horst wasn't so much objecting to mebeing kicked, but was rather establishing who did the kicking in hisbunch.     But I wasn't done yet. I was scared, but I still had the pistol undermy jacket.     Horst turned back to me and I said, You can't do this and get awaywith it.     He said, Look, boy. You may not know it, but you be in a lot oftrouble. So don't give me a hard time.     He still thought I was a boy. It was not time to correct him, but Ididn't like to see the point go unchallenged. It was unflattering.     The courts won't let you get away with this, I said. I'd passeda courthouse in the town with a carved motto over the doors: EQUALJUSTICE UNDER THE LAW or TRUTH OUR SHIELD AND JUSTICE OUR SWORD orsomething stuffy like that.     He laughed, not a phony, villian-type laugh, but a real laugh, so Iknew I'd goofed.     Boy, boy. Don't talk about the courts. I be doing you a favor. I betaking what I can use of your gear, but I be letting you go. You go tocourt and they'll take everything and lock you up besides. I be leavingyou your freedom.     Why would they be doing that? I asked. I slipped my hand under myjacket.     Every time you open your mouth you shout that you be off one of theShips, Horst said. That be enough. They already have one of you bratsin jail in Forton.     I was about to bring my gun out when up came Jack leading Ninc, withall my stuff loaded on. I mentally thanked him.     He said, The kid's got some good equipment. But I can't make out whatthis be for. He held out my pickup signal.     Horst looked at it, then handed it back. Throw it away, he said.     I leveled my gun at them—Hell on Wheels strikes again! I said, Handthat over to me.     Horst made a disgusted sound.     Don't make any noise, I said, or you'll fry. Now hand it over.     I stowed it away, then paused with one hand on the leather horn of thesaddle. What's the name of the kid in jail in Forton.     I can't remember, he said. But it be coming to me. Hold on.     I waited. Then suddenly my arm was hit a numbing blow from behindand the gun went flying. Jack pounced after it and Horst said, Goodenough, to the others who'd come up behind me.     I felt like a fool.     Horst stalked over and got the signal. He dropped it on the ground andsaid in a voice far colder than mine could ever be, because it wasnatural and mine wasn't, The piece be yours. Then he tromped on ituntil it cracked and fell apart.     Then he said, Pull a gun on me twice. Twice. He slapped me so hardthat my ears rang. You dirty little punk.     I said calmly, You big louse.     It was a time I would have done better to keep my mouth shut. All I canremember is a flash of pain as his fist crunched against the side of myface and then nothing.     Brains are no good if you don't use them.   ","At fourteen years old, the inhabitants of the Ship are put through a Trial. During the trial, they are dropped off at the nearest colonized planet and then picked up a month later if they manage to survive on the planet. Each of the fourteen-year-olds are dropped off in separate locations on the planet. They are given a pick signal device so the scoutship that escorted them to the planet is able to locate them at the end of their 30-day Trial period. The purpose of the trial according to the Chairman of the Council is because a closed society needs a way to ensure the physical and mental of its populations. In addition, it helps to maintain a suitable number of individuals in the population. Those that are unable to survive their Trial are presumed to be not fit for life on the Ship.  "
"Who is Horst and what is his relationship with Mia? </s>     DOWN TO THE WORLDS OF MEN     BY ALEXEI PANSHIN     The ancient rule was sink or swim—swim     in the miasma of a planet without     spaceflight, or sink to utter destruction!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The horses and packs were loaded before we went aboard the scoutship.The scout bay is no more than a great oversized airlock with a dozensmall ships squatting over their tubes, but it was the last of the Shipthat I might ever see, so I took a long final look from the top of theramp.     There were sixteen of us girls and thirteen boys. We took our placesin the seats in the center of the scout. Riggy Allen made a joke thatnobody bothered to laugh at, and then we were all silent. I was feelinglost and just beginning to enjoy it when Jimmy Dentremont came over tome. He's red-headed and has a face that makes him look about ten. Anintelligent runt like me.     He said what I expected. Mia, do you want to go partners if we can gettogether when we get down?     I guess he thought that because we were always matched on study I likedhim. Well, I did when I wasn't mad at him, but now I had that crackhe'd made about being a snob in mind, so I said, Not likely. I want tocome back alive. It wasn't fair, but it was a good crack and he wentback to his place without saying anything.     My name is Mia Havero. I'm fourteen, of course, or I wouldn't betelling this. I'm short, dark and scrawny, though I don't expect thatscrawniness to last much longer. Mother is very good looking. In themeantime, I've got brains as a consolation.     After we were all settled, George Fuhonin, the pilot, raised the ramps.We sat there for five minutes while they bled air out of our tube andthen we just ... dropped. My stomach turned flips. We didn't have toleave that way, but George thinks it's fun to be a hot pilot.     Thinking it over, I was almost sorry I'd been stinking to Jimmy D. He'sthe only competition I have my own age. The trouble is, you don't gopartners with the competition, do you? Besides, there was still thatcrack about being a snob.     The planet chosen for our Trial was called Tintera. The last contactthe Ship had had with it—and we were the ones who dropped them—wasalmost 150 years ago. No contact since. That had made the Councildebate a little before they dropped us there, but they decided it wasall right in the end. It didn't make any practical difference to uskids because they never tell you anything about the place they're goingto drop you. All I knew was the name. I wouldn't have known that muchif Daddy weren't Chairman of the Council.     I felt like crawling in a corner of the ship and crying, but nobodyelse was breaking down, so I didn't. I did feel miserable. I cried whenI said good-by to Mother and Daddy—a real emotional scene—but thatwasn't in public.  It wasn't the chance of not coming back that bothered me really,because I never believed that I wouldn't. The thought that made meunhappy was that I would have to be on a planet for a whole month.Planets make me feel wretched.     The gravity is always wrong, for one thing. Either your arches andcalves ache or every time you step you think you're going to trip ona piece of fluff and break your neck. There are vegetables everywhereand little grubby things just looking for      you     to crawl on. If youcan think of anything creepier than that, you've got a real nastyimagination. Worst of all, planets stink. Every single one smells—I'vebeen on enough to know that. A planet is all right for a Mud-eater, butnot for me.     We have a place in the Ship like that—the Third Level—but it's only athousand square miles and any time it gets on your nerves you can go upa level or down a level and be back in civilization.     When we reached Tintera, they started dropping us. We swung over thesea from the morning side and then dropped low over gray-green forestedhills. Finally George spotted a clear area and dropped into it. Theydon't care what order you go in, so Jimmy D. jumped up, grabbed hisgear and then led his horse down the ramp. I think he was stillsmarting from the slap I'd given him.     In a minute we were airborne again. I wondered if I would ever seeJimmy—if he would get back alive.     It's no game we play. When we turn fourteen, they drop us on thenearest colonized planet and come back one month later. That may soundlike fun to you, but a lot of us never come back alive.     Don't think I was helpless. I'm hell on wheels. They don't let us growfor fourteen years and then kick us out to die. They prepare us. Theydo figure, though, that if you can't keep yourself alive by the timeyou're fourteen, you're too stupid, foolish or unlucky to be any use tothe Ship. There's sense behind it. It means that everybody on the Shipis a person who can take care of himself if he has to. Daddy says thatsomething has to be done in a closed society to keep the populationfrom decaying mentally and physically, and this is it. And it helps tokeep the population steady.     I began to check my gear out—sonic pistol, pickup signal so I could befound at the end of the month, saddle and cinches, food and clothes.Venie Morlock has got a crush on Jimmy D., and when she saw me startgetting ready to go, she began to check her gear, too. At our nextlanding, I grabbed Ninc's reins and cut Venie out smoothly. It didn'thave anything to do with Jimmy. I just couldn't stand to put off thebad moment any longer.     The ship lifted impersonally away from Ninc and me like a rising bird,and in just a moment it was gone. Its gray-blue color was almost thecolor of the half-overcast sky, so I was never sure when I saw it last.      II     The first night was hell, I guess because I'm not used to having thelights out. That's when you really start to feel lonely, being alone inthe dark. When the sun disappears, somehow you wonder in your stomachif it's really going to come back. But I lived through it—one day inthirty gone.     I rode in a spiral search pattern during the next two days. I had threethings in mind—stay alive, find people and find some of the others.The first was automatic. The second was to find out if there was a slotI could fit into for a month. If not, I would have to find a place tocamp out, as nasty as that would be. The third was to join forces,though not with that meatball Jimmy D.     No, he isn't really a meatball. The trouble is that I don't takenothing from nobody, especially him, and he doesn't take nothing fromnobody, especially me. So we do a lot of fighting.     I had a good month for Trial. My birthday is in November—too close toYear End Holiday for my taste, but this year it was all right. It wasspring on Tintera, but it was December in the Ship, and after we gotback we had five days of Holiday to celebrate. It gave me something tolook forward to.     In two days of riding, I ran onto nothing but a few odd-lookinganimals. I shot one small one and ate it. It turned out to taste prettygood, though not as good as a slice from Hambone No. 4, to my mind thebest meat vat on the Ship. I've eaten things so gruey-looking that Iwondered that anybody had the guts to try them in the first place andthey've turned out to taste good. And I've seen things that looked goodthat I couldn't keep on my stomach. So I guess I was lucky.     On the third day, I found the road. I brought Ninc down off thehillside, losing sight of the road in the trees, and then reachingit in the level below. It was narrow and made of sand spread over ahard base. Out of the marks in the sand, I could pick out the tracksof horses and both narrow and wide wheels. Other tracks I couldn'tidentify.     One of the smartest moves in history was to include horses whenthey dropped the colonies. I say they because, while we did theactual dropping, the idea originated with the whole evac plan back onEarth. Considering how short a time it was in which the colonies wereestablished, there was not time to set up industry, so they had to havedraft animals.     The first of the Great Ships was finished in 2025. One of the eight,as well as the two that were being built then, went up with everythingelse in the Solar System in 2041. In that sixteen years 112 colonieswere planted. I don't know how many of those planets had animals that      could     have been substituted but, even if they had, they would havehad to be domesticated from scratch. That would have been stupid. I'llbet that half the colonies would have failed if they hadn't had horses.  We'd come in from the west over the ocean, so I traveled east on theroad. That much water makes me nervous, and roads have to go somewhere.     I came on my first travelers three hours later. I rounded a tree-linedbend, ducking an overhanging branch, and pulled Ninc to a stop. Therewere five men on horseback herding a bunch of the ugliest creaturesalive.     They were green and grotesque. They had squat bodies, long limbs andknobby bulges at their joints. They had square, flat animal masks forfaces. But they walked on their hind legs and they had paws that werealmost hands, and that was enough to make them seem almost human. Theymade a wordless, chilling, lowing sound as they milled and ploddedalong.     I started Ninc up again and moved slowly to catch up with them. All themen on horseback had guns in saddle boots. They looked as nervous ascats with kittens. One of them had a string of packhorses on a lineand he saw me and called to another who seemed to be the leader. Thatone wheeled his black horse and rode back toward me.     He was a middle-aged man, maybe as old as my Daddy. He was large and hehad a hard face. Normal enough, but hard. He pulled to a halt when wereached each other, but I kept going. He had to come around and followme. I believe in judging a person by his face. A man can't help theface he owns, but he can help the expression he wears on it. If a manlooks mean, I generally believe that he is. This one looked mean. Thatwas why I kept riding.     He said, What be you doing out here, boy? Be you out of your head?There be escaped Losels in these woods.     I told you I hadn't finished filling out yet, but I hadn't thought itwas that bad. I wasn't ready to make a fight over the point, though.Generally, I can't keep my bloody mouth shut, but now I didn't sayanything. It seemed smart.     Where be you from? he asked.     I pointed to the road behind us.     And where be you going?     I pointed ahead. No other way to go.     He seemed exasperated. I have that effect sometimes. Even on Mother andDaddy, who should know better.     We were coming up on the others now, and the man said, Maybe you'dbetter ride on from here with us. For protection.     He had an odd way of twisting his sounds, almost as though he had amouthful of mush. I wondered whether he were just an oddball or whethereverybody here spoke the same way. I'd never heard InternationalEnglish spoken any way but one, even on the planet Daddy made me visitwith him.     One of the other outriders came easing by then. I suppose they'd beenwatching us all the while. He called to the hard man.     He be awfully small, Horst. I doubt me a Losel'd even notice him atall. We mought as well throw him back again.     The rider looked at me. When I didn't dissolve in terror as heexpected, he shrugged and one of the other men laughed.     The hard man said to the others, This boy will be riding along with usto Forton for protection.     I looked down at the plodding, unhappy creatures they were drivingalong and one looked back at me with dull, expressionless golden eyes.I felt uncomfortable.     I said, I don't think so.     What the man did then surprised me. He said, I do think so, andreached for the rifle in his saddle boot.     I whipped my sonic pistol out so fast that he was caught leaning overwith the rifle half out. His jaw dropped. He knew what I held and hedidn't want to be fried.     I said, Ease your rifles out and drop them gently to the ground.     They did, watching me all the while with wary expressions.     When all the rifles were on the ground, I said, All right, let's go.     They didn't want to move. They didn't want to leave the rifles. Icould see that. Horst didn't say anything. He just watched me withnarrowed eyes. But one of the others held up a hand and in wheedlingtones said, Look here, kid....     Shut up, I said, in as mean a voice as I could muster, and he did. Itsurprised me. I didn't think I sounded      that     mean. I decided he justdidn't trust the crazy kid not to shoot.     After twenty minutes of easy riding for us and hard walking for thecreatures, I said, If you want your rifles, you can go back and getthem now. I dug my heels into Ninc's sides and rode on. At the nextbend I looked back and saw four of them holding their packhorses andthe creatures still while one beat a dust-raising retreat down the road.     I put this episode in the file and hold for analysis section in mymind and rode on, feeling good. I think I even giggled once. SometimesI even convince myself that I'm hell on wheels.      III     When I was nine, my Daddy gave me a painted wooden doll that mygreat-grandmother brought from Earth. The thing is that inside it,nestled one in another, are eleven more dolls, each one smaller thanthe last. I like to watch people when they open it for the first time.     My face must have been like that as I rode along the road.     The country leveled into a great rolling valley and the trees gaveway to great farms and fields. In the fields, working, were some ofthe green creatures, which surprised me since the ones I'd seen beforehadn't seemed smart enough to count to one, let alone do any work.     But it relieved me. I thought they might have been eating them orsomething.     I passed two crossroads and started to meet more people, but nobodyquestioned me. I met people on horseback, and twice I met trucks movingsilently past. And I overtook a wagon driven by the oldest man I'veseen in my life. He waved to me, and I waved back.     Near the end of the afternoon I came to the town, and there I receiveda jolt that sickened me.     By the time I came out on the other side, I was sick. My hands werecold and sweaty and my head was spinning, and I wanted to kick Ninc toa gallop.     I rode slowly in, looking all around, missing nothing. The town was allstone, wood and brick. Out of date. Out of time, really. There wereno machines more complicated than the trucks I'd seen earlier. At theedge of town, I passed a newspaper office with a headline pasted in thewindow—INVASION! I remember that. I wondered about it.     But I looked most closely at the people. In all that town, I didn'tsee one girl over ten years old and no grown-up women at all. Therewere little kids, there were boys and there were men, but no girls. Allthe boys and men wore pants, and so did I, which must have been whyHorst and his buddies assumed I was a boy. It wasn't flattering; butI decided I'd not tell anybody different until I found what made theclocks tick on this planet.     But that wasn't what bothered me. It was the kids. My God! Theyswarmed. I saw a family come out of a house—a father and      four     children. It was the most foul thing I've ever seen. It struck methen—these people were Free Birthers! I felt a wave of nausea and Iclosed my eyes until it passed.  The first thing you learn in school is that if it weren't for idiot andcriminal people like these, Earth would never have been destroyed. Theevacuation would never have had to take place, and eight billion peoplewouldn't have died. There wouldn't have      been     eight billion people.But, no. They bred and they spread and they devoured everything intheir path like a cancer. They gobbled up all the resources that Earthhad and crowded and shoved one another until the final war came.     I am lucky. My great-great-grandparents were among those who had enoughforesight to see what was coming. If it hadn't been for them and someothers like them, there wouldn't be any humans left anywhere. And Iwouldn't be here. That may not scare you, but it scares me.     What happened before, when people didn't use their heads and wound upblowing the Solar System apart, is something nobody should forget. Theolder people don't let us forget. But these people had, and that theCouncil should know.     For the first time since I landed on Tintera, I felt      really     frightened. There was too much going on that I didn't understand. Ifelt a blind urge to get away, and when I reached the edge of town, Iwhomped Ninc a good one and gave him his head.     I let him run for almost a mile before I pulled him down to a walkagain. I couldn't help wishing for Jimmy D. Whatever else he is, he'ssmart and brains I needed.     How do you find out what's going on? Eavesdrop? That's a lousy method.For one thing, people can't be depended on to talk about the things youwant to hear. For another, you're likely to get caught. Ask somebody?Who? Make the mistake of bracing a fellow like Horst and you might windup with a sore head and an empty pocket. The best thing I could thinkof was to find a library, but that might be a job.     I'd had two bad shocks on this day, but they weren't the last. In thelate afternoon, when the sun was starting to sink and a cool wind wasstarting to ripple the tree leaves, I saw the scoutship high in thesky. The dying sun colored it a deep red. Back again? I wondered whathad gone wrong.     I reached down into my saddlebag and brought out my contact signal.The scoutship swung up in the sky in a familiar movement calculated todrop the stomach out of everybody aboard. George Fuhonin's style. Itriggered the signal, my heart turning flips all the while. I didn'tknow why he was back, but I wasn't really sorry.     The ship swung around until it was coming back on a path almost over myhead, going in the same direction. Then it went into a slip and startedbucking so hard that I knew this wasn't hot piloting at all, just plainidiot stutter-fingered stupidity at the controls. As it skidded by meoverhead, I got a good look at it and knew that it wasn't one of ours.Not too different, but not ours.       One more enigma. Where was it from? Not here. Even if you know how, andwe wouldn't tell these Mud-eaters how, a scoutship is something thattakes an advanced technology to build.  I felt defeated and tired. Not much farther along the road, I came toa campsite with two wagons pulled in for the night, and I couldn'thelp but pull in myself. The campsite was large and had two permanentbuildings on it. One was a well enclosure and the other was little morethan a high-walled pen. It didn't even have a roof.     I set up camp and ate my dinner. In the wagon closest to me were a man,his wife and their three children. The kids were running around andplaying, and one of them ran close to the high-walled pen. His fathercame and pulled him away.     The kids weren't to blame for their parents, but when one of them saidhello to me, I didn't even answer. I know how lousy I would feel if Ihad two or three brothers and sisters, but it didn't strike me untilthat moment that it wouldn't even seem out of the ordinary to thesekids. Isn't that horrible?     About the time I finished eating, and before it grew dark, the old manI had seen earlier in the day drove his wagon in. He fascinated me. Hehad white hair, something I had read about in stories but had neverseen before.     When nightfall came, they started a large fire. Everybody gatheredaround. There was singing for awhile, and then the father of thechildren tried to pack them off to bed. But they weren't ready to go,so the old man started telling them a story. In the old man's oddaccent, and sitting there in the campfire light surrounded by darkness,it seemed just right.     It was about an old witch named Baba Yaga who lived in the forest ina house that stood on chicken legs. She was the nasty stepmother of anice little girl, and to get rid of the kid, she sent her on a phonyerrand into the deep dark woods at nightfall. I could appreciate thepoor girl's position. All the little girl had to help her were thehandkerchief, the comb and the pearl that she had inherited from herdear dead mother. But, as it turned out, they were just enough todefeat nasty old Baba Yaga and bring the girl safely home.     I wished for the same for myself.     The old man had just finished and they were starting to drag the kidsoff to bed when there was a commotion on the road at the edge of thecamp. I looked but my eyes were adjusted to the light of the fire and Icouldn't see far into the dark.     A voice there said, I'll be damned if I'll take another day like thisone, Horst. We should have been here hours ago. It be your fault we'renot.     Horst growled a retort. I decided that it was time for me to leave thecampfire. I got up and eased away as Horst and his men came up to thefire, and cut back to where Ninc was parked. I grabbed up my blanketsand mattress and started to roll them up. I had a pretty good idea nowwhat they used the high-walled pen for.     I should have known that they would have to pen the animals up for thenight. I should have used my head. I hadn't and now it was time to takeleave.     I never got the chance.  I was just heaving the saddle up on Ninc when I felt a hand on myshoulder and I was swung around.     Well, well. Horst, look who we have here, he called. It was the onewho'd made the joke about me being beneath the notice of a Losel. Hewas alone with me now, but with that call the others would be up fast.     I brought the saddle around as hard as I could and then up, and hewent down. He started to get up again, so I dropped the saddle on himand reached inside my jacket for my gun. Somebody grabbed me then frombehind and pinned my arms to my side.     I opened my mouth to scream—I have a good scream—but a rough smellyhand clamped down over it before I had a chance to get more than alungful of air. I bit down hard—5000 lbs. psi, I'm told—but hedidn't let me go. I started to kick, but Horst jerked me off my feetand dragged me off.     When we were behind the pen and out of earshot of the fire, he stoppeddragging me and dropped me in a heap. Make any noise, he said, andI'll hurt you.     That was a silly way to put it, but somehow it said more than if he'dthreatened to break my arm or my head. It left him a latitude of thingsto do if he pleased. He examined his hand. There was enough moonlightfor that. I ought to club you anyway, he said.     The one I'd dropped the saddle on came up then. The others were puttingthe animals in the pen. He started to kick me, but Horst stopped him.     No, he said. Look through the kid's gear, bring the horse and whatwe can use.     The other one didn't move. Get going, Jack, Horst said in a menacingtone and they stood toe to toe for a long moment before Jack finallybacked down. It seemed to me that Horst wasn't so much objecting to mebeing kicked, but was rather establishing who did the kicking in hisbunch.     But I wasn't done yet. I was scared, but I still had the pistol undermy jacket.     Horst turned back to me and I said, You can't do this and get awaywith it.     He said, Look, boy. You may not know it, but you be in a lot oftrouble. So don't give me a hard time.     He still thought I was a boy. It was not time to correct him, but Ididn't like to see the point go unchallenged. It was unflattering.     The courts won't let you get away with this, I said. I'd passeda courthouse in the town with a carved motto over the doors: EQUALJUSTICE UNDER THE LAW or TRUTH OUR SHIELD AND JUSTICE OUR SWORD orsomething stuffy like that.     He laughed, not a phony, villian-type laugh, but a real laugh, so Iknew I'd goofed.     Boy, boy. Don't talk about the courts. I be doing you a favor. I betaking what I can use of your gear, but I be letting you go. You go tocourt and they'll take everything and lock you up besides. I be leavingyou your freedom.     Why would they be doing that? I asked. I slipped my hand under myjacket.     Every time you open your mouth you shout that you be off one of theShips, Horst said. That be enough. They already have one of you bratsin jail in Forton.     I was about to bring my gun out when up came Jack leading Ninc, withall my stuff loaded on. I mentally thanked him.     He said, The kid's got some good equipment. But I can't make out whatthis be for. He held out my pickup signal.     Horst looked at it, then handed it back. Throw it away, he said.     I leveled my gun at them—Hell on Wheels strikes again! I said, Handthat over to me.     Horst made a disgusted sound.     Don't make any noise, I said, or you'll fry. Now hand it over.     I stowed it away, then paused with one hand on the leather horn of thesaddle. What's the name of the kid in jail in Forton.     I can't remember, he said. But it be coming to me. Hold on.     I waited. Then suddenly my arm was hit a numbing blow from behindand the gun went flying. Jack pounced after it and Horst said, Goodenough, to the others who'd come up behind me.     I felt like a fool.     Horst stalked over and got the signal. He dropped it on the ground andsaid in a voice far colder than mine could ever be, because it wasnatural and mine wasn't, The piece be yours. Then he tromped on ituntil it cracked and fell apart.     Then he said, Pull a gun on me twice. Twice. He slapped me so hardthat my ears rang. You dirty little punk.     I said calmly, You big louse.     It was a time I would have done better to keep my mouth shut. All I canremember is a flash of pain as his fist crunched against the side of myface and then nothing.     Brains are no good if you don't use them.   ","Horst, along with his four companions, is a man that Mia meets on the planet Tintera. He, along with his companions, were on horses and shepherding animals in front of them. Mia describes him as a middle-aged man with a large build. Mia analyzes his face and decides that she does not want to interact with him because his face looks mean. Horst, incorrectly, assumes Mia is a boy and asks her questions. Horst asserts that Mia will ride along with the men to the town of Forton. However, Mia disagrees with that statement and Horst does not like the response. Horst begins to bring out his rifle, but Mia grabs her sonic pistol before he is able to do so. She holds them at gunpoint until they drop their weapons. After this confrontation, Horst and Mia do not see each other again until they both end up at the same campsite. At the campsite, Horst and his companions bind Mia’s arms together to prevent her from escaping them. They look through her stuff and threaten her. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     BIG ANCESTOR     By F. L. WALLACE     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction November 1954.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Man's family tree was awesome enough to give every galactic       race an inferiority complex—but then he tried to climb it!        In repose, Taphetta the Ribboneer resembled a fancy giant bow on apackage. His four flat legs looped out and in, the ends tucked underhis wide, thin body, which constituted the knot at the middle. His neckwas flat, too, arching out in another loop. Of all his features, onlyhis head had appreciable thickness and it was crowned with a dozen longthough narrower ribbons.     Taphetta rattled the head fronds together in a surprisingly goodimitation of speech. Yes, I've heard the legend.     It's more than a legend, said Sam Halden, biologist. The reaction wasnot unexpected—non-humans tended to dismiss the data as convenientspeculation and nothing more. There are at least a hundred kinds ofhumans, each supposedly originating in strict seclusion on as manywidely scattered planets. Obviously there was no contact throughout theages before space travel—      and yet each planetary race can interbreedwith a minimum of ten others     ! That's more than a legend—one hell of alot more!     It is impressive, admitted Taphetta. But I find it mildlydistasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to myspecies.     That's because you're unique, said Halden. Outside of your ownworld, there's nothing like your species, except superficially, andthat's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the soleexception of mankind. Actually, the four of us here, though it'saccidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of humandevelopment.       Emmer, a Neanderthal type and our archeologist, is around thebeginning of the scale. I'm from Earth, near the middle, though onEmmer's side. Meredith, linguist, is on the other side of the middle.And beyond her, toward the far end, is Kelburn, mathematician. There'sa corresponding span of fertility. Emmer just misses being able tobreed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile withMeredith and a similar though lesser chance that her fertility mayextend to Kelburn.  Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. But I thought it wasproved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was anunbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years.     You're thinking of Earth, said Halden. Humans require a certain kindof planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on ahundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on afew of them. That's what happened on Earth; when Man arrived, there wasactually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionistsstretched their theories to cover the facts they had.     But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before theStone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to concludethat Man didn't originate on any of the planets on which he is nowfound. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughoutthis section of the Milky Way.     And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed acrossthousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,commented Taphetta dryly. It seems an unnecessary simplification.     Can you think of a better explanation? asked Kelburn.     Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not theresult of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races areinvolved, and      only     the human race.     I can't think of a better explanation. Taphetta rearranged hisribbons. Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theoriesabout himself.     It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerousthough not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization ashigh as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there wereothers—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever gottogether—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin.     Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could bevery useful. A clear statement of their position was essential inhelping him make up his mind. You've heard of the adjacency matingprinciple? asked Sam Halden.     Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men.     We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory isthat humans who can mate with each other were once physically close.We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetaryrace F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G isfertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatevertheir positions are now, at once time G was actually adjacent to F, butwas a little further along. When we project back into time those starsystems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certainpattern. Kelburn can explain it to you.     The normally pink body of the Ribboneer flushed slightly. The colorchange was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to indicate that hewas interested.  Kelburn went to the projector. It would be easier if we knew all thestars in the Milky Way, but though we've explored only a small portionof it, we can reconstruct a fairly accurate representation of the past.     He pressed the controls and stars twinkled on the screen. We'relooking down on the plane of the Galaxy. This is one arm of it as it istoday and here are the human systems. He pressed another control and,for purposes of identification, certain stars became more brilliant.There was no pattern, merely a scattering of stars. The whole MilkyWay is rotating. And while stars in a given region tend to remaintogether, there's also a random motion. Here's what happens when wecalculate the positions of stars in the past.     Flecks of light shifted and flowed across the screen. Kelburn stoppedthe motion.     Two hundred thousand years ago, he said.     There was a pattern of the identified stars. They were spaced at fairlyequal intervals along a regular curve, a horseshoe loop that didn'tclose, though if the ends were extended, the lines would have crossed.     Taphetta rustled. The math is accurate?     As accurate as it can be with a million-plus body problem.     And that's the hypothetical route of the unknown ancestor?     To the best of our knowledge, said Kelburn. And whereas there arehumans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always matewith those they were adjacent to      two hundred thousand years ago     !     The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. Is that the only era thatsatisfies the calculations?     Plus or minus a hundred thousand years, we can still get somethingthat might be the path of a spaceship attempting to cover arepresentative section of territory, said Kelburn. However, we haveother ways of dating it. On some worlds on which there are no othermammals, we're able to place the first human fossils chronologically.The evidence is sometimes contradictory, but we believe we've got thetime right.     Taphetta waved a ribbon at the chart. And you think that where the twoends of the curve cross is your original home?     We think so, said Kelburn. We've narrowed it down to several cubiclight-years—then. Now it's far more. And, of course, if it were afast-moving star, it might be completely out of the field of ourexploration. But we're certain we've got a good chance of finding itthis trip.     It seems I must decide quickly. The Ribboneer glanced out thevisionport, where another ship hung motionless in space beside them.Do you mind if I ask other questions?     Go ahead, Kelburn invited sardonically. But if it's not math, you'dbetter ask Halden. He's the leader of the expedition.     Halden flushed; the sarcasm wasn't necessary. It was true that Kelburnwas the most advanced human type present, but while there weredifferences, biological and in the scale of intelligence, it wasn'tas great as once was thought. Anyway, non-humans weren't trained inthe fine distinctions that men made among themselves. And, higher orlower, he was as good a biologist as the other was a mathematician. Andthere was the matter of training; he'd been on several expeditions andthis was Kelburn's first trip. Damn it, he thought, that rated somerespect.     The Ribboneer shifted his attention. Aside from the sudden illness ofyour pilot, why did you ask for me?     We didn't. The man became sick and required treatment we can't givehim. Luckily, a ship was passing and we hailed it because it's fourmonths to the nearest planet. They consented to take him back and toldus that there was a passenger on board who was an experienced pilot. Wehave men who could do the job in a makeshift fashion, but the regionwe're heading for, while mapped, is largely unknown. We'd prefer tohave an expert—and Ribboneers are famous for their navigationalability.     Taphetta crinkled politely at the reference to his skill. I had otherplans, but I can't evade professional obligations, and an emergencysuch as this should cancel out any previous agreements. Still, what arethe incentives?     Sam Halden coughed. The usual, plus a little extra. We've copied theRibboneer's standard nature, simplifying it a little and adding a percent here and there for the crew pilot and scientist's share of theprofits from any discoveries we may make.     I'm complimented that you like our contract so well, said Taphetta,but I really must have our own unsimplified version. If you want me,you'll take my contract. I came prepared. He extended a tightly boundroll that he had kept somewhere on his person.     They glanced at one another as Halden took it.     You can read it if you want, offered Taphetta. But it will takeyou all day—it's micro-printing. However, you needn't be afraid thatI'm defrauding you. It's honored everywhere we go and we go nearlyeverywhere in this sector—places men have never been.     There was no choice if they wanted him, and they did. Besides, theintegrity of Ribboneers was not to be questioned. Halden signed.     Good. Taphetta crinkled. Send it to the ship; they'll forward itfor me. And you can tell the ship to go on without me. He rubbed hisribbons together. Now if you'll get me the charts, I'll examine theregion toward which we're heading.  Firmon of hydroponics slouched in, a tall man with scanty hair andan equal lack of grace. He seemed to have difficulty in taking hiseyes off Meredith, though, since he was a notch or so above her in themating scale, he shouldn't have been so interested. But his planet hadbeen inexplicably slow in developing and he wasn't completely aware ofhis place in the human hierarchy.     Disdainfully, Meredith adjusted a skirt that, a few inches shorter,wouldn't have been a skirt at all, revealing, while doing so, just howlong and beautiful a woman's legs could be. Her people had never givenmuch thought to physical modesty and, with legs like that, it was easyto see why.     Muttering something about primitive women, Firmon turned to thebiologist. The pilot doesn't like our air.     Then change it to suit him. He's in charge of the ship and knows moreabout these things than I do.     More than a man? Firmon leered at Meredith and, when she failedto smile, added plaintively, I did try to change it, but he stillcomplains.  Halden took a deep breath. Seems all right to me.     To everybody else, too, but the tapeworm hasn't got lungs. He breathesthrough a million tubes scattered over his body.     It would do no good to explain that Taphetta wasn't a worm, that hisevolution had taken a different course, but that he was in no senseless complex than Man. It was a paradox that some biologically higherhumans hadn't developed as much as lower races and actually weren'tprepared for the multitude of life-forms they'd meet in space. Firmon'sreaction was quite typical.     If he asks for cleaner air, it's because his system needs it, saidHalden. Do anything you can to give it to him.     Can't. This is as good as I can get it. Taphetta thought you could dosomething about it.     Hydroponics is your job. There's nothing      I     can do. Halden pausedthoughtfully. Is there something wrong with the plants?     In a way, I guess, and yet not really.     What is it, some kind of toxic condition?     The plants are healthy enough, but something's chewing them down asfast as they grow.     Insects? There shouldn't be any, but if there are, we've got sprays.Use them.     It's an animal, said Firmon. We tried poison and got a few, but nowthey won't touch the stuff. I had electronics rig up some traps. Theanimals seem to know what they are and we've never caught one thatway.     Halden glowered at the man. How long has this been going on?     About three months. It's not bad; we can keep up with them.     It was probably nothing to become alarmed at, but an animal on the shipwas a nuisance, doubly so because of their pilot.     Tell me what you know about it, said Halden.     They're little things. Firmon held out his hands to show how small.I don't know how they got on, but once they did, there were plenty ofplaces to hide. He looked up defensively. This is an old ship withnew equipment and they hide under the machinery. There's nothing we cando except rebuild the ship from the hull inward.     Firmon was right. The new equipment had been installed in any placejust to get it in and now there were inaccessible corners and creviceseverywhere that couldn't be closed off without rebuilding.     They couldn't set up a continuous watch and shoot the animals downbecause there weren't that many men to spare. Besides, the use ofweapons in hydroponics would cause more damage to the thing they weretrying to protect than to the pest. He'd have to devise other ways.     Sam Halden got up. I'll take a look and see what I can do.     I'll come along and help, said Meredith, untwining her legs andleaning against him. Your mistress ought to have some sort ofprivileges.     Halden started. So she      knew     that the crew was calling her that!Perhaps it was intended to discourage Firmon, but he wished she hadn'tsaid it. It didn't help the situation at all.  Taphetta sat in a chair designed for humans. With a less flexible body,he wouldn't have fitted. Maybe it wasn't sitting, but his flat legswere folded neatly around the arms and his head rested comfortably onthe seat. The head ribbons, which were his hands and voice, were neverquite still.     He looked from Halden to Emmer and back again. The hydroponics techtells me you're contemplating an experiment. I don't like it.     Halden shrugged. We've got to have better air. It might work.     Pests on the ship? It's filthy! My people would never tolerate it!     Neither do we.     The Ribboneer's distaste subsided. What kind of creatures are they?     I have a description, though I've never seen one. It's a smallfour-legged animal with two antennae at the lower base of its skull. Atypical pest.     Taphetta rustled. Have you found out how it got on?     It was probably brought in with the supplies, said the biologist.Considering how far we've come, it may have been any one of a halfa dozen planets. Anyway, it hid, and since most of the places it hadaccess to were near the outer hull, it got an extra dose of hardradiation, or it may have nested near the atomic engines; both arepossibilities. Either way, it mutated, became a different animal. It'sdeveloped a tolerance for the poisons we spray on plants. Other thingsit detects and avoids, even electronic traps.     Then you believe it changed mentally as well as physically, that it'ssmarter?     I'd say that, yes. It must be a fairly intelligent creature to beso hard to get rid of. But it can be lured into traps, if the bait'sstrong enough.     That's what I don't like, said Taphetta, curling. Let me think itover while I ask questions. He turned to Emmer. I'm curious abouthumans. Is there anything else you can tell me about the hypotheticalancestor?     Emmer didn't look like the genius he was—a Neanderthal genius, butnonetheless a real one. In his field, he rated very high. He raised astubble-flecked cheek from a large thick-fingered paw and ran shaggyhands through shaggier hair.     I can speak with some authority, he rumbled. I was born on a worldwith the most extensive relics. As a child, I played in the ruins oftheir camp.     I don't question your authority, crinkled Taphetta. To me, allhumans—late or early and male or female—look remarkably alike. If youare an archeologist, that's enough for me. He paused and flicked hisspeech ribbons. Camp, did you say?  Emmer smiled, unsheathing great teeth. You've never seen any pictures?Impressive, but just a camp, monolithic one-story structures, andwe'd give something to know what they're made of. Presumably my worldwas one of the first they stopped at. They weren't used to roughingit, so they built more elaborately than they did later on. One-storystructures and that's how we can guess at their size. The doorways wereforty feet high.     Very large, agreed Taphetta. It was difficult to tell whether he wasimpressed. What did you find in the ruins?     Nothing, said Emmer. There were buildings there and that was all,not a scrap of writing or a tool or a single picture. They covereda route estimated at thirty thousand light-years in less than fivethousand years—and not one of them died that we have a record of.     A faster-than-light drive and an extremely long life, mused Taphetta.But they didn't leave any information for their descendants. Why?     Who knows? Their mental processes were certainly far different fromours. They may have thought we'd be better off without it. We do knowthey were looking for a special kind of planet, like Earth, becausethey visited so many of that type, yet different from it because theynever stayed. They were pretty special people themselves, big andlong-lived, and maybe they couldn't survive on any planet they found.Perhaps they had ways of determining there wasn't the kind of planetthey needed in the entire Milky Way. Their science was tremendouslyadvanced and when they learned that, they may have altered their germplasm and left us, hoping that some of us would survive. Most of usdid.     This special planet sounds strange, murmured Taphetta.     Not really, said Emmer. Fifty human races reached space travelindependently and those who did were scattered equally among early andlate species. It's well known that individuals among my people areoften as bright as any of Halden's or Meredith's, but as a whole wedon't have the total capacity that later Man does, and yet we're asadvanced in civilization. The difference? It must lie somewhere in theplanets we live on and it's hard to say just what it is.     What happened to those who didn't develop space travel? askedTaphetta.     We helped them, said Emmer.     And they had, no matter who or what they were, biologically lateor early, in the depths of the bronze age or the threshold ofatomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thingfor non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actuallyaggressive, but their total number was great and they held themselvesaloof. The unknown ancestor again. Who else had such an origin and, itwas tacitly assumed, such a destiny?  Taphetta changed his questioning. What do you expect to gain from thisdiscovery of the unknown ancestor?     It was Halden who answered him. There's the satisfaction of knowingwhere we came from.     Of course, rustled the Ribboneer. But a lot of money and equipmentwas required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educationalinstitutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectualcuriosity.     Cultural discoveries, rumbled Emmer. How did our ancestors live?When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more thanphysiology is changed—the pattern of life itself is altered. Thingsthat were easy for them are impossible for us. Look at their life span.     No doubt, said Taphetta. An archeologist would be interested incultural discoveries.     Two hundred thousand years ago, they had an extremely advancedcivilization, added Halden. A faster-than-light drive, and we'veachieved that only within the last thousand years.     But I think we have a better one than they did, said the Ribboneer.There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics,but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else?     Halden nodded. Agreed. They couldn't find a suitable planet. So,working directly with their germ plasm, they modified themselves andproduced us. They      were     master biologists.     I thought so, said Taphetta. I never paid much attention to yourfantastic theories before I signed to pilot this ship, but you've builtup a convincing case. He raised his head, speech ribbons curlingfractionally and ceaselessly. I don't like to, but we'll have to riskusing bait for your pest.     He'd have done it anyway, but it was better to have the pilot'sconsent. And there was one question Halden wanted to ask; it had beenbothering him vaguely. What's the difference between the Ribboneercontract and the one we offered you? Our terms are more liberal.     To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover asmuch as you think you will. The difference is this:      My     terms don'tpermit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race.     Taphetta was wrong; there had been no intention of withholdinganything. Halden examined his own attitudes.      He     hadn't intended, butcould he say that was true of the institutions backing the expedition?He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquiredwould have to be shared.     That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind oftechnical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that couldimprove itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a startthat could never be headed. The Ribboneer needn't worry now.  Why do we have to watch it on the screen? asked Meredith, glancingup. I'd rather be in hydroponics.     Halden shrugged. They may or may not be smarter than planetboundanimals, but they're warier. They don't come out when anyone's near.     Lights dimmed in the distant hydroponic section and the screen withit, until he adjusted the infra-red frequencies. He motioned to thetwo crew members, each with his own peculiar screen, below which was aminiature keyboard.     Ready?     When they nodded, Halden said: Do as you've rehearsed. Keep noise ata minimum, but when you do use it, be vague. Don't try to imitate themexactly.     At first, nothing happened on the big screen, and then a gray shapecrept out. It slid through leaves, listened intently before comingforward. It jumped off one hydroponic section and fled across the openfloor to the next. It paused, eyes glittering and antennae twitching.     Looking around once, it leaped up, seizing the ledge and clawing up theside of the tank. Standing on top and rising to its haunches, it begannibbling what it could reach.     Suddenly it whirled. Behind it and hitherto unnoticed was anothershape, like it but larger. The newcomer inched forward. The small oneretreated, skittering nervously. Without warning, the big one leapedand the small one tried to flee. In a few jumps, the big one caught upand mauled the other unmercifully.       It continued to bite even after the little one lay still. At last itbacked off and waited, watching for signs of motion. There was none.Then it turned to the plant. When it had chewed off everything withinreach, it climbed into the branches.     The little one twitched, moved a leg, and cautiously began draggingitself away. It rolled off the raised section and surprisingly made nonoise as it fell. It seemed to revive, shaking itself and scurryingaway, still within range of the screen.     Against the wall was a small platform. The little one climbed on topand there found something that seemed to interest it. It sniffedaround and reached and felt the discovery. Wounds were forgotten asit snatched up the object and frisked back to the scene of its recentdefeat.     This time it had no trouble with the raised section. It leaped andlanded on top and made considerable noise in doing so. The big animalheard and twisted around. It saw and clambered down hastily, jumpingthe last few feet. Squealing, it hit the floor and charged.     The small one stood still till the last instant—and then a pawflickered out and an inch-long knife blade plunged into the throat ofthe charging creature. Red spurted out as the bigger beast screamed.The knife flashed in and out until the big animal collapsed and stoppedmoving.     The small creature removed the knife and wiped it on the pelt of itsfoe. Then it scampered back to the platform on which the knife had beenfound—      and laid it down     .  At Halden's signal, the lights flared up and the screen became toobright for anything to be visible.     Go in and get them, said Halden. We don't want the pests to find outthat the bodies aren't flesh.     It was realistic enough, said Meredith as the crewmen shut off theirmachines and went out. Do you think it will work?     It might. We had an audience.     Did we? I didn't notice. Meredith leaned back. Were the puppetsexactly like the pests? And if not, will the pests be fooled?     The electronic puppets were a good imitation, but the animals don'thave to identify them as their species. If they're smart enough,they'll know the value of a knife, no matter who uses it.     What if they're smarter? Suppose they know a knife can't be used by acreature without real hands?     That's part of our precautions. They'll never know until they try—andthey'll never get away from the trap to try.     Very good. I never thought of that, said Meredith, coming closer. Ilike the way your primitive mind works. At times I actually think ofmarrying you.     Primitive, he said, alternately frozen and thawed, though he knewthat, in relation to her, he was      not     advanced.     It's almost a curse, isn't it? She laughed and took the curse away byleaning provocatively against him. But barbaric lovers are often nice.     Here we go again, he thought drearily, sliding his arm around her. Toher, I'm merely a passionate savage.     They went to his cabin.     She sat down, smiling. Was she pretty? Maybe. For her own race, shewasn't tall, only by Terran standards. Her legs were disproportionatelylong and well shaped and her face was somewhat bland and featureless,except for a thin, straight, short nose. It was her eyes that madethe difference, he decided. A notch or two up the scale of visualdevelopment, her eyes were larger and she could see an extra color onthe violet end of the spectrum.     She settled back and looked at him. It might be fun living with you onprimeval Earth.     He said nothing; she knew as well as he that Earth was as advanced asher own world. She had something else in mind.     I don't think I will, though. We might have children.     Would it be wrong? he asked. I'm as intelligent as you. We wouldn'thave subhuman monsters.     It would be a step up—for you. Under her calm, there was tension.It had been there as long as he'd known her, but it was closer to thesurface now. Do I have the right to condemn the unborn? Should I makethem start lower than I am?     The conflict was not new nor confined to them. In one form or another,it governed personal relations between races that were united againstnon-humans, but held sharp distinctions themselves.     I haven't asked you to marry me, he said bluntly.     Because you're afraid I'd refuse.     It was true; no one asked a member of a higher race to enter apermanent union.     Why did you ever have anything to do with me? demanded Halden.     Love, she said gloomily. Physical attraction. But I can't let itlead me astray.     Why not make a play for Kelburn? If you're going to be scientificabout it, he'd give you children of the higher type.     Kelburn. It didn't sound like a name, the way she said it. I don'tlike him and he wouldn't marry me.     He wouldn't, but he'd give you children if you were humble enough.There's a fifty per cent chance you might conceive.  She provocatively arched her back. Not even the women of Kelburn's racehad a body like hers and she knew it.     Racially, there should be a chance, she said. Actually, Kelburn andI would be infertile.     Can you be sure? he asked, knowing it was a poor attempt to actunconcerned.     How can anyone be sure on a theoretical basis? she asked, an obliquesmile narrowing her eyes. I know we can't.     His face felt anesthetized. Did you have to tell me that?     She got up and came to him. She nuzzled against him and his reactionwas purely reflexive. His hand swung out and he could feel the fleshgive when his knuckles struck it.     She fell back and dazedly covered her face with her hand. When she tookit away, blood spurted. She groped toward the mirror and stood in frontof it. She wiped the blood off, examining her features carefully.     You've broken my nose, she said factually. I'll have to stop theblood and pain.     She pushed her nose back into place and waggled it to make sure. Sheclosed her eyes and stood silent and motionless. Then she stepped backand looked at herself critically.     It's set and partially knitted. I'll concentrate tonight and have ithealed by morning.     She felt in the cabinet and attached an invisible strip firmly acrossthe bridge. Then she came over to him.     I wondered what you'd do. You didn't disappoint me.     He scowled miserably at her. Her face was almost plain and the bandage,invisible or not, didn't improve her appearance any. How could he stillfeel that attraction to her?     Try Emmer, he suggested tiredly. He'll find you irresistible, andhe's even more savage than I am.     Is he? She smiled enigmatically. Maybe, in a biological sense. Toomuch, though. You're just right.     He sat down on the bed. Again there was only one way of knowing whatEmmer would do—and she knew. She had no concept of love outside ofthe physical, to make use of her body so as to gain an advantage—whatadvantage?—for the children she intended to have. Outside of that,nothing mattered, and for the sake of alloying the lower with thehigher, she was as cruel to herself as she was to him. And yet hewanted her.     I do think I love you, she said. And if love's enough, I may marryyou in spite of everything. But you'll have to watch out whose childrenI have. She wriggled into his arms.     The racial disparity was great and she had provoked him, but it was notcompletely her fault. Besides....     Besides what? She had a beautiful body that could bear superiorchildren—and they might be his.     He twisted away. With those thoughts, he was as bad as she was. Werethey all that way, every one of them, crawling upward out of the slimetoward the highest goal they could conceive of? Climbing over—no,      through     —everybody they could coerce, seduce or marry—onward andupward. He raised his hand, but it was against himself that his angerwas turned.     Careful of the nose, she said, pressing against him. You've alreadybroken it once.     He kissed her with sudden passion that even he knew was primitive.  ","The story starts with four of the species of the spectrum of human development together, talking and explaining about the possibility of mating with different species on the spectrum to Taphetta the Ribboneer. Emmer is an archeologist and he sits on one end of the spectrum. Halden, the biologist is from Earth, he is somewhat towards the middle on the spectrum. Meredith is a linguist, and she is further down the spectrum. And Kelburn, the mathematician, is at the far end of it. They explain to Taphetta about the theory of ability to mate with humans that are on planets that are close to each other. However, due to movement of planets, they are no longer close to each other. But with some accurate calculations, if all the stars were to go back two hundred thousand years, the position of those stars line up in the shape of a horse shoe. And they theorize that their original home lands on where the extension of the two ends of the horse shoe cross over. And the four explorers believe they have a chance of finding their original home. They are explaining this to Taphetta because they need him to be the pilot of this expedition. After Taphetta suggests that he does not like the air in the ship, they realize that some animals hs been eating the plants. With failing attempts to capture them, the biologist suggest that their mental and physical state might have changed due to radiation or atomic engines. Thus they set up a play for the animal to watch so that they will get into the trap. Meredith and Halden get into a fight because Meredith thinks Halden as primitive, and Halden does not like that. When he realizes that Meredith somehow knows she can’t be fertile with Kelburn, he gets so angry that he hits her nose. Then he come to realize why Meredith will not want to marry him and have children with him, even he would want superior children."
"Who is Garrett and what happens to him in the story? </s>     BIG ANCESTOR     By F. L. WALLACE     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction November 1954.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Man's family tree was awesome enough to give every galactic       race an inferiority complex—but then he tried to climb it!        In repose, Taphetta the Ribboneer resembled a fancy giant bow on apackage. His four flat legs looped out and in, the ends tucked underhis wide, thin body, which constituted the knot at the middle. His neckwas flat, too, arching out in another loop. Of all his features, onlyhis head had appreciable thickness and it was crowned with a dozen longthough narrower ribbons.     Taphetta rattled the head fronds together in a surprisingly goodimitation of speech. Yes, I've heard the legend.     It's more than a legend, said Sam Halden, biologist. The reaction wasnot unexpected—non-humans tended to dismiss the data as convenientspeculation and nothing more. There are at least a hundred kinds ofhumans, each supposedly originating in strict seclusion on as manywidely scattered planets. Obviously there was no contact throughout theages before space travel—      and yet each planetary race can interbreedwith a minimum of ten others     ! That's more than a legend—one hell of alot more!     It is impressive, admitted Taphetta. But I find it mildlydistasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to myspecies.     That's because you're unique, said Halden. Outside of your ownworld, there's nothing like your species, except superficially, andthat's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the soleexception of mankind. Actually, the four of us here, though it'saccidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of humandevelopment.       Emmer, a Neanderthal type and our archeologist, is around thebeginning of the scale. I'm from Earth, near the middle, though onEmmer's side. Meredith, linguist, is on the other side of the middle.And beyond her, toward the far end, is Kelburn, mathematician. There'sa corresponding span of fertility. Emmer just misses being able tobreed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile withMeredith and a similar though lesser chance that her fertility mayextend to Kelburn.  Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. But I thought it wasproved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was anunbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years.     You're thinking of Earth, said Halden. Humans require a certain kindof planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on ahundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on afew of them. That's what happened on Earth; when Man arrived, there wasactually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionistsstretched their theories to cover the facts they had.     But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before theStone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to concludethat Man didn't originate on any of the planets on which he is nowfound. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughoutthis section of the Milky Way.     And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed acrossthousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,commented Taphetta dryly. It seems an unnecessary simplification.     Can you think of a better explanation? asked Kelburn.     Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not theresult of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races areinvolved, and      only     the human race.     I can't think of a better explanation. Taphetta rearranged hisribbons. Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theoriesabout himself.     It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerousthough not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization ashigh as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there wereothers—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever gottogether—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin.     Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could bevery useful. A clear statement of their position was essential inhelping him make up his mind. You've heard of the adjacency matingprinciple? asked Sam Halden.     Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men.     We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory isthat humans who can mate with each other were once physically close.We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetaryrace F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G isfertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatevertheir positions are now, at once time G was actually adjacent to F, butwas a little further along. When we project back into time those starsystems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certainpattern. Kelburn can explain it to you.     The normally pink body of the Ribboneer flushed slightly. The colorchange was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to indicate that hewas interested.  Kelburn went to the projector. It would be easier if we knew all thestars in the Milky Way, but though we've explored only a small portionof it, we can reconstruct a fairly accurate representation of the past.     He pressed the controls and stars twinkled on the screen. We'relooking down on the plane of the Galaxy. This is one arm of it as it istoday and here are the human systems. He pressed another control and,for purposes of identification, certain stars became more brilliant.There was no pattern, merely a scattering of stars. The whole MilkyWay is rotating. And while stars in a given region tend to remaintogether, there's also a random motion. Here's what happens when wecalculate the positions of stars in the past.     Flecks of light shifted and flowed across the screen. Kelburn stoppedthe motion.     Two hundred thousand years ago, he said.     There was a pattern of the identified stars. They were spaced at fairlyequal intervals along a regular curve, a horseshoe loop that didn'tclose, though if the ends were extended, the lines would have crossed.     Taphetta rustled. The math is accurate?     As accurate as it can be with a million-plus body problem.     And that's the hypothetical route of the unknown ancestor?     To the best of our knowledge, said Kelburn. And whereas there arehumans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always matewith those they were adjacent to      two hundred thousand years ago     !     The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. Is that the only era thatsatisfies the calculations?     Plus or minus a hundred thousand years, we can still get somethingthat might be the path of a spaceship attempting to cover arepresentative section of territory, said Kelburn. However, we haveother ways of dating it. On some worlds on which there are no othermammals, we're able to place the first human fossils chronologically.The evidence is sometimes contradictory, but we believe we've got thetime right.     Taphetta waved a ribbon at the chart. And you think that where the twoends of the curve cross is your original home?     We think so, said Kelburn. We've narrowed it down to several cubiclight-years—then. Now it's far more. And, of course, if it were afast-moving star, it might be completely out of the field of ourexploration. But we're certain we've got a good chance of finding itthis trip.     It seems I must decide quickly. The Ribboneer glanced out thevisionport, where another ship hung motionless in space beside them.Do you mind if I ask other questions?     Go ahead, Kelburn invited sardonically. But if it's not math, you'dbetter ask Halden. He's the leader of the expedition.     Halden flushed; the sarcasm wasn't necessary. It was true that Kelburnwas the most advanced human type present, but while there weredifferences, biological and in the scale of intelligence, it wasn'tas great as once was thought. Anyway, non-humans weren't trained inthe fine distinctions that men made among themselves. And, higher orlower, he was as good a biologist as the other was a mathematician. Andthere was the matter of training; he'd been on several expeditions andthis was Kelburn's first trip. Damn it, he thought, that rated somerespect.     The Ribboneer shifted his attention. Aside from the sudden illness ofyour pilot, why did you ask for me?     We didn't. The man became sick and required treatment we can't givehim. Luckily, a ship was passing and we hailed it because it's fourmonths to the nearest planet. They consented to take him back and toldus that there was a passenger on board who was an experienced pilot. Wehave men who could do the job in a makeshift fashion, but the regionwe're heading for, while mapped, is largely unknown. We'd prefer tohave an expert—and Ribboneers are famous for their navigationalability.     Taphetta crinkled politely at the reference to his skill. I had otherplans, but I can't evade professional obligations, and an emergencysuch as this should cancel out any previous agreements. Still, what arethe incentives?     Sam Halden coughed. The usual, plus a little extra. We've copied theRibboneer's standard nature, simplifying it a little and adding a percent here and there for the crew pilot and scientist's share of theprofits from any discoveries we may make.     I'm complimented that you like our contract so well, said Taphetta,but I really must have our own unsimplified version. If you want me,you'll take my contract. I came prepared. He extended a tightly boundroll that he had kept somewhere on his person.     They glanced at one another as Halden took it.     You can read it if you want, offered Taphetta. But it will takeyou all day—it's micro-printing. However, you needn't be afraid thatI'm defrauding you. It's honored everywhere we go and we go nearlyeverywhere in this sector—places men have never been.     There was no choice if they wanted him, and they did. Besides, theintegrity of Ribboneers was not to be questioned. Halden signed.     Good. Taphetta crinkled. Send it to the ship; they'll forward itfor me. And you can tell the ship to go on without me. He rubbed hisribbons together. Now if you'll get me the charts, I'll examine theregion toward which we're heading.  Firmon of hydroponics slouched in, a tall man with scanty hair andan equal lack of grace. He seemed to have difficulty in taking hiseyes off Meredith, though, since he was a notch or so above her in themating scale, he shouldn't have been so interested. But his planet hadbeen inexplicably slow in developing and he wasn't completely aware ofhis place in the human hierarchy.     Disdainfully, Meredith adjusted a skirt that, a few inches shorter,wouldn't have been a skirt at all, revealing, while doing so, just howlong and beautiful a woman's legs could be. Her people had never givenmuch thought to physical modesty and, with legs like that, it was easyto see why.     Muttering something about primitive women, Firmon turned to thebiologist. The pilot doesn't like our air.     Then change it to suit him. He's in charge of the ship and knows moreabout these things than I do.     More than a man? Firmon leered at Meredith and, when she failedto smile, added plaintively, I did try to change it, but he stillcomplains.  Halden took a deep breath. Seems all right to me.     To everybody else, too, but the tapeworm hasn't got lungs. He breathesthrough a million tubes scattered over his body.     It would do no good to explain that Taphetta wasn't a worm, that hisevolution had taken a different course, but that he was in no senseless complex than Man. It was a paradox that some biologically higherhumans hadn't developed as much as lower races and actually weren'tprepared for the multitude of life-forms they'd meet in space. Firmon'sreaction was quite typical.     If he asks for cleaner air, it's because his system needs it, saidHalden. Do anything you can to give it to him.     Can't. This is as good as I can get it. Taphetta thought you could dosomething about it.     Hydroponics is your job. There's nothing      I     can do. Halden pausedthoughtfully. Is there something wrong with the plants?     In a way, I guess, and yet not really.     What is it, some kind of toxic condition?     The plants are healthy enough, but something's chewing them down asfast as they grow.     Insects? There shouldn't be any, but if there are, we've got sprays.Use them.     It's an animal, said Firmon. We tried poison and got a few, but nowthey won't touch the stuff. I had electronics rig up some traps. Theanimals seem to know what they are and we've never caught one thatway.     Halden glowered at the man. How long has this been going on?     About three months. It's not bad; we can keep up with them.     It was probably nothing to become alarmed at, but an animal on the shipwas a nuisance, doubly so because of their pilot.     Tell me what you know about it, said Halden.     They're little things. Firmon held out his hands to show how small.I don't know how they got on, but once they did, there were plenty ofplaces to hide. He looked up defensively. This is an old ship withnew equipment and they hide under the machinery. There's nothing we cando except rebuild the ship from the hull inward.     Firmon was right. The new equipment had been installed in any placejust to get it in and now there were inaccessible corners and creviceseverywhere that couldn't be closed off without rebuilding.     They couldn't set up a continuous watch and shoot the animals downbecause there weren't that many men to spare. Besides, the use ofweapons in hydroponics would cause more damage to the thing they weretrying to protect than to the pest. He'd have to devise other ways.     Sam Halden got up. I'll take a look and see what I can do.     I'll come along and help, said Meredith, untwining her legs andleaning against him. Your mistress ought to have some sort ofprivileges.     Halden started. So she      knew     that the crew was calling her that!Perhaps it was intended to discourage Firmon, but he wished she hadn'tsaid it. It didn't help the situation at all.  Taphetta sat in a chair designed for humans. With a less flexible body,he wouldn't have fitted. Maybe it wasn't sitting, but his flat legswere folded neatly around the arms and his head rested comfortably onthe seat. The head ribbons, which were his hands and voice, were neverquite still.     He looked from Halden to Emmer and back again. The hydroponics techtells me you're contemplating an experiment. I don't like it.     Halden shrugged. We've got to have better air. It might work.     Pests on the ship? It's filthy! My people would never tolerate it!     Neither do we.     The Ribboneer's distaste subsided. What kind of creatures are they?     I have a description, though I've never seen one. It's a smallfour-legged animal with two antennae at the lower base of its skull. Atypical pest.     Taphetta rustled. Have you found out how it got on?     It was probably brought in with the supplies, said the biologist.Considering how far we've come, it may have been any one of a halfa dozen planets. Anyway, it hid, and since most of the places it hadaccess to were near the outer hull, it got an extra dose of hardradiation, or it may have nested near the atomic engines; both arepossibilities. Either way, it mutated, became a different animal. It'sdeveloped a tolerance for the poisons we spray on plants. Other thingsit detects and avoids, even electronic traps.     Then you believe it changed mentally as well as physically, that it'ssmarter?     I'd say that, yes. It must be a fairly intelligent creature to beso hard to get rid of. But it can be lured into traps, if the bait'sstrong enough.     That's what I don't like, said Taphetta, curling. Let me think itover while I ask questions. He turned to Emmer. I'm curious abouthumans. Is there anything else you can tell me about the hypotheticalancestor?     Emmer didn't look like the genius he was—a Neanderthal genius, butnonetheless a real one. In his field, he rated very high. He raised astubble-flecked cheek from a large thick-fingered paw and ran shaggyhands through shaggier hair.     I can speak with some authority, he rumbled. I was born on a worldwith the most extensive relics. As a child, I played in the ruins oftheir camp.     I don't question your authority, crinkled Taphetta. To me, allhumans—late or early and male or female—look remarkably alike. If youare an archeologist, that's enough for me. He paused and flicked hisspeech ribbons. Camp, did you say?  Emmer smiled, unsheathing great teeth. You've never seen any pictures?Impressive, but just a camp, monolithic one-story structures, andwe'd give something to know what they're made of. Presumably my worldwas one of the first they stopped at. They weren't used to roughingit, so they built more elaborately than they did later on. One-storystructures and that's how we can guess at their size. The doorways wereforty feet high.     Very large, agreed Taphetta. It was difficult to tell whether he wasimpressed. What did you find in the ruins?     Nothing, said Emmer. There were buildings there and that was all,not a scrap of writing or a tool or a single picture. They covereda route estimated at thirty thousand light-years in less than fivethousand years—and not one of them died that we have a record of.     A faster-than-light drive and an extremely long life, mused Taphetta.But they didn't leave any information for their descendants. Why?     Who knows? Their mental processes were certainly far different fromours. They may have thought we'd be better off without it. We do knowthey were looking for a special kind of planet, like Earth, becausethey visited so many of that type, yet different from it because theynever stayed. They were pretty special people themselves, big andlong-lived, and maybe they couldn't survive on any planet they found.Perhaps they had ways of determining there wasn't the kind of planetthey needed in the entire Milky Way. Their science was tremendouslyadvanced and when they learned that, they may have altered their germplasm and left us, hoping that some of us would survive. Most of usdid.     This special planet sounds strange, murmured Taphetta.     Not really, said Emmer. Fifty human races reached space travelindependently and those who did were scattered equally among early andlate species. It's well known that individuals among my people areoften as bright as any of Halden's or Meredith's, but as a whole wedon't have the total capacity that later Man does, and yet we're asadvanced in civilization. The difference? It must lie somewhere in theplanets we live on and it's hard to say just what it is.     What happened to those who didn't develop space travel? askedTaphetta.     We helped them, said Emmer.     And they had, no matter who or what they were, biologically lateor early, in the depths of the bronze age or the threshold ofatomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thingfor non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actuallyaggressive, but their total number was great and they held themselvesaloof. The unknown ancestor again. Who else had such an origin and, itwas tacitly assumed, such a destiny?  Taphetta changed his questioning. What do you expect to gain from thisdiscovery of the unknown ancestor?     It was Halden who answered him. There's the satisfaction of knowingwhere we came from.     Of course, rustled the Ribboneer. But a lot of money and equipmentwas required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educationalinstitutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectualcuriosity.     Cultural discoveries, rumbled Emmer. How did our ancestors live?When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more thanphysiology is changed—the pattern of life itself is altered. Thingsthat were easy for them are impossible for us. Look at their life span.     No doubt, said Taphetta. An archeologist would be interested incultural discoveries.     Two hundred thousand years ago, they had an extremely advancedcivilization, added Halden. A faster-than-light drive, and we'veachieved that only within the last thousand years.     But I think we have a better one than they did, said the Ribboneer.There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics,but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else?     Halden nodded. Agreed. They couldn't find a suitable planet. So,working directly with their germ plasm, they modified themselves andproduced us. They      were     master biologists.     I thought so, said Taphetta. I never paid much attention to yourfantastic theories before I signed to pilot this ship, but you've builtup a convincing case. He raised his head, speech ribbons curlingfractionally and ceaselessly. I don't like to, but we'll have to riskusing bait for your pest.     He'd have done it anyway, but it was better to have the pilot'sconsent. And there was one question Halden wanted to ask; it had beenbothering him vaguely. What's the difference between the Ribboneercontract and the one we offered you? Our terms are more liberal.     To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover asmuch as you think you will. The difference is this:      My     terms don'tpermit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race.     Taphetta was wrong; there had been no intention of withholdinganything. Halden examined his own attitudes.      He     hadn't intended, butcould he say that was true of the institutions backing the expedition?He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquiredwould have to be shared.     That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind oftechnical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that couldimprove itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a startthat could never be headed. The Ribboneer needn't worry now.  Why do we have to watch it on the screen? asked Meredith, glancingup. I'd rather be in hydroponics.     Halden shrugged. They may or may not be smarter than planetboundanimals, but they're warier. They don't come out when anyone's near.     Lights dimmed in the distant hydroponic section and the screen withit, until he adjusted the infra-red frequencies. He motioned to thetwo crew members, each with his own peculiar screen, below which was aminiature keyboard.     Ready?     When they nodded, Halden said: Do as you've rehearsed. Keep noise ata minimum, but when you do use it, be vague. Don't try to imitate themexactly.     At first, nothing happened on the big screen, and then a gray shapecrept out. It slid through leaves, listened intently before comingforward. It jumped off one hydroponic section and fled across the openfloor to the next. It paused, eyes glittering and antennae twitching.     Looking around once, it leaped up, seizing the ledge and clawing up theside of the tank. Standing on top and rising to its haunches, it begannibbling what it could reach.     Suddenly it whirled. Behind it and hitherto unnoticed was anothershape, like it but larger. The newcomer inched forward. The small oneretreated, skittering nervously. Without warning, the big one leapedand the small one tried to flee. In a few jumps, the big one caught upand mauled the other unmercifully.       It continued to bite even after the little one lay still. At last itbacked off and waited, watching for signs of motion. There was none.Then it turned to the plant. When it had chewed off everything withinreach, it climbed into the branches.     The little one twitched, moved a leg, and cautiously began draggingitself away. It rolled off the raised section and surprisingly made nonoise as it fell. It seemed to revive, shaking itself and scurryingaway, still within range of the screen.     Against the wall was a small platform. The little one climbed on topand there found something that seemed to interest it. It sniffedaround and reached and felt the discovery. Wounds were forgotten asit snatched up the object and frisked back to the scene of its recentdefeat.     This time it had no trouble with the raised section. It leaped andlanded on top and made considerable noise in doing so. The big animalheard and twisted around. It saw and clambered down hastily, jumpingthe last few feet. Squealing, it hit the floor and charged.     The small one stood still till the last instant—and then a pawflickered out and an inch-long knife blade plunged into the throat ofthe charging creature. Red spurted out as the bigger beast screamed.The knife flashed in and out until the big animal collapsed and stoppedmoving.     The small creature removed the knife and wiped it on the pelt of itsfoe. Then it scampered back to the platform on which the knife had beenfound—      and laid it down     .  At Halden's signal, the lights flared up and the screen became toobright for anything to be visible.     Go in and get them, said Halden. We don't want the pests to find outthat the bodies aren't flesh.     It was realistic enough, said Meredith as the crewmen shut off theirmachines and went out. Do you think it will work?     It might. We had an audience.     Did we? I didn't notice. Meredith leaned back. Were the puppetsexactly like the pests? And if not, will the pests be fooled?     The electronic puppets were a good imitation, but the animals don'thave to identify them as their species. If they're smart enough,they'll know the value of a knife, no matter who uses it.     What if they're smarter? Suppose they know a knife can't be used by acreature without real hands?     That's part of our precautions. They'll never know until they try—andthey'll never get away from the trap to try.     Very good. I never thought of that, said Meredith, coming closer. Ilike the way your primitive mind works. At times I actually think ofmarrying you.     Primitive, he said, alternately frozen and thawed, though he knewthat, in relation to her, he was      not     advanced.     It's almost a curse, isn't it? She laughed and took the curse away byleaning provocatively against him. But barbaric lovers are often nice.     Here we go again, he thought drearily, sliding his arm around her. Toher, I'm merely a passionate savage.     They went to his cabin.     She sat down, smiling. Was she pretty? Maybe. For her own race, shewasn't tall, only by Terran standards. Her legs were disproportionatelylong and well shaped and her face was somewhat bland and featureless,except for a thin, straight, short nose. It was her eyes that madethe difference, he decided. A notch or two up the scale of visualdevelopment, her eyes were larger and she could see an extra color onthe violet end of the spectrum.     She settled back and looked at him. It might be fun living with you onprimeval Earth.     He said nothing; she knew as well as he that Earth was as advanced asher own world. She had something else in mind.     I don't think I will, though. We might have children.     Would it be wrong? he asked. I'm as intelligent as you. We wouldn'thave subhuman monsters.     It would be a step up—for you. Under her calm, there was tension.It had been there as long as he'd known her, but it was closer to thesurface now. Do I have the right to condemn the unborn? Should I makethem start lower than I am?     The conflict was not new nor confined to them. In one form or another,it governed personal relations between races that were united againstnon-humans, but held sharp distinctions themselves.     I haven't asked you to marry me, he said bluntly.     Because you're afraid I'd refuse.     It was true; no one asked a member of a higher race to enter apermanent union.     Why did you ever have anything to do with me? demanded Halden.     Love, she said gloomily. Physical attraction. But I can't let itlead me astray.     Why not make a play for Kelburn? If you're going to be scientificabout it, he'd give you children of the higher type.     Kelburn. It didn't sound like a name, the way she said it. I don'tlike him and he wouldn't marry me.     He wouldn't, but he'd give you children if you were humble enough.There's a fifty per cent chance you might conceive.  She provocatively arched her back. Not even the women of Kelburn's racehad a body like hers and she knew it.     Racially, there should be a chance, she said. Actually, Kelburn andI would be infertile.     Can you be sure? he asked, knowing it was a poor attempt to actunconcerned.     How can anyone be sure on a theoretical basis? she asked, an obliquesmile narrowing her eyes. I know we can't.     His face felt anesthetized. Did you have to tell me that?     She got up and came to him. She nuzzled against him and his reactionwas purely reflexive. His hand swung out and he could feel the fleshgive when his knuckles struck it.     She fell back and dazedly covered her face with her hand. When she tookit away, blood spurted. She groped toward the mirror and stood in frontof it. She wiped the blood off, examining her features carefully.     You've broken my nose, she said factually. I'll have to stop theblood and pain.     She pushed her nose back into place and waggled it to make sure. Sheclosed her eyes and stood silent and motionless. Then she stepped backand looked at herself critically.     It's set and partially knitted. I'll concentrate tonight and have ithealed by morning.     She felt in the cabinet and attached an invisible strip firmly acrossthe bridge. Then she came over to him.     I wondered what you'd do. You didn't disappoint me.     He scowled miserably at her. Her face was almost plain and the bandage,invisible or not, didn't improve her appearance any. How could he stillfeel that attraction to her?     Try Emmer, he suggested tiredly. He'll find you irresistible, andhe's even more savage than I am.     Is he? She smiled enigmatically. Maybe, in a biological sense. Toomuch, though. You're just right.     He sat down on the bed. Again there was only one way of knowing whatEmmer would do—and she knew. She had no concept of love outside ofthe physical, to make use of her body so as to gain an advantage—whatadvantage?—for the children she intended to have. Outside of that,nothing mattered, and for the sake of alloying the lower with thehigher, she was as cruel to herself as she was to him. And yet hewanted her.     I do think I love you, she said. And if love's enough, I may marryyou in spite of everything. But you'll have to watch out whose childrenI have. She wriggled into his arms.     The racial disparity was great and she had provoked him, but it was notcompletely her fault. Besides....     Besides what? She had a beautiful body that could bear superiorchildren—and they might be his.     He twisted away. With those thoughts, he was as bad as she was. Werethey all that way, every one of them, crawling upward out of the slimetoward the highest goal they could conceive of? Climbing over—no,      through     —everybody they could coerce, seduce or marry—onward andupward. He raised his hand, but it was against himself that his angerwas turned.     Careful of the nose, she said, pressing against him. You've alreadybroken it once.     He kissed her with sudden passion that even he knew was primitive.  ","Taphetta the Ribboneer was on another ship that was passing by the expedition ship. Since the pilot that was supposed to fly the expedition got very sick and needed some treatment, he was taken by the other ship, and they told the explorers that they have an experienced pilot on board. After having Taphetta on the expedition ship, they introduce themselves and explains how they are at different points on the development spectrum. However, unlike human themselves, Taphetta does not see any difference between the early and late stage of humans, they are all the same to her. Later they explain the theory of horse shoe planets, the adjacency mating principle and suggest that they are likely to find their origin planet on their trip. Taphetta is interested and asks them to take her contract. Taphetta is afraid of them holding discoveries for the benefit of one race, thus offers them his own contract. While the truth is that the explorers are not going to hold anything, no one can be sure of the institutions that support this expedition. Furthermore, Taphetta senses that something is wrong with the air, which makes them realize that there has been animals consuming the plants they grew. Despite the fact that he doesn’t want to risk bait for the pest, he is convinced. "
"What is the relationship between Meredith and Halden? </s>     BIG ANCESTOR     By F. L. WALLACE     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction November 1954.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Man's family tree was awesome enough to give every galactic       race an inferiority complex—but then he tried to climb it!        In repose, Taphetta the Ribboneer resembled a fancy giant bow on apackage. His four flat legs looped out and in, the ends tucked underhis wide, thin body, which constituted the knot at the middle. His neckwas flat, too, arching out in another loop. Of all his features, onlyhis head had appreciable thickness and it was crowned with a dozen longthough narrower ribbons.     Taphetta rattled the head fronds together in a surprisingly goodimitation of speech. Yes, I've heard the legend.     It's more than a legend, said Sam Halden, biologist. The reaction wasnot unexpected—non-humans tended to dismiss the data as convenientspeculation and nothing more. There are at least a hundred kinds ofhumans, each supposedly originating in strict seclusion on as manywidely scattered planets. Obviously there was no contact throughout theages before space travel—      and yet each planetary race can interbreedwith a minimum of ten others     ! That's more than a legend—one hell of alot more!     It is impressive, admitted Taphetta. But I find it mildlydistasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to myspecies.     That's because you're unique, said Halden. Outside of your ownworld, there's nothing like your species, except superficially, andthat's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the soleexception of mankind. Actually, the four of us here, though it'saccidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of humandevelopment.       Emmer, a Neanderthal type and our archeologist, is around thebeginning of the scale. I'm from Earth, near the middle, though onEmmer's side. Meredith, linguist, is on the other side of the middle.And beyond her, toward the far end, is Kelburn, mathematician. There'sa corresponding span of fertility. Emmer just misses being able tobreed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile withMeredith and a similar though lesser chance that her fertility mayextend to Kelburn.  Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. But I thought it wasproved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was anunbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years.     You're thinking of Earth, said Halden. Humans require a certain kindof planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on ahundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on afew of them. That's what happened on Earth; when Man arrived, there wasactually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionistsstretched their theories to cover the facts they had.     But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before theStone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to concludethat Man didn't originate on any of the planets on which he is nowfound. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughoutthis section of the Milky Way.     And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed acrossthousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,commented Taphetta dryly. It seems an unnecessary simplification.     Can you think of a better explanation? asked Kelburn.     Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not theresult of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races areinvolved, and      only     the human race.     I can't think of a better explanation. Taphetta rearranged hisribbons. Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theoriesabout himself.     It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerousthough not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization ashigh as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there wereothers—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever gottogether—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin.     Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could bevery useful. A clear statement of their position was essential inhelping him make up his mind. You've heard of the adjacency matingprinciple? asked Sam Halden.     Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men.     We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory isthat humans who can mate with each other were once physically close.We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetaryrace F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G isfertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatevertheir positions are now, at once time G was actually adjacent to F, butwas a little further along. When we project back into time those starsystems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certainpattern. Kelburn can explain it to you.     The normally pink body of the Ribboneer flushed slightly. The colorchange was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to indicate that hewas interested.  Kelburn went to the projector. It would be easier if we knew all thestars in the Milky Way, but though we've explored only a small portionof it, we can reconstruct a fairly accurate representation of the past.     He pressed the controls and stars twinkled on the screen. We'relooking down on the plane of the Galaxy. This is one arm of it as it istoday and here are the human systems. He pressed another control and,for purposes of identification, certain stars became more brilliant.There was no pattern, merely a scattering of stars. The whole MilkyWay is rotating. And while stars in a given region tend to remaintogether, there's also a random motion. Here's what happens when wecalculate the positions of stars in the past.     Flecks of light shifted and flowed across the screen. Kelburn stoppedthe motion.     Two hundred thousand years ago, he said.     There was a pattern of the identified stars. They were spaced at fairlyequal intervals along a regular curve, a horseshoe loop that didn'tclose, though if the ends were extended, the lines would have crossed.     Taphetta rustled. The math is accurate?     As accurate as it can be with a million-plus body problem.     And that's the hypothetical route of the unknown ancestor?     To the best of our knowledge, said Kelburn. And whereas there arehumans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always matewith those they were adjacent to      two hundred thousand years ago     !     The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. Is that the only era thatsatisfies the calculations?     Plus or minus a hundred thousand years, we can still get somethingthat might be the path of a spaceship attempting to cover arepresentative section of territory, said Kelburn. However, we haveother ways of dating it. On some worlds on which there are no othermammals, we're able to place the first human fossils chronologically.The evidence is sometimes contradictory, but we believe we've got thetime right.     Taphetta waved a ribbon at the chart. And you think that where the twoends of the curve cross is your original home?     We think so, said Kelburn. We've narrowed it down to several cubiclight-years—then. Now it's far more. And, of course, if it were afast-moving star, it might be completely out of the field of ourexploration. But we're certain we've got a good chance of finding itthis trip.     It seems I must decide quickly. The Ribboneer glanced out thevisionport, where another ship hung motionless in space beside them.Do you mind if I ask other questions?     Go ahead, Kelburn invited sardonically. But if it's not math, you'dbetter ask Halden. He's the leader of the expedition.     Halden flushed; the sarcasm wasn't necessary. It was true that Kelburnwas the most advanced human type present, but while there weredifferences, biological and in the scale of intelligence, it wasn'tas great as once was thought. Anyway, non-humans weren't trained inthe fine distinctions that men made among themselves. And, higher orlower, he was as good a biologist as the other was a mathematician. Andthere was the matter of training; he'd been on several expeditions andthis was Kelburn's first trip. Damn it, he thought, that rated somerespect.     The Ribboneer shifted his attention. Aside from the sudden illness ofyour pilot, why did you ask for me?     We didn't. The man became sick and required treatment we can't givehim. Luckily, a ship was passing and we hailed it because it's fourmonths to the nearest planet. They consented to take him back and toldus that there was a passenger on board who was an experienced pilot. Wehave men who could do the job in a makeshift fashion, but the regionwe're heading for, while mapped, is largely unknown. We'd prefer tohave an expert—and Ribboneers are famous for their navigationalability.     Taphetta crinkled politely at the reference to his skill. I had otherplans, but I can't evade professional obligations, and an emergencysuch as this should cancel out any previous agreements. Still, what arethe incentives?     Sam Halden coughed. The usual, plus a little extra. We've copied theRibboneer's standard nature, simplifying it a little and adding a percent here and there for the crew pilot and scientist's share of theprofits from any discoveries we may make.     I'm complimented that you like our contract so well, said Taphetta,but I really must have our own unsimplified version. If you want me,you'll take my contract. I came prepared. He extended a tightly boundroll that he had kept somewhere on his person.     They glanced at one another as Halden took it.     You can read it if you want, offered Taphetta. But it will takeyou all day—it's micro-printing. However, you needn't be afraid thatI'm defrauding you. It's honored everywhere we go and we go nearlyeverywhere in this sector—places men have never been.     There was no choice if they wanted him, and they did. Besides, theintegrity of Ribboneers was not to be questioned. Halden signed.     Good. Taphetta crinkled. Send it to the ship; they'll forward itfor me. And you can tell the ship to go on without me. He rubbed hisribbons together. Now if you'll get me the charts, I'll examine theregion toward which we're heading.  Firmon of hydroponics slouched in, a tall man with scanty hair andan equal lack of grace. He seemed to have difficulty in taking hiseyes off Meredith, though, since he was a notch or so above her in themating scale, he shouldn't have been so interested. But his planet hadbeen inexplicably slow in developing and he wasn't completely aware ofhis place in the human hierarchy.     Disdainfully, Meredith adjusted a skirt that, a few inches shorter,wouldn't have been a skirt at all, revealing, while doing so, just howlong and beautiful a woman's legs could be. Her people had never givenmuch thought to physical modesty and, with legs like that, it was easyto see why.     Muttering something about primitive women, Firmon turned to thebiologist. The pilot doesn't like our air.     Then change it to suit him. He's in charge of the ship and knows moreabout these things than I do.     More than a man? Firmon leered at Meredith and, when she failedto smile, added plaintively, I did try to change it, but he stillcomplains.  Halden took a deep breath. Seems all right to me.     To everybody else, too, but the tapeworm hasn't got lungs. He breathesthrough a million tubes scattered over his body.     It would do no good to explain that Taphetta wasn't a worm, that hisevolution had taken a different course, but that he was in no senseless complex than Man. It was a paradox that some biologically higherhumans hadn't developed as much as lower races and actually weren'tprepared for the multitude of life-forms they'd meet in space. Firmon'sreaction was quite typical.     If he asks for cleaner air, it's because his system needs it, saidHalden. Do anything you can to give it to him.     Can't. This is as good as I can get it. Taphetta thought you could dosomething about it.     Hydroponics is your job. There's nothing      I     can do. Halden pausedthoughtfully. Is there something wrong with the plants?     In a way, I guess, and yet not really.     What is it, some kind of toxic condition?     The plants are healthy enough, but something's chewing them down asfast as they grow.     Insects? There shouldn't be any, but if there are, we've got sprays.Use them.     It's an animal, said Firmon. We tried poison and got a few, but nowthey won't touch the stuff. I had electronics rig up some traps. Theanimals seem to know what they are and we've never caught one thatway.     Halden glowered at the man. How long has this been going on?     About three months. It's not bad; we can keep up with them.     It was probably nothing to become alarmed at, but an animal on the shipwas a nuisance, doubly so because of their pilot.     Tell me what you know about it, said Halden.     They're little things. Firmon held out his hands to show how small.I don't know how they got on, but once they did, there were plenty ofplaces to hide. He looked up defensively. This is an old ship withnew equipment and they hide under the machinery. There's nothing we cando except rebuild the ship from the hull inward.     Firmon was right. The new equipment had been installed in any placejust to get it in and now there were inaccessible corners and creviceseverywhere that couldn't be closed off without rebuilding.     They couldn't set up a continuous watch and shoot the animals downbecause there weren't that many men to spare. Besides, the use ofweapons in hydroponics would cause more damage to the thing they weretrying to protect than to the pest. He'd have to devise other ways.     Sam Halden got up. I'll take a look and see what I can do.     I'll come along and help, said Meredith, untwining her legs andleaning against him. Your mistress ought to have some sort ofprivileges.     Halden started. So she      knew     that the crew was calling her that!Perhaps it was intended to discourage Firmon, but he wished she hadn'tsaid it. It didn't help the situation at all.  Taphetta sat in a chair designed for humans. With a less flexible body,he wouldn't have fitted. Maybe it wasn't sitting, but his flat legswere folded neatly around the arms and his head rested comfortably onthe seat. The head ribbons, which were his hands and voice, were neverquite still.     He looked from Halden to Emmer and back again. The hydroponics techtells me you're contemplating an experiment. I don't like it.     Halden shrugged. We've got to have better air. It might work.     Pests on the ship? It's filthy! My people would never tolerate it!     Neither do we.     The Ribboneer's distaste subsided. What kind of creatures are they?     I have a description, though I've never seen one. It's a smallfour-legged animal with two antennae at the lower base of its skull. Atypical pest.     Taphetta rustled. Have you found out how it got on?     It was probably brought in with the supplies, said the biologist.Considering how far we've come, it may have been any one of a halfa dozen planets. Anyway, it hid, and since most of the places it hadaccess to were near the outer hull, it got an extra dose of hardradiation, or it may have nested near the atomic engines; both arepossibilities. Either way, it mutated, became a different animal. It'sdeveloped a tolerance for the poisons we spray on plants. Other thingsit detects and avoids, even electronic traps.     Then you believe it changed mentally as well as physically, that it'ssmarter?     I'd say that, yes. It must be a fairly intelligent creature to beso hard to get rid of. But it can be lured into traps, if the bait'sstrong enough.     That's what I don't like, said Taphetta, curling. Let me think itover while I ask questions. He turned to Emmer. I'm curious abouthumans. Is there anything else you can tell me about the hypotheticalancestor?     Emmer didn't look like the genius he was—a Neanderthal genius, butnonetheless a real one. In his field, he rated very high. He raised astubble-flecked cheek from a large thick-fingered paw and ran shaggyhands through shaggier hair.     I can speak with some authority, he rumbled. I was born on a worldwith the most extensive relics. As a child, I played in the ruins oftheir camp.     I don't question your authority, crinkled Taphetta. To me, allhumans—late or early and male or female—look remarkably alike. If youare an archeologist, that's enough for me. He paused and flicked hisspeech ribbons. Camp, did you say?  Emmer smiled, unsheathing great teeth. You've never seen any pictures?Impressive, but just a camp, monolithic one-story structures, andwe'd give something to know what they're made of. Presumably my worldwas one of the first they stopped at. They weren't used to roughingit, so they built more elaborately than they did later on. One-storystructures and that's how we can guess at their size. The doorways wereforty feet high.     Very large, agreed Taphetta. It was difficult to tell whether he wasimpressed. What did you find in the ruins?     Nothing, said Emmer. There were buildings there and that was all,not a scrap of writing or a tool or a single picture. They covereda route estimated at thirty thousand light-years in less than fivethousand years—and not one of them died that we have a record of.     A faster-than-light drive and an extremely long life, mused Taphetta.But they didn't leave any information for their descendants. Why?     Who knows? Their mental processes were certainly far different fromours. They may have thought we'd be better off without it. We do knowthey were looking for a special kind of planet, like Earth, becausethey visited so many of that type, yet different from it because theynever stayed. They were pretty special people themselves, big andlong-lived, and maybe they couldn't survive on any planet they found.Perhaps they had ways of determining there wasn't the kind of planetthey needed in the entire Milky Way. Their science was tremendouslyadvanced and when they learned that, they may have altered their germplasm and left us, hoping that some of us would survive. Most of usdid.     This special planet sounds strange, murmured Taphetta.     Not really, said Emmer. Fifty human races reached space travelindependently and those who did were scattered equally among early andlate species. It's well known that individuals among my people areoften as bright as any of Halden's or Meredith's, but as a whole wedon't have the total capacity that later Man does, and yet we're asadvanced in civilization. The difference? It must lie somewhere in theplanets we live on and it's hard to say just what it is.     What happened to those who didn't develop space travel? askedTaphetta.     We helped them, said Emmer.     And they had, no matter who or what they were, biologically lateor early, in the depths of the bronze age or the threshold ofatomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thingfor non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actuallyaggressive, but their total number was great and they held themselvesaloof. The unknown ancestor again. Who else had such an origin and, itwas tacitly assumed, such a destiny?  Taphetta changed his questioning. What do you expect to gain from thisdiscovery of the unknown ancestor?     It was Halden who answered him. There's the satisfaction of knowingwhere we came from.     Of course, rustled the Ribboneer. But a lot of money and equipmentwas required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educationalinstitutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectualcuriosity.     Cultural discoveries, rumbled Emmer. How did our ancestors live?When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more thanphysiology is changed—the pattern of life itself is altered. Thingsthat were easy for them are impossible for us. Look at their life span.     No doubt, said Taphetta. An archeologist would be interested incultural discoveries.     Two hundred thousand years ago, they had an extremely advancedcivilization, added Halden. A faster-than-light drive, and we'veachieved that only within the last thousand years.     But I think we have a better one than they did, said the Ribboneer.There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics,but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else?     Halden nodded. Agreed. They couldn't find a suitable planet. So,working directly with their germ plasm, they modified themselves andproduced us. They      were     master biologists.     I thought so, said Taphetta. I never paid much attention to yourfantastic theories before I signed to pilot this ship, but you've builtup a convincing case. He raised his head, speech ribbons curlingfractionally and ceaselessly. I don't like to, but we'll have to riskusing bait for your pest.     He'd have done it anyway, but it was better to have the pilot'sconsent. And there was one question Halden wanted to ask; it had beenbothering him vaguely. What's the difference between the Ribboneercontract and the one we offered you? Our terms are more liberal.     To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover asmuch as you think you will. The difference is this:      My     terms don'tpermit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race.     Taphetta was wrong; there had been no intention of withholdinganything. Halden examined his own attitudes.      He     hadn't intended, butcould he say that was true of the institutions backing the expedition?He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquiredwould have to be shared.     That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind oftechnical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that couldimprove itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a startthat could never be headed. The Ribboneer needn't worry now.  Why do we have to watch it on the screen? asked Meredith, glancingup. I'd rather be in hydroponics.     Halden shrugged. They may or may not be smarter than planetboundanimals, but they're warier. They don't come out when anyone's near.     Lights dimmed in the distant hydroponic section and the screen withit, until he adjusted the infra-red frequencies. He motioned to thetwo crew members, each with his own peculiar screen, below which was aminiature keyboard.     Ready?     When they nodded, Halden said: Do as you've rehearsed. Keep noise ata minimum, but when you do use it, be vague. Don't try to imitate themexactly.     At first, nothing happened on the big screen, and then a gray shapecrept out. It slid through leaves, listened intently before comingforward. It jumped off one hydroponic section and fled across the openfloor to the next. It paused, eyes glittering and antennae twitching.     Looking around once, it leaped up, seizing the ledge and clawing up theside of the tank. Standing on top and rising to its haunches, it begannibbling what it could reach.     Suddenly it whirled. Behind it and hitherto unnoticed was anothershape, like it but larger. The newcomer inched forward. The small oneretreated, skittering nervously. Without warning, the big one leapedand the small one tried to flee. In a few jumps, the big one caught upand mauled the other unmercifully.       It continued to bite even after the little one lay still. At last itbacked off and waited, watching for signs of motion. There was none.Then it turned to the plant. When it had chewed off everything withinreach, it climbed into the branches.     The little one twitched, moved a leg, and cautiously began draggingitself away. It rolled off the raised section and surprisingly made nonoise as it fell. It seemed to revive, shaking itself and scurryingaway, still within range of the screen.     Against the wall was a small platform. The little one climbed on topand there found something that seemed to interest it. It sniffedaround and reached and felt the discovery. Wounds were forgotten asit snatched up the object and frisked back to the scene of its recentdefeat.     This time it had no trouble with the raised section. It leaped andlanded on top and made considerable noise in doing so. The big animalheard and twisted around. It saw and clambered down hastily, jumpingthe last few feet. Squealing, it hit the floor and charged.     The small one stood still till the last instant—and then a pawflickered out and an inch-long knife blade plunged into the throat ofthe charging creature. Red spurted out as the bigger beast screamed.The knife flashed in and out until the big animal collapsed and stoppedmoving.     The small creature removed the knife and wiped it on the pelt of itsfoe. Then it scampered back to the platform on which the knife had beenfound—      and laid it down     .  At Halden's signal, the lights flared up and the screen became toobright for anything to be visible.     Go in and get them, said Halden. We don't want the pests to find outthat the bodies aren't flesh.     It was realistic enough, said Meredith as the crewmen shut off theirmachines and went out. Do you think it will work?     It might. We had an audience.     Did we? I didn't notice. Meredith leaned back. Were the puppetsexactly like the pests? And if not, will the pests be fooled?     The electronic puppets were a good imitation, but the animals don'thave to identify them as their species. If they're smart enough,they'll know the value of a knife, no matter who uses it.     What if they're smarter? Suppose they know a knife can't be used by acreature without real hands?     That's part of our precautions. They'll never know until they try—andthey'll never get away from the trap to try.     Very good. I never thought of that, said Meredith, coming closer. Ilike the way your primitive mind works. At times I actually think ofmarrying you.     Primitive, he said, alternately frozen and thawed, though he knewthat, in relation to her, he was      not     advanced.     It's almost a curse, isn't it? She laughed and took the curse away byleaning provocatively against him. But barbaric lovers are often nice.     Here we go again, he thought drearily, sliding his arm around her. Toher, I'm merely a passionate savage.     They went to his cabin.     She sat down, smiling. Was she pretty? Maybe. For her own race, shewasn't tall, only by Terran standards. Her legs were disproportionatelylong and well shaped and her face was somewhat bland and featureless,except for a thin, straight, short nose. It was her eyes that madethe difference, he decided. A notch or two up the scale of visualdevelopment, her eyes were larger and she could see an extra color onthe violet end of the spectrum.     She settled back and looked at him. It might be fun living with you onprimeval Earth.     He said nothing; she knew as well as he that Earth was as advanced asher own world. She had something else in mind.     I don't think I will, though. We might have children.     Would it be wrong? he asked. I'm as intelligent as you. We wouldn'thave subhuman monsters.     It would be a step up—for you. Under her calm, there was tension.It had been there as long as he'd known her, but it was closer to thesurface now. Do I have the right to condemn the unborn? Should I makethem start lower than I am?     The conflict was not new nor confined to them. In one form or another,it governed personal relations between races that were united againstnon-humans, but held sharp distinctions themselves.     I haven't asked you to marry me, he said bluntly.     Because you're afraid I'd refuse.     It was true; no one asked a member of a higher race to enter apermanent union.     Why did you ever have anything to do with me? demanded Halden.     Love, she said gloomily. Physical attraction. But I can't let itlead me astray.     Why not make a play for Kelburn? If you're going to be scientificabout it, he'd give you children of the higher type.     Kelburn. It didn't sound like a name, the way she said it. I don'tlike him and he wouldn't marry me.     He wouldn't, but he'd give you children if you were humble enough.There's a fifty per cent chance you might conceive.  She provocatively arched her back. Not even the women of Kelburn's racehad a body like hers and she knew it.     Racially, there should be a chance, she said. Actually, Kelburn andI would be infertile.     Can you be sure? he asked, knowing it was a poor attempt to actunconcerned.     How can anyone be sure on a theoretical basis? she asked, an obliquesmile narrowing her eyes. I know we can't.     His face felt anesthetized. Did you have to tell me that?     She got up and came to him. She nuzzled against him and his reactionwas purely reflexive. His hand swung out and he could feel the fleshgive when his knuckles struck it.     She fell back and dazedly covered her face with her hand. When she tookit away, blood spurted. She groped toward the mirror and stood in frontof it. She wiped the blood off, examining her features carefully.     You've broken my nose, she said factually. I'll have to stop theblood and pain.     She pushed her nose back into place and waggled it to make sure. Sheclosed her eyes and stood silent and motionless. Then she stepped backand looked at herself critically.     It's set and partially knitted. I'll concentrate tonight and have ithealed by morning.     She felt in the cabinet and attached an invisible strip firmly acrossthe bridge. Then she came over to him.     I wondered what you'd do. You didn't disappoint me.     He scowled miserably at her. Her face was almost plain and the bandage,invisible or not, didn't improve her appearance any. How could he stillfeel that attraction to her?     Try Emmer, he suggested tiredly. He'll find you irresistible, andhe's even more savage than I am.     Is he? She smiled enigmatically. Maybe, in a biological sense. Toomuch, though. You're just right.     He sat down on the bed. Again there was only one way of knowing whatEmmer would do—and she knew. She had no concept of love outside ofthe physical, to make use of her body so as to gain an advantage—whatadvantage?—for the children she intended to have. Outside of that,nothing mattered, and for the sake of alloying the lower with thehigher, she was as cruel to herself as she was to him. And yet hewanted her.     I do think I love you, she said. And if love's enough, I may marryyou in spite of everything. But you'll have to watch out whose childrenI have. She wriggled into his arms.     The racial disparity was great and she had provoked him, but it was notcompletely her fault. Besides....     Besides what? She had a beautiful body that could bear superiorchildren—and they might be his.     He twisted away. With those thoughts, he was as bad as she was. Werethey all that way, every one of them, crawling upward out of the slimetoward the highest goal they could conceive of? Climbing over—no,      through     —everybody they could coerce, seduce or marry—onward andupward. He raised his hand, but it was against himself that his angerwas turned.     Careful of the nose, she said, pressing against him. You've alreadybroken it once.     He kissed her with sudden passion that even he knew was primitive.  ","Meredith is a linguist who sits on the middle towards end of the spectrum; Halden is a biologist that is on the middle towards beginning of the spectrum. Meredith is wearing a short skirt which gets Firmon’s unwanted attention. She is also aware of the fact that she has been called “mistress” by the ship crews. After setting the trap for the plant eating animals, Meredith complements Halden for his primitiveness and calls their love barbaric, but Halden takes it a different way. He is indeed primitive in comparison to Meredith, but he clearly does not like the sound of it. He is of the lower level, she is a step up for him. In strong constrast to Taphetta’s belief of all humans are the same disregarding where they are on the spectrum, Meredith thinks that this spectrum weights more than the amount of love between Meredith and Halden. They seem to have known this all along. Halden never asks Meredith if she wanted to marry him, nor will Meredith say yes to that. Halden doesn’t like to be thought of the lower level human, but to his surprise, Halden later realizes that he also prefers a higher level children. "
"What is the mission of the expedition and its theory? </s>     BIG ANCESTOR     By F. L. WALLACE     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction November 1954.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Man's family tree was awesome enough to give every galactic       race an inferiority complex—but then he tried to climb it!        In repose, Taphetta the Ribboneer resembled a fancy giant bow on apackage. His four flat legs looped out and in, the ends tucked underhis wide, thin body, which constituted the knot at the middle. His neckwas flat, too, arching out in another loop. Of all his features, onlyhis head had appreciable thickness and it was crowned with a dozen longthough narrower ribbons.     Taphetta rattled the head fronds together in a surprisingly goodimitation of speech. Yes, I've heard the legend.     It's more than a legend, said Sam Halden, biologist. The reaction wasnot unexpected—non-humans tended to dismiss the data as convenientspeculation and nothing more. There are at least a hundred kinds ofhumans, each supposedly originating in strict seclusion on as manywidely scattered planets. Obviously there was no contact throughout theages before space travel—      and yet each planetary race can interbreedwith a minimum of ten others     ! That's more than a legend—one hell of alot more!     It is impressive, admitted Taphetta. But I find it mildlydistasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to myspecies.     That's because you're unique, said Halden. Outside of your ownworld, there's nothing like your species, except superficially, andthat's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the soleexception of mankind. Actually, the four of us here, though it'saccidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of humandevelopment.       Emmer, a Neanderthal type and our archeologist, is around thebeginning of the scale. I'm from Earth, near the middle, though onEmmer's side. Meredith, linguist, is on the other side of the middle.And beyond her, toward the far end, is Kelburn, mathematician. There'sa corresponding span of fertility. Emmer just misses being able tobreed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile withMeredith and a similar though lesser chance that her fertility mayextend to Kelburn.  Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. But I thought it wasproved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was anunbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years.     You're thinking of Earth, said Halden. Humans require a certain kindof planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on ahundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on afew of them. That's what happened on Earth; when Man arrived, there wasactually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionistsstretched their theories to cover the facts they had.     But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before theStone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to concludethat Man didn't originate on any of the planets on which he is nowfound. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughoutthis section of the Milky Way.     And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed acrossthousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,commented Taphetta dryly. It seems an unnecessary simplification.     Can you think of a better explanation? asked Kelburn.     Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not theresult of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races areinvolved, and      only     the human race.     I can't think of a better explanation. Taphetta rearranged hisribbons. Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theoriesabout himself.     It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerousthough not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization ashigh as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there wereothers—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever gottogether—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin.     Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could bevery useful. A clear statement of their position was essential inhelping him make up his mind. You've heard of the adjacency matingprinciple? asked Sam Halden.     Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men.     We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory isthat humans who can mate with each other were once physically close.We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetaryrace F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G isfertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatevertheir positions are now, at once time G was actually adjacent to F, butwas a little further along. When we project back into time those starsystems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certainpattern. Kelburn can explain it to you.     The normally pink body of the Ribboneer flushed slightly. The colorchange was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to indicate that hewas interested.  Kelburn went to the projector. It would be easier if we knew all thestars in the Milky Way, but though we've explored only a small portionof it, we can reconstruct a fairly accurate representation of the past.     He pressed the controls and stars twinkled on the screen. We'relooking down on the plane of the Galaxy. This is one arm of it as it istoday and here are the human systems. He pressed another control and,for purposes of identification, certain stars became more brilliant.There was no pattern, merely a scattering of stars. The whole MilkyWay is rotating. And while stars in a given region tend to remaintogether, there's also a random motion. Here's what happens when wecalculate the positions of stars in the past.     Flecks of light shifted and flowed across the screen. Kelburn stoppedthe motion.     Two hundred thousand years ago, he said.     There was a pattern of the identified stars. They were spaced at fairlyequal intervals along a regular curve, a horseshoe loop that didn'tclose, though if the ends were extended, the lines would have crossed.     Taphetta rustled. The math is accurate?     As accurate as it can be with a million-plus body problem.     And that's the hypothetical route of the unknown ancestor?     To the best of our knowledge, said Kelburn. And whereas there arehumans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always matewith those they were adjacent to      two hundred thousand years ago     !     The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. Is that the only era thatsatisfies the calculations?     Plus or minus a hundred thousand years, we can still get somethingthat might be the path of a spaceship attempting to cover arepresentative section of territory, said Kelburn. However, we haveother ways of dating it. On some worlds on which there are no othermammals, we're able to place the first human fossils chronologically.The evidence is sometimes contradictory, but we believe we've got thetime right.     Taphetta waved a ribbon at the chart. And you think that where the twoends of the curve cross is your original home?     We think so, said Kelburn. We've narrowed it down to several cubiclight-years—then. Now it's far more. And, of course, if it were afast-moving star, it might be completely out of the field of ourexploration. But we're certain we've got a good chance of finding itthis trip.     It seems I must decide quickly. The Ribboneer glanced out thevisionport, where another ship hung motionless in space beside them.Do you mind if I ask other questions?     Go ahead, Kelburn invited sardonically. But if it's not math, you'dbetter ask Halden. He's the leader of the expedition.     Halden flushed; the sarcasm wasn't necessary. It was true that Kelburnwas the most advanced human type present, but while there weredifferences, biological and in the scale of intelligence, it wasn'tas great as once was thought. Anyway, non-humans weren't trained inthe fine distinctions that men made among themselves. And, higher orlower, he was as good a biologist as the other was a mathematician. Andthere was the matter of training; he'd been on several expeditions andthis was Kelburn's first trip. Damn it, he thought, that rated somerespect.     The Ribboneer shifted his attention. Aside from the sudden illness ofyour pilot, why did you ask for me?     We didn't. The man became sick and required treatment we can't givehim. Luckily, a ship was passing and we hailed it because it's fourmonths to the nearest planet. They consented to take him back and toldus that there was a passenger on board who was an experienced pilot. Wehave men who could do the job in a makeshift fashion, but the regionwe're heading for, while mapped, is largely unknown. We'd prefer tohave an expert—and Ribboneers are famous for their navigationalability.     Taphetta crinkled politely at the reference to his skill. I had otherplans, but I can't evade professional obligations, and an emergencysuch as this should cancel out any previous agreements. Still, what arethe incentives?     Sam Halden coughed. The usual, plus a little extra. We've copied theRibboneer's standard nature, simplifying it a little and adding a percent here and there for the crew pilot and scientist's share of theprofits from any discoveries we may make.     I'm complimented that you like our contract so well, said Taphetta,but I really must have our own unsimplified version. If you want me,you'll take my contract. I came prepared. He extended a tightly boundroll that he had kept somewhere on his person.     They glanced at one another as Halden took it.     You can read it if you want, offered Taphetta. But it will takeyou all day—it's micro-printing. However, you needn't be afraid thatI'm defrauding you. It's honored everywhere we go and we go nearlyeverywhere in this sector—places men have never been.     There was no choice if they wanted him, and they did. Besides, theintegrity of Ribboneers was not to be questioned. Halden signed.     Good. Taphetta crinkled. Send it to the ship; they'll forward itfor me. And you can tell the ship to go on without me. He rubbed hisribbons together. Now if you'll get me the charts, I'll examine theregion toward which we're heading.  Firmon of hydroponics slouched in, a tall man with scanty hair andan equal lack of grace. He seemed to have difficulty in taking hiseyes off Meredith, though, since he was a notch or so above her in themating scale, he shouldn't have been so interested. But his planet hadbeen inexplicably slow in developing and he wasn't completely aware ofhis place in the human hierarchy.     Disdainfully, Meredith adjusted a skirt that, a few inches shorter,wouldn't have been a skirt at all, revealing, while doing so, just howlong and beautiful a woman's legs could be. Her people had never givenmuch thought to physical modesty and, with legs like that, it was easyto see why.     Muttering something about primitive women, Firmon turned to thebiologist. The pilot doesn't like our air.     Then change it to suit him. He's in charge of the ship and knows moreabout these things than I do.     More than a man? Firmon leered at Meredith and, when she failedto smile, added plaintively, I did try to change it, but he stillcomplains.  Halden took a deep breath. Seems all right to me.     To everybody else, too, but the tapeworm hasn't got lungs. He breathesthrough a million tubes scattered over his body.     It would do no good to explain that Taphetta wasn't a worm, that hisevolution had taken a different course, but that he was in no senseless complex than Man. It was a paradox that some biologically higherhumans hadn't developed as much as lower races and actually weren'tprepared for the multitude of life-forms they'd meet in space. Firmon'sreaction was quite typical.     If he asks for cleaner air, it's because his system needs it, saidHalden. Do anything you can to give it to him.     Can't. This is as good as I can get it. Taphetta thought you could dosomething about it.     Hydroponics is your job. There's nothing      I     can do. Halden pausedthoughtfully. Is there something wrong with the plants?     In a way, I guess, and yet not really.     What is it, some kind of toxic condition?     The plants are healthy enough, but something's chewing them down asfast as they grow.     Insects? There shouldn't be any, but if there are, we've got sprays.Use them.     It's an animal, said Firmon. We tried poison and got a few, but nowthey won't touch the stuff. I had electronics rig up some traps. Theanimals seem to know what they are and we've never caught one thatway.     Halden glowered at the man. How long has this been going on?     About three months. It's not bad; we can keep up with them.     It was probably nothing to become alarmed at, but an animal on the shipwas a nuisance, doubly so because of their pilot.     Tell me what you know about it, said Halden.     They're little things. Firmon held out his hands to show how small.I don't know how they got on, but once they did, there were plenty ofplaces to hide. He looked up defensively. This is an old ship withnew equipment and they hide under the machinery. There's nothing we cando except rebuild the ship from the hull inward.     Firmon was right. The new equipment had been installed in any placejust to get it in and now there were inaccessible corners and creviceseverywhere that couldn't be closed off without rebuilding.     They couldn't set up a continuous watch and shoot the animals downbecause there weren't that many men to spare. Besides, the use ofweapons in hydroponics would cause more damage to the thing they weretrying to protect than to the pest. He'd have to devise other ways.     Sam Halden got up. I'll take a look and see what I can do.     I'll come along and help, said Meredith, untwining her legs andleaning against him. Your mistress ought to have some sort ofprivileges.     Halden started. So she      knew     that the crew was calling her that!Perhaps it was intended to discourage Firmon, but he wished she hadn'tsaid it. It didn't help the situation at all.  Taphetta sat in a chair designed for humans. With a less flexible body,he wouldn't have fitted. Maybe it wasn't sitting, but his flat legswere folded neatly around the arms and his head rested comfortably onthe seat. The head ribbons, which were his hands and voice, were neverquite still.     He looked from Halden to Emmer and back again. The hydroponics techtells me you're contemplating an experiment. I don't like it.     Halden shrugged. We've got to have better air. It might work.     Pests on the ship? It's filthy! My people would never tolerate it!     Neither do we.     The Ribboneer's distaste subsided. What kind of creatures are they?     I have a description, though I've never seen one. It's a smallfour-legged animal with two antennae at the lower base of its skull. Atypical pest.     Taphetta rustled. Have you found out how it got on?     It was probably brought in with the supplies, said the biologist.Considering how far we've come, it may have been any one of a halfa dozen planets. Anyway, it hid, and since most of the places it hadaccess to were near the outer hull, it got an extra dose of hardradiation, or it may have nested near the atomic engines; both arepossibilities. Either way, it mutated, became a different animal. It'sdeveloped a tolerance for the poisons we spray on plants. Other thingsit detects and avoids, even electronic traps.     Then you believe it changed mentally as well as physically, that it'ssmarter?     I'd say that, yes. It must be a fairly intelligent creature to beso hard to get rid of. But it can be lured into traps, if the bait'sstrong enough.     That's what I don't like, said Taphetta, curling. Let me think itover while I ask questions. He turned to Emmer. I'm curious abouthumans. Is there anything else you can tell me about the hypotheticalancestor?     Emmer didn't look like the genius he was—a Neanderthal genius, butnonetheless a real one. In his field, he rated very high. He raised astubble-flecked cheek from a large thick-fingered paw and ran shaggyhands through shaggier hair.     I can speak with some authority, he rumbled. I was born on a worldwith the most extensive relics. As a child, I played in the ruins oftheir camp.     I don't question your authority, crinkled Taphetta. To me, allhumans—late or early and male or female—look remarkably alike. If youare an archeologist, that's enough for me. He paused and flicked hisspeech ribbons. Camp, did you say?  Emmer smiled, unsheathing great teeth. You've never seen any pictures?Impressive, but just a camp, monolithic one-story structures, andwe'd give something to know what they're made of. Presumably my worldwas one of the first they stopped at. They weren't used to roughingit, so they built more elaborately than they did later on. One-storystructures and that's how we can guess at their size. The doorways wereforty feet high.     Very large, agreed Taphetta. It was difficult to tell whether he wasimpressed. What did you find in the ruins?     Nothing, said Emmer. There were buildings there and that was all,not a scrap of writing or a tool or a single picture. They covereda route estimated at thirty thousand light-years in less than fivethousand years—and not one of them died that we have a record of.     A faster-than-light drive and an extremely long life, mused Taphetta.But they didn't leave any information for their descendants. Why?     Who knows? Their mental processes were certainly far different fromours. They may have thought we'd be better off without it. We do knowthey were looking for a special kind of planet, like Earth, becausethey visited so many of that type, yet different from it because theynever stayed. They were pretty special people themselves, big andlong-lived, and maybe they couldn't survive on any planet they found.Perhaps they had ways of determining there wasn't the kind of planetthey needed in the entire Milky Way. Their science was tremendouslyadvanced and when they learned that, they may have altered their germplasm and left us, hoping that some of us would survive. Most of usdid.     This special planet sounds strange, murmured Taphetta.     Not really, said Emmer. Fifty human races reached space travelindependently and those who did were scattered equally among early andlate species. It's well known that individuals among my people areoften as bright as any of Halden's or Meredith's, but as a whole wedon't have the total capacity that later Man does, and yet we're asadvanced in civilization. The difference? It must lie somewhere in theplanets we live on and it's hard to say just what it is.     What happened to those who didn't develop space travel? askedTaphetta.     We helped them, said Emmer.     And they had, no matter who or what they were, biologically lateor early, in the depths of the bronze age or the threshold ofatomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thingfor non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actuallyaggressive, but their total number was great and they held themselvesaloof. The unknown ancestor again. Who else had such an origin and, itwas tacitly assumed, such a destiny?  Taphetta changed his questioning. What do you expect to gain from thisdiscovery of the unknown ancestor?     It was Halden who answered him. There's the satisfaction of knowingwhere we came from.     Of course, rustled the Ribboneer. But a lot of money and equipmentwas required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educationalinstitutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectualcuriosity.     Cultural discoveries, rumbled Emmer. How did our ancestors live?When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more thanphysiology is changed—the pattern of life itself is altered. Thingsthat were easy for them are impossible for us. Look at their life span.     No doubt, said Taphetta. An archeologist would be interested incultural discoveries.     Two hundred thousand years ago, they had an extremely advancedcivilization, added Halden. A faster-than-light drive, and we'veachieved that only within the last thousand years.     But I think we have a better one than they did, said the Ribboneer.There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics,but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else?     Halden nodded. Agreed. They couldn't find a suitable planet. So,working directly with their germ plasm, they modified themselves andproduced us. They      were     master biologists.     I thought so, said Taphetta. I never paid much attention to yourfantastic theories before I signed to pilot this ship, but you've builtup a convincing case. He raised his head, speech ribbons curlingfractionally and ceaselessly. I don't like to, but we'll have to riskusing bait for your pest.     He'd have done it anyway, but it was better to have the pilot'sconsent. And there was one question Halden wanted to ask; it had beenbothering him vaguely. What's the difference between the Ribboneercontract and the one we offered you? Our terms are more liberal.     To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover asmuch as you think you will. The difference is this:      My     terms don'tpermit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race.     Taphetta was wrong; there had been no intention of withholdinganything. Halden examined his own attitudes.      He     hadn't intended, butcould he say that was true of the institutions backing the expedition?He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquiredwould have to be shared.     That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind oftechnical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that couldimprove itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a startthat could never be headed. The Ribboneer needn't worry now.  Why do we have to watch it on the screen? asked Meredith, glancingup. I'd rather be in hydroponics.     Halden shrugged. They may or may not be smarter than planetboundanimals, but they're warier. They don't come out when anyone's near.     Lights dimmed in the distant hydroponic section and the screen withit, until he adjusted the infra-red frequencies. He motioned to thetwo crew members, each with his own peculiar screen, below which was aminiature keyboard.     Ready?     When they nodded, Halden said: Do as you've rehearsed. Keep noise ata minimum, but when you do use it, be vague. Don't try to imitate themexactly.     At first, nothing happened on the big screen, and then a gray shapecrept out. It slid through leaves, listened intently before comingforward. It jumped off one hydroponic section and fled across the openfloor to the next. It paused, eyes glittering and antennae twitching.     Looking around once, it leaped up, seizing the ledge and clawing up theside of the tank. Standing on top and rising to its haunches, it begannibbling what it could reach.     Suddenly it whirled. Behind it and hitherto unnoticed was anothershape, like it but larger. The newcomer inched forward. The small oneretreated, skittering nervously. Without warning, the big one leapedand the small one tried to flee. In a few jumps, the big one caught upand mauled the other unmercifully.       It continued to bite even after the little one lay still. At last itbacked off and waited, watching for signs of motion. There was none.Then it turned to the plant. When it had chewed off everything withinreach, it climbed into the branches.     The little one twitched, moved a leg, and cautiously began draggingitself away. It rolled off the raised section and surprisingly made nonoise as it fell. It seemed to revive, shaking itself and scurryingaway, still within range of the screen.     Against the wall was a small platform. The little one climbed on topand there found something that seemed to interest it. It sniffedaround and reached and felt the discovery. Wounds were forgotten asit snatched up the object and frisked back to the scene of its recentdefeat.     This time it had no trouble with the raised section. It leaped andlanded on top and made considerable noise in doing so. The big animalheard and twisted around. It saw and clambered down hastily, jumpingthe last few feet. Squealing, it hit the floor and charged.     The small one stood still till the last instant—and then a pawflickered out and an inch-long knife blade plunged into the throat ofthe charging creature. Red spurted out as the bigger beast screamed.The knife flashed in and out until the big animal collapsed and stoppedmoving.     The small creature removed the knife and wiped it on the pelt of itsfoe. Then it scampered back to the platform on which the knife had beenfound—      and laid it down     .  At Halden's signal, the lights flared up and the screen became toobright for anything to be visible.     Go in and get them, said Halden. We don't want the pests to find outthat the bodies aren't flesh.     It was realistic enough, said Meredith as the crewmen shut off theirmachines and went out. Do you think it will work?     It might. We had an audience.     Did we? I didn't notice. Meredith leaned back. Were the puppetsexactly like the pests? And if not, will the pests be fooled?     The electronic puppets were a good imitation, but the animals don'thave to identify them as their species. If they're smart enough,they'll know the value of a knife, no matter who uses it.     What if they're smarter? Suppose they know a knife can't be used by acreature without real hands?     That's part of our precautions. They'll never know until they try—andthey'll never get away from the trap to try.     Very good. I never thought of that, said Meredith, coming closer. Ilike the way your primitive mind works. At times I actually think ofmarrying you.     Primitive, he said, alternately frozen and thawed, though he knewthat, in relation to her, he was      not     advanced.     It's almost a curse, isn't it? She laughed and took the curse away byleaning provocatively against him. But barbaric lovers are often nice.     Here we go again, he thought drearily, sliding his arm around her. Toher, I'm merely a passionate savage.     They went to his cabin.     She sat down, smiling. Was she pretty? Maybe. For her own race, shewasn't tall, only by Terran standards. Her legs were disproportionatelylong and well shaped and her face was somewhat bland and featureless,except for a thin, straight, short nose. It was her eyes that madethe difference, he decided. A notch or two up the scale of visualdevelopment, her eyes were larger and she could see an extra color onthe violet end of the spectrum.     She settled back and looked at him. It might be fun living with you onprimeval Earth.     He said nothing; she knew as well as he that Earth was as advanced asher own world. She had something else in mind.     I don't think I will, though. We might have children.     Would it be wrong? he asked. I'm as intelligent as you. We wouldn'thave subhuman monsters.     It would be a step up—for you. Under her calm, there was tension.It had been there as long as he'd known her, but it was closer to thesurface now. Do I have the right to condemn the unborn? Should I makethem start lower than I am?     The conflict was not new nor confined to them. In one form or another,it governed personal relations between races that were united againstnon-humans, but held sharp distinctions themselves.     I haven't asked you to marry me, he said bluntly.     Because you're afraid I'd refuse.     It was true; no one asked a member of a higher race to enter apermanent union.     Why did you ever have anything to do with me? demanded Halden.     Love, she said gloomily. Physical attraction. But I can't let itlead me astray.     Why not make a play for Kelburn? If you're going to be scientificabout it, he'd give you children of the higher type.     Kelburn. It didn't sound like a name, the way she said it. I don'tlike him and he wouldn't marry me.     He wouldn't, but he'd give you children if you were humble enough.There's a fifty per cent chance you might conceive.  She provocatively arched her back. Not even the women of Kelburn's racehad a body like hers and she knew it.     Racially, there should be a chance, she said. Actually, Kelburn andI would be infertile.     Can you be sure? he asked, knowing it was a poor attempt to actunconcerned.     How can anyone be sure on a theoretical basis? she asked, an obliquesmile narrowing her eyes. I know we can't.     His face felt anesthetized. Did you have to tell me that?     She got up and came to him. She nuzzled against him and his reactionwas purely reflexive. His hand swung out and he could feel the fleshgive when his knuckles struck it.     She fell back and dazedly covered her face with her hand. When she tookit away, blood spurted. She groped toward the mirror and stood in frontof it. She wiped the blood off, examining her features carefully.     You've broken my nose, she said factually. I'll have to stop theblood and pain.     She pushed her nose back into place and waggled it to make sure. Sheclosed her eyes and stood silent and motionless. Then she stepped backand looked at herself critically.     It's set and partially knitted. I'll concentrate tonight and have ithealed by morning.     She felt in the cabinet and attached an invisible strip firmly acrossthe bridge. Then she came over to him.     I wondered what you'd do. You didn't disappoint me.     He scowled miserably at her. Her face was almost plain and the bandage,invisible or not, didn't improve her appearance any. How could he stillfeel that attraction to her?     Try Emmer, he suggested tiredly. He'll find you irresistible, andhe's even more savage than I am.     Is he? She smiled enigmatically. Maybe, in a biological sense. Toomuch, though. You're just right.     He sat down on the bed. Again there was only one way of knowing whatEmmer would do—and she knew. She had no concept of love outside ofthe physical, to make use of her body so as to gain an advantage—whatadvantage?—for the children she intended to have. Outside of that,nothing mattered, and for the sake of alloying the lower with thehigher, she was as cruel to herself as she was to him. And yet hewanted her.     I do think I love you, she said. And if love's enough, I may marryyou in spite of everything. But you'll have to watch out whose childrenI have. She wriggled into his arms.     The racial disparity was great and she had provoked him, but it was notcompletely her fault. Besides....     Besides what? She had a beautiful body that could bear superiorchildren—and they might be his.     He twisted away. With those thoughts, he was as bad as she was. Werethey all that way, every one of them, crawling upward out of the slimetoward the highest goal they could conceive of? Climbing over—no,      through     —everybody they could coerce, seduce or marry—onward andupward. He raised his hand, but it was against himself that his angerwas turned.     Careful of the nose, she said, pressing against him. You've alreadybroken it once.     He kissed her with sudden passion that even he knew was primitive.  ","The goal of the expedition is to find their original home. There are many different species on the human development spectrum, and it is assumed that they can only mate with the species that are close to them on the spectrum according to the adjacency mating principle. Following this principle, careful calculations are done on the orbits of those planets. By determining their location in space at different times, the team are able to find a specific time in the whole universe that not only makes the specific pattern of a horse shoe, but also has supporting data backed up this hypothesis. Furthermore, if two imaginary lines extend from the ends of the horse shoe, the two lines will eventually meet and cross over at a specific location in space. The team are able to narrow the crossing point down to a few cubic light-years. According to the team, this space should be the place that their original home is. If they are to find the planet that the hypothetical unknown ancestors belongs to, they will be making cultural discoveries, technological advances, and finding out where they actually come from. "
"Describe the setting of the story? </s>     BIG ANCESTOR     By F. L. WALLACE     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction November 1954.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Man's family tree was awesome enough to give every galactic       race an inferiority complex—but then he tried to climb it!        In repose, Taphetta the Ribboneer resembled a fancy giant bow on apackage. His four flat legs looped out and in, the ends tucked underhis wide, thin body, which constituted the knot at the middle. His neckwas flat, too, arching out in another loop. Of all his features, onlyhis head had appreciable thickness and it was crowned with a dozen longthough narrower ribbons.     Taphetta rattled the head fronds together in a surprisingly goodimitation of speech. Yes, I've heard the legend.     It's more than a legend, said Sam Halden, biologist. The reaction wasnot unexpected—non-humans tended to dismiss the data as convenientspeculation and nothing more. There are at least a hundred kinds ofhumans, each supposedly originating in strict seclusion on as manywidely scattered planets. Obviously there was no contact throughout theages before space travel—      and yet each planetary race can interbreedwith a minimum of ten others     ! That's more than a legend—one hell of alot more!     It is impressive, admitted Taphetta. But I find it mildlydistasteful to consider mating with someone who does not belong to myspecies.     That's because you're unique, said Halden. Outside of your ownworld, there's nothing like your species, except superficially, andthat's true of all other creatures, intelligent or not, with the soleexception of mankind. Actually, the four of us here, though it'saccidental, very nearly represent the biological spectrum of humandevelopment.       Emmer, a Neanderthal type and our archeologist, is around thebeginning of the scale. I'm from Earth, near the middle, though onEmmer's side. Meredith, linguist, is on the other side of the middle.And beyond her, toward the far end, is Kelburn, mathematician. There'sa corresponding span of fertility. Emmer just misses being able tobreed with my kind, but there's a fair chance that I'd be fertile withMeredith and a similar though lesser chance that her fertility mayextend to Kelburn.  Taphetta rustled his speech ribbons quizzically. But I thought it wasproved that some humans did originate on one planet, that there was anunbroken line of evolution that could be traced back a billion years.     You're thinking of Earth, said Halden. Humans require a certain kindof planet. It's reasonable to assume that, if men were set down on ahundred such worlds, they'd seem to fit in with native life-forms on afew of them. That's what happened on Earth; when Man arrived, there wasactually a manlike creature there. Naturally our early evolutionistsstretched their theories to cover the facts they had.     But there are other worlds in which humans who were there before theStone Age aren't related to anything else there. We have to concludethat Man didn't originate on any of the planets on which he is nowfound. Instead, he evolved elsewhere and later was scattered throughoutthis section of the Milky Way.     And so, to account for the unique race that can interbreed acrossthousands of light-years, you've brought in the big ancestor,commented Taphetta dryly. It seems an unnecessary simplification.     Can you think of a better explanation? asked Kelburn.     Something had to distribute one species so widely and it's not theresult of parallel evolution—not when a hundred human races areinvolved, and      only     the human race.     I can't think of a better explanation. Taphetta rearranged hisribbons. Frankly, no one else is much interested in Man's theoriesabout himself.     It was easy to understand the attitude. Man was the most numerousthough not always the most advanced—Ribboneers had a civilization ashigh as anything in the known section of the Milky Way, and there wereothers—and humans were more than a little feared. If they ever gottogether—but they hadn't except in agreement as to their common origin.     Still, Taphetta the Ribboneer was an experienced pilot and could bevery useful. A clear statement of their position was essential inhelping him make up his mind. You've heard of the adjacency matingprinciple? asked Sam Halden.     Vaguely. Most people have if they've been around men.     We've got new data and are able to interpret it better. The theory isthat humans who can mate with each other were once physically close.We've got a list of all our races arranged in sequence. If planetaryrace F can mate with race E back to A and forward to M, and race G isfertile only back to B, but forward to O, then we assume that whatevertheir positions are now, at once time G was actually adjacent to F, butwas a little further along. When we project back into time those starsystems on which humans existed prior to space travel, we get a certainpattern. Kelburn can explain it to you.     The normally pink body of the Ribboneer flushed slightly. The colorchange was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to indicate that hewas interested.  Kelburn went to the projector. It would be easier if we knew all thestars in the Milky Way, but though we've explored only a small portionof it, we can reconstruct a fairly accurate representation of the past.     He pressed the controls and stars twinkled on the screen. We'relooking down on the plane of the Galaxy. This is one arm of it as it istoday and here are the human systems. He pressed another control and,for purposes of identification, certain stars became more brilliant.There was no pattern, merely a scattering of stars. The whole MilkyWay is rotating. And while stars in a given region tend to remaintogether, there's also a random motion. Here's what happens when wecalculate the positions of stars in the past.     Flecks of light shifted and flowed across the screen. Kelburn stoppedthe motion.     Two hundred thousand years ago, he said.     There was a pattern of the identified stars. They were spaced at fairlyequal intervals along a regular curve, a horseshoe loop that didn'tclose, though if the ends were extended, the lines would have crossed.     Taphetta rustled. The math is accurate?     As accurate as it can be with a million-plus body problem.     And that's the hypothetical route of the unknown ancestor?     To the best of our knowledge, said Kelburn. And whereas there arehumans who are relatively near and not fertile, they can always matewith those they were adjacent to      two hundred thousand years ago     !     The adjacency mating principle. I've never seen it demonstrated,murmured Taphetta, flexing his ribbons. Is that the only era thatsatisfies the calculations?     Plus or minus a hundred thousand years, we can still get somethingthat might be the path of a spaceship attempting to cover arepresentative section of territory, said Kelburn. However, we haveother ways of dating it. On some worlds on which there are no othermammals, we're able to place the first human fossils chronologically.The evidence is sometimes contradictory, but we believe we've got thetime right.     Taphetta waved a ribbon at the chart. And you think that where the twoends of the curve cross is your original home?     We think so, said Kelburn. We've narrowed it down to several cubiclight-years—then. Now it's far more. And, of course, if it were afast-moving star, it might be completely out of the field of ourexploration. But we're certain we've got a good chance of finding itthis trip.     It seems I must decide quickly. The Ribboneer glanced out thevisionport, where another ship hung motionless in space beside them.Do you mind if I ask other questions?     Go ahead, Kelburn invited sardonically. But if it's not math, you'dbetter ask Halden. He's the leader of the expedition.     Halden flushed; the sarcasm wasn't necessary. It was true that Kelburnwas the most advanced human type present, but while there weredifferences, biological and in the scale of intelligence, it wasn'tas great as once was thought. Anyway, non-humans weren't trained inthe fine distinctions that men made among themselves. And, higher orlower, he was as good a biologist as the other was a mathematician. Andthere was the matter of training; he'd been on several expeditions andthis was Kelburn's first trip. Damn it, he thought, that rated somerespect.     The Ribboneer shifted his attention. Aside from the sudden illness ofyour pilot, why did you ask for me?     We didn't. The man became sick and required treatment we can't givehim. Luckily, a ship was passing and we hailed it because it's fourmonths to the nearest planet. They consented to take him back and toldus that there was a passenger on board who was an experienced pilot. Wehave men who could do the job in a makeshift fashion, but the regionwe're heading for, while mapped, is largely unknown. We'd prefer tohave an expert—and Ribboneers are famous for their navigationalability.     Taphetta crinkled politely at the reference to his skill. I had otherplans, but I can't evade professional obligations, and an emergencysuch as this should cancel out any previous agreements. Still, what arethe incentives?     Sam Halden coughed. The usual, plus a little extra. We've copied theRibboneer's standard nature, simplifying it a little and adding a percent here and there for the crew pilot and scientist's share of theprofits from any discoveries we may make.     I'm complimented that you like our contract so well, said Taphetta,but I really must have our own unsimplified version. If you want me,you'll take my contract. I came prepared. He extended a tightly boundroll that he had kept somewhere on his person.     They glanced at one another as Halden took it.     You can read it if you want, offered Taphetta. But it will takeyou all day—it's micro-printing. However, you needn't be afraid thatI'm defrauding you. It's honored everywhere we go and we go nearlyeverywhere in this sector—places men have never been.     There was no choice if they wanted him, and they did. Besides, theintegrity of Ribboneers was not to be questioned. Halden signed.     Good. Taphetta crinkled. Send it to the ship; they'll forward itfor me. And you can tell the ship to go on without me. He rubbed hisribbons together. Now if you'll get me the charts, I'll examine theregion toward which we're heading.  Firmon of hydroponics slouched in, a tall man with scanty hair andan equal lack of grace. He seemed to have difficulty in taking hiseyes off Meredith, though, since he was a notch or so above her in themating scale, he shouldn't have been so interested. But his planet hadbeen inexplicably slow in developing and he wasn't completely aware ofhis place in the human hierarchy.     Disdainfully, Meredith adjusted a skirt that, a few inches shorter,wouldn't have been a skirt at all, revealing, while doing so, just howlong and beautiful a woman's legs could be. Her people had never givenmuch thought to physical modesty and, with legs like that, it was easyto see why.     Muttering something about primitive women, Firmon turned to thebiologist. The pilot doesn't like our air.     Then change it to suit him. He's in charge of the ship and knows moreabout these things than I do.     More than a man? Firmon leered at Meredith and, when she failedto smile, added plaintively, I did try to change it, but he stillcomplains.  Halden took a deep breath. Seems all right to me.     To everybody else, too, but the tapeworm hasn't got lungs. He breathesthrough a million tubes scattered over his body.     It would do no good to explain that Taphetta wasn't a worm, that hisevolution had taken a different course, but that he was in no senseless complex than Man. It was a paradox that some biologically higherhumans hadn't developed as much as lower races and actually weren'tprepared for the multitude of life-forms they'd meet in space. Firmon'sreaction was quite typical.     If he asks for cleaner air, it's because his system needs it, saidHalden. Do anything you can to give it to him.     Can't. This is as good as I can get it. Taphetta thought you could dosomething about it.     Hydroponics is your job. There's nothing      I     can do. Halden pausedthoughtfully. Is there something wrong with the plants?     In a way, I guess, and yet not really.     What is it, some kind of toxic condition?     The plants are healthy enough, but something's chewing them down asfast as they grow.     Insects? There shouldn't be any, but if there are, we've got sprays.Use them.     It's an animal, said Firmon. We tried poison and got a few, but nowthey won't touch the stuff. I had electronics rig up some traps. Theanimals seem to know what they are and we've never caught one thatway.     Halden glowered at the man. How long has this been going on?     About three months. It's not bad; we can keep up with them.     It was probably nothing to become alarmed at, but an animal on the shipwas a nuisance, doubly so because of their pilot.     Tell me what you know about it, said Halden.     They're little things. Firmon held out his hands to show how small.I don't know how they got on, but once they did, there were plenty ofplaces to hide. He looked up defensively. This is an old ship withnew equipment and they hide under the machinery. There's nothing we cando except rebuild the ship from the hull inward.     Firmon was right. The new equipment had been installed in any placejust to get it in and now there were inaccessible corners and creviceseverywhere that couldn't be closed off without rebuilding.     They couldn't set up a continuous watch and shoot the animals downbecause there weren't that many men to spare. Besides, the use ofweapons in hydroponics would cause more damage to the thing they weretrying to protect than to the pest. He'd have to devise other ways.     Sam Halden got up. I'll take a look and see what I can do.     I'll come along and help, said Meredith, untwining her legs andleaning against him. Your mistress ought to have some sort ofprivileges.     Halden started. So she      knew     that the crew was calling her that!Perhaps it was intended to discourage Firmon, but he wished she hadn'tsaid it. It didn't help the situation at all.  Taphetta sat in a chair designed for humans. With a less flexible body,he wouldn't have fitted. Maybe it wasn't sitting, but his flat legswere folded neatly around the arms and his head rested comfortably onthe seat. The head ribbons, which were his hands and voice, were neverquite still.     He looked from Halden to Emmer and back again. The hydroponics techtells me you're contemplating an experiment. I don't like it.     Halden shrugged. We've got to have better air. It might work.     Pests on the ship? It's filthy! My people would never tolerate it!     Neither do we.     The Ribboneer's distaste subsided. What kind of creatures are they?     I have a description, though I've never seen one. It's a smallfour-legged animal with two antennae at the lower base of its skull. Atypical pest.     Taphetta rustled. Have you found out how it got on?     It was probably brought in with the supplies, said the biologist.Considering how far we've come, it may have been any one of a halfa dozen planets. Anyway, it hid, and since most of the places it hadaccess to were near the outer hull, it got an extra dose of hardradiation, or it may have nested near the atomic engines; both arepossibilities. Either way, it mutated, became a different animal. It'sdeveloped a tolerance for the poisons we spray on plants. Other thingsit detects and avoids, even electronic traps.     Then you believe it changed mentally as well as physically, that it'ssmarter?     I'd say that, yes. It must be a fairly intelligent creature to beso hard to get rid of. But it can be lured into traps, if the bait'sstrong enough.     That's what I don't like, said Taphetta, curling. Let me think itover while I ask questions. He turned to Emmer. I'm curious abouthumans. Is there anything else you can tell me about the hypotheticalancestor?     Emmer didn't look like the genius he was—a Neanderthal genius, butnonetheless a real one. In his field, he rated very high. He raised astubble-flecked cheek from a large thick-fingered paw and ran shaggyhands through shaggier hair.     I can speak with some authority, he rumbled. I was born on a worldwith the most extensive relics. As a child, I played in the ruins oftheir camp.     I don't question your authority, crinkled Taphetta. To me, allhumans—late or early and male or female—look remarkably alike. If youare an archeologist, that's enough for me. He paused and flicked hisspeech ribbons. Camp, did you say?  Emmer smiled, unsheathing great teeth. You've never seen any pictures?Impressive, but just a camp, monolithic one-story structures, andwe'd give something to know what they're made of. Presumably my worldwas one of the first they stopped at. They weren't used to roughingit, so they built more elaborately than they did later on. One-storystructures and that's how we can guess at their size. The doorways wereforty feet high.     Very large, agreed Taphetta. It was difficult to tell whether he wasimpressed. What did you find in the ruins?     Nothing, said Emmer. There were buildings there and that was all,not a scrap of writing or a tool or a single picture. They covereda route estimated at thirty thousand light-years in less than fivethousand years—and not one of them died that we have a record of.     A faster-than-light drive and an extremely long life, mused Taphetta.But they didn't leave any information for their descendants. Why?     Who knows? Their mental processes were certainly far different fromours. They may have thought we'd be better off without it. We do knowthey were looking for a special kind of planet, like Earth, becausethey visited so many of that type, yet different from it because theynever stayed. They were pretty special people themselves, big andlong-lived, and maybe they couldn't survive on any planet they found.Perhaps they had ways of determining there wasn't the kind of planetthey needed in the entire Milky Way. Their science was tremendouslyadvanced and when they learned that, they may have altered their germplasm and left us, hoping that some of us would survive. Most of usdid.     This special planet sounds strange, murmured Taphetta.     Not really, said Emmer. Fifty human races reached space travelindependently and those who did were scattered equally among early andlate species. It's well known that individuals among my people areoften as bright as any of Halden's or Meredith's, but as a whole wedon't have the total capacity that later Man does, and yet we're asadvanced in civilization. The difference? It must lie somewhere in theplanets we live on and it's hard to say just what it is.     What happened to those who didn't develop space travel? askedTaphetta.     We helped them, said Emmer.     And they had, no matter who or what they were, biologically lateor early, in the depths of the bronze age or the threshold ofatomic—because they were human. That was sometimes a frightening thingfor non-humans, that the race stuck together. They weren't actuallyaggressive, but their total number was great and they held themselvesaloof. The unknown ancestor again. Who else had such an origin and, itwas tacitly assumed, such a destiny?  Taphetta changed his questioning. What do you expect to gain from thisdiscovery of the unknown ancestor?     It was Halden who answered him. There's the satisfaction of knowingwhere we came from.     Of course, rustled the Ribboneer. But a lot of money and equipmentwas required for this expedition. I can't believe that the educationalinstitutions that are backing you did so purely out of intellectualcuriosity.     Cultural discoveries, rumbled Emmer. How did our ancestors live?When a creature is greatly reduced in size, as we are, more thanphysiology is changed—the pattern of life itself is altered. Thingsthat were easy for them are impossible for us. Look at their life span.     No doubt, said Taphetta. An archeologist would be interested incultural discoveries.     Two hundred thousand years ago, they had an extremely advancedcivilization, added Halden. A faster-than-light drive, and we'veachieved that only within the last thousand years.     But I think we have a better one than they did, said the Ribboneer.There may be things we can learn from them in mechanics or physics,but wouldn't you say they were better biologists than anything else?     Halden nodded. Agreed. They couldn't find a suitable planet. So,working directly with their germ plasm, they modified themselves andproduced us. They      were     master biologists.     I thought so, said Taphetta. I never paid much attention to yourfantastic theories before I signed to pilot this ship, but you've builtup a convincing case. He raised his head, speech ribbons curlingfractionally and ceaselessly. I don't like to, but we'll have to riskusing bait for your pest.     He'd have done it anyway, but it was better to have the pilot'sconsent. And there was one question Halden wanted to ask; it had beenbothering him vaguely. What's the difference between the Ribboneercontract and the one we offered you? Our terms are more liberal.     To the individual, they are, but it won't matter if you discover asmuch as you think you will. The difference is this:      My     terms don'tpermit you to withhold any discovery for the benefit of one race.     Taphetta was wrong; there had been no intention of withholdinganything. Halden examined his own attitudes.      He     hadn't intended, butcould he say that was true of the institutions backing the expedition?He couldn't, and it was too late now—whatever knowledge they acquiredwould have to be shared.     That was what Taphetta had been afraid of—there was one kind oftechnical advancement that multiplied unceasingly. The race that couldimprove itself through scientific control of its germ plasm had a startthat could never be headed. The Ribboneer needn't worry now.  Why do we have to watch it on the screen? asked Meredith, glancingup. I'd rather be in hydroponics.     Halden shrugged. They may or may not be smarter than planetboundanimals, but they're warier. They don't come out when anyone's near.     Lights dimmed in the distant hydroponic section and the screen withit, until he adjusted the infra-red frequencies. He motioned to thetwo crew members, each with his own peculiar screen, below which was aminiature keyboard.     Ready?     When they nodded, Halden said: Do as you've rehearsed. Keep noise ata minimum, but when you do use it, be vague. Don't try to imitate themexactly.     At first, nothing happened on the big screen, and then a gray shapecrept out. It slid through leaves, listened intently before comingforward. It jumped off one hydroponic section and fled across the openfloor to the next. It paused, eyes glittering and antennae twitching.     Looking around once, it leaped up, seizing the ledge and clawing up theside of the tank. Standing on top and rising to its haunches, it begannibbling what it could reach.     Suddenly it whirled. Behind it and hitherto unnoticed was anothershape, like it but larger. The newcomer inched forward. The small oneretreated, skittering nervously. Without warning, the big one leapedand the small one tried to flee. In a few jumps, the big one caught upand mauled the other unmercifully.       It continued to bite even after the little one lay still. At last itbacked off and waited, watching for signs of motion. There was none.Then it turned to the plant. When it had chewed off everything withinreach, it climbed into the branches.     The little one twitched, moved a leg, and cautiously began draggingitself away. It rolled off the raised section and surprisingly made nonoise as it fell. It seemed to revive, shaking itself and scurryingaway, still within range of the screen.     Against the wall was a small platform. The little one climbed on topand there found something that seemed to interest it. It sniffedaround and reached and felt the discovery. Wounds were forgotten asit snatched up the object and frisked back to the scene of its recentdefeat.     This time it had no trouble with the raised section. It leaped andlanded on top and made considerable noise in doing so. The big animalheard and twisted around. It saw and clambered down hastily, jumpingthe last few feet. Squealing, it hit the floor and charged.     The small one stood still till the last instant—and then a pawflickered out and an inch-long knife blade plunged into the throat ofthe charging creature. Red spurted out as the bigger beast screamed.The knife flashed in and out until the big animal collapsed and stoppedmoving.     The small creature removed the knife and wiped it on the pelt of itsfoe. Then it scampered back to the platform on which the knife had beenfound—      and laid it down     .  At Halden's signal, the lights flared up and the screen became toobright for anything to be visible.     Go in and get them, said Halden. We don't want the pests to find outthat the bodies aren't flesh.     It was realistic enough, said Meredith as the crewmen shut off theirmachines and went out. Do you think it will work?     It might. We had an audience.     Did we? I didn't notice. Meredith leaned back. Were the puppetsexactly like the pests? And if not, will the pests be fooled?     The electronic puppets were a good imitation, but the animals don'thave to identify them as their species. If they're smart enough,they'll know the value of a knife, no matter who uses it.     What if they're smarter? Suppose they know a knife can't be used by acreature without real hands?     That's part of our precautions. They'll never know until they try—andthey'll never get away from the trap to try.     Very good. I never thought of that, said Meredith, coming closer. Ilike the way your primitive mind works. At times I actually think ofmarrying you.     Primitive, he said, alternately frozen and thawed, though he knewthat, in relation to her, he was      not     advanced.     It's almost a curse, isn't it? She laughed and took the curse away byleaning provocatively against him. But barbaric lovers are often nice.     Here we go again, he thought drearily, sliding his arm around her. Toher, I'm merely a passionate savage.     They went to his cabin.     She sat down, smiling. Was she pretty? Maybe. For her own race, shewasn't tall, only by Terran standards. Her legs were disproportionatelylong and well shaped and her face was somewhat bland and featureless,except for a thin, straight, short nose. It was her eyes that madethe difference, he decided. A notch or two up the scale of visualdevelopment, her eyes were larger and she could see an extra color onthe violet end of the spectrum.     She settled back and looked at him. It might be fun living with you onprimeval Earth.     He said nothing; she knew as well as he that Earth was as advanced asher own world. She had something else in mind.     I don't think I will, though. We might have children.     Would it be wrong? he asked. I'm as intelligent as you. We wouldn'thave subhuman monsters.     It would be a step up—for you. Under her calm, there was tension.It had been there as long as he'd known her, but it was closer to thesurface now. Do I have the right to condemn the unborn? Should I makethem start lower than I am?     The conflict was not new nor confined to them. In one form or another,it governed personal relations between races that were united againstnon-humans, but held sharp distinctions themselves.     I haven't asked you to marry me, he said bluntly.     Because you're afraid I'd refuse.     It was true; no one asked a member of a higher race to enter apermanent union.     Why did you ever have anything to do with me? demanded Halden.     Love, she said gloomily. Physical attraction. But I can't let itlead me astray.     Why not make a play for Kelburn? If you're going to be scientificabout it, he'd give you children of the higher type.     Kelburn. It didn't sound like a name, the way she said it. I don'tlike him and he wouldn't marry me.     He wouldn't, but he'd give you children if you were humble enough.There's a fifty per cent chance you might conceive.  She provocatively arched her back. Not even the women of Kelburn's racehad a body like hers and she knew it.     Racially, there should be a chance, she said. Actually, Kelburn andI would be infertile.     Can you be sure? he asked, knowing it was a poor attempt to actunconcerned.     How can anyone be sure on a theoretical basis? she asked, an obliquesmile narrowing her eyes. I know we can't.     His face felt anesthetized. Did you have to tell me that?     She got up and came to him. She nuzzled against him and his reactionwas purely reflexive. His hand swung out and he could feel the fleshgive when his knuckles struck it.     She fell back and dazedly covered her face with her hand. When she tookit away, blood spurted. She groped toward the mirror and stood in frontof it. She wiped the blood off, examining her features carefully.     You've broken my nose, she said factually. I'll have to stop theblood and pain.     She pushed her nose back into place and waggled it to make sure. Sheclosed her eyes and stood silent and motionless. Then she stepped backand looked at herself critically.     It's set and partially knitted. I'll concentrate tonight and have ithealed by morning.     She felt in the cabinet and attached an invisible strip firmly acrossthe bridge. Then she came over to him.     I wondered what you'd do. You didn't disappoint me.     He scowled miserably at her. Her face was almost plain and the bandage,invisible or not, didn't improve her appearance any. How could he stillfeel that attraction to her?     Try Emmer, he suggested tiredly. He'll find you irresistible, andhe's even more savage than I am.     Is he? She smiled enigmatically. Maybe, in a biological sense. Toomuch, though. You're just right.     He sat down on the bed. Again there was only one way of knowing whatEmmer would do—and she knew. She had no concept of love outside ofthe physical, to make use of her body so as to gain an advantage—whatadvantage?—for the children she intended to have. Outside of that,nothing mattered, and for the sake of alloying the lower with thehigher, she was as cruel to herself as she was to him. And yet hewanted her.     I do think I love you, she said. And if love's enough, I may marryyou in spite of everything. But you'll have to watch out whose childrenI have. She wriggled into his arms.     The racial disparity was great and she had provoked him, but it was notcompletely her fault. Besides....     Besides what? She had a beautiful body that could bear superiorchildren—and they might be his.     He twisted away. With those thoughts, he was as bad as she was. Werethey all that way, every one of them, crawling upward out of the slimetoward the highest goal they could conceive of? Climbing over—no,      through     —everybody they could coerce, seduce or marry—onward andupward. He raised his hand, but it was against himself that his angerwas turned.     Careful of the nose, she said, pressing against him. You've alreadybroken it once.     He kissed her with sudden passion that even he knew was primitive.  ","The story is set in a space ship of an expedition with the goal of finding human’s original home. The universe has many species of human beings at different development levels, and four of them are on board of the ship. They seem to believe that there is a planet of origin, where they evolved. They assume that later, they were brought from the original planet to the planets they now live on. There was another ship that passed the expedition ship, which allow the explorers to send their pilot home since he is sick. They learn that there is a Ribboneer on that ship. The Ribboneer is a pilot and has been to some expeditions. Thus, the team want to have him on board and be the pilot of their ship. Hence, they start to explain about their theories in trying to find out about human race and their origin. The Ribboneer is interested and decides to join the team. Later, they notice that the plants are being eaten by some animals. Thus they put on a show at the hydroponics to trick the animals. Later, we follow Halden and Meredith to Halden’s cabin where they have an argument over the level of development they have and Halden punches Meredith’s nose. Then, the story ends with the two of them in Halden’s room. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  Knof Llud, the      Quest III's     captain, came slowly down the narrowstair from the observatory, into the big rotunda that was now the mainrecreation room, where most of the people gathered. The great chamber,a full cross-section of the vessel, had been at first a fuel hold. Atthe voyage's beginning eighty per cent of the fifteen-hundred-footcylinder had been engines and fuel; but as the immense stores werespent and the holds became radioactively safe, the crew had spreadout from its original cramped quarters. Now the interstellar ship waslittle more than a hollow shell.     Eyes lifted from the vision screens to interrogate Knof Llud; he metthem with an impassive countenance, and announced quietly, We'vesighted Earth.     A feverish buzz arose; the captain gestured for silence and went on,It is still only a featureless disk to the telescope. Zost Relyul hasidentified it—no more.     But this time the clamor was not to be settled. People pressed roundthe screens, peering into them as if with the naked eye they couldpick out the atom of reflected light that was Earth, home. They wrungeach other's hands, kissed, shouted, wept. For the present their fearswere forgotten and exaltation prevailed.     Knof Llud smiled wryly. The rest of the little speech he had been aboutto make didn't matter anyway, and it might have spoiled this moment.     He turned to go, and was halted by the sight of his wife, standing athis elbow. His wry smile took on warmth; he asked, How do      you     feel,Lesra?     She drew an uncertain breath and released it in a faint sigh. I don'tknow. It's good that Earth's still there. She was thinking, he judgedshrewdly, of Knof Jr. and Delza, who save from pictures could notremember sunlit skies or grassy fields or woods in summer....     He said, with a touch of tolerant amusement, What did you think mighthave happened to Earth? After all, it's only been nine hundred years.     That's just it, said Lesra shakily. Nine hundred years have goneby—      there     —and nothing will be the same. It won't be the same worldwe left, the world we knew and fitted in....     The captain put an arm round her with comforting pressure. Don'tworry. Things may have changed—but we'll manage. But his face hadhardened against registering the gnawing of that same doubtful fearwithin him. He let his arm fall. I'd better get up to the bridge.There's a new course to be set now—for Earth.     He left her and began to climb the stairway again. Someone switchedoff the lights, and a charmed whisper ran through the big room as thepeople saw each other's faces by the pale golden light of Earth's ownSun, mirrored and multiplied by the screens. In that light Lesra's eyesgleamed with unshed tears.     Captain Llud found Navigator Gwar Den looking as smug as the catthat ate the canary. Gwar Den was finding that the actual observedpositions of the planets thus far located agreed quite closely withhis extrapolations from long unused charts of the Solar System. He hadalready set up on the calculator a course that would carry them toEarth.     Llud nodded curt approval, remarking, Probably we'll be interceptedbefore we get that far.     Den was jolted out of his happy abstraction. Uh, Captain, he saidhesitantly. What kind of a reception do you suppose we'll get?     Llud shook his head slowly. Who knows? We don't know whether anyof the other      Quests     returned successful, or if they returned atall. And we don't know what changes have taken place on Earth. It'spossible—not likely, though—that something has happened to breakcivilization's continuity to the point where our expedition has beenforgotten altogether.  He turned away grim-lipped and left the bridge. From his privateoffice-cabin, he sent a message to Chief Astronomer Zost Relyul tonotify him as soon as Earth's surface features became clear; then hesat idle, alone with his thoughts.     The ship's automatic mechanisms had scant need of tending; Knof Lludfound himself wishing that he could find some back-breaking task foreveryone on board, himself included, to fill up the hours that remained.     There was an extensive and well-chosen film library in the cabin, buthe couldn't persuade himself to kill time that way. He could go downand watch the screens, or to the family apartment where he might findLesra and the children—but somehow he didn't want to do that either.     He felt empty, drained—like his ship. As the      Quest III's     fuel storesand the hope of success in man's mightiest venture had dwindled, so thestrength had gone out of him. Now the last fuel compartment was almostempty and Captain Knof Llud felt tired and old.     Perhaps, he thought, he was feeling the weight of his nine hundredEarth years—though physically he was only forty now, ten years olderthan when the voyage had begun. That was the foreshortening along thetime axis of a space ship approaching the speed of light. Weeks andmonths had passed for the      Quest III     in interstellar flight whileyears and decades had raced by on the home world.     Bemusedly Llud got to his feet and stood surveying a cabinet withbuilt-in voice recorder and pigeonholes for records. There were aboutthree dozen film spools there—his personal memoirs of the greatexpedition, a segment of his life and of history. He might add that tothe ship's official log and its collections of scientific data, as areport to whatever powers might be on Earth now—if such powers werestill interested.     Llud selected a spool from among the earliest. It was one he had madeshortly after leaving Procyon, end of the first leg of the trip. Heslid it onto the reproducer.     His own voice came from the speaker, fresher, more vibrant andconfident than he knew it was now.     One light-day out from Procyon, the thirty-third day by ship's timesince leaving Earth.     Our visit to Procyon drew a blank. There is only one huge planet, twicethe size of Jupiter, and like Jupiter utterly unfit to support a colony.     Our hopes were dashed—and I think all of us, even remembering theCentaurus Expedition's failure, hoped more than we cared to admit. IfProcyon had possessed a habitable planet, we could have returned afteran absence of not much over twenty years Earth time.     It is cheering to note that the crew seems only more resolute. We goon to Capella; its spectrum, so like our own Sun's, beckons. If successcomes there, a century will have passed before we can return to Earth;friends, relatives, all the generation that launched the      Quest     shipswill be long since dead. Nevertheless we go on. Our generation's dream,humanity's dream, lives in us and in the ship forever....     Presently Knof Llud switched off that younger voice of his and leanedback, an ironic smile touching his lips. That fervent idealism seemedremote and foreign to him now. The fanfares of departure must stillhave been ringing in his ears.     He rose, slipped the record back in its niche and picked out another,later, one.     One week since we passed close enough to Aldebaran to ascertain thatthat system, too, is devoid of planets.     We face the unpleasant realization that what was feared is probablytrue—that worlds such as the Sun's are a rare accident, and that wemay complete our search without finding even one new Earth.     It makes no difference, of course; we cannot betray the plan....This may be man's last chance of escaping his pitiful limitation toone world in all the Universe. Certainly the building of this shipand its two sisters, the immense expenditure of time and labor andenergy stores that went into them, left Earth's economy drained andexhausted. Only once in a long age does mankind rise to such a selflessand transcendent effort—the effort of Egypt that built the pyramids,or the war efforts of the nations in the last great conflicts of thetwentieth century.     Looked at historically, such super-human outbursts of energy arethe result of a population's outgrowing its room and resources, andtherefore signalize the beginning of the end. Population can belimited, but the price is a deadly frustration, because growth alone islife.... In our day the end of man's room for growth on the Earth wasin sight—so we launched the      Quests     . Perhaps our effort will prove asfutile as pyramid-building, less practical than orgies of slaughter toreduce pressure.... In any case, it would be impossible to transportvery many people to other stars; but Earth could at least go intoits decline with the knowledge that its race went onward and upward,expanding limitlessly into the Universe....     Hopeless, unless we find planets!  Knof Llud shook his head sorrowfully and took off the spool. Thatwas from the time when he had grown philosophical after the firstdisappointments.     He frowned thoughtfully, choosing one more spool that was only fouryears old. The recorded voice sounded weary, yet alive with a strangelonging....     We are in the heart of Pleiades; a hundred stars show brilliant onthe screens, each star encircled by a misty halo like lights glowingthrough fog, for we are traversing a vast diffuse nebula.     According to plan, the      Quest III     has reached its furthest point fromEarth. Now we turn back along a curve that will take us past many morestars and stellar systems—but hope is small that any of those willprove a home for man, as have none of the thousands of stars examinedalready.     But what are a few thousand stars in a galaxy of billions? We haveonly, as it were, visited a handful of the outlying villages of theUniverse, while the lights of its great cities still blaze far aheadalong the Milky Way.     On flimsy excuses I have had Zost Relyul make observations of theglobular cluster Omega Centauri. There are a hundred thousand starsthere in a volume of space where one finds a few dozen in the Sun'sneighborhood; there if anywhere must circle the planets we seek! ButOmega Centauri is twenty thousand light years away....     Even so—by expending its remaining fuel freely, the      Quest III     couldachieve a velocity that would take us there without dying of senilityof aging too greatly. It would be a one-way journey—even if enoughfuel remained, there would be little point in returning to Earth aftermore than forty thousand years. By then our civilization certainly, andperhaps the human race itself, would have perished from memory.     That was why the planners limited our voyage, and those of the other      Quests     , to less than a thousand years Earth time. Even now, accordingto the sociodynamic predictions made then, our civilization—if theother expeditions failed also—will have reached a dangerously unstablephase, and before we can get back it may have collapsed completely fromoverpopulation.     Why go back, then with the news of our failure? Why not forget aboutEarth and go on to Omega Centauri? What use is quixotic loyalty to adecree five thousand years old, whose makers are dead and which may beforgotten back there?     Would the crew be willing? I don't know—some of them still show signsof homesickness, though they know with their minds that everything thatwas once 'home' has probably been swept away....     It doesn't matter. Today I gave orders to swing the ship.     Savagely Knof Llud stabbed the button that shut off the speaker. Thenhe sat for a time with head resting in his hands, staring into nothing.     The memory of that fierce impulse to go on still had power to shakehim. A couple of lines of poetry came into his head, as he read themonce in translation from the ancient English....     ... for my purpose holds     To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths     Of all the western stars, until I die.  Llud sighed. He still couldn't say just why he had given the order toturn back. The stars had claimed his heart—but he was still a part ofEarth, and not even nine hundred years of space and time had been ableto alter that.     He wondered if there would still be a quiet stream and a greenshady place beside it where a death-weary man, relieved at last ofresponsibility, could rest and dream no more.... Those things wenton, if men didn't change them. And a pine forest where he and youngKnof could go camping, and lie on their backs at night and gaze at theglittering constellations, far away, out of reach.... He wasn't sure hewould want to do that, though.     Suddenly a faint cushioned jar went through the great ship; it seemedto falter one moment in flight.  The captain was on his feet instantly, but then his movements becameunhurried. Whatever it had been was past, and he had a good ideawhat it had been—a meteoroid, nothing unusual in the vicinity ofthe Sun, though in interstellar space and around planetless starssuch collisions were rare to the vanishing point. No harm could havebeen done. The      Quest III's     collision armor was nonmaterial and forpractical purposes invulnerable.     Just as he took his finger off the button that opened the door, theintercommunication phone shrilled imperatively. Knof Llud wheeled,frowning—surely a meteoroid impact wasn't that serious. Coincidence,maybe—it might be Zost Relyul calling as instructed.     He reached the phone at the moment when another, heavier jolt shookthe vessel. Llud snatched up the receiver with the speed of a scaldedcat.     Captain? It was Gwar Den's voice, stammering a little. Captain,we're being attacked!     Sound the alarm. Emergency stations. He had said it automatically,then felt a curious detached relief at the knowledge that after allthese years he could still respond quickly and smoothly to a crisis.There was a moment's silence, and he heard the alarm start—threeshort buzzes and repeat, ringing through all the great length of theinterstellar ship. Knowing that Gwar Den was still there, he said,Now—attacked by what?     Ships, said Gwar Den helplessly. Five of them so far. No, there's asixth now. Repeated blows quivered the      Quest III's     framework. Thenavigator said, obviously striving for calm, They're light craft, notfifty feet long, but they move fast. The detectors hardly had time toshow them before they opened up. Can't get a telescope beam on themlong enough to tell much.     If they're that small, said Knof Llud deliberately, they can't carryanything heavy enough to hurt us. Hold to course. I'll be right up.     In the open doorway he almost fell over his son. Young Knof's eyes werebig; he had heard his father's words.     Something's happened, he judged with deadly twelve-year-oldseriousness and, without wasting time on questions, Can I go with you,huh, Dad?     Llud hesitated, said, All right. Come along and keep out of the way.He headed for the bridge with strides that the boy could not match.     There were people running in the corridors, heading for their posts.Their faces were set, scared, uncomprehending. The      Quest III     shuddered, again and again, under blows that must have had millionsof horsepower behind them; but it plunged on toward Earth, its mightyengines still steadily braking its interstellar velocity.     To a man, the ship's responsible officers were already on the bridge,most of them breathless. To a man they looked appeal at Captain KnofLlud.     Well? he snapped. What are they doing?     Gwar Den spoke. There are thirteen of them out there now, sir, andthey're all banging away at us.     The captain stared into the black star-strewn depths of a vision screenwhere occasional blue points of light winked ominously, never twicefrom the same position.     Knof Jr. flattened himself against the metal wall and watched silently.His young face was less anxious than his elders'; he had confidence inhis father.     If they had anything heavier, surmised the captain, they'd haveunlimbered it by now. They're out to get us. But at this rate, theycan't touch us as long as our power lasts—or until they bring up somebigger stuff.  The mild shocks went on—whether from projectiles or energy-charges,would be hard to find out and it didn't matter; whatever was hittingthe      Quest III's     shell was doing it at velocities where thedistinction between matter and radiation practically ceases to exist.     But that shell was tough. It was an extension of the gravitic drivefield which transmitted the engines' power equally to every atom ofthe ship; forces impinging on the outside of the field were similarlytransmitted and rendered harmless. The effect was as if the vessel andall space inside its field were a single perfectly elastic body. Ameteoroid, for example, on striking it rebounded—usually vaporized bythe impact—and the ship, in obedience to the law of equal and oppositeforces, rebounded too, but since its mass was so much greater, itsdeflection was negligible.     The people in the      Quest III     would have felt nothing at all ofthe vicious onslaught being hurled against them, save that theirinertialess drive, at its normal thrust of two hundred gravities,was intentionally operated at one half of one per cent efficiency toprovide the illusion of Earthly gravitation.     One of the officers said shakily, It's as if they've been lying inwait for us. But why on Earth—     That, said the captain grimly, is what we have to find out. Why—onEarth. At least, I suspect the answer's there.     The      Quest III     bored steadily on through space, decelerating. Even ifone were no fatalist, there seemed no reason to stop decelerating orchange course. There was nowhere else to go and too little fuel leftif there had been; come what might, this was journey's end—perhapsin a more violent and final way than had been anticipated. All aroundwheeled the pigmy enemies, circling, maneuvering, and attacking,always attacking, with the senseless fury of maddened hornets. Theinterstellar ship bore no offensive weapons—but suddenly on one of thevision screens a speck of light flared into nova-brilliance, dazzlingthe watchers for the brief moment in which its very atoms were tornapart.     Knof Jr. whooped ecstatically and then subsided warily, but no one waspaying attention to him. The men on the      Quest III's     bridge lookedquestions at each other, as the thought of help from outside flashedinto many minds at once. But Captain Llud said soberly, It must havecaught one of their own shots, reflected. Maybe its own, if it scoredtoo direct a hit.     He studied the data so far gathered. A few blurred pictures had beengot, which showed cylindrical space ships much like the      Quest III     ,except that they were rocket-propelled and of far lesser size. Theirsize was hard to ascertain, because you needed to know their distanceand speed—but detector-beam echoes gave the distance, and likewise, bythe Doppler method, the velocity of directly receding or approachingships. It was apparent that the enemy vessels were even smaller thanGwar Den had at first supposed—not large enough to hold even one man.Tiny, deadly hornets with a colossal sting.     Robot craft, no doubt, said Knof Llud, but a chill ran down his spineas it occurred to him that perhaps the attackers weren't of humanorigin. They had seen no recognizable life in the part of the galaxythey had explored, but one of the other      Quests     might have encounteredand been traced home by some unhuman race that was greedy and able toconquer.  It became evident, too, that the bombardment was being kept up by aconstant arrival of fresh attackers, while others raced away intospace, presumably returning to base to replenish their ammunition. Thatargued a planned and prepared interception with virulent hatred behindit.     Elsuz Llug, the gravitic engineer, calculated dismally, At the ratewe're having to shed energy, the fuel will be gone in six or eighthours.     We'll have reached Earth before then, Gwar Den said hopefully.     If they don't bring out the heavy artillery first.     We're under the psychological disadvantage, said the captain, of notknowing why we're being attacked.     Knof Jr. burst out, spluttering slightly with the violence of athought too important to suppress, But we're under a ps-psychologicaladvantage, too!     His father raised an eyebrow. What's that? I don't seem to havenoticed it.     They're mad and we aren't, yet, said the boy. Then, seeing that hehadn't made himself clear, In a fight, if a guy gets mad he startsswinging wild and then you nail him.     Smiles splintered the ice of tension. Captain Llud said, Maybe you'vegot something there. They seem to be mad, all right. But we're not ina position to throw any punches. He turned back to the others. As Iwas going to say—I think we'd better try to parley with the enemy. Atleast we may find out who he is and why he's determined to smash us.     And now instead of tight-beam detectors the ship was broadcasting on anaudio carrier wave that shifted through a wide range of frequencies,repeating on each the same brief recorded message:     Who are you? What do you want? We are the interstellar expedition      Quest III     .... And so on, identifying themselves and protesting thatthey were unarmed and peaceful, that there must be some mistake, andquerying again, Who are      you     ?     There was no answer. The ship drove on, its fuel trickling away undermultiplied demands. Those outside were squandering vastly greateramounts of energy in the effort to batter down its defenses, butconverting that energy into harmless gravitic impulses was costing the      Quest III     too. Once more Knof Llud had the insidious sense of his ownnerves and muscles and will weakening along with the power-sinews ofhis ship.     Zost Relyul approached him apologetically. If you have time,Captain—I've got some data on Earth now.     Eagerly Llud took the sheaf of photographs made with the telescope. Butthey told him nothing; only the continental outlines were clear, andthose were as they had been nine hundred years ago.... He looked upinquiringly at Zost Relyul.     There are some strange features, said the astronomer carefully.First of all—there are no lights on the night side. And on thedaylight face, our highest magnification should already reveal tracesof cities, canals, and the like—but it does not.     The prevailing color of the land masses, you see, is the normalgreen vegetation. But the diffraction spectrum is queer. It indicatesreflecting surfaces less than one-tenth millimeter wide—so thevegetation there can't be trees or grass, but must be more like a finemoss or even a coarse mold.     Is that all? demanded Llud.     Isn't it enough? said Zost Relyul blankly. Well—we triedphotography by invisible light, of course. The infra-red shows nothingand likewise the ultraviolet up to the point where the atmosphere isopaque to it.     The captain sighed wearily. Good work, he said. Keep it up; perhapsyou can answer some of these riddles before—           We know who you are     , interrupted a harshly crackling voice with astrange accent,       and pleading will do you no good.       Knof Llud whirled to the radio apparatus, his weariness dropping fromhim once more. He snapped, But who are you? and the words blendedabsurdly with the same words in his own voice on the still repeatingtape.     He snapped off the record; as he did so the speaker, still cracklingwith space static, said, It may interest you to know that you are thelast. The two other interstellar expeditions that went out have alreadyreturned and been destroyed, as you will soon be—the sooner, if youcontinue toward Earth.     Knof Llud's mind was clicking again. The voice—which must be comingfrom Earth, relayed by one of the midget ships—was not very smart; ithad already involuntarily told him a couple of things—that it was notas sure of itself as it sounded he deduced from the fact it had deignedto speak at all, and from its last remark he gathered that the      QuestIII's     ponderous and unswerving progress toward Earth had somehowfrightened it. So it was trying to frighten them.     He shoved those facts back for future use. Just now he had to knowsomething, so vitally that he asked it as a bald question,       Are youhuman?          The voice chuckled sourly. We are human, it answered, but you arenot.     The captain was momentarily silent, groping for an adequate reply.Behind him somebody made a choked noise, the only sound in the stunnedhush, and the ship jarred slightly as a thunderbolt slammed vengefullyinto its field.     Suppose we settle this argument about humanity, said Knof Lludwoodenly. He named a vision frequency.     Very well. The tone was like a shrug. The voice went on in itslanguage that was quite intelligible, but alien-sounding with thechanges that nine hundred years had wrought. Perhaps, if you realizeyour position, you will follow the intelligent example of the      QuestI's     commander.     Knof Llud stiffened. The      Quest I     , launched toward Arcturus and thestar cloud called Berenice's Hair, had been after the      Quest III     themost hopeful of the expeditions—and its captain had been a good friendof Llud's, nine hundred years ago.... He growled, What happened tohim?     He fought off our interceptors, which are around you now, for sometime, said the voice lightly. When he saw that it was hopeless, hepreferred suicide to defeat, and took his ship into the Sun. A shortpause. The vision connection is ready.     Knof Llud switched on the screen at the named wavelength, and apicture formed there. The face and figure that appeared were ugly,but undeniably a man's. His features and his light-brown skin showedthe same racial characteristics possessed by those aboard the      QuestIII     , but he had an elusive look of deformity. Most obviously, his headseemed too big for his body, and his eyes in turn too big for his head.     He grinned nastily at Knof Llud. Have you any other last wishes?     Yes, said Llud with icy control. You haven't answered one question.Why do you want to kill us? You can see we're as human as you are.     The big-headed man eyed him with a speculative look in his greateyes, behind which the captain glimpsed the flickering raw fire of apoisonous hatred.     It is enough for you to know that you must die.  ","A spaceship named Quest III is moving towards a color-changing star, but this time it is the Sun. The crew is excited, their journey is coming to its end and they are coming home. The captain says they have sighted Earth. Talking burst out happily, the captain's wife is anxious about nothing being the same after nine hundred years on Earth, while it was only ten for the crew in space. The course to Earth is set and the whole crew is filled with anticipation. The captain can't find how to kill time and delves into upsetting thoughts about the failure of the venture. The captain rewatches his record from the beginning of the voyage. It shows his hopes fading with every new planet proving unfit for settlement and the Earth years increasing rapidly and frighteningly. By then, the captain had an idea of going to Omega Centauri without returning to Earth, as this planet was more than forty thousand years away from Earth. The reasoning was that the captain didn't want to bring news of a failure to Earth, but eventually he decided to return no matter what. Back to reality, the captain starts thinking about his awaiting future on Earth, when a jar goes  through the ship. Very soon the captain calms down, considering a meteoroid to be the reason, but a call informs him the ship is attacked by other ships. The captain rushes up joined by his son, the whole crew is panicking. The ship is not harmed though and still landing, as there is no other place for it to go. The attack seems well-planned and the crew broadcasts an audio wave, asking the attackers who they are and introducing themselves. There is no answer and Zost, a crew member, traces no lights or urban features on Earth, even no trees or grass are detected. Suddenly, a strange voice acknowledges that the other two ships were destroyed, and Quest III will be as well if it continues towards Earth. The captain learns out soon that the voice simply tries to frighten them and is not that confident, and is told that Quest I preferred suicide to defeat and went into the Sun. The vision connection happens and the man on the other side avoids the question why, proclaiming that the Quest III's crew must die. "
"How does the captain feel about the voyage and return? </s>    THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  Knof Llud, the      Quest III's     captain, came slowly down the narrowstair from the observatory, into the big rotunda that was now the mainrecreation room, where most of the people gathered. The great chamber,a full cross-section of the vessel, had been at first a fuel hold. Atthe voyage's beginning eighty per cent of the fifteen-hundred-footcylinder had been engines and fuel; but as the immense stores werespent and the holds became radioactively safe, the crew had spreadout from its original cramped quarters. Now the interstellar ship waslittle more than a hollow shell.     Eyes lifted from the vision screens to interrogate Knof Llud; he metthem with an impassive countenance, and announced quietly, We'vesighted Earth.     A feverish buzz arose; the captain gestured for silence and went on,It is still only a featureless disk to the telescope. Zost Relyul hasidentified it—no more.     But this time the clamor was not to be settled. People pressed roundthe screens, peering into them as if with the naked eye they couldpick out the atom of reflected light that was Earth, home. They wrungeach other's hands, kissed, shouted, wept. For the present their fearswere forgotten and exaltation prevailed.     Knof Llud smiled wryly. The rest of the little speech he had been aboutto make didn't matter anyway, and it might have spoiled this moment.     He turned to go, and was halted by the sight of his wife, standing athis elbow. His wry smile took on warmth; he asked, How do      you     feel,Lesra?     She drew an uncertain breath and released it in a faint sigh. I don'tknow. It's good that Earth's still there. She was thinking, he judgedshrewdly, of Knof Jr. and Delza, who save from pictures could notremember sunlit skies or grassy fields or woods in summer....     He said, with a touch of tolerant amusement, What did you think mighthave happened to Earth? After all, it's only been nine hundred years.     That's just it, said Lesra shakily. Nine hundred years have goneby—      there     —and nothing will be the same. It won't be the same worldwe left, the world we knew and fitted in....     The captain put an arm round her with comforting pressure. Don'tworry. Things may have changed—but we'll manage. But his face hadhardened against registering the gnawing of that same doubtful fearwithin him. He let his arm fall. I'd better get up to the bridge.There's a new course to be set now—for Earth.     He left her and began to climb the stairway again. Someone switchedoff the lights, and a charmed whisper ran through the big room as thepeople saw each other's faces by the pale golden light of Earth's ownSun, mirrored and multiplied by the screens. In that light Lesra's eyesgleamed with unshed tears.     Captain Llud found Navigator Gwar Den looking as smug as the catthat ate the canary. Gwar Den was finding that the actual observedpositions of the planets thus far located agreed quite closely withhis extrapolations from long unused charts of the Solar System. He hadalready set up on the calculator a course that would carry them toEarth.     Llud nodded curt approval, remarking, Probably we'll be interceptedbefore we get that far.     Den was jolted out of his happy abstraction. Uh, Captain, he saidhesitantly. What kind of a reception do you suppose we'll get?     Llud shook his head slowly. Who knows? We don't know whether anyof the other      Quests     returned successful, or if they returned atall. And we don't know what changes have taken place on Earth. It'spossible—not likely, though—that something has happened to breakcivilization's continuity to the point where our expedition has beenforgotten altogether.  He turned away grim-lipped and left the bridge. From his privateoffice-cabin, he sent a message to Chief Astronomer Zost Relyul tonotify him as soon as Earth's surface features became clear; then hesat idle, alone with his thoughts.     The ship's automatic mechanisms had scant need of tending; Knof Lludfound himself wishing that he could find some back-breaking task foreveryone on board, himself included, to fill up the hours that remained.     There was an extensive and well-chosen film library in the cabin, buthe couldn't persuade himself to kill time that way. He could go downand watch the screens, or to the family apartment where he might findLesra and the children—but somehow he didn't want to do that either.     He felt empty, drained—like his ship. As the      Quest III's     fuel storesand the hope of success in man's mightiest venture had dwindled, so thestrength had gone out of him. Now the last fuel compartment was almostempty and Captain Knof Llud felt tired and old.     Perhaps, he thought, he was feeling the weight of his nine hundredEarth years—though physically he was only forty now, ten years olderthan when the voyage had begun. That was the foreshortening along thetime axis of a space ship approaching the speed of light. Weeks andmonths had passed for the      Quest III     in interstellar flight whileyears and decades had raced by on the home world.     Bemusedly Llud got to his feet and stood surveying a cabinet withbuilt-in voice recorder and pigeonholes for records. There were aboutthree dozen film spools there—his personal memoirs of the greatexpedition, a segment of his life and of history. He might add that tothe ship's official log and its collections of scientific data, as areport to whatever powers might be on Earth now—if such powers werestill interested.     Llud selected a spool from among the earliest. It was one he had madeshortly after leaving Procyon, end of the first leg of the trip. Heslid it onto the reproducer.     His own voice came from the speaker, fresher, more vibrant andconfident than he knew it was now.     One light-day out from Procyon, the thirty-third day by ship's timesince leaving Earth.     Our visit to Procyon drew a blank. There is only one huge planet, twicethe size of Jupiter, and like Jupiter utterly unfit to support a colony.     Our hopes were dashed—and I think all of us, even remembering theCentaurus Expedition's failure, hoped more than we cared to admit. IfProcyon had possessed a habitable planet, we could have returned afteran absence of not much over twenty years Earth time.     It is cheering to note that the crew seems only more resolute. We goon to Capella; its spectrum, so like our own Sun's, beckons. If successcomes there, a century will have passed before we can return to Earth;friends, relatives, all the generation that launched the      Quest     shipswill be long since dead. Nevertheless we go on. Our generation's dream,humanity's dream, lives in us and in the ship forever....     Presently Knof Llud switched off that younger voice of his and leanedback, an ironic smile touching his lips. That fervent idealism seemedremote and foreign to him now. The fanfares of departure must stillhave been ringing in his ears.     He rose, slipped the record back in its niche and picked out another,later, one.     One week since we passed close enough to Aldebaran to ascertain thatthat system, too, is devoid of planets.     We face the unpleasant realization that what was feared is probablytrue—that worlds such as the Sun's are a rare accident, and that wemay complete our search without finding even one new Earth.     It makes no difference, of course; we cannot betray the plan....This may be man's last chance of escaping his pitiful limitation toone world in all the Universe. Certainly the building of this shipand its two sisters, the immense expenditure of time and labor andenergy stores that went into them, left Earth's economy drained andexhausted. Only once in a long age does mankind rise to such a selflessand transcendent effort—the effort of Egypt that built the pyramids,or the war efforts of the nations in the last great conflicts of thetwentieth century.     Looked at historically, such super-human outbursts of energy arethe result of a population's outgrowing its room and resources, andtherefore signalize the beginning of the end. Population can belimited, but the price is a deadly frustration, because growth alone islife.... In our day the end of man's room for growth on the Earth wasin sight—so we launched the      Quests     . Perhaps our effort will prove asfutile as pyramid-building, less practical than orgies of slaughter toreduce pressure.... In any case, it would be impossible to transportvery many people to other stars; but Earth could at least go intoits decline with the knowledge that its race went onward and upward,expanding limitlessly into the Universe....     Hopeless, unless we find planets!  Knof Llud shook his head sorrowfully and took off the spool. Thatwas from the time when he had grown philosophical after the firstdisappointments.     He frowned thoughtfully, choosing one more spool that was only fouryears old. The recorded voice sounded weary, yet alive with a strangelonging....     We are in the heart of Pleiades; a hundred stars show brilliant onthe screens, each star encircled by a misty halo like lights glowingthrough fog, for we are traversing a vast diffuse nebula.     According to plan, the      Quest III     has reached its furthest point fromEarth. Now we turn back along a curve that will take us past many morestars and stellar systems—but hope is small that any of those willprove a home for man, as have none of the thousands of stars examinedalready.     But what are a few thousand stars in a galaxy of billions? We haveonly, as it were, visited a handful of the outlying villages of theUniverse, while the lights of its great cities still blaze far aheadalong the Milky Way.     On flimsy excuses I have had Zost Relyul make observations of theglobular cluster Omega Centauri. There are a hundred thousand starsthere in a volume of space where one finds a few dozen in the Sun'sneighborhood; there if anywhere must circle the planets we seek! ButOmega Centauri is twenty thousand light years away....     Even so—by expending its remaining fuel freely, the      Quest III     couldachieve a velocity that would take us there without dying of senilityof aging too greatly. It would be a one-way journey—even if enoughfuel remained, there would be little point in returning to Earth aftermore than forty thousand years. By then our civilization certainly, andperhaps the human race itself, would have perished from memory.     That was why the planners limited our voyage, and those of the other      Quests     , to less than a thousand years Earth time. Even now, accordingto the sociodynamic predictions made then, our civilization—if theother expeditions failed also—will have reached a dangerously unstablephase, and before we can get back it may have collapsed completely fromoverpopulation.     Why go back, then with the news of our failure? Why not forget aboutEarth and go on to Omega Centauri? What use is quixotic loyalty to adecree five thousand years old, whose makers are dead and which may beforgotten back there?     Would the crew be willing? I don't know—some of them still show signsof homesickness, though they know with their minds that everything thatwas once 'home' has probably been swept away....     It doesn't matter. Today I gave orders to swing the ship.     Savagely Knof Llud stabbed the button that shut off the speaker. Thenhe sat for a time with head resting in his hands, staring into nothing.     The memory of that fierce impulse to go on still had power to shakehim. A couple of lines of poetry came into his head, as he read themonce in translation from the ancient English....     ... for my purpose holds     To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths     Of all the western stars, until I die.  Llud sighed. He still couldn't say just why he had given the order toturn back. The stars had claimed his heart—but he was still a part ofEarth, and not even nine hundred years of space and time had been ableto alter that.     He wondered if there would still be a quiet stream and a greenshady place beside it where a death-weary man, relieved at last ofresponsibility, could rest and dream no more.... Those things wenton, if men didn't change them. And a pine forest where he and youngKnof could go camping, and lie on their backs at night and gaze at theglittering constellations, far away, out of reach.... He wasn't sure hewould want to do that, though.     Suddenly a faint cushioned jar went through the great ship; it seemedto falter one moment in flight.  The captain was on his feet instantly, but then his movements becameunhurried. Whatever it had been was past, and he had a good ideawhat it had been—a meteoroid, nothing unusual in the vicinity ofthe Sun, though in interstellar space and around planetless starssuch collisions were rare to the vanishing point. No harm could havebeen done. The      Quest III's     collision armor was nonmaterial and forpractical purposes invulnerable.     Just as he took his finger off the button that opened the door, theintercommunication phone shrilled imperatively. Knof Llud wheeled,frowning—surely a meteoroid impact wasn't that serious. Coincidence,maybe—it might be Zost Relyul calling as instructed.     He reached the phone at the moment when another, heavier jolt shookthe vessel. Llud snatched up the receiver with the speed of a scaldedcat.     Captain? It was Gwar Den's voice, stammering a little. Captain,we're being attacked!     Sound the alarm. Emergency stations. He had said it automatically,then felt a curious detached relief at the knowledge that after allthese years he could still respond quickly and smoothly to a crisis.There was a moment's silence, and he heard the alarm start—threeshort buzzes and repeat, ringing through all the great length of theinterstellar ship. Knowing that Gwar Den was still there, he said,Now—attacked by what?     Ships, said Gwar Den helplessly. Five of them so far. No, there's asixth now. Repeated blows quivered the      Quest III's     framework. Thenavigator said, obviously striving for calm, They're light craft, notfifty feet long, but they move fast. The detectors hardly had time toshow them before they opened up. Can't get a telescope beam on themlong enough to tell much.     If they're that small, said Knof Llud deliberately, they can't carryanything heavy enough to hurt us. Hold to course. I'll be right up.     In the open doorway he almost fell over his son. Young Knof's eyes werebig; he had heard his father's words.     Something's happened, he judged with deadly twelve-year-oldseriousness and, without wasting time on questions, Can I go with you,huh, Dad?     Llud hesitated, said, All right. Come along and keep out of the way.He headed for the bridge with strides that the boy could not match.     There were people running in the corridors, heading for their posts.Their faces were set, scared, uncomprehending. The      Quest III     shuddered, again and again, under blows that must have had millionsof horsepower behind them; but it plunged on toward Earth, its mightyengines still steadily braking its interstellar velocity.     To a man, the ship's responsible officers were already on the bridge,most of them breathless. To a man they looked appeal at Captain KnofLlud.     Well? he snapped. What are they doing?     Gwar Den spoke. There are thirteen of them out there now, sir, andthey're all banging away at us.     The captain stared into the black star-strewn depths of a vision screenwhere occasional blue points of light winked ominously, never twicefrom the same position.     Knof Jr. flattened himself against the metal wall and watched silently.His young face was less anxious than his elders'; he had confidence inhis father.     If they had anything heavier, surmised the captain, they'd haveunlimbered it by now. They're out to get us. But at this rate, theycan't touch us as long as our power lasts—or until they bring up somebigger stuff.  The mild shocks went on—whether from projectiles or energy-charges,would be hard to find out and it didn't matter; whatever was hittingthe      Quest III's     shell was doing it at velocities where thedistinction between matter and radiation practically ceases to exist.     But that shell was tough. It was an extension of the gravitic drivefield which transmitted the engines' power equally to every atom ofthe ship; forces impinging on the outside of the field were similarlytransmitted and rendered harmless. The effect was as if the vessel andall space inside its field were a single perfectly elastic body. Ameteoroid, for example, on striking it rebounded—usually vaporized bythe impact—and the ship, in obedience to the law of equal and oppositeforces, rebounded too, but since its mass was so much greater, itsdeflection was negligible.     The people in the      Quest III     would have felt nothing at all ofthe vicious onslaught being hurled against them, save that theirinertialess drive, at its normal thrust of two hundred gravities,was intentionally operated at one half of one per cent efficiency toprovide the illusion of Earthly gravitation.     One of the officers said shakily, It's as if they've been lying inwait for us. But why on Earth—     That, said the captain grimly, is what we have to find out. Why—onEarth. At least, I suspect the answer's there.     The      Quest III     bored steadily on through space, decelerating. Even ifone were no fatalist, there seemed no reason to stop decelerating orchange course. There was nowhere else to go and too little fuel leftif there had been; come what might, this was journey's end—perhapsin a more violent and final way than had been anticipated. All aroundwheeled the pigmy enemies, circling, maneuvering, and attacking,always attacking, with the senseless fury of maddened hornets. Theinterstellar ship bore no offensive weapons—but suddenly on one of thevision screens a speck of light flared into nova-brilliance, dazzlingthe watchers for the brief moment in which its very atoms were tornapart.     Knof Jr. whooped ecstatically and then subsided warily, but no one waspaying attention to him. The men on the      Quest III's     bridge lookedquestions at each other, as the thought of help from outside flashedinto many minds at once. But Captain Llud said soberly, It must havecaught one of their own shots, reflected. Maybe its own, if it scoredtoo direct a hit.     He studied the data so far gathered. A few blurred pictures had beengot, which showed cylindrical space ships much like the      Quest III     ,except that they were rocket-propelled and of far lesser size. Theirsize was hard to ascertain, because you needed to know their distanceand speed—but detector-beam echoes gave the distance, and likewise, bythe Doppler method, the velocity of directly receding or approachingships. It was apparent that the enemy vessels were even smaller thanGwar Den had at first supposed—not large enough to hold even one man.Tiny, deadly hornets with a colossal sting.     Robot craft, no doubt, said Knof Llud, but a chill ran down his spineas it occurred to him that perhaps the attackers weren't of humanorigin. They had seen no recognizable life in the part of the galaxythey had explored, but one of the other      Quests     might have encounteredand been traced home by some unhuman race that was greedy and able toconquer.  It became evident, too, that the bombardment was being kept up by aconstant arrival of fresh attackers, while others raced away intospace, presumably returning to base to replenish their ammunition. Thatargued a planned and prepared interception with virulent hatred behindit.     Elsuz Llug, the gravitic engineer, calculated dismally, At the ratewe're having to shed energy, the fuel will be gone in six or eighthours.     We'll have reached Earth before then, Gwar Den said hopefully.     If they don't bring out the heavy artillery first.     We're under the psychological disadvantage, said the captain, of notknowing why we're being attacked.     Knof Jr. burst out, spluttering slightly with the violence of athought too important to suppress, But we're under a ps-psychologicaladvantage, too!     His father raised an eyebrow. What's that? I don't seem to havenoticed it.     They're mad and we aren't, yet, said the boy. Then, seeing that hehadn't made himself clear, In a fight, if a guy gets mad he startsswinging wild and then you nail him.     Smiles splintered the ice of tension. Captain Llud said, Maybe you'vegot something there. They seem to be mad, all right. But we're not ina position to throw any punches. He turned back to the others. As Iwas going to say—I think we'd better try to parley with the enemy. Atleast we may find out who he is and why he's determined to smash us.     And now instead of tight-beam detectors the ship was broadcasting on anaudio carrier wave that shifted through a wide range of frequencies,repeating on each the same brief recorded message:     Who are you? What do you want? We are the interstellar expedition      Quest III     .... And so on, identifying themselves and protesting thatthey were unarmed and peaceful, that there must be some mistake, andquerying again, Who are      you     ?     There was no answer. The ship drove on, its fuel trickling away undermultiplied demands. Those outside were squandering vastly greateramounts of energy in the effort to batter down its defenses, butconverting that energy into harmless gravitic impulses was costing the      Quest III     too. Once more Knof Llud had the insidious sense of his ownnerves and muscles and will weakening along with the power-sinews ofhis ship.     Zost Relyul approached him apologetically. If you have time,Captain—I've got some data on Earth now.     Eagerly Llud took the sheaf of photographs made with the telescope. Butthey told him nothing; only the continental outlines were clear, andthose were as they had been nine hundred years ago.... He looked upinquiringly at Zost Relyul.     There are some strange features, said the astronomer carefully.First of all—there are no lights on the night side. And on thedaylight face, our highest magnification should already reveal tracesof cities, canals, and the like—but it does not.     The prevailing color of the land masses, you see, is the normalgreen vegetation. But the diffraction spectrum is queer. It indicatesreflecting surfaces less than one-tenth millimeter wide—so thevegetation there can't be trees or grass, but must be more like a finemoss or even a coarse mold.     Is that all? demanded Llud.     Isn't it enough? said Zost Relyul blankly. Well—we triedphotography by invisible light, of course. The infra-red shows nothingand likewise the ultraviolet up to the point where the atmosphere isopaque to it.     The captain sighed wearily. Good work, he said. Keep it up; perhapsyou can answer some of these riddles before—           We know who you are     , interrupted a harshly crackling voice with astrange accent,       and pleading will do you no good.       Knof Llud whirled to the radio apparatus, his weariness dropping fromhim once more. He snapped, But who are you? and the words blendedabsurdly with the same words in his own voice on the still repeatingtape.     He snapped off the record; as he did so the speaker, still cracklingwith space static, said, It may interest you to know that you are thelast. The two other interstellar expeditions that went out have alreadyreturned and been destroyed, as you will soon be—the sooner, if youcontinue toward Earth.     Knof Llud's mind was clicking again. The voice—which must be comingfrom Earth, relayed by one of the midget ships—was not very smart; ithad already involuntarily told him a couple of things—that it was notas sure of itself as it sounded he deduced from the fact it had deignedto speak at all, and from its last remark he gathered that the      QuestIII's     ponderous and unswerving progress toward Earth had somehowfrightened it. So it was trying to frighten them.     He shoved those facts back for future use. Just now he had to knowsomething, so vitally that he asked it as a bald question,       Are youhuman?          The voice chuckled sourly. We are human, it answered, but you arenot.     The captain was momentarily silent, groping for an adequate reply.Behind him somebody made a choked noise, the only sound in the stunnedhush, and the ship jarred slightly as a thunderbolt slammed vengefullyinto its field.     Suppose we settle this argument about humanity, said Knof Lludwoodenly. He named a vision frequency.     Very well. The tone was like a shrug. The voice went on in itslanguage that was quite intelligible, but alien-sounding with thechanges that nine hundred years had wrought. Perhaps, if you realizeyour position, you will follow the intelligent example of the      QuestI's     commander.     Knof Llud stiffened. The      Quest I     , launched toward Arcturus and thestar cloud called Berenice's Hair, had been after the      Quest III     themost hopeful of the expeditions—and its captain had been a good friendof Llud's, nine hundred years ago.... He growled, What happened tohim?     He fought off our interceptors, which are around you now, for sometime, said the voice lightly. When he saw that it was hopeless, hepreferred suicide to defeat, and took his ship into the Sun. A shortpause. The vision connection is ready.     Knof Llud switched on the screen at the named wavelength, and apicture formed there. The face and figure that appeared were ugly,but undeniably a man's. His features and his light-brown skin showedthe same racial characteristics possessed by those aboard the      QuestIII     , but he had an elusive look of deformity. Most obviously, his headseemed too big for his body, and his eyes in turn too big for his head.     He grinned nastily at Knof Llud. Have you any other last wishes?     Yes, said Llud with icy control. You haven't answered one question.Why do you want to kill us? You can see we're as human as you are.     The big-headed man eyed him with a speculative look in his greateyes, behind which the captain glimpsed the flickering raw fire of apoisonous hatred.     It is enough for you to know that you must die.  ","The captain is very responsible concerning his position and keeps an impassive voice and appearance in relation to all events. To his wife though he shows warmth and care, and expresses confidence in Earth's stability, he calms down his wife. Nevertheless, he also feels uncertain about the reception on Earth. Space is the captain's passion, but Earth is still his home. He is nervous about returning and alone with himself doesn't know how to distract. He becomes nostalgic rewatching the records from the beginning of the voyage and feels empty and old. He used to be full of excitement and energy about the mission, but it failed, and at some point he didn't even want to return with the news of failure after centuries, when everything changed. Nevertheless, the decision was made and there is no other choice now. The trip has changed the captain and now he feels aged and tired. He wants to retire and live with his family on Earth, he becomes nostalgic of its forests and green places, but not sure he wants it either. "
"How does the crew feel about approaching Earth? </s>    THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  Knof Llud, the      Quest III's     captain, came slowly down the narrowstair from the observatory, into the big rotunda that was now the mainrecreation room, where most of the people gathered. The great chamber,a full cross-section of the vessel, had been at first a fuel hold. Atthe voyage's beginning eighty per cent of the fifteen-hundred-footcylinder had been engines and fuel; but as the immense stores werespent and the holds became radioactively safe, the crew had spreadout from its original cramped quarters. Now the interstellar ship waslittle more than a hollow shell.     Eyes lifted from the vision screens to interrogate Knof Llud; he metthem with an impassive countenance, and announced quietly, We'vesighted Earth.     A feverish buzz arose; the captain gestured for silence and went on,It is still only a featureless disk to the telescope. Zost Relyul hasidentified it—no more.     But this time the clamor was not to be settled. People pressed roundthe screens, peering into them as if with the naked eye they couldpick out the atom of reflected light that was Earth, home. They wrungeach other's hands, kissed, shouted, wept. For the present their fearswere forgotten and exaltation prevailed.     Knof Llud smiled wryly. The rest of the little speech he had been aboutto make didn't matter anyway, and it might have spoiled this moment.     He turned to go, and was halted by the sight of his wife, standing athis elbow. His wry smile took on warmth; he asked, How do      you     feel,Lesra?     She drew an uncertain breath and released it in a faint sigh. I don'tknow. It's good that Earth's still there. She was thinking, he judgedshrewdly, of Knof Jr. and Delza, who save from pictures could notremember sunlit skies or grassy fields or woods in summer....     He said, with a touch of tolerant amusement, What did you think mighthave happened to Earth? After all, it's only been nine hundred years.     That's just it, said Lesra shakily. Nine hundred years have goneby—      there     —and nothing will be the same. It won't be the same worldwe left, the world we knew and fitted in....     The captain put an arm round her with comforting pressure. Don'tworry. Things may have changed—but we'll manage. But his face hadhardened against registering the gnawing of that same doubtful fearwithin him. He let his arm fall. I'd better get up to the bridge.There's a new course to be set now—for Earth.     He left her and began to climb the stairway again. Someone switchedoff the lights, and a charmed whisper ran through the big room as thepeople saw each other's faces by the pale golden light of Earth's ownSun, mirrored and multiplied by the screens. In that light Lesra's eyesgleamed with unshed tears.     Captain Llud found Navigator Gwar Den looking as smug as the catthat ate the canary. Gwar Den was finding that the actual observedpositions of the planets thus far located agreed quite closely withhis extrapolations from long unused charts of the Solar System. He hadalready set up on the calculator a course that would carry them toEarth.     Llud nodded curt approval, remarking, Probably we'll be interceptedbefore we get that far.     Den was jolted out of his happy abstraction. Uh, Captain, he saidhesitantly. What kind of a reception do you suppose we'll get?     Llud shook his head slowly. Who knows? We don't know whether anyof the other      Quests     returned successful, or if they returned atall. And we don't know what changes have taken place on Earth. It'spossible—not likely, though—that something has happened to breakcivilization's continuity to the point where our expedition has beenforgotten altogether.  He turned away grim-lipped and left the bridge. From his privateoffice-cabin, he sent a message to Chief Astronomer Zost Relyul tonotify him as soon as Earth's surface features became clear; then hesat idle, alone with his thoughts.     The ship's automatic mechanisms had scant need of tending; Knof Lludfound himself wishing that he could find some back-breaking task foreveryone on board, himself included, to fill up the hours that remained.     There was an extensive and well-chosen film library in the cabin, buthe couldn't persuade himself to kill time that way. He could go downand watch the screens, or to the family apartment where he might findLesra and the children—but somehow he didn't want to do that either.     He felt empty, drained—like his ship. As the      Quest III's     fuel storesand the hope of success in man's mightiest venture had dwindled, so thestrength had gone out of him. Now the last fuel compartment was almostempty and Captain Knof Llud felt tired and old.     Perhaps, he thought, he was feeling the weight of his nine hundredEarth years—though physically he was only forty now, ten years olderthan when the voyage had begun. That was the foreshortening along thetime axis of a space ship approaching the speed of light. Weeks andmonths had passed for the      Quest III     in interstellar flight whileyears and decades had raced by on the home world.     Bemusedly Llud got to his feet and stood surveying a cabinet withbuilt-in voice recorder and pigeonholes for records. There were aboutthree dozen film spools there—his personal memoirs of the greatexpedition, a segment of his life and of history. He might add that tothe ship's official log and its collections of scientific data, as areport to whatever powers might be on Earth now—if such powers werestill interested.     Llud selected a spool from among the earliest. It was one he had madeshortly after leaving Procyon, end of the first leg of the trip. Heslid it onto the reproducer.     His own voice came from the speaker, fresher, more vibrant andconfident than he knew it was now.     One light-day out from Procyon, the thirty-third day by ship's timesince leaving Earth.     Our visit to Procyon drew a blank. There is only one huge planet, twicethe size of Jupiter, and like Jupiter utterly unfit to support a colony.     Our hopes were dashed—and I think all of us, even remembering theCentaurus Expedition's failure, hoped more than we cared to admit. IfProcyon had possessed a habitable planet, we could have returned afteran absence of not much over twenty years Earth time.     It is cheering to note that the crew seems only more resolute. We goon to Capella; its spectrum, so like our own Sun's, beckons. If successcomes there, a century will have passed before we can return to Earth;friends, relatives, all the generation that launched the      Quest     shipswill be long since dead. Nevertheless we go on. Our generation's dream,humanity's dream, lives in us and in the ship forever....     Presently Knof Llud switched off that younger voice of his and leanedback, an ironic smile touching his lips. That fervent idealism seemedremote and foreign to him now. The fanfares of departure must stillhave been ringing in his ears.     He rose, slipped the record back in its niche and picked out another,later, one.     One week since we passed close enough to Aldebaran to ascertain thatthat system, too, is devoid of planets.     We face the unpleasant realization that what was feared is probablytrue—that worlds such as the Sun's are a rare accident, and that wemay complete our search without finding even one new Earth.     It makes no difference, of course; we cannot betray the plan....This may be man's last chance of escaping his pitiful limitation toone world in all the Universe. Certainly the building of this shipand its two sisters, the immense expenditure of time and labor andenergy stores that went into them, left Earth's economy drained andexhausted. Only once in a long age does mankind rise to such a selflessand transcendent effort—the effort of Egypt that built the pyramids,or the war efforts of the nations in the last great conflicts of thetwentieth century.     Looked at historically, such super-human outbursts of energy arethe result of a population's outgrowing its room and resources, andtherefore signalize the beginning of the end. Population can belimited, but the price is a deadly frustration, because growth alone islife.... In our day the end of man's room for growth on the Earth wasin sight—so we launched the      Quests     . Perhaps our effort will prove asfutile as pyramid-building, less practical than orgies of slaughter toreduce pressure.... In any case, it would be impossible to transportvery many people to other stars; but Earth could at least go intoits decline with the knowledge that its race went onward and upward,expanding limitlessly into the Universe....     Hopeless, unless we find planets!  Knof Llud shook his head sorrowfully and took off the spool. Thatwas from the time when he had grown philosophical after the firstdisappointments.     He frowned thoughtfully, choosing one more spool that was only fouryears old. The recorded voice sounded weary, yet alive with a strangelonging....     We are in the heart of Pleiades; a hundred stars show brilliant onthe screens, each star encircled by a misty halo like lights glowingthrough fog, for we are traversing a vast diffuse nebula.     According to plan, the      Quest III     has reached its furthest point fromEarth. Now we turn back along a curve that will take us past many morestars and stellar systems—but hope is small that any of those willprove a home for man, as have none of the thousands of stars examinedalready.     But what are a few thousand stars in a galaxy of billions? We haveonly, as it were, visited a handful of the outlying villages of theUniverse, while the lights of its great cities still blaze far aheadalong the Milky Way.     On flimsy excuses I have had Zost Relyul make observations of theglobular cluster Omega Centauri. There are a hundred thousand starsthere in a volume of space where one finds a few dozen in the Sun'sneighborhood; there if anywhere must circle the planets we seek! ButOmega Centauri is twenty thousand light years away....     Even so—by expending its remaining fuel freely, the      Quest III     couldachieve a velocity that would take us there without dying of senilityof aging too greatly. It would be a one-way journey—even if enoughfuel remained, there would be little point in returning to Earth aftermore than forty thousand years. By then our civilization certainly, andperhaps the human race itself, would have perished from memory.     That was why the planners limited our voyage, and those of the other      Quests     , to less than a thousand years Earth time. Even now, accordingto the sociodynamic predictions made then, our civilization—if theother expeditions failed also—will have reached a dangerously unstablephase, and before we can get back it may have collapsed completely fromoverpopulation.     Why go back, then with the news of our failure? Why not forget aboutEarth and go on to Omega Centauri? What use is quixotic loyalty to adecree five thousand years old, whose makers are dead and which may beforgotten back there?     Would the crew be willing? I don't know—some of them still show signsof homesickness, though they know with their minds that everything thatwas once 'home' has probably been swept away....     It doesn't matter. Today I gave orders to swing the ship.     Savagely Knof Llud stabbed the button that shut off the speaker. Thenhe sat for a time with head resting in his hands, staring into nothing.     The memory of that fierce impulse to go on still had power to shakehim. A couple of lines of poetry came into his head, as he read themonce in translation from the ancient English....     ... for my purpose holds     To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths     Of all the western stars, until I die.  Llud sighed. He still couldn't say just why he had given the order toturn back. The stars had claimed his heart—but he was still a part ofEarth, and not even nine hundred years of space and time had been ableto alter that.     He wondered if there would still be a quiet stream and a greenshady place beside it where a death-weary man, relieved at last ofresponsibility, could rest and dream no more.... Those things wenton, if men didn't change them. And a pine forest where he and youngKnof could go camping, and lie on their backs at night and gaze at theglittering constellations, far away, out of reach.... He wasn't sure hewould want to do that, though.     Suddenly a faint cushioned jar went through the great ship; it seemedto falter one moment in flight.  The captain was on his feet instantly, but then his movements becameunhurried. Whatever it had been was past, and he had a good ideawhat it had been—a meteoroid, nothing unusual in the vicinity ofthe Sun, though in interstellar space and around planetless starssuch collisions were rare to the vanishing point. No harm could havebeen done. The      Quest III's     collision armor was nonmaterial and forpractical purposes invulnerable.     Just as he took his finger off the button that opened the door, theintercommunication phone shrilled imperatively. Knof Llud wheeled,frowning—surely a meteoroid impact wasn't that serious. Coincidence,maybe—it might be Zost Relyul calling as instructed.     He reached the phone at the moment when another, heavier jolt shookthe vessel. Llud snatched up the receiver with the speed of a scaldedcat.     Captain? It was Gwar Den's voice, stammering a little. Captain,we're being attacked!     Sound the alarm. Emergency stations. He had said it automatically,then felt a curious detached relief at the knowledge that after allthese years he could still respond quickly and smoothly to a crisis.There was a moment's silence, and he heard the alarm start—threeshort buzzes and repeat, ringing through all the great length of theinterstellar ship. Knowing that Gwar Den was still there, he said,Now—attacked by what?     Ships, said Gwar Den helplessly. Five of them so far. No, there's asixth now. Repeated blows quivered the      Quest III's     framework. Thenavigator said, obviously striving for calm, They're light craft, notfifty feet long, but they move fast. The detectors hardly had time toshow them before they opened up. Can't get a telescope beam on themlong enough to tell much.     If they're that small, said Knof Llud deliberately, they can't carryanything heavy enough to hurt us. Hold to course. I'll be right up.     In the open doorway he almost fell over his son. Young Knof's eyes werebig; he had heard his father's words.     Something's happened, he judged with deadly twelve-year-oldseriousness and, without wasting time on questions, Can I go with you,huh, Dad?     Llud hesitated, said, All right. Come along and keep out of the way.He headed for the bridge with strides that the boy could not match.     There were people running in the corridors, heading for their posts.Their faces were set, scared, uncomprehending. The      Quest III     shuddered, again and again, under blows that must have had millionsof horsepower behind them; but it plunged on toward Earth, its mightyengines still steadily braking its interstellar velocity.     To a man, the ship's responsible officers were already on the bridge,most of them breathless. To a man they looked appeal at Captain KnofLlud.     Well? he snapped. What are they doing?     Gwar Den spoke. There are thirteen of them out there now, sir, andthey're all banging away at us.     The captain stared into the black star-strewn depths of a vision screenwhere occasional blue points of light winked ominously, never twicefrom the same position.     Knof Jr. flattened himself against the metal wall and watched silently.His young face was less anxious than his elders'; he had confidence inhis father.     If they had anything heavier, surmised the captain, they'd haveunlimbered it by now. They're out to get us. But at this rate, theycan't touch us as long as our power lasts—or until they bring up somebigger stuff.  The mild shocks went on—whether from projectiles or energy-charges,would be hard to find out and it didn't matter; whatever was hittingthe      Quest III's     shell was doing it at velocities where thedistinction between matter and radiation practically ceases to exist.     But that shell was tough. It was an extension of the gravitic drivefield which transmitted the engines' power equally to every atom ofthe ship; forces impinging on the outside of the field were similarlytransmitted and rendered harmless. The effect was as if the vessel andall space inside its field were a single perfectly elastic body. Ameteoroid, for example, on striking it rebounded—usually vaporized bythe impact—and the ship, in obedience to the law of equal and oppositeforces, rebounded too, but since its mass was so much greater, itsdeflection was negligible.     The people in the      Quest III     would have felt nothing at all ofthe vicious onslaught being hurled against them, save that theirinertialess drive, at its normal thrust of two hundred gravities,was intentionally operated at one half of one per cent efficiency toprovide the illusion of Earthly gravitation.     One of the officers said shakily, It's as if they've been lying inwait for us. But why on Earth—     That, said the captain grimly, is what we have to find out. Why—onEarth. At least, I suspect the answer's there.     The      Quest III     bored steadily on through space, decelerating. Even ifone were no fatalist, there seemed no reason to stop decelerating orchange course. There was nowhere else to go and too little fuel leftif there had been; come what might, this was journey's end—perhapsin a more violent and final way than had been anticipated. All aroundwheeled the pigmy enemies, circling, maneuvering, and attacking,always attacking, with the senseless fury of maddened hornets. Theinterstellar ship bore no offensive weapons—but suddenly on one of thevision screens a speck of light flared into nova-brilliance, dazzlingthe watchers for the brief moment in which its very atoms were tornapart.     Knof Jr. whooped ecstatically and then subsided warily, but no one waspaying attention to him. The men on the      Quest III's     bridge lookedquestions at each other, as the thought of help from outside flashedinto many minds at once. But Captain Llud said soberly, It must havecaught one of their own shots, reflected. Maybe its own, if it scoredtoo direct a hit.     He studied the data so far gathered. A few blurred pictures had beengot, which showed cylindrical space ships much like the      Quest III     ,except that they were rocket-propelled and of far lesser size. Theirsize was hard to ascertain, because you needed to know their distanceand speed—but detector-beam echoes gave the distance, and likewise, bythe Doppler method, the velocity of directly receding or approachingships. It was apparent that the enemy vessels were even smaller thanGwar Den had at first supposed—not large enough to hold even one man.Tiny, deadly hornets with a colossal sting.     Robot craft, no doubt, said Knof Llud, but a chill ran down his spineas it occurred to him that perhaps the attackers weren't of humanorigin. They had seen no recognizable life in the part of the galaxythey had explored, but one of the other      Quests     might have encounteredand been traced home by some unhuman race that was greedy and able toconquer.  It became evident, too, that the bombardment was being kept up by aconstant arrival of fresh attackers, while others raced away intospace, presumably returning to base to replenish their ammunition. Thatargued a planned and prepared interception with virulent hatred behindit.     Elsuz Llug, the gravitic engineer, calculated dismally, At the ratewe're having to shed energy, the fuel will be gone in six or eighthours.     We'll have reached Earth before then, Gwar Den said hopefully.     If they don't bring out the heavy artillery first.     We're under the psychological disadvantage, said the captain, of notknowing why we're being attacked.     Knof Jr. burst out, spluttering slightly with the violence of athought too important to suppress, But we're under a ps-psychologicaladvantage, too!     His father raised an eyebrow. What's that? I don't seem to havenoticed it.     They're mad and we aren't, yet, said the boy. Then, seeing that hehadn't made himself clear, In a fight, if a guy gets mad he startsswinging wild and then you nail him.     Smiles splintered the ice of tension. Captain Llud said, Maybe you'vegot something there. They seem to be mad, all right. But we're not ina position to throw any punches. He turned back to the others. As Iwas going to say—I think we'd better try to parley with the enemy. Atleast we may find out who he is and why he's determined to smash us.     And now instead of tight-beam detectors the ship was broadcasting on anaudio carrier wave that shifted through a wide range of frequencies,repeating on each the same brief recorded message:     Who are you? What do you want? We are the interstellar expedition      Quest III     .... And so on, identifying themselves and protesting thatthey were unarmed and peaceful, that there must be some mistake, andquerying again, Who are      you     ?     There was no answer. The ship drove on, its fuel trickling away undermultiplied demands. Those outside were squandering vastly greateramounts of energy in the effort to batter down its defenses, butconverting that energy into harmless gravitic impulses was costing the      Quest III     too. Once more Knof Llud had the insidious sense of his ownnerves and muscles and will weakening along with the power-sinews ofhis ship.     Zost Relyul approached him apologetically. If you have time,Captain—I've got some data on Earth now.     Eagerly Llud took the sheaf of photographs made with the telescope. Butthey told him nothing; only the continental outlines were clear, andthose were as they had been nine hundred years ago.... He looked upinquiringly at Zost Relyul.     There are some strange features, said the astronomer carefully.First of all—there are no lights on the night side. And on thedaylight face, our highest magnification should already reveal tracesof cities, canals, and the like—but it does not.     The prevailing color of the land masses, you see, is the normalgreen vegetation. But the diffraction spectrum is queer. It indicatesreflecting surfaces less than one-tenth millimeter wide—so thevegetation there can't be trees or grass, but must be more like a finemoss or even a coarse mold.     Is that all? demanded Llud.     Isn't it enough? said Zost Relyul blankly. Well—we triedphotography by invisible light, of course. The infra-red shows nothingand likewise the ultraviolet up to the point where the atmosphere isopaque to it.     The captain sighed wearily. Good work, he said. Keep it up; perhapsyou can answer some of these riddles before—           We know who you are     , interrupted a harshly crackling voice with astrange accent,       and pleading will do you no good.       Knof Llud whirled to the radio apparatus, his weariness dropping fromhim once more. He snapped, But who are you? and the words blendedabsurdly with the same words in his own voice on the still repeatingtape.     He snapped off the record; as he did so the speaker, still cracklingwith space static, said, It may interest you to know that you are thelast. The two other interstellar expeditions that went out have alreadyreturned and been destroyed, as you will soon be—the sooner, if youcontinue toward Earth.     Knof Llud's mind was clicking again. The voice—which must be comingfrom Earth, relayed by one of the midget ships—was not very smart; ithad already involuntarily told him a couple of things—that it was notas sure of itself as it sounded he deduced from the fact it had deignedto speak at all, and from its last remark he gathered that the      QuestIII's     ponderous and unswerving progress toward Earth had somehowfrightened it. So it was trying to frighten them.     He shoved those facts back for future use. Just now he had to knowsomething, so vitally that he asked it as a bald question,       Are youhuman?          The voice chuckled sourly. We are human, it answered, but you arenot.     The captain was momentarily silent, groping for an adequate reply.Behind him somebody made a choked noise, the only sound in the stunnedhush, and the ship jarred slightly as a thunderbolt slammed vengefullyinto its field.     Suppose we settle this argument about humanity, said Knof Lludwoodenly. He named a vision frequency.     Very well. The tone was like a shrug. The voice went on in itslanguage that was quite intelligible, but alien-sounding with thechanges that nine hundred years had wrought. Perhaps, if you realizeyour position, you will follow the intelligent example of the      QuestI's     commander.     Knof Llud stiffened. The      Quest I     , launched toward Arcturus and thestar cloud called Berenice's Hair, had been after the      Quest III     themost hopeful of the expeditions—and its captain had been a good friendof Llud's, nine hundred years ago.... He growled, What happened tohim?     He fought off our interceptors, which are around you now, for sometime, said the voice lightly. When he saw that it was hopeless, hepreferred suicide to defeat, and took his ship into the Sun. A shortpause. The vision connection is ready.     Knof Llud switched on the screen at the named wavelength, and apicture formed there. The face and figure that appeared were ugly,but undeniably a man's. His features and his light-brown skin showedthe same racial characteristics possessed by those aboard the      QuestIII     , but he had an elusive look of deformity. Most obviously, his headseemed too big for his body, and his eyes in turn too big for his head.     He grinned nastily at Knof Llud. Have you any other last wishes?     Yes, said Llud with icy control. You haven't answered one question.Why do you want to kill us? You can see we're as human as you are.     The big-headed man eyed him with a speculative look in his greateyes, behind which the captain glimpsed the flickering raw fire of apoisonous hatred.     It is enough for you to know that you must die.  ","All the people are extremely excited to return, they keep talking and buzzing about it. Many are nervous about the centuries that have passed and about what they will find upon return. Lesra, the captain's wife, feels anxious, for a while she was even afraid the Earth won't be there. She is scared of how the Earth will look like now and tears fill her eyes. The navigator is also nervous about the reception they will get. When the ship is attacked, everyone is confused and scared, the mass panic starts. The captain has to maintain coolness and calm everyone down, but he is also anxious about the return. Moreover, he hates returning with failure and only does it because the ship ran out of fuel. So, the whole ship anticipates the return and misses home, but due to the long time far away, everyone is afraid of what awaits them.  "
"What was the plan and purpose of the voyage? </s>    THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  Knof Llud, the      Quest III's     captain, came slowly down the narrowstair from the observatory, into the big rotunda that was now the mainrecreation room, where most of the people gathered. The great chamber,a full cross-section of the vessel, had been at first a fuel hold. Atthe voyage's beginning eighty per cent of the fifteen-hundred-footcylinder had been engines and fuel; but as the immense stores werespent and the holds became radioactively safe, the crew had spreadout from its original cramped quarters. Now the interstellar ship waslittle more than a hollow shell.     Eyes lifted from the vision screens to interrogate Knof Llud; he metthem with an impassive countenance, and announced quietly, We'vesighted Earth.     A feverish buzz arose; the captain gestured for silence and went on,It is still only a featureless disk to the telescope. Zost Relyul hasidentified it—no more.     But this time the clamor was not to be settled. People pressed roundthe screens, peering into them as if with the naked eye they couldpick out the atom of reflected light that was Earth, home. They wrungeach other's hands, kissed, shouted, wept. For the present their fearswere forgotten and exaltation prevailed.     Knof Llud smiled wryly. The rest of the little speech he had been aboutto make didn't matter anyway, and it might have spoiled this moment.     He turned to go, and was halted by the sight of his wife, standing athis elbow. His wry smile took on warmth; he asked, How do      you     feel,Lesra?     She drew an uncertain breath and released it in a faint sigh. I don'tknow. It's good that Earth's still there. She was thinking, he judgedshrewdly, of Knof Jr. and Delza, who save from pictures could notremember sunlit skies or grassy fields or woods in summer....     He said, with a touch of tolerant amusement, What did you think mighthave happened to Earth? After all, it's only been nine hundred years.     That's just it, said Lesra shakily. Nine hundred years have goneby—      there     —and nothing will be the same. It won't be the same worldwe left, the world we knew and fitted in....     The captain put an arm round her with comforting pressure. Don'tworry. Things may have changed—but we'll manage. But his face hadhardened against registering the gnawing of that same doubtful fearwithin him. He let his arm fall. I'd better get up to the bridge.There's a new course to be set now—for Earth.     He left her and began to climb the stairway again. Someone switchedoff the lights, and a charmed whisper ran through the big room as thepeople saw each other's faces by the pale golden light of Earth's ownSun, mirrored and multiplied by the screens. In that light Lesra's eyesgleamed with unshed tears.     Captain Llud found Navigator Gwar Den looking as smug as the catthat ate the canary. Gwar Den was finding that the actual observedpositions of the planets thus far located agreed quite closely withhis extrapolations from long unused charts of the Solar System. He hadalready set up on the calculator a course that would carry them toEarth.     Llud nodded curt approval, remarking, Probably we'll be interceptedbefore we get that far.     Den was jolted out of his happy abstraction. Uh, Captain, he saidhesitantly. What kind of a reception do you suppose we'll get?     Llud shook his head slowly. Who knows? We don't know whether anyof the other      Quests     returned successful, or if they returned atall. And we don't know what changes have taken place on Earth. It'spossible—not likely, though—that something has happened to breakcivilization's continuity to the point where our expedition has beenforgotten altogether.  He turned away grim-lipped and left the bridge. From his privateoffice-cabin, he sent a message to Chief Astronomer Zost Relyul tonotify him as soon as Earth's surface features became clear; then hesat idle, alone with his thoughts.     The ship's automatic mechanisms had scant need of tending; Knof Lludfound himself wishing that he could find some back-breaking task foreveryone on board, himself included, to fill up the hours that remained.     There was an extensive and well-chosen film library in the cabin, buthe couldn't persuade himself to kill time that way. He could go downand watch the screens, or to the family apartment where he might findLesra and the children—but somehow he didn't want to do that either.     He felt empty, drained—like his ship. As the      Quest III's     fuel storesand the hope of success in man's mightiest venture had dwindled, so thestrength had gone out of him. Now the last fuel compartment was almostempty and Captain Knof Llud felt tired and old.     Perhaps, he thought, he was feeling the weight of his nine hundredEarth years—though physically he was only forty now, ten years olderthan when the voyage had begun. That was the foreshortening along thetime axis of a space ship approaching the speed of light. Weeks andmonths had passed for the      Quest III     in interstellar flight whileyears and decades had raced by on the home world.     Bemusedly Llud got to his feet and stood surveying a cabinet withbuilt-in voice recorder and pigeonholes for records. There were aboutthree dozen film spools there—his personal memoirs of the greatexpedition, a segment of his life and of history. He might add that tothe ship's official log and its collections of scientific data, as areport to whatever powers might be on Earth now—if such powers werestill interested.     Llud selected a spool from among the earliest. It was one he had madeshortly after leaving Procyon, end of the first leg of the trip. Heslid it onto the reproducer.     His own voice came from the speaker, fresher, more vibrant andconfident than he knew it was now.     One light-day out from Procyon, the thirty-third day by ship's timesince leaving Earth.     Our visit to Procyon drew a blank. There is only one huge planet, twicethe size of Jupiter, and like Jupiter utterly unfit to support a colony.     Our hopes were dashed—and I think all of us, even remembering theCentaurus Expedition's failure, hoped more than we cared to admit. IfProcyon had possessed a habitable planet, we could have returned afteran absence of not much over twenty years Earth time.     It is cheering to note that the crew seems only more resolute. We goon to Capella; its spectrum, so like our own Sun's, beckons. If successcomes there, a century will have passed before we can return to Earth;friends, relatives, all the generation that launched the      Quest     shipswill be long since dead. Nevertheless we go on. Our generation's dream,humanity's dream, lives in us and in the ship forever....     Presently Knof Llud switched off that younger voice of his and leanedback, an ironic smile touching his lips. That fervent idealism seemedremote and foreign to him now. The fanfares of departure must stillhave been ringing in his ears.     He rose, slipped the record back in its niche and picked out another,later, one.     One week since we passed close enough to Aldebaran to ascertain thatthat system, too, is devoid of planets.     We face the unpleasant realization that what was feared is probablytrue—that worlds such as the Sun's are a rare accident, and that wemay complete our search without finding even one new Earth.     It makes no difference, of course; we cannot betray the plan....This may be man's last chance of escaping his pitiful limitation toone world in all the Universe. Certainly the building of this shipand its two sisters, the immense expenditure of time and labor andenergy stores that went into them, left Earth's economy drained andexhausted. Only once in a long age does mankind rise to such a selflessand transcendent effort—the effort of Egypt that built the pyramids,or the war efforts of the nations in the last great conflicts of thetwentieth century.     Looked at historically, such super-human outbursts of energy arethe result of a population's outgrowing its room and resources, andtherefore signalize the beginning of the end. Population can belimited, but the price is a deadly frustration, because growth alone islife.... In our day the end of man's room for growth on the Earth wasin sight—so we launched the      Quests     . Perhaps our effort will prove asfutile as pyramid-building, less practical than orgies of slaughter toreduce pressure.... In any case, it would be impossible to transportvery many people to other stars; but Earth could at least go intoits decline with the knowledge that its race went onward and upward,expanding limitlessly into the Universe....     Hopeless, unless we find planets!  Knof Llud shook his head sorrowfully and took off the spool. Thatwas from the time when he had grown philosophical after the firstdisappointments.     He frowned thoughtfully, choosing one more spool that was only fouryears old. The recorded voice sounded weary, yet alive with a strangelonging....     We are in the heart of Pleiades; a hundred stars show brilliant onthe screens, each star encircled by a misty halo like lights glowingthrough fog, for we are traversing a vast diffuse nebula.     According to plan, the      Quest III     has reached its furthest point fromEarth. Now we turn back along a curve that will take us past many morestars and stellar systems—but hope is small that any of those willprove a home for man, as have none of the thousands of stars examinedalready.     But what are a few thousand stars in a galaxy of billions? We haveonly, as it were, visited a handful of the outlying villages of theUniverse, while the lights of its great cities still blaze far aheadalong the Milky Way.     On flimsy excuses I have had Zost Relyul make observations of theglobular cluster Omega Centauri. There are a hundred thousand starsthere in a volume of space where one finds a few dozen in the Sun'sneighborhood; there if anywhere must circle the planets we seek! ButOmega Centauri is twenty thousand light years away....     Even so—by expending its remaining fuel freely, the      Quest III     couldachieve a velocity that would take us there without dying of senilityof aging too greatly. It would be a one-way journey—even if enoughfuel remained, there would be little point in returning to Earth aftermore than forty thousand years. By then our civilization certainly, andperhaps the human race itself, would have perished from memory.     That was why the planners limited our voyage, and those of the other      Quests     , to less than a thousand years Earth time. Even now, accordingto the sociodynamic predictions made then, our civilization—if theother expeditions failed also—will have reached a dangerously unstablephase, and before we can get back it may have collapsed completely fromoverpopulation.     Why go back, then with the news of our failure? Why not forget aboutEarth and go on to Omega Centauri? What use is quixotic loyalty to adecree five thousand years old, whose makers are dead and which may beforgotten back there?     Would the crew be willing? I don't know—some of them still show signsof homesickness, though they know with their minds that everything thatwas once 'home' has probably been swept away....     It doesn't matter. Today I gave orders to swing the ship.     Savagely Knof Llud stabbed the button that shut off the speaker. Thenhe sat for a time with head resting in his hands, staring into nothing.     The memory of that fierce impulse to go on still had power to shakehim. A couple of lines of poetry came into his head, as he read themonce in translation from the ancient English....     ... for my purpose holds     To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths     Of all the western stars, until I die.  Llud sighed. He still couldn't say just why he had given the order toturn back. The stars had claimed his heart—but he was still a part ofEarth, and not even nine hundred years of space and time had been ableto alter that.     He wondered if there would still be a quiet stream and a greenshady place beside it where a death-weary man, relieved at last ofresponsibility, could rest and dream no more.... Those things wenton, if men didn't change them. And a pine forest where he and youngKnof could go camping, and lie on their backs at night and gaze at theglittering constellations, far away, out of reach.... He wasn't sure hewould want to do that, though.     Suddenly a faint cushioned jar went through the great ship; it seemedto falter one moment in flight.  The captain was on his feet instantly, but then his movements becameunhurried. Whatever it had been was past, and he had a good ideawhat it had been—a meteoroid, nothing unusual in the vicinity ofthe Sun, though in interstellar space and around planetless starssuch collisions were rare to the vanishing point. No harm could havebeen done. The      Quest III's     collision armor was nonmaterial and forpractical purposes invulnerable.     Just as he took his finger off the button that opened the door, theintercommunication phone shrilled imperatively. Knof Llud wheeled,frowning—surely a meteoroid impact wasn't that serious. Coincidence,maybe—it might be Zost Relyul calling as instructed.     He reached the phone at the moment when another, heavier jolt shookthe vessel. Llud snatched up the receiver with the speed of a scaldedcat.     Captain? It was Gwar Den's voice, stammering a little. Captain,we're being attacked!     Sound the alarm. Emergency stations. He had said it automatically,then felt a curious detached relief at the knowledge that after allthese years he could still respond quickly and smoothly to a crisis.There was a moment's silence, and he heard the alarm start—threeshort buzzes and repeat, ringing through all the great length of theinterstellar ship. Knowing that Gwar Den was still there, he said,Now—attacked by what?     Ships, said Gwar Den helplessly. Five of them so far. No, there's asixth now. Repeated blows quivered the      Quest III's     framework. Thenavigator said, obviously striving for calm, They're light craft, notfifty feet long, but they move fast. The detectors hardly had time toshow them before they opened up. Can't get a telescope beam on themlong enough to tell much.     If they're that small, said Knof Llud deliberately, they can't carryanything heavy enough to hurt us. Hold to course. I'll be right up.     In the open doorway he almost fell over his son. Young Knof's eyes werebig; he had heard his father's words.     Something's happened, he judged with deadly twelve-year-oldseriousness and, without wasting time on questions, Can I go with you,huh, Dad?     Llud hesitated, said, All right. Come along and keep out of the way.He headed for the bridge with strides that the boy could not match.     There were people running in the corridors, heading for their posts.Their faces were set, scared, uncomprehending. The      Quest III     shuddered, again and again, under blows that must have had millionsof horsepower behind them; but it plunged on toward Earth, its mightyengines still steadily braking its interstellar velocity.     To a man, the ship's responsible officers were already on the bridge,most of them breathless. To a man they looked appeal at Captain KnofLlud.     Well? he snapped. What are they doing?     Gwar Den spoke. There are thirteen of them out there now, sir, andthey're all banging away at us.     The captain stared into the black star-strewn depths of a vision screenwhere occasional blue points of light winked ominously, never twicefrom the same position.     Knof Jr. flattened himself against the metal wall and watched silently.His young face was less anxious than his elders'; he had confidence inhis father.     If they had anything heavier, surmised the captain, they'd haveunlimbered it by now. They're out to get us. But at this rate, theycan't touch us as long as our power lasts—or until they bring up somebigger stuff.  The mild shocks went on—whether from projectiles or energy-charges,would be hard to find out and it didn't matter; whatever was hittingthe      Quest III's     shell was doing it at velocities where thedistinction between matter and radiation practically ceases to exist.     But that shell was tough. It was an extension of the gravitic drivefield which transmitted the engines' power equally to every atom ofthe ship; forces impinging on the outside of the field were similarlytransmitted and rendered harmless. The effect was as if the vessel andall space inside its field were a single perfectly elastic body. Ameteoroid, for example, on striking it rebounded—usually vaporized bythe impact—and the ship, in obedience to the law of equal and oppositeforces, rebounded too, but since its mass was so much greater, itsdeflection was negligible.     The people in the      Quest III     would have felt nothing at all ofthe vicious onslaught being hurled against them, save that theirinertialess drive, at its normal thrust of two hundred gravities,was intentionally operated at one half of one per cent efficiency toprovide the illusion of Earthly gravitation.     One of the officers said shakily, It's as if they've been lying inwait for us. But why on Earth—     That, said the captain grimly, is what we have to find out. Why—onEarth. At least, I suspect the answer's there.     The      Quest III     bored steadily on through space, decelerating. Even ifone were no fatalist, there seemed no reason to stop decelerating orchange course. There was nowhere else to go and too little fuel leftif there had been; come what might, this was journey's end—perhapsin a more violent and final way than had been anticipated. All aroundwheeled the pigmy enemies, circling, maneuvering, and attacking,always attacking, with the senseless fury of maddened hornets. Theinterstellar ship bore no offensive weapons—but suddenly on one of thevision screens a speck of light flared into nova-brilliance, dazzlingthe watchers for the brief moment in which its very atoms were tornapart.     Knof Jr. whooped ecstatically and then subsided warily, but no one waspaying attention to him. The men on the      Quest III's     bridge lookedquestions at each other, as the thought of help from outside flashedinto many minds at once. But Captain Llud said soberly, It must havecaught one of their own shots, reflected. Maybe its own, if it scoredtoo direct a hit.     He studied the data so far gathered. A few blurred pictures had beengot, which showed cylindrical space ships much like the      Quest III     ,except that they were rocket-propelled and of far lesser size. Theirsize was hard to ascertain, because you needed to know their distanceand speed—but detector-beam echoes gave the distance, and likewise, bythe Doppler method, the velocity of directly receding or approachingships. It was apparent that the enemy vessels were even smaller thanGwar Den had at first supposed—not large enough to hold even one man.Tiny, deadly hornets with a colossal sting.     Robot craft, no doubt, said Knof Llud, but a chill ran down his spineas it occurred to him that perhaps the attackers weren't of humanorigin. They had seen no recognizable life in the part of the galaxythey had explored, but one of the other      Quests     might have encounteredand been traced home by some unhuman race that was greedy and able toconquer.  It became evident, too, that the bombardment was being kept up by aconstant arrival of fresh attackers, while others raced away intospace, presumably returning to base to replenish their ammunition. Thatargued a planned and prepared interception with virulent hatred behindit.     Elsuz Llug, the gravitic engineer, calculated dismally, At the ratewe're having to shed energy, the fuel will be gone in six or eighthours.     We'll have reached Earth before then, Gwar Den said hopefully.     If they don't bring out the heavy artillery first.     We're under the psychological disadvantage, said the captain, of notknowing why we're being attacked.     Knof Jr. burst out, spluttering slightly with the violence of athought too important to suppress, But we're under a ps-psychologicaladvantage, too!     His father raised an eyebrow. What's that? I don't seem to havenoticed it.     They're mad and we aren't, yet, said the boy. Then, seeing that hehadn't made himself clear, In a fight, if a guy gets mad he startsswinging wild and then you nail him.     Smiles splintered the ice of tension. Captain Llud said, Maybe you'vegot something there. They seem to be mad, all right. But we're not ina position to throw any punches. He turned back to the others. As Iwas going to say—I think we'd better try to parley with the enemy. Atleast we may find out who he is and why he's determined to smash us.     And now instead of tight-beam detectors the ship was broadcasting on anaudio carrier wave that shifted through a wide range of frequencies,repeating on each the same brief recorded message:     Who are you? What do you want? We are the interstellar expedition      Quest III     .... And so on, identifying themselves and protesting thatthey were unarmed and peaceful, that there must be some mistake, andquerying again, Who are      you     ?     There was no answer. The ship drove on, its fuel trickling away undermultiplied demands. Those outside were squandering vastly greateramounts of energy in the effort to batter down its defenses, butconverting that energy into harmless gravitic impulses was costing the      Quest III     too. Once more Knof Llud had the insidious sense of his ownnerves and muscles and will weakening along with the power-sinews ofhis ship.     Zost Relyul approached him apologetically. If you have time,Captain—I've got some data on Earth now.     Eagerly Llud took the sheaf of photographs made with the telescope. Butthey told him nothing; only the continental outlines were clear, andthose were as they had been nine hundred years ago.... He looked upinquiringly at Zost Relyul.     There are some strange features, said the astronomer carefully.First of all—there are no lights on the night side. And on thedaylight face, our highest magnification should already reveal tracesof cities, canals, and the like—but it does not.     The prevailing color of the land masses, you see, is the normalgreen vegetation. But the diffraction spectrum is queer. It indicatesreflecting surfaces less than one-tenth millimeter wide—so thevegetation there can't be trees or grass, but must be more like a finemoss or even a coarse mold.     Is that all? demanded Llud.     Isn't it enough? said Zost Relyul blankly. Well—we triedphotography by invisible light, of course. The infra-red shows nothingand likewise the ultraviolet up to the point where the atmosphere isopaque to it.     The captain sighed wearily. Good work, he said. Keep it up; perhapsyou can answer some of these riddles before—           We know who you are     , interrupted a harshly crackling voice with astrange accent,       and pleading will do you no good.       Knof Llud whirled to the radio apparatus, his weariness dropping fromhim once more. He snapped, But who are you? and the words blendedabsurdly with the same words in his own voice on the still repeatingtape.     He snapped off the record; as he did so the speaker, still cracklingwith space static, said, It may interest you to know that you are thelast. The two other interstellar expeditions that went out have alreadyreturned and been destroyed, as you will soon be—the sooner, if youcontinue toward Earth.     Knof Llud's mind was clicking again. The voice—which must be comingfrom Earth, relayed by one of the midget ships—was not very smart; ithad already involuntarily told him a couple of things—that it was notas sure of itself as it sounded he deduced from the fact it had deignedto speak at all, and from its last remark he gathered that the      QuestIII's     ponderous and unswerving progress toward Earth had somehowfrightened it. So it was trying to frighten them.     He shoved those facts back for future use. Just now he had to knowsomething, so vitally that he asked it as a bald question,       Are youhuman?          The voice chuckled sourly. We are human, it answered, but you arenot.     The captain was momentarily silent, groping for an adequate reply.Behind him somebody made a choked noise, the only sound in the stunnedhush, and the ship jarred slightly as a thunderbolt slammed vengefullyinto its field.     Suppose we settle this argument about humanity, said Knof Lludwoodenly. He named a vision frequency.     Very well. The tone was like a shrug. The voice went on in itslanguage that was quite intelligible, but alien-sounding with thechanges that nine hundred years had wrought. Perhaps, if you realizeyour position, you will follow the intelligent example of the      QuestI's     commander.     Knof Llud stiffened. The      Quest I     , launched toward Arcturus and thestar cloud called Berenice's Hair, had been after the      Quest III     themost hopeful of the expeditions—and its captain had been a good friendof Llud's, nine hundred years ago.... He growled, What happened tohim?     He fought off our interceptors, which are around you now, for sometime, said the voice lightly. When he saw that it was hopeless, hepreferred suicide to defeat, and took his ship into the Sun. A shortpause. The vision connection is ready.     Knof Llud switched on the screen at the named wavelength, and apicture formed there. The face and figure that appeared were ugly,but undeniably a man's. His features and his light-brown skin showedthe same racial characteristics possessed by those aboard the      QuestIII     , but he had an elusive look of deformity. Most obviously, his headseemed too big for his body, and his eyes in turn too big for his head.     He grinned nastily at Knof Llud. Have you any other last wishes?     Yes, said Llud with icy control. You haven't answered one question.Why do you want to kill us? You can see we're as human as you are.     The big-headed man eyed him with a speculative look in his greateyes, behind which the captain glimpsed the flickering raw fire of apoisonous hatred.     It is enough for you to know that you must die.  ","A few ships were sent to space as a part of the mission. Quest III was one of them, but there also were Quest I and II. The purpose was for the ships to find a sun similar to the Sun somewhere in space, and a planet to live on, in case Earth will become unfit. This mission was of extreme importance for the whole of humanity and the crew felt honored and ready to sacrifice all they were leaving on Earth. Nevertheless, they kept hoping to return as fast as possible, but every sun was unfit. The amount of fuel for no more than one thousand Earth years was loaded before departure and the fairest point to reach was chosen. All three ships went different ways, and were cut from any communication. Nevertheless, Quest III was unable to find any fitting planet and had to return or stay in a place located more than forty thousand Earth years away. The captain decided to return, though the failure upset him. "
"What is the significance of the captain's decision to return to Earth instead of going to Omega Centauri? </s>    THE GIANTS RETURN     By ROBERT ABERNATHY     Earth set itself grimly to meet them with     corrosive fire, determined to blast them     back to the stars. But they erred in thinking     the Old Ones were too big to be clever.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Fall 1949.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      In the last hours the star ahead had grown brighter by many magnitudes,and had changed its color from a dazzling blue through white to thenormal yellow, of a GO sun. That was the Doppler effect as the star'sradial velocity changed relative to the      Quest III     , as for forty hoursthe ship had decelerated.     They had seen many such stars come near out of the galaxy's glitteringbackdrop, and had seen them dwindle, turn red and go out as the      QuestIII     drove on its way once more, lashed by despair toward the speed oflight, leaving behind the mockery of yet another solitary and lifelessluminary unaccompanied by worlds where men might dwell. They had grownsated with the sight of wonders—of multiple systems of giant stars, ofnebulae that sprawled in empty flame across light years.     But now unwonted excitement possessed the hundred-odd members of the      Quest III's     crew. It was a subdued excitement; men and women, theycame and stood quietly gazing into the big vision screens that showedthe oncoming star, and there were wide-eyed children who had been bornin the ship and had never seen a planet. The grownups talked in lowvoices, in tones of mingled eagerness and apprehension, of what mightlie at the long journey's end. For the      Quest III     was coming home; thesun ahead was      the     Sun, whose rays had warmed their lives' beginning.  Knof Llud, the      Quest III's     captain, came slowly down the narrowstair from the observatory, into the big rotunda that was now the mainrecreation room, where most of the people gathered. The great chamber,a full cross-section of the vessel, had been at first a fuel hold. Atthe voyage's beginning eighty per cent of the fifteen-hundred-footcylinder had been engines and fuel; but as the immense stores werespent and the holds became radioactively safe, the crew had spreadout from its original cramped quarters. Now the interstellar ship waslittle more than a hollow shell.     Eyes lifted from the vision screens to interrogate Knof Llud; he metthem with an impassive countenance, and announced quietly, We'vesighted Earth.     A feverish buzz arose; the captain gestured for silence and went on,It is still only a featureless disk to the telescope. Zost Relyul hasidentified it—no more.     But this time the clamor was not to be settled. People pressed roundthe screens, peering into them as if with the naked eye they couldpick out the atom of reflected light that was Earth, home. They wrungeach other's hands, kissed, shouted, wept. For the present their fearswere forgotten and exaltation prevailed.     Knof Llud smiled wryly. The rest of the little speech he had been aboutto make didn't matter anyway, and it might have spoiled this moment.     He turned to go, and was halted by the sight of his wife, standing athis elbow. His wry smile took on warmth; he asked, How do      you     feel,Lesra?     She drew an uncertain breath and released it in a faint sigh. I don'tknow. It's good that Earth's still there. She was thinking, he judgedshrewdly, of Knof Jr. and Delza, who save from pictures could notremember sunlit skies or grassy fields or woods in summer....     He said, with a touch of tolerant amusement, What did you think mighthave happened to Earth? After all, it's only been nine hundred years.     That's just it, said Lesra shakily. Nine hundred years have goneby—      there     —and nothing will be the same. It won't be the same worldwe left, the world we knew and fitted in....     The captain put an arm round her with comforting pressure. Don'tworry. Things may have changed—but we'll manage. But his face hadhardened against registering the gnawing of that same doubtful fearwithin him. He let his arm fall. I'd better get up to the bridge.There's a new course to be set now—for Earth.     He left her and began to climb the stairway again. Someone switchedoff the lights, and a charmed whisper ran through the big room as thepeople saw each other's faces by the pale golden light of Earth's ownSun, mirrored and multiplied by the screens. In that light Lesra's eyesgleamed with unshed tears.     Captain Llud found Navigator Gwar Den looking as smug as the catthat ate the canary. Gwar Den was finding that the actual observedpositions of the planets thus far located agreed quite closely withhis extrapolations from long unused charts of the Solar System. He hadalready set up on the calculator a course that would carry them toEarth.     Llud nodded curt approval, remarking, Probably we'll be interceptedbefore we get that far.     Den was jolted out of his happy abstraction. Uh, Captain, he saidhesitantly. What kind of a reception do you suppose we'll get?     Llud shook his head slowly. Who knows? We don't know whether anyof the other      Quests     returned successful, or if they returned atall. And we don't know what changes have taken place on Earth. It'spossible—not likely, though—that something has happened to breakcivilization's continuity to the point where our expedition has beenforgotten altogether.  He turned away grim-lipped and left the bridge. From his privateoffice-cabin, he sent a message to Chief Astronomer Zost Relyul tonotify him as soon as Earth's surface features became clear; then hesat idle, alone with his thoughts.     The ship's automatic mechanisms had scant need of tending; Knof Lludfound himself wishing that he could find some back-breaking task foreveryone on board, himself included, to fill up the hours that remained.     There was an extensive and well-chosen film library in the cabin, buthe couldn't persuade himself to kill time that way. He could go downand watch the screens, or to the family apartment where he might findLesra and the children—but somehow he didn't want to do that either.     He felt empty, drained—like his ship. As the      Quest III's     fuel storesand the hope of success in man's mightiest venture had dwindled, so thestrength had gone out of him. Now the last fuel compartment was almostempty and Captain Knof Llud felt tired and old.     Perhaps, he thought, he was feeling the weight of his nine hundredEarth years—though physically he was only forty now, ten years olderthan when the voyage had begun. That was the foreshortening along thetime axis of a space ship approaching the speed of light. Weeks andmonths had passed for the      Quest III     in interstellar flight whileyears and decades had raced by on the home world.     Bemusedly Llud got to his feet and stood surveying a cabinet withbuilt-in voice recorder and pigeonholes for records. There were aboutthree dozen film spools there—his personal memoirs of the greatexpedition, a segment of his life and of history. He might add that tothe ship's official log and its collections of scientific data, as areport to whatever powers might be on Earth now—if such powers werestill interested.     Llud selected a spool from among the earliest. It was one he had madeshortly after leaving Procyon, end of the first leg of the trip. Heslid it onto the reproducer.     His own voice came from the speaker, fresher, more vibrant andconfident than he knew it was now.     One light-day out from Procyon, the thirty-third day by ship's timesince leaving Earth.     Our visit to Procyon drew a blank. There is only one huge planet, twicethe size of Jupiter, and like Jupiter utterly unfit to support a colony.     Our hopes were dashed—and I think all of us, even remembering theCentaurus Expedition's failure, hoped more than we cared to admit. IfProcyon had possessed a habitable planet, we could have returned afteran absence of not much over twenty years Earth time.     It is cheering to note that the crew seems only more resolute. We goon to Capella; its spectrum, so like our own Sun's, beckons. If successcomes there, a century will have passed before we can return to Earth;friends, relatives, all the generation that launched the      Quest     shipswill be long since dead. Nevertheless we go on. Our generation's dream,humanity's dream, lives in us and in the ship forever....     Presently Knof Llud switched off that younger voice of his and leanedback, an ironic smile touching his lips. That fervent idealism seemedremote and foreign to him now. The fanfares of departure must stillhave been ringing in his ears.     He rose, slipped the record back in its niche and picked out another,later, one.     One week since we passed close enough to Aldebaran to ascertain thatthat system, too, is devoid of planets.     We face the unpleasant realization that what was feared is probablytrue—that worlds such as the Sun's are a rare accident, and that wemay complete our search without finding even one new Earth.     It makes no difference, of course; we cannot betray the plan....This may be man's last chance of escaping his pitiful limitation toone world in all the Universe. Certainly the building of this shipand its two sisters, the immense expenditure of time and labor andenergy stores that went into them, left Earth's economy drained andexhausted. Only once in a long age does mankind rise to such a selflessand transcendent effort—the effort of Egypt that built the pyramids,or the war efforts of the nations in the last great conflicts of thetwentieth century.     Looked at historically, such super-human outbursts of energy arethe result of a population's outgrowing its room and resources, andtherefore signalize the beginning of the end. Population can belimited, but the price is a deadly frustration, because growth alone islife.... In our day the end of man's room for growth on the Earth wasin sight—so we launched the      Quests     . Perhaps our effort will prove asfutile as pyramid-building, less practical than orgies of slaughter toreduce pressure.... In any case, it would be impossible to transportvery many people to other stars; but Earth could at least go intoits decline with the knowledge that its race went onward and upward,expanding limitlessly into the Universe....     Hopeless, unless we find planets!  Knof Llud shook his head sorrowfully and took off the spool. Thatwas from the time when he had grown philosophical after the firstdisappointments.     He frowned thoughtfully, choosing one more spool that was only fouryears old. The recorded voice sounded weary, yet alive with a strangelonging....     We are in the heart of Pleiades; a hundred stars show brilliant onthe screens, each star encircled by a misty halo like lights glowingthrough fog, for we are traversing a vast diffuse nebula.     According to plan, the      Quest III     has reached its furthest point fromEarth. Now we turn back along a curve that will take us past many morestars and stellar systems—but hope is small that any of those willprove a home for man, as have none of the thousands of stars examinedalready.     But what are a few thousand stars in a galaxy of billions? We haveonly, as it were, visited a handful of the outlying villages of theUniverse, while the lights of its great cities still blaze far aheadalong the Milky Way.     On flimsy excuses I have had Zost Relyul make observations of theglobular cluster Omega Centauri. There are a hundred thousand starsthere in a volume of space where one finds a few dozen in the Sun'sneighborhood; there if anywhere must circle the planets we seek! ButOmega Centauri is twenty thousand light years away....     Even so—by expending its remaining fuel freely, the      Quest III     couldachieve a velocity that would take us there without dying of senilityof aging too greatly. It would be a one-way journey—even if enoughfuel remained, there would be little point in returning to Earth aftermore than forty thousand years. By then our civilization certainly, andperhaps the human race itself, would have perished from memory.     That was why the planners limited our voyage, and those of the other      Quests     , to less than a thousand years Earth time. Even now, accordingto the sociodynamic predictions made then, our civilization—if theother expeditions failed also—will have reached a dangerously unstablephase, and before we can get back it may have collapsed completely fromoverpopulation.     Why go back, then with the news of our failure? Why not forget aboutEarth and go on to Omega Centauri? What use is quixotic loyalty to adecree five thousand years old, whose makers are dead and which may beforgotten back there?     Would the crew be willing? I don't know—some of them still show signsof homesickness, though they know with their minds that everything thatwas once 'home' has probably been swept away....     It doesn't matter. Today I gave orders to swing the ship.     Savagely Knof Llud stabbed the button that shut off the speaker. Thenhe sat for a time with head resting in his hands, staring into nothing.     The memory of that fierce impulse to go on still had power to shakehim. A couple of lines of poetry came into his head, as he read themonce in translation from the ancient English....     ... for my purpose holds     To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths     Of all the western stars, until I die.  Llud sighed. He still couldn't say just why he had given the order toturn back. The stars had claimed his heart—but he was still a part ofEarth, and not even nine hundred years of space and time had been ableto alter that.     He wondered if there would still be a quiet stream and a greenshady place beside it where a death-weary man, relieved at last ofresponsibility, could rest and dream no more.... Those things wenton, if men didn't change them. And a pine forest where he and youngKnof could go camping, and lie on their backs at night and gaze at theglittering constellations, far away, out of reach.... He wasn't sure hewould want to do that, though.     Suddenly a faint cushioned jar went through the great ship; it seemedto falter one moment in flight.  The captain was on his feet instantly, but then his movements becameunhurried. Whatever it had been was past, and he had a good ideawhat it had been—a meteoroid, nothing unusual in the vicinity ofthe Sun, though in interstellar space and around planetless starssuch collisions were rare to the vanishing point. No harm could havebeen done. The      Quest III's     collision armor was nonmaterial and forpractical purposes invulnerable.     Just as he took his finger off the button that opened the door, theintercommunication phone shrilled imperatively. Knof Llud wheeled,frowning—surely a meteoroid impact wasn't that serious. Coincidence,maybe—it might be Zost Relyul calling as instructed.     He reached the phone at the moment when another, heavier jolt shookthe vessel. Llud snatched up the receiver with the speed of a scaldedcat.     Captain? It was Gwar Den's voice, stammering a little. Captain,we're being attacked!     Sound the alarm. Emergency stations. He had said it automatically,then felt a curious detached relief at the knowledge that after allthese years he could still respond quickly and smoothly to a crisis.There was a moment's silence, and he heard the alarm start—threeshort buzzes and repeat, ringing through all the great length of theinterstellar ship. Knowing that Gwar Den was still there, he said,Now—attacked by what?     Ships, said Gwar Den helplessly. Five of them so far. No, there's asixth now. Repeated blows quivered the      Quest III's     framework. Thenavigator said, obviously striving for calm, They're light craft, notfifty feet long, but they move fast. The detectors hardly had time toshow them before they opened up. Can't get a telescope beam on themlong enough to tell much.     If they're that small, said Knof Llud deliberately, they can't carryanything heavy enough to hurt us. Hold to course. I'll be right up.     In the open doorway he almost fell over his son. Young Knof's eyes werebig; he had heard his father's words.     Something's happened, he judged with deadly twelve-year-oldseriousness and, without wasting time on questions, Can I go with you,huh, Dad?     Llud hesitated, said, All right. Come along and keep out of the way.He headed for the bridge with strides that the boy could not match.     There were people running in the corridors, heading for their posts.Their faces were set, scared, uncomprehending. The      Quest III     shuddered, again and again, under blows that must have had millionsof horsepower behind them; but it plunged on toward Earth, its mightyengines still steadily braking its interstellar velocity.     To a man, the ship's responsible officers were already on the bridge,most of them breathless. To a man they looked appeal at Captain KnofLlud.     Well? he snapped. What are they doing?     Gwar Den spoke. There are thirteen of them out there now, sir, andthey're all banging away at us.     The captain stared into the black star-strewn depths of a vision screenwhere occasional blue points of light winked ominously, never twicefrom the same position.     Knof Jr. flattened himself against the metal wall and watched silently.His young face was less anxious than his elders'; he had confidence inhis father.     If they had anything heavier, surmised the captain, they'd haveunlimbered it by now. They're out to get us. But at this rate, theycan't touch us as long as our power lasts—or until they bring up somebigger stuff.  The mild shocks went on—whether from projectiles or energy-charges,would be hard to find out and it didn't matter; whatever was hittingthe      Quest III's     shell was doing it at velocities where thedistinction between matter and radiation practically ceases to exist.     But that shell was tough. It was an extension of the gravitic drivefield which transmitted the engines' power equally to every atom ofthe ship; forces impinging on the outside of the field were similarlytransmitted and rendered harmless. The effect was as if the vessel andall space inside its field were a single perfectly elastic body. Ameteoroid, for example, on striking it rebounded—usually vaporized bythe impact—and the ship, in obedience to the law of equal and oppositeforces, rebounded too, but since its mass was so much greater, itsdeflection was negligible.     The people in the      Quest III     would have felt nothing at all ofthe vicious onslaught being hurled against them, save that theirinertialess drive, at its normal thrust of two hundred gravities,was intentionally operated at one half of one per cent efficiency toprovide the illusion of Earthly gravitation.     One of the officers said shakily, It's as if they've been lying inwait for us. But why on Earth—     That, said the captain grimly, is what we have to find out. Why—onEarth. At least, I suspect the answer's there.     The      Quest III     bored steadily on through space, decelerating. Even ifone were no fatalist, there seemed no reason to stop decelerating orchange course. There was nowhere else to go and too little fuel leftif there had been; come what might, this was journey's end—perhapsin a more violent and final way than had been anticipated. All aroundwheeled the pigmy enemies, circling, maneuvering, and attacking,always attacking, with the senseless fury of maddened hornets. Theinterstellar ship bore no offensive weapons—but suddenly on one of thevision screens a speck of light flared into nova-brilliance, dazzlingthe watchers for the brief moment in which its very atoms were tornapart.     Knof Jr. whooped ecstatically and then subsided warily, but no one waspaying attention to him. The men on the      Quest III's     bridge lookedquestions at each other, as the thought of help from outside flashedinto many minds at once. But Captain Llud said soberly, It must havecaught one of their own shots, reflected. Maybe its own, if it scoredtoo direct a hit.     He studied the data so far gathered. A few blurred pictures had beengot, which showed cylindrical space ships much like the      Quest III     ,except that they were rocket-propelled and of far lesser size. Theirsize was hard to ascertain, because you needed to know their distanceand speed—but detector-beam echoes gave the distance, and likewise, bythe Doppler method, the velocity of directly receding or approachingships. It was apparent that the enemy vessels were even smaller thanGwar Den had at first supposed—not large enough to hold even one man.Tiny, deadly hornets with a colossal sting.     Robot craft, no doubt, said Knof Llud, but a chill ran down his spineas it occurred to him that perhaps the attackers weren't of humanorigin. They had seen no recognizable life in the part of the galaxythey had explored, but one of the other      Quests     might have encounteredand been traced home by some unhuman race that was greedy and able toconquer.  It became evident, too, that the bombardment was being kept up by aconstant arrival of fresh attackers, while others raced away intospace, presumably returning to base to replenish their ammunition. Thatargued a planned and prepared interception with virulent hatred behindit.     Elsuz Llug, the gravitic engineer, calculated dismally, At the ratewe're having to shed energy, the fuel will be gone in six or eighthours.     We'll have reached Earth before then, Gwar Den said hopefully.     If they don't bring out the heavy artillery first.     We're under the psychological disadvantage, said the captain, of notknowing why we're being attacked.     Knof Jr. burst out, spluttering slightly with the violence of athought too important to suppress, But we're under a ps-psychologicaladvantage, too!     His father raised an eyebrow. What's that? I don't seem to havenoticed it.     They're mad and we aren't, yet, said the boy. Then, seeing that hehadn't made himself clear, In a fight, if a guy gets mad he startsswinging wild and then you nail him.     Smiles splintered the ice of tension. Captain Llud said, Maybe you'vegot something there. They seem to be mad, all right. But we're not ina position to throw any punches. He turned back to the others. As Iwas going to say—I think we'd better try to parley with the enemy. Atleast we may find out who he is and why he's determined to smash us.     And now instead of tight-beam detectors the ship was broadcasting on anaudio carrier wave that shifted through a wide range of frequencies,repeating on each the same brief recorded message:     Who are you? What do you want? We are the interstellar expedition      Quest III     .... And so on, identifying themselves and protesting thatthey were unarmed and peaceful, that there must be some mistake, andquerying again, Who are      you     ?     There was no answer. The ship drove on, its fuel trickling away undermultiplied demands. Those outside were squandering vastly greateramounts of energy in the effort to batter down its defenses, butconverting that energy into harmless gravitic impulses was costing the      Quest III     too. Once more Knof Llud had the insidious sense of his ownnerves and muscles and will weakening along with the power-sinews ofhis ship.     Zost Relyul approached him apologetically. If you have time,Captain—I've got some data on Earth now.     Eagerly Llud took the sheaf of photographs made with the telescope. Butthey told him nothing; only the continental outlines were clear, andthose were as they had been nine hundred years ago.... He looked upinquiringly at Zost Relyul.     There are some strange features, said the astronomer carefully.First of all—there are no lights on the night side. And on thedaylight face, our highest magnification should already reveal tracesof cities, canals, and the like—but it does not.     The prevailing color of the land masses, you see, is the normalgreen vegetation. But the diffraction spectrum is queer. It indicatesreflecting surfaces less than one-tenth millimeter wide—so thevegetation there can't be trees or grass, but must be more like a finemoss or even a coarse mold.     Is that all? demanded Llud.     Isn't it enough? said Zost Relyul blankly. Well—we triedphotography by invisible light, of course. The infra-red shows nothingand likewise the ultraviolet up to the point where the atmosphere isopaque to it.     The captain sighed wearily. Good work, he said. Keep it up; perhapsyou can answer some of these riddles before—           We know who you are     , interrupted a harshly crackling voice with astrange accent,       and pleading will do you no good.       Knof Llud whirled to the radio apparatus, his weariness dropping fromhim once more. He snapped, But who are you? and the words blendedabsurdly with the same words in his own voice on the still repeatingtape.     He snapped off the record; as he did so the speaker, still cracklingwith space static, said, It may interest you to know that you are thelast. The two other interstellar expeditions that went out have alreadyreturned and been destroyed, as you will soon be—the sooner, if youcontinue toward Earth.     Knof Llud's mind was clicking again. The voice—which must be comingfrom Earth, relayed by one of the midget ships—was not very smart; ithad already involuntarily told him a couple of things—that it was notas sure of itself as it sounded he deduced from the fact it had deignedto speak at all, and from its last remark he gathered that the      QuestIII's     ponderous and unswerving progress toward Earth had somehowfrightened it. So it was trying to frighten them.     He shoved those facts back for future use. Just now he had to knowsomething, so vitally that he asked it as a bald question,       Are youhuman?          The voice chuckled sourly. We are human, it answered, but you arenot.     The captain was momentarily silent, groping for an adequate reply.Behind him somebody made a choked noise, the only sound in the stunnedhush, and the ship jarred slightly as a thunderbolt slammed vengefullyinto its field.     Suppose we settle this argument about humanity, said Knof Lludwoodenly. He named a vision frequency.     Very well. The tone was like a shrug. The voice went on in itslanguage that was quite intelligible, but alien-sounding with thechanges that nine hundred years had wrought. Perhaps, if you realizeyour position, you will follow the intelligent example of the      QuestI's     commander.     Knof Llud stiffened. The      Quest I     , launched toward Arcturus and thestar cloud called Berenice's Hair, had been after the      Quest III     themost hopeful of the expeditions—and its captain had been a good friendof Llud's, nine hundred years ago.... He growled, What happened tohim?     He fought off our interceptors, which are around you now, for sometime, said the voice lightly. When he saw that it was hopeless, hepreferred suicide to defeat, and took his ship into the Sun. A shortpause. The vision connection is ready.     Knof Llud switched on the screen at the named wavelength, and apicture formed there. The face and figure that appeared were ugly,but undeniably a man's. His features and his light-brown skin showedthe same racial characteristics possessed by those aboard the      QuestIII     , but he had an elusive look of deformity. Most obviously, his headseemed too big for his body, and his eyes in turn too big for his head.     He grinned nastily at Knof Llud. Have you any other last wishes?     Yes, said Llud with icy control. You haven't answered one question.Why do you want to kill us? You can see we're as human as you are.     The big-headed man eyed him with a speculative look in his greateyes, behind which the captain glimpsed the flickering raw fire of apoisonous hatred.     It is enough for you to know that you must die.  ","The whole crew was getting homesick and excited about returning, even the captain became nostalgic of the forests and green areas. On the other hand, all the people the crew knew had died a long time ago, and there was some frightening uncertainty about what awaited them upon return. Therefore, the decision was hard to make. Even more difficult it was for the captain as he didn't want to return with the news of failure. Soon, it turns out that the return was a dangerous choice and the crew is not welcome. The ship is attacked and the enemy threatens to destroy the ship, which can't turn away as it is out of fuel. Therefore, this decision put the whole crew in danger instead of fulfilling their hopes for warm welcome and excitement to come home. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     The Blue Behemoth     By LEIGH BRACKETT     Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed     space-carny leased for a mysterious tour     of the inner worlds. It made a one-night     pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to     find that death stalked it from the     jungle in a tiny ball of flame.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of      thil     , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them.     We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute.     I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding!     Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments....     It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks!     I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame.     Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry.     I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be.     I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I....     Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon?     Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently:     Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel?     I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer.     The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad.     There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's.     He said, I don't think you understand.     I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc.     Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand.     I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed.     Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him.     Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money!     The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you?     Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity.     The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal.     I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole.     The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus.  I looked at Bucky. He looked hungrier than the Marshies did. We didn'tsay anything until we got Beamish into a curtained booth with a freshpitcher of      thil     on the table. Then I cleared my throat.     What exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Beamish?     Beamish sipped his drink, made a polite face, and put it down. I haveindependent means, gentlemen. It has always been my desire to lightenthe burden of life for those less fortunate....     Bucky got red around the ears. Just a minute, he murmured, andstarted to get up. I kicked him under the table.     Shut up, you lug. Let Mister Beamish finish.     He sat down, looking like a mean dog waiting for the postman. Beamishignored him. He went on, quietly,     I have always held that entertainment, of the right sort, is the mostvaluable aid humanity can have in its search for the alleviation oftoil and boredom....     I said, Sure, sure. But what was your idea?     There are many towns along the Venusian frontiers where noentertainment of the—      proper     sort has been available. I propose toremedy that. I propose to charter your circus, Mister Shannon, to makea tour of several settlements along the Tehara Belt.     Bucky had relaxed. His grey-green eyes began to gleam. He started tospeak, and I kicked him again.     That would be expensive, Mister Beamish, I said. We'd have to cancelseveral engagements....     He looked at me. I was lying, and he knew it. But he said,     I quite understand that. I would be prepared....     The curtains were yanked back suddenly. Beamish shut up. Bucky and Iglared at the head and shoulders poking in between the drapes.     It was Gow, our zoo-man—a big, ugly son-of-a-gun from a Terrancolony on Mercury. I was there once. Gow looks a lot like thescenery—scowling, unapproachable, and tough. His hands, holding thecurtains apart, had thick black hair on them and were not much largerthan the hams of a Venusian swamp-rhino.     He said, Boss, Gertrude's actin' up again.     Gertrude be blowed, growled Bucky. Can't you see I'm busy?     Gow's black eyes were unpleasant. I'm tellin' you, Boss, Gertrudeain't happy. She ain't had the right food. If something....     I said, That'll all be taken care of, Gow. Run along now.     He looked at me like he was thinking it wouldn't take much timber tofit me for a coffin. Okay! But Gertrude's unhappy. She's lonesome,see? And if she don't get happier pretty soon I ain't sure your tin-potship'll hold her.     He pulled the curtains to and departed. Bucky Shannon groaned. Beamishcleared his throat and said, rather stiffly,     Gertrude?     Yeah. She's kind of temperamental. Bucky took a quick drink. Ifinished for him.     She's the star attraction of our show, Mr. Beamish. A real blue-swampVenusian      cansin     . The only other one on the Triangle belongs to SavittBrothers, and she's much smaller than Gertrude.     She was also much younger, but I didn't go into that. Gertrude may bea little creaky, but she's still pretty impressive. I only hoped shewouldn't die on us, because without her we'd have a sicker-lookingcircus than even I could stand.     Beamish looked impressed. A      cansin     . Well, well! The mysterysurrounding the origin and species of the      cansin     is a fascinatingsubject. The extreme rarity of the animal....     We were getting off the subject. I said tactfully, We'd have to haveat least a hundred U.C.'s.     It was twice what we had any right to ask. I was prepared to dicker.Beamish looked at me with that innocent dead pan. For a fraction of asecond I thought I saw something back of his round blue eyes, and mystomach jumped like it was shot. Beamish smiled sweetly.     I'm not much of a bargainer. One hundred Universal Credits will beagreeable to me. He dragged out a roll as big as my two fists, peeledoff half a dozen credit slips, and laid them on the table.     By way of a retainer, gentleman. My attorney and I will call on you inthe morning with a contract and itinerary. Good night.     We said good night, trying not to drool. Beamish went away. Bucky madegrab for the money, but I beat him to it.     Scram, I said. There are guys waiting for this. Big guys with clubs.Here. I gave him a small-denomination slip I'd been holding out. Wecan get lushed enough on this.     Shannon has a good vocabulary. He used it. When he got his breath backhe said suddenly,     Beamish is pulling some kind of a game.     Yeah.     It may be crooked.     Sure. And he may be screwball and on the level. For Pete's sake! Iyelled. You want to sit here till we all dry up and blow away?     Shannon looked at me, kind of funny. He looked at the bulge in my tunicwhere the roll was. He raked back his thick light hair.     Yeah, he said. I hope there'll be enough left to bribe the jury. Hepoked his head outside. Hey, boy! More      thildatum     !  It was pretty late when we got back to the broken-down spaceport whereShannon's Imperial Circus was crouching beneath its attachments. Lateas it was, they were waiting for us. About twenty of them, sittingaround and smoking and looking very ugly.     It was awfully lonesome out there, with the desert cold and restlessunder the two moons. There's a smell to Mars, like something dead anddried long past decay, but still waiting. An unhappy smell. The blownred dust gritted in my teeth.     Bucky Shannon walked out into the glare of the light at the entrance tothe roped-off space around the main lock. He was pretty steady on hisfeet. He waved and said, Hiya, boys.     They got up off the steps, and the packing cases, and came toward us. Igrinned and got into my brassies. We felt we owed those boys a lot morethan money. It grates on a man's pride to have to sneak in and out ofhis own property through the sewage lock. This was the first time inweeks we'd come in at the front door.     I waved the money in their faces. That stopped them. Very solemnly,Bucky and I checked the bills, paid them, and pocketed the receipts.Bucky yawned and stretched sleepily.     Now? he said.     Now, I said.     We had a lot of fun. Some of the boys inside the ship came out to joinin. We raised a lot of dust and nobody got killed, quite. We all wenthome happy. They had their money, and we had their blood.     The news was all over the ship before we got inside. The freaks and thegreen girl from Tethys who could roll herself like a hoop, and Zurt themuscle man from Jupiter, and all the other assorted geeks and kinkersand joeys that make up the usual corny carnie were doing nip-ups in thepassageways and drooling over the thought of steer and toppings.     Bucky Shannon regarded them possessively, wiping blood from his nose.They're good guys, Jig. Swell people. They stuck by me, and I'verewarded them.     I said, Sure, rather sourly. Bucky hiccoughed.     Let's go see Gertrude.     I didn't want to see Gertrude. I never got over feeling funny goinginto the brute tank, especially at night or out in space. I'm a cityguy, myself. The smell and sound of wildness gives me goose bumps. ButBucky was looking stubborn, so I shrugged.     Okay. But just for a minute. Then we go beddy-bye.     You're a pal, Jif. Bes' li'l' guy inna worl'....     The fight had just put the topper on him. I was afraid he'd fall downthe ladder and break his neck. That's why I went along. If I hadn't....Oh, well, what's a few nightmares among friends?     It was dark down there in the tank. Way off at the other end, there wasa dim glow. Gow was evidently holding Gertrude's hand. We started downthe long passageway between the rows of cages and glassed-in tanks andcompression units.     Our footsteps sounded loud and empty on the iron floor. I wasn'tnear as happy as Shannon, and my skin began to crawl a little. It'sthe smell, I think; rank and sour and wild. And the sound of them,breathing and rustling in the dark, with the patient hatred walledaround them as strong as the cage bars.     Bucky Shannon lurched against me suddenly. I choked back a yell, andthen wiped the sweat off my forehead and cursed. The scream came again.A high, ragged, whistling screech like nothing this side of hell,ripping through the musty darkness. Gertrude, on the wailing wall.     It had been quiet. Now every brute in the place let go at the sametime. My stomach turned clear over. I called Gertrude every name Icould think of, and I couldn't hear myself doing it. Presently a greatmetallic clash nearly burst my eardrums, and the beasts shut up. Gowhad them nicely conditioned to that gong.  But they didn't quiet down. Not really. They were uneasy. You can feelthem inside you when they're uneasy. I think that's why I'm scared ofthem. They make me feel like I'm not human as I thought—like I wantedto put my back-hair up and snarl. Yeah. They were uneasy that night,all of a sudden....     Gow glared at us as we came up into the lantern light. She's gettin'worse, he said. She's lonesome.     That's tough, said Bucky Shannon. His grey-green eyes looked like anowl's. He swayed slightly. That's sure tough. He sniffled.     I looked at Gertrude. Her cage is the biggest and strongest in the tankand even so she looked as though she could break it open just taking adeep breath. I don't know if you've ever seen a      cansin     . There's onlytwo of them on the Triangle. If you haven't, nothing I can say willmake much difference.     They're what the brain gang calls an end of evolution. Seems oldDame Nature had an idea that didn't jell. The      cansins     were prettysuccessful for a while, it seems, but something gummed up the works andnow there's only a few left, way in the deep-swamp country, where eventhe Venusians hardly ever go. Living fossils.     I wouldn't know, of course, but Gertrude looks to me like she got stucksome place between a dinosaur and a grizzly bear, with maybe a littlebird blood thrown in. Anyway, she's big.     I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She was crouched in the cagewith her hands—yeah, hands—hanging over her knees and her snaky headsunk into her shoulders, looking out. Just looking. Not at anything.Her eyes were way back in deep horny pits, like cold green fire.     The lantern light was yellow on her blue-black skin, but it made themane, or crest, of coarse wide scales that ran from between her eyesclear down to her flat, short tail, burn all colors. She looked likeold Mother Misery herself, from way back before time began.     Gow said softly, She wants a mate. And somebody better get her one.     Bucky Shannon sniffled again. I said irritably, Be reasonable, Gow!Nobody's ever seen a male      cansin     . There may not even be any.     Gertrude screamed again. She didn't move, not even to raise her head.The sadness just built up inside her until it had to come out. Thatclose, the screech was deafening, and it turned me all limp and coldinside. The loneliness, the sheer stark, simple pain....     Bucky Shannon began to cry. I snarled, You'll have to snap her out ofthis, Gow. She's driving the rest of 'em nuts.     He hammered on his gong, and things quieted down again. Gow stoodlooking out over the tank, sniffing a little, like a hound. Then heturned to Gertrude.     I saved her life, he said. When we bought her out of Hanak's wreckand everybody thought she was too hurt to live, I saved her. I knowher. I can do things with her. But this time....     He shrugged. He was huge and tough and ugly, and his voice was like awoman's talking about a sick child.     This time, he said, I ain't sure.     Well for Pete's sake, do what you can. We got a charter, and we needher. I took Shannon's arm. Come to bed, Bucky darlin'.     He draped himself over my shoulder and we went off. Gow didn't look atus. Bucky sobbed.     You were right, Jig, he mumbled. Circus is no good. I know it. Butit's all I got. I love it, Jig. Unnerstan' me? Like Gow there withGertrude. She's ugly and no good, but he loves her. I love....     Sure, sure, I told him. Stop crying down my neck.     We were a long way from the light, then. The cages and tanks loomedhigh and black over us. It was still. The secret, uneasy motion allaround us and the scruffing of our feet only made it stiller.     Bucky was almost asleep on me. I started to slap him. And then the mistrose up out of the darkness in little lazy coils, sparkling faintlywith blue, cold fire.     I yelled, Gow! Gow, the Vapor snakes! Gow—for God's sake!     I started to run, back along the passageway. Bucky weighed on me, limpand heavy. The noise burst suddenly in a deafening hell of moans androars and shrieks, packed in tight by the metal walls, and above it allI could hear Gertrude's lonely, whistling scream.     I thought,       Somebody's down here. Somebody let 'em out. Somebody wantsto kill us!      I tried to yell again. It strangled in my throat. Isobbed, and the sweat was thick and cold on me.     One of Bucky's dragging, stumbling feet got between mine. We fell. Irolled on top of him, covering his face, and buried my own face in thehollow of his shoulder.     The first snake touched me. It was like a live wire, sliding along theback of my neck. I screamed. It came down along my cheek, hunting mymouth. There were more of them, burning me through my clothes.     Bucky moaned and kicked under me. I remember hanging on and thinking,This is it. This is it, and oh God, I'm scared!     Then I went out.      II     Kanza the Martian croaker, was bending over me when I woke up. Hislittle brown face was crinkled with laughter. He'd lost most of histeeth, and he gummed      thak     -weed. It smelt.     You pretty, Mis' Jig, he giggled. You funny like hell.     He slapped some cold greasy stuff on my face. It hurt. I cursed him andsaid, Where's Shannon? How is he?     Mis' Bucky okay. You save life. You big hero, Mis' Jig. Mis' Gow comenickuhtime get snakes. You hero. Haw! You funny like hell!     I said, Yeah, and pushed him away and got up. I almost fell downa couple of times, but presently I made it to the mirror over thewashstand—I was in my own cell—and I saw what Kanza meant. The damnedsnakes had done a good job. I looked like I was upholstered in Scotchplaid. I felt sick.     Bucky Shannon opened the door. He looked white and grim, and there wasa big burn across his neck. He said:     Beamish is here with his lawyer.     I picked up my shirt. Right with you.     Kanza went out, still giggling. Bucky closed the door.     Jig, he said, those vapor worms were all right when we went in.Somebody followed us down and let them out. On purpose.     I hurt all over. I growled, With that brain, son, you should go far.Nobody saw anything, of course? Bucky shook his head.     Question is, Jig, who wants to kill us, and why?     Beamish. He realizes he's been gypped.     One hundred U.C.'s, said Bucky softly, for a few lousy swampedgemining camps. It stinks, Jig. You think we should back out?     I shrugged. You're the boss man. I'm only the guy that beats off thecreditors.     Yeah, Bucky said reflectively. And I hear starvation isn't acomfortable death. Okay, Jig. Let's go sign. He put his hand on thelatch and looked at my feet. And—uh—Jig, I....     I said, Skip it. The next time, just don't trip me up, that's all!     We had a nasty trip to Venus. Gertrude kept the brute tank on edge,and Gow, on the rare occasions he came up for air, went around lookinglike a disaster hoping to happen. To make it worse, Zurt the Jovianstrong-man got hurt during the take-off, and the Mercurian cave-cat hadkittens.     Nobody would have minded that, only one of 'em had only four legs. Itlived just long enough to scare that bunch of superstitious dopes outof their pants. Circus people are funny that way.     Shannon and I did a little quiet sleuthing, but it was a waste of time.Anybody in the gang might have let those electric worms out on us. Itdidn't help any to know that somebody, maybe the guy next to you atdinner, was busy thinking ways to kill you. By the time we hit Venus, Iwas ready to do a Brodie out the refuse chute.     Shannon set the crate down on the edge of Nahru, the first stop on ouritinerary. I stood beside him, looking out the ports at the scenery. Itwas Venus, all right. Blue mud and thick green jungle and rain, and abunch of ratty-looking plastic shacks huddling together in the middleof it. Men in slickers were coming out for a look.     I saw Beamish's sleek yacht parked on a cradle over to the left, andour router's runabout beside it. Bucky Shannon groaned.     A blue one, Jig. A morgue if I ever saw one!     I snarled, What do you want, with this lousy dog-and-pony show! andwent out. He followed. The gang was converging on the lock, but theyweren't happy. You get so you can feel those things. The steamy Venusheat was already sneaking into the ship.     While we passed the hatchway to the brute tank, I could hear Gertrude,screaming.  The canvasmen were busy setting up the annex, slopping and cursing inthe mud. The paste brigade was heading for the shacks. Shannon and Istood with the hot rain running off our slickers, looking.     I heard a noise behind me and looked around. Ahra the Nahali woman wasstanding in the mud with her arms up and her head thrown back, and hertriangular mouth open like a thirsty dog. She didn't have anything onbut her blue-green, hard scaled hide, and she was chuckling. It didn'tsound nice.     You find a lot of Nahali people in side-shows, doing tricks withthe electric power they carry in their own bodies. They're Venusianmiddle-swampers, they're not human, and they never forget it.     Ahra opened her slitted red eyes and looked at me and laughed withwhite reptilian teeth.     Death, she whispered. Death and trouble. The jungle tells me. I cansmell it in the swamp wind.     The hot rain sluiced over her. She shivered, and the pale skin underher jaw pulsed like a toad's, and her eyes were red.     The deep swamps are angry, she whispered. Something has been taken.They are angry, and I smell death in the wind!     She turned away, laughing, and I cursed her, and my stomach was tightand cold. Bucky said,     Let's eat if they have a bar in this dump.     We weren't half way across the mud puddle that passed as a landingfield when a man came out of a shack on the edge of the settlement. Wecould see him plainly, because he was off to one side of the crowd.     He fell on his knees in the mud, making noises. It took him three orfour tries to get our names out clear enough to understand.     Bucky said, Jig—it's Sam Kapper.     We started to run. The crowd, mostly big unshaken miners, wheeledaround to see what was happening. People began to close in on the manwho crawled and whimpered in the mud.     Sam Kapper was a hunter, supplying animals to zoos and circuses andcarnivals. He'd given us good deals a couple of times, when we weren'ttoo broke, and we were pretty friendly.     I hadn't seen him for three seasons. I remembered him as a bronzed,hard-bitten guy, lean and tough as a twist of tung wire. I felt sick,looking down at him.     Bucky started to help him up. Kapper was crying, and he jerked all overlike animals I've seen that were scared to death. Some guy leaned overand put a cigarette in his mouth and lighted it for him.     I was thinking about Kapper, then, and I didn't pay much attention. Ionly caught a glimpse of the man's face as he straightened up. I didn'trealize until later that he looked familiar.     We got Kapper inside the shack. It turned out to be a cheap bar, with acouple of curtained booths at the back. We got him into one and pulledthe curtain in a lot of curious faces. Kapper dragged hard on thecigarette. The man that gave it to him was gone.     Bucky said gently, Okay, Sam. Relax. What's the trouble?  Kapper tried to straighten up. He hadn't shaved. The lean hard linesof his face had gone slack and his eyes were bloodshot. He was coveredwith mud, and his mouth twitched like a sick old man's.     He said thickly, I found it. I said I'd do it, and I did. I found itand brought it out.     The cigarette stub fell out of his mouth. He didn't notice it. Helpme, he said simply. I'm scared. His mouth drooled.     I got it hidden. They want to find out, but I won't tell 'em. It'sgot to go back. Back where I found it. I tried to take it, but theywouldn't let me, and I was afraid they'd find it....     He reached suddenly and grabbed the edge of the table. I don't knowhow they found out about it, but they did. I've got to get it back.I've got to....     Bucky looked at me. Kapper was blue around the mouth. I was scared,suddenly. I said, Get what back where?     Bucky got up. I'll get a doctor, he said. Stick with him. Kappergrabbed his wrist. Kapper's nails were blue and the cords in his handsstood out like guy wires.     Don't leave me. Got to tell you—where it is. Got to take it back.Promise you'll take it back. He gasped and struggled over hisbreathing.     Sure, said Bucky. Sure, well take it back. What is it?     Kapper's face was horrible. I felt sick, listening to him fight forair. I wanted to go for a doctor anyway, but somehow I knew it was nouse. Kapper whispered,           Cansin     . Male. Only one. You don't know...! Take him back.     Where is it, Sam?     I reached across Bucky suddenly and jerked the curtain back. Beamishwas standing there. Beamish, bent over, with his ear cocked. Kappermade a harsh strangling noise and fell across the table.     Beamish never changed expression. He didn't move while Bucky feltKapper's pulse. Bucky didn't need to say anything. We knew.     Heart? said Beamish finally.     Yeah, said Bucky. He looked as bad as I felt. Poor Sam.     I looked at the cigarette stub smoldering on the table. I looked atBeamish with his round dead baby face. I climbed over Shannon andpushed Beamish suddenly down into his lap.     Keep this guy here till I get back, I said.     Shannon stared at me. Beamish started to get indignant. Shut up, Itold him. We got a contract. I yanked the curtains shut and walkedover to the bar.     I began to notice something, then. There were quite a lot of men in theplace. At first glance they looked okay—a hard-faced, muscular bunchof miners in dirty shirts and high boots.     Then I looked at their hands. They were dirty enough. But they neverdid any work in a mine, on Venus or anywhere else.     The place was awfully quiet, for that kind of a place. The bartenderwas a big pot-bellied swamp-edger with pale eyes and thick white haircoiled up on top of his bullet head. He was not happy.     I leaned on the bar.       Lhak     , I said. He poured it, sullenly, out of agreen bottle. I reached for it, casually.     That guy we brought in, I said. He sure has a skinful. Passed outcold. What's he been spiking his drinks with?           Selak     , said a voice in my ear. As if you didn't know.     I turned. The man who had given Kapper the cigarette was standingbehind me. And I remembered him, then.  ","Bucky Shannon, a space circus owner, and his business manager, Jig Bentley, have a dispute over the business' financial hardships. Suddenly, a little man interferes. Mistaking him for a bill-collector, Bucky starts a fight, when Jig notices money in the man's hands. Simon Beamish, the little man, is planning to invest in the circus and make its tour to other towns. He agrees to pay much more than the real cost is, Bucky and Jig suspect some kind of a game there, but they need money. The two go to their circus and are finally able to pay the performers. After having some fun all together, the two go to see Gertrude, a huge cansin, the main attraction, who was earlier reported to be unhappy. Upon entry, Jig feels uneasy, frightened and sorry for Gertrude, who is in desperate need of a mate. The sorrow of this creature makes the whole team sad and uneasy, full of pity, and no one could help, even Gow who saved her and is the closest to her. Exiting her tank, Jig has to carry Bucky, who is crying at the view and falling asleep at the same time. On their way, the two face the Vapor snakes let out by someone, they fall, and the snakes cover their bodies. Gow saves the two and they are burnt but alive, trying to find out who let the snakes out to hurt them and suspecting Beamish. Then the whole gang goes to Venus to meet Beamish, and there is a feeling of discontent coming from the gang and mixed with Gertrude's screams all the way. Further, the Nahali woman from the gang claims to smell death and trouble. Then they meet Sam, a hunter selling them animals until three seasons ago, and now he is crying and scared. Turns out, he has found the only male cansin and wants to take it back to prevent trouble, though he is afraid of people wanting to take the cansin from him. Suddenly, Jig discovers Beamish listening to the conversation and Sam dies. Jig then notices the suspicious silence and too much of a crowd in the bar and recognizes the man who gave Sam a cigarette a while ago. "
"What are Bucky's and Jig's attitudes towards their circus? </s>     The Blue Behemoth     By LEIGH BRACKETT     Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed     space-carny leased for a mysterious tour     of the inner worlds. It made a one-night     pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to     find that death stalked it from the     jungle in a tiny ball of flame.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of      thil     , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them.     We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute.     I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding!     Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments....     It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks!     I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame.     Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry.     I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be.     I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I....     Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon?     Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently:     Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel?     I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer.     The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad.     There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's.     He said, I don't think you understand.     I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc.     Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand.     I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed.     Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him.     Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money!     The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you?     Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity.     The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal.     I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole.     The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus.  I looked at Bucky. He looked hungrier than the Marshies did. We didn'tsay anything until we got Beamish into a curtained booth with a freshpitcher of      thil     on the table. Then I cleared my throat.     What exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Beamish?     Beamish sipped his drink, made a polite face, and put it down. I haveindependent means, gentlemen. It has always been my desire to lightenthe burden of life for those less fortunate....     Bucky got red around the ears. Just a minute, he murmured, andstarted to get up. I kicked him under the table.     Shut up, you lug. Let Mister Beamish finish.     He sat down, looking like a mean dog waiting for the postman. Beamishignored him. He went on, quietly,     I have always held that entertainment, of the right sort, is the mostvaluable aid humanity can have in its search for the alleviation oftoil and boredom....     I said, Sure, sure. But what was your idea?     There are many towns along the Venusian frontiers where noentertainment of the—      proper     sort has been available. I propose toremedy that. I propose to charter your circus, Mister Shannon, to makea tour of several settlements along the Tehara Belt.     Bucky had relaxed. His grey-green eyes began to gleam. He started tospeak, and I kicked him again.     That would be expensive, Mister Beamish, I said. We'd have to cancelseveral engagements....     He looked at me. I was lying, and he knew it. But he said,     I quite understand that. I would be prepared....     The curtains were yanked back suddenly. Beamish shut up. Bucky and Iglared at the head and shoulders poking in between the drapes.     It was Gow, our zoo-man—a big, ugly son-of-a-gun from a Terrancolony on Mercury. I was there once. Gow looks a lot like thescenery—scowling, unapproachable, and tough. His hands, holding thecurtains apart, had thick black hair on them and were not much largerthan the hams of a Venusian swamp-rhino.     He said, Boss, Gertrude's actin' up again.     Gertrude be blowed, growled Bucky. Can't you see I'm busy?     Gow's black eyes were unpleasant. I'm tellin' you, Boss, Gertrudeain't happy. She ain't had the right food. If something....     I said, That'll all be taken care of, Gow. Run along now.     He looked at me like he was thinking it wouldn't take much timber tofit me for a coffin. Okay! But Gertrude's unhappy. She's lonesome,see? And if she don't get happier pretty soon I ain't sure your tin-potship'll hold her.     He pulled the curtains to and departed. Bucky Shannon groaned. Beamishcleared his throat and said, rather stiffly,     Gertrude?     Yeah. She's kind of temperamental. Bucky took a quick drink. Ifinished for him.     She's the star attraction of our show, Mr. Beamish. A real blue-swampVenusian      cansin     . The only other one on the Triangle belongs to SavittBrothers, and she's much smaller than Gertrude.     She was also much younger, but I didn't go into that. Gertrude may bea little creaky, but she's still pretty impressive. I only hoped shewouldn't die on us, because without her we'd have a sicker-lookingcircus than even I could stand.     Beamish looked impressed. A      cansin     . Well, well! The mysterysurrounding the origin and species of the      cansin     is a fascinatingsubject. The extreme rarity of the animal....     We were getting off the subject. I said tactfully, We'd have to haveat least a hundred U.C.'s.     It was twice what we had any right to ask. I was prepared to dicker.Beamish looked at me with that innocent dead pan. For a fraction of asecond I thought I saw something back of his round blue eyes, and mystomach jumped like it was shot. Beamish smiled sweetly.     I'm not much of a bargainer. One hundred Universal Credits will beagreeable to me. He dragged out a roll as big as my two fists, peeledoff half a dozen credit slips, and laid them on the table.     By way of a retainer, gentleman. My attorney and I will call on you inthe morning with a contract and itinerary. Good night.     We said good night, trying not to drool. Beamish went away. Bucky madegrab for the money, but I beat him to it.     Scram, I said. There are guys waiting for this. Big guys with clubs.Here. I gave him a small-denomination slip I'd been holding out. Wecan get lushed enough on this.     Shannon has a good vocabulary. He used it. When he got his breath backhe said suddenly,     Beamish is pulling some kind of a game.     Yeah.     It may be crooked.     Sure. And he may be screwball and on the level. For Pete's sake! Iyelled. You want to sit here till we all dry up and blow away?     Shannon looked at me, kind of funny. He looked at the bulge in my tunicwhere the roll was. He raked back his thick light hair.     Yeah, he said. I hope there'll be enough left to bribe the jury. Hepoked his head outside. Hey, boy! More      thildatum     !  It was pretty late when we got back to the broken-down spaceport whereShannon's Imperial Circus was crouching beneath its attachments. Lateas it was, they were waiting for us. About twenty of them, sittingaround and smoking and looking very ugly.     It was awfully lonesome out there, with the desert cold and restlessunder the two moons. There's a smell to Mars, like something dead anddried long past decay, but still waiting. An unhappy smell. The blownred dust gritted in my teeth.     Bucky Shannon walked out into the glare of the light at the entrance tothe roped-off space around the main lock. He was pretty steady on hisfeet. He waved and said, Hiya, boys.     They got up off the steps, and the packing cases, and came toward us. Igrinned and got into my brassies. We felt we owed those boys a lot morethan money. It grates on a man's pride to have to sneak in and out ofhis own property through the sewage lock. This was the first time inweeks we'd come in at the front door.     I waved the money in their faces. That stopped them. Very solemnly,Bucky and I checked the bills, paid them, and pocketed the receipts.Bucky yawned and stretched sleepily.     Now? he said.     Now, I said.     We had a lot of fun. Some of the boys inside the ship came out to joinin. We raised a lot of dust and nobody got killed, quite. We all wenthome happy. They had their money, and we had their blood.     The news was all over the ship before we got inside. The freaks and thegreen girl from Tethys who could roll herself like a hoop, and Zurt themuscle man from Jupiter, and all the other assorted geeks and kinkersand joeys that make up the usual corny carnie were doing nip-ups in thepassageways and drooling over the thought of steer and toppings.     Bucky Shannon regarded them possessively, wiping blood from his nose.They're good guys, Jig. Swell people. They stuck by me, and I'verewarded them.     I said, Sure, rather sourly. Bucky hiccoughed.     Let's go see Gertrude.     I didn't want to see Gertrude. I never got over feeling funny goinginto the brute tank, especially at night or out in space. I'm a cityguy, myself. The smell and sound of wildness gives me goose bumps. ButBucky was looking stubborn, so I shrugged.     Okay. But just for a minute. Then we go beddy-bye.     You're a pal, Jif. Bes' li'l' guy inna worl'....     The fight had just put the topper on him. I was afraid he'd fall downthe ladder and break his neck. That's why I went along. If I hadn't....Oh, well, what's a few nightmares among friends?     It was dark down there in the tank. Way off at the other end, there wasa dim glow. Gow was evidently holding Gertrude's hand. We started downthe long passageway between the rows of cages and glassed-in tanks andcompression units.     Our footsteps sounded loud and empty on the iron floor. I wasn'tnear as happy as Shannon, and my skin began to crawl a little. It'sthe smell, I think; rank and sour and wild. And the sound of them,breathing and rustling in the dark, with the patient hatred walledaround them as strong as the cage bars.     Bucky Shannon lurched against me suddenly. I choked back a yell, andthen wiped the sweat off my forehead and cursed. The scream came again.A high, ragged, whistling screech like nothing this side of hell,ripping through the musty darkness. Gertrude, on the wailing wall.     It had been quiet. Now every brute in the place let go at the sametime. My stomach turned clear over. I called Gertrude every name Icould think of, and I couldn't hear myself doing it. Presently a greatmetallic clash nearly burst my eardrums, and the beasts shut up. Gowhad them nicely conditioned to that gong.  But they didn't quiet down. Not really. They were uneasy. You can feelthem inside you when they're uneasy. I think that's why I'm scared ofthem. They make me feel like I'm not human as I thought—like I wantedto put my back-hair up and snarl. Yeah. They were uneasy that night,all of a sudden....     Gow glared at us as we came up into the lantern light. She's gettin'worse, he said. She's lonesome.     That's tough, said Bucky Shannon. His grey-green eyes looked like anowl's. He swayed slightly. That's sure tough. He sniffled.     I looked at Gertrude. Her cage is the biggest and strongest in the tankand even so she looked as though she could break it open just taking adeep breath. I don't know if you've ever seen a      cansin     . There's onlytwo of them on the Triangle. If you haven't, nothing I can say willmake much difference.     They're what the brain gang calls an end of evolution. Seems oldDame Nature had an idea that didn't jell. The      cansins     were prettysuccessful for a while, it seems, but something gummed up the works andnow there's only a few left, way in the deep-swamp country, where eventhe Venusians hardly ever go. Living fossils.     I wouldn't know, of course, but Gertrude looks to me like she got stucksome place between a dinosaur and a grizzly bear, with maybe a littlebird blood thrown in. Anyway, she's big.     I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She was crouched in the cagewith her hands—yeah, hands—hanging over her knees and her snaky headsunk into her shoulders, looking out. Just looking. Not at anything.Her eyes were way back in deep horny pits, like cold green fire.     The lantern light was yellow on her blue-black skin, but it made themane, or crest, of coarse wide scales that ran from between her eyesclear down to her flat, short tail, burn all colors. She looked likeold Mother Misery herself, from way back before time began.     Gow said softly, She wants a mate. And somebody better get her one.     Bucky Shannon sniffled again. I said irritably, Be reasonable, Gow!Nobody's ever seen a male      cansin     . There may not even be any.     Gertrude screamed again. She didn't move, not even to raise her head.The sadness just built up inside her until it had to come out. Thatclose, the screech was deafening, and it turned me all limp and coldinside. The loneliness, the sheer stark, simple pain....     Bucky Shannon began to cry. I snarled, You'll have to snap her out ofthis, Gow. She's driving the rest of 'em nuts.     He hammered on his gong, and things quieted down again. Gow stoodlooking out over the tank, sniffing a little, like a hound. Then heturned to Gertrude.     I saved her life, he said. When we bought her out of Hanak's wreckand everybody thought she was too hurt to live, I saved her. I knowher. I can do things with her. But this time....     He shrugged. He was huge and tough and ugly, and his voice was like awoman's talking about a sick child.     This time, he said, I ain't sure.     Well for Pete's sake, do what you can. We got a charter, and we needher. I took Shannon's arm. Come to bed, Bucky darlin'.     He draped himself over my shoulder and we went off. Gow didn't look atus. Bucky sobbed.     You were right, Jig, he mumbled. Circus is no good. I know it. Butit's all I got. I love it, Jig. Unnerstan' me? Like Gow there withGertrude. She's ugly and no good, but he loves her. I love....     Sure, sure, I told him. Stop crying down my neck.     We were a long way from the light, then. The cages and tanks loomedhigh and black over us. It was still. The secret, uneasy motion allaround us and the scruffing of our feet only made it stiller.     Bucky was almost asleep on me. I started to slap him. And then the mistrose up out of the darkness in little lazy coils, sparkling faintlywith blue, cold fire.     I yelled, Gow! Gow, the Vapor snakes! Gow—for God's sake!     I started to run, back along the passageway. Bucky weighed on me, limpand heavy. The noise burst suddenly in a deafening hell of moans androars and shrieks, packed in tight by the metal walls, and above it allI could hear Gertrude's lonely, whistling scream.     I thought,       Somebody's down here. Somebody let 'em out. Somebody wantsto kill us!      I tried to yell again. It strangled in my throat. Isobbed, and the sweat was thick and cold on me.     One of Bucky's dragging, stumbling feet got between mine. We fell. Irolled on top of him, covering his face, and buried my own face in thehollow of his shoulder.     The first snake touched me. It was like a live wire, sliding along theback of my neck. I screamed. It came down along my cheek, hunting mymouth. There were more of them, burning me through my clothes.     Bucky moaned and kicked under me. I remember hanging on and thinking,This is it. This is it, and oh God, I'm scared!     Then I went out.      II     Kanza the Martian croaker, was bending over me when I woke up. Hislittle brown face was crinkled with laughter. He'd lost most of histeeth, and he gummed      thak     -weed. It smelt.     You pretty, Mis' Jig, he giggled. You funny like hell.     He slapped some cold greasy stuff on my face. It hurt. I cursed him andsaid, Where's Shannon? How is he?     Mis' Bucky okay. You save life. You big hero, Mis' Jig. Mis' Gow comenickuhtime get snakes. You hero. Haw! You funny like hell!     I said, Yeah, and pushed him away and got up. I almost fell downa couple of times, but presently I made it to the mirror over thewashstand—I was in my own cell—and I saw what Kanza meant. The damnedsnakes had done a good job. I looked like I was upholstered in Scotchplaid. I felt sick.     Bucky Shannon opened the door. He looked white and grim, and there wasa big burn across his neck. He said:     Beamish is here with his lawyer.     I picked up my shirt. Right with you.     Kanza went out, still giggling. Bucky closed the door.     Jig, he said, those vapor worms were all right when we went in.Somebody followed us down and let them out. On purpose.     I hurt all over. I growled, With that brain, son, you should go far.Nobody saw anything, of course? Bucky shook his head.     Question is, Jig, who wants to kill us, and why?     Beamish. He realizes he's been gypped.     One hundred U.C.'s, said Bucky softly, for a few lousy swampedgemining camps. It stinks, Jig. You think we should back out?     I shrugged. You're the boss man. I'm only the guy that beats off thecreditors.     Yeah, Bucky said reflectively. And I hear starvation isn't acomfortable death. Okay, Jig. Let's go sign. He put his hand on thelatch and looked at my feet. And—uh—Jig, I....     I said, Skip it. The next time, just don't trip me up, that's all!     We had a nasty trip to Venus. Gertrude kept the brute tank on edge,and Gow, on the rare occasions he came up for air, went around lookinglike a disaster hoping to happen. To make it worse, Zurt the Jovianstrong-man got hurt during the take-off, and the Mercurian cave-cat hadkittens.     Nobody would have minded that, only one of 'em had only four legs. Itlived just long enough to scare that bunch of superstitious dopes outof their pants. Circus people are funny that way.     Shannon and I did a little quiet sleuthing, but it was a waste of time.Anybody in the gang might have let those electric worms out on us. Itdidn't help any to know that somebody, maybe the guy next to you atdinner, was busy thinking ways to kill you. By the time we hit Venus, Iwas ready to do a Brodie out the refuse chute.     Shannon set the crate down on the edge of Nahru, the first stop on ouritinerary. I stood beside him, looking out the ports at the scenery. Itwas Venus, all right. Blue mud and thick green jungle and rain, and abunch of ratty-looking plastic shacks huddling together in the middleof it. Men in slickers were coming out for a look.     I saw Beamish's sleek yacht parked on a cradle over to the left, andour router's runabout beside it. Bucky Shannon groaned.     A blue one, Jig. A morgue if I ever saw one!     I snarled, What do you want, with this lousy dog-and-pony show! andwent out. He followed. The gang was converging on the lock, but theyweren't happy. You get so you can feel those things. The steamy Venusheat was already sneaking into the ship.     While we passed the hatchway to the brute tank, I could hear Gertrude,screaming.  The canvasmen were busy setting up the annex, slopping and cursing inthe mud. The paste brigade was heading for the shacks. Shannon and Istood with the hot rain running off our slickers, looking.     I heard a noise behind me and looked around. Ahra the Nahali woman wasstanding in the mud with her arms up and her head thrown back, and hertriangular mouth open like a thirsty dog. She didn't have anything onbut her blue-green, hard scaled hide, and she was chuckling. It didn'tsound nice.     You find a lot of Nahali people in side-shows, doing tricks withthe electric power they carry in their own bodies. They're Venusianmiddle-swampers, they're not human, and they never forget it.     Ahra opened her slitted red eyes and looked at me and laughed withwhite reptilian teeth.     Death, she whispered. Death and trouble. The jungle tells me. I cansmell it in the swamp wind.     The hot rain sluiced over her. She shivered, and the pale skin underher jaw pulsed like a toad's, and her eyes were red.     The deep swamps are angry, she whispered. Something has been taken.They are angry, and I smell death in the wind!     She turned away, laughing, and I cursed her, and my stomach was tightand cold. Bucky said,     Let's eat if they have a bar in this dump.     We weren't half way across the mud puddle that passed as a landingfield when a man came out of a shack on the edge of the settlement. Wecould see him plainly, because he was off to one side of the crowd.     He fell on his knees in the mud, making noises. It took him three orfour tries to get our names out clear enough to understand.     Bucky said, Jig—it's Sam Kapper.     We started to run. The crowd, mostly big unshaken miners, wheeledaround to see what was happening. People began to close in on the manwho crawled and whimpered in the mud.     Sam Kapper was a hunter, supplying animals to zoos and circuses andcarnivals. He'd given us good deals a couple of times, when we weren'ttoo broke, and we were pretty friendly.     I hadn't seen him for three seasons. I remembered him as a bronzed,hard-bitten guy, lean and tough as a twist of tung wire. I felt sick,looking down at him.     Bucky started to help him up. Kapper was crying, and he jerked all overlike animals I've seen that were scared to death. Some guy leaned overand put a cigarette in his mouth and lighted it for him.     I was thinking about Kapper, then, and I didn't pay much attention. Ionly caught a glimpse of the man's face as he straightened up. I didn'trealize until later that he looked familiar.     We got Kapper inside the shack. It turned out to be a cheap bar, with acouple of curtained booths at the back. We got him into one and pulledthe curtain in a lot of curious faces. Kapper dragged hard on thecigarette. The man that gave it to him was gone.     Bucky said gently, Okay, Sam. Relax. What's the trouble?  Kapper tried to straighten up. He hadn't shaved. The lean hard linesof his face had gone slack and his eyes were bloodshot. He was coveredwith mud, and his mouth twitched like a sick old man's.     He said thickly, I found it. I said I'd do it, and I did. I found itand brought it out.     The cigarette stub fell out of his mouth. He didn't notice it. Helpme, he said simply. I'm scared. His mouth drooled.     I got it hidden. They want to find out, but I won't tell 'em. It'sgot to go back. Back where I found it. I tried to take it, but theywouldn't let me, and I was afraid they'd find it....     He reached suddenly and grabbed the edge of the table. I don't knowhow they found out about it, but they did. I've got to get it back.I've got to....     Bucky looked at me. Kapper was blue around the mouth. I was scared,suddenly. I said, Get what back where?     Bucky got up. I'll get a doctor, he said. Stick with him. Kappergrabbed his wrist. Kapper's nails were blue and the cords in his handsstood out like guy wires.     Don't leave me. Got to tell you—where it is. Got to take it back.Promise you'll take it back. He gasped and struggled over hisbreathing.     Sure, said Bucky. Sure, well take it back. What is it?     Kapper's face was horrible. I felt sick, listening to him fight forair. I wanted to go for a doctor anyway, but somehow I knew it was nouse. Kapper whispered,           Cansin     . Male. Only one. You don't know...! Take him back.     Where is it, Sam?     I reached across Bucky suddenly and jerked the curtain back. Beamishwas standing there. Beamish, bent over, with his ear cocked. Kappermade a harsh strangling noise and fell across the table.     Beamish never changed expression. He didn't move while Bucky feltKapper's pulse. Bucky didn't need to say anything. We knew.     Heart? said Beamish finally.     Yeah, said Bucky. He looked as bad as I felt. Poor Sam.     I looked at the cigarette stub smoldering on the table. I looked atBeamish with his round dead baby face. I climbed over Shannon andpushed Beamish suddenly down into his lap.     Keep this guy here till I get back, I said.     Shannon stared at me. Beamish started to get indignant. Shut up, Itold him. We got a contract. I yanked the curtains shut and walkedover to the bar.     I began to notice something, then. There were quite a lot of men in theplace. At first glance they looked okay—a hard-faced, muscular bunchof miners in dirty shirts and high boots.     Then I looked at their hands. They were dirty enough. But they neverdid any work in a mine, on Venus or anywhere else.     The place was awfully quiet, for that kind of a place. The bartenderwas a big pot-bellied swamp-edger with pale eyes and thick white haircoiled up on top of his bullet head. He was not happy.     I leaned on the bar.       Lhak     , I said. He poured it, sullenly, out of agreen bottle. I reached for it, casually.     That guy we brought in, I said. He sure has a skinful. Passed outcold. What's he been spiking his drinks with?           Selak     , said a voice in my ear. As if you didn't know.     I turned. The man who had given Kapper the cigarette was standingbehind me. And I remembered him, then.  ","Bucky, the owner, is of a rather idealistic opinion of the circus. He considers it great and he loves the participants as they are loyal and good. Jig is rather realistic, he knows the circus is broken and lousy, with Gertrude, the huge cansin, being the only worthy creature, though even she is old. Jig is also not that fond of many creatures, he sees them as ugly, some scary, some absurd. The state of Gertrude made Bucky cry, and soon he confessed that he actually knows that the circus is not great, but he loves it no matter what. Jig tried to be practical and asked Gow to snap Gertrude out of this state for the good of the circus. Nevertheless, even Jig was touched by the creature's appearance and gaze full of grief, her screams made him tremble. The Nahali woman, claiming to smell death, made Jig feel anxious and scared. Throughout the story Jig keeps feeling uneasy around the creatures and tries to avoid them, limiting the interactions to business. Bucky, at the same time, sympathizes with them and tries to get closer. "
"What happens to Jig throughout the story? </s>     The Blue Behemoth     By LEIGH BRACKETT     Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed     space-carny leased for a mysterious tour     of the inner worlds. It made a one-night     pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to     find that death stalked it from the     jungle in a tiny ball of flame.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of      thil     , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them.     We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute.     I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding!     Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments....     It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks!     I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame.     Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry.     I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be.     I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I....     Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon?     Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently:     Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel?     I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer.     The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad.     There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's.     He said, I don't think you understand.     I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc.     Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand.     I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed.     Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him.     Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money!     The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you?     Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity.     The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal.     I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole.     The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus.  I looked at Bucky. He looked hungrier than the Marshies did. We didn'tsay anything until we got Beamish into a curtained booth with a freshpitcher of      thil     on the table. Then I cleared my throat.     What exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Beamish?     Beamish sipped his drink, made a polite face, and put it down. I haveindependent means, gentlemen. It has always been my desire to lightenthe burden of life for those less fortunate....     Bucky got red around the ears. Just a minute, he murmured, andstarted to get up. I kicked him under the table.     Shut up, you lug. Let Mister Beamish finish.     He sat down, looking like a mean dog waiting for the postman. Beamishignored him. He went on, quietly,     I have always held that entertainment, of the right sort, is the mostvaluable aid humanity can have in its search for the alleviation oftoil and boredom....     I said, Sure, sure. But what was your idea?     There are many towns along the Venusian frontiers where noentertainment of the—      proper     sort has been available. I propose toremedy that. I propose to charter your circus, Mister Shannon, to makea tour of several settlements along the Tehara Belt.     Bucky had relaxed. His grey-green eyes began to gleam. He started tospeak, and I kicked him again.     That would be expensive, Mister Beamish, I said. We'd have to cancelseveral engagements....     He looked at me. I was lying, and he knew it. But he said,     I quite understand that. I would be prepared....     The curtains were yanked back suddenly. Beamish shut up. Bucky and Iglared at the head and shoulders poking in between the drapes.     It was Gow, our zoo-man—a big, ugly son-of-a-gun from a Terrancolony on Mercury. I was there once. Gow looks a lot like thescenery—scowling, unapproachable, and tough. His hands, holding thecurtains apart, had thick black hair on them and were not much largerthan the hams of a Venusian swamp-rhino.     He said, Boss, Gertrude's actin' up again.     Gertrude be blowed, growled Bucky. Can't you see I'm busy?     Gow's black eyes were unpleasant. I'm tellin' you, Boss, Gertrudeain't happy. She ain't had the right food. If something....     I said, That'll all be taken care of, Gow. Run along now.     He looked at me like he was thinking it wouldn't take much timber tofit me for a coffin. Okay! But Gertrude's unhappy. She's lonesome,see? And if she don't get happier pretty soon I ain't sure your tin-potship'll hold her.     He pulled the curtains to and departed. Bucky Shannon groaned. Beamishcleared his throat and said, rather stiffly,     Gertrude?     Yeah. She's kind of temperamental. Bucky took a quick drink. Ifinished for him.     She's the star attraction of our show, Mr. Beamish. A real blue-swampVenusian      cansin     . The only other one on the Triangle belongs to SavittBrothers, and she's much smaller than Gertrude.     She was also much younger, but I didn't go into that. Gertrude may bea little creaky, but she's still pretty impressive. I only hoped shewouldn't die on us, because without her we'd have a sicker-lookingcircus than even I could stand.     Beamish looked impressed. A      cansin     . Well, well! The mysterysurrounding the origin and species of the      cansin     is a fascinatingsubject. The extreme rarity of the animal....     We were getting off the subject. I said tactfully, We'd have to haveat least a hundred U.C.'s.     It was twice what we had any right to ask. I was prepared to dicker.Beamish looked at me with that innocent dead pan. For a fraction of asecond I thought I saw something back of his round blue eyes, and mystomach jumped like it was shot. Beamish smiled sweetly.     I'm not much of a bargainer. One hundred Universal Credits will beagreeable to me. He dragged out a roll as big as my two fists, peeledoff half a dozen credit slips, and laid them on the table.     By way of a retainer, gentleman. My attorney and I will call on you inthe morning with a contract and itinerary. Good night.     We said good night, trying not to drool. Beamish went away. Bucky madegrab for the money, but I beat him to it.     Scram, I said. There are guys waiting for this. Big guys with clubs.Here. I gave him a small-denomination slip I'd been holding out. Wecan get lushed enough on this.     Shannon has a good vocabulary. He used it. When he got his breath backhe said suddenly,     Beamish is pulling some kind of a game.     Yeah.     It may be crooked.     Sure. And he may be screwball and on the level. For Pete's sake! Iyelled. You want to sit here till we all dry up and blow away?     Shannon looked at me, kind of funny. He looked at the bulge in my tunicwhere the roll was. He raked back his thick light hair.     Yeah, he said. I hope there'll be enough left to bribe the jury. Hepoked his head outside. Hey, boy! More      thildatum     !  It was pretty late when we got back to the broken-down spaceport whereShannon's Imperial Circus was crouching beneath its attachments. Lateas it was, they were waiting for us. About twenty of them, sittingaround and smoking and looking very ugly.     It was awfully lonesome out there, with the desert cold and restlessunder the two moons. There's a smell to Mars, like something dead anddried long past decay, but still waiting. An unhappy smell. The blownred dust gritted in my teeth.     Bucky Shannon walked out into the glare of the light at the entrance tothe roped-off space around the main lock. He was pretty steady on hisfeet. He waved and said, Hiya, boys.     They got up off the steps, and the packing cases, and came toward us. Igrinned and got into my brassies. We felt we owed those boys a lot morethan money. It grates on a man's pride to have to sneak in and out ofhis own property through the sewage lock. This was the first time inweeks we'd come in at the front door.     I waved the money in their faces. That stopped them. Very solemnly,Bucky and I checked the bills, paid them, and pocketed the receipts.Bucky yawned and stretched sleepily.     Now? he said.     Now, I said.     We had a lot of fun. Some of the boys inside the ship came out to joinin. We raised a lot of dust and nobody got killed, quite. We all wenthome happy. They had their money, and we had their blood.     The news was all over the ship before we got inside. The freaks and thegreen girl from Tethys who could roll herself like a hoop, and Zurt themuscle man from Jupiter, and all the other assorted geeks and kinkersand joeys that make up the usual corny carnie were doing nip-ups in thepassageways and drooling over the thought of steer and toppings.     Bucky Shannon regarded them possessively, wiping blood from his nose.They're good guys, Jig. Swell people. They stuck by me, and I'verewarded them.     I said, Sure, rather sourly. Bucky hiccoughed.     Let's go see Gertrude.     I didn't want to see Gertrude. I never got over feeling funny goinginto the brute tank, especially at night or out in space. I'm a cityguy, myself. The smell and sound of wildness gives me goose bumps. ButBucky was looking stubborn, so I shrugged.     Okay. But just for a minute. Then we go beddy-bye.     You're a pal, Jif. Bes' li'l' guy inna worl'....     The fight had just put the topper on him. I was afraid he'd fall downthe ladder and break his neck. That's why I went along. If I hadn't....Oh, well, what's a few nightmares among friends?     It was dark down there in the tank. Way off at the other end, there wasa dim glow. Gow was evidently holding Gertrude's hand. We started downthe long passageway between the rows of cages and glassed-in tanks andcompression units.     Our footsteps sounded loud and empty on the iron floor. I wasn'tnear as happy as Shannon, and my skin began to crawl a little. It'sthe smell, I think; rank and sour and wild. And the sound of them,breathing and rustling in the dark, with the patient hatred walledaround them as strong as the cage bars.     Bucky Shannon lurched against me suddenly. I choked back a yell, andthen wiped the sweat off my forehead and cursed. The scream came again.A high, ragged, whistling screech like nothing this side of hell,ripping through the musty darkness. Gertrude, on the wailing wall.     It had been quiet. Now every brute in the place let go at the sametime. My stomach turned clear over. I called Gertrude every name Icould think of, and I couldn't hear myself doing it. Presently a greatmetallic clash nearly burst my eardrums, and the beasts shut up. Gowhad them nicely conditioned to that gong.  But they didn't quiet down. Not really. They were uneasy. You can feelthem inside you when they're uneasy. I think that's why I'm scared ofthem. They make me feel like I'm not human as I thought—like I wantedto put my back-hair up and snarl. Yeah. They were uneasy that night,all of a sudden....     Gow glared at us as we came up into the lantern light. She's gettin'worse, he said. She's lonesome.     That's tough, said Bucky Shannon. His grey-green eyes looked like anowl's. He swayed slightly. That's sure tough. He sniffled.     I looked at Gertrude. Her cage is the biggest and strongest in the tankand even so she looked as though she could break it open just taking adeep breath. I don't know if you've ever seen a      cansin     . There's onlytwo of them on the Triangle. If you haven't, nothing I can say willmake much difference.     They're what the brain gang calls an end of evolution. Seems oldDame Nature had an idea that didn't jell. The      cansins     were prettysuccessful for a while, it seems, but something gummed up the works andnow there's only a few left, way in the deep-swamp country, where eventhe Venusians hardly ever go. Living fossils.     I wouldn't know, of course, but Gertrude looks to me like she got stucksome place between a dinosaur and a grizzly bear, with maybe a littlebird blood thrown in. Anyway, she's big.     I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She was crouched in the cagewith her hands—yeah, hands—hanging over her knees and her snaky headsunk into her shoulders, looking out. Just looking. Not at anything.Her eyes were way back in deep horny pits, like cold green fire.     The lantern light was yellow on her blue-black skin, but it made themane, or crest, of coarse wide scales that ran from between her eyesclear down to her flat, short tail, burn all colors. She looked likeold Mother Misery herself, from way back before time began.     Gow said softly, She wants a mate. And somebody better get her one.     Bucky Shannon sniffled again. I said irritably, Be reasonable, Gow!Nobody's ever seen a male      cansin     . There may not even be any.     Gertrude screamed again. She didn't move, not even to raise her head.The sadness just built up inside her until it had to come out. Thatclose, the screech was deafening, and it turned me all limp and coldinside. The loneliness, the sheer stark, simple pain....     Bucky Shannon began to cry. I snarled, You'll have to snap her out ofthis, Gow. She's driving the rest of 'em nuts.     He hammered on his gong, and things quieted down again. Gow stoodlooking out over the tank, sniffing a little, like a hound. Then heturned to Gertrude.     I saved her life, he said. When we bought her out of Hanak's wreckand everybody thought she was too hurt to live, I saved her. I knowher. I can do things with her. But this time....     He shrugged. He was huge and tough and ugly, and his voice was like awoman's talking about a sick child.     This time, he said, I ain't sure.     Well for Pete's sake, do what you can. We got a charter, and we needher. I took Shannon's arm. Come to bed, Bucky darlin'.     He draped himself over my shoulder and we went off. Gow didn't look atus. Bucky sobbed.     You were right, Jig, he mumbled. Circus is no good. I know it. Butit's all I got. I love it, Jig. Unnerstan' me? Like Gow there withGertrude. She's ugly and no good, but he loves her. I love....     Sure, sure, I told him. Stop crying down my neck.     We were a long way from the light, then. The cages and tanks loomedhigh and black over us. It was still. The secret, uneasy motion allaround us and the scruffing of our feet only made it stiller.     Bucky was almost asleep on me. I started to slap him. And then the mistrose up out of the darkness in little lazy coils, sparkling faintlywith blue, cold fire.     I yelled, Gow! Gow, the Vapor snakes! Gow—for God's sake!     I started to run, back along the passageway. Bucky weighed on me, limpand heavy. The noise burst suddenly in a deafening hell of moans androars and shrieks, packed in tight by the metal walls, and above it allI could hear Gertrude's lonely, whistling scream.     I thought,       Somebody's down here. Somebody let 'em out. Somebody wantsto kill us!      I tried to yell again. It strangled in my throat. Isobbed, and the sweat was thick and cold on me.     One of Bucky's dragging, stumbling feet got between mine. We fell. Irolled on top of him, covering his face, and buried my own face in thehollow of his shoulder.     The first snake touched me. It was like a live wire, sliding along theback of my neck. I screamed. It came down along my cheek, hunting mymouth. There were more of them, burning me through my clothes.     Bucky moaned and kicked under me. I remember hanging on and thinking,This is it. This is it, and oh God, I'm scared!     Then I went out.      II     Kanza the Martian croaker, was bending over me when I woke up. Hislittle brown face was crinkled with laughter. He'd lost most of histeeth, and he gummed      thak     -weed. It smelt.     You pretty, Mis' Jig, he giggled. You funny like hell.     He slapped some cold greasy stuff on my face. It hurt. I cursed him andsaid, Where's Shannon? How is he?     Mis' Bucky okay. You save life. You big hero, Mis' Jig. Mis' Gow comenickuhtime get snakes. You hero. Haw! You funny like hell!     I said, Yeah, and pushed him away and got up. I almost fell downa couple of times, but presently I made it to the mirror over thewashstand—I was in my own cell—and I saw what Kanza meant. The damnedsnakes had done a good job. I looked like I was upholstered in Scotchplaid. I felt sick.     Bucky Shannon opened the door. He looked white and grim, and there wasa big burn across his neck. He said:     Beamish is here with his lawyer.     I picked up my shirt. Right with you.     Kanza went out, still giggling. Bucky closed the door.     Jig, he said, those vapor worms were all right when we went in.Somebody followed us down and let them out. On purpose.     I hurt all over. I growled, With that brain, son, you should go far.Nobody saw anything, of course? Bucky shook his head.     Question is, Jig, who wants to kill us, and why?     Beamish. He realizes he's been gypped.     One hundred U.C.'s, said Bucky softly, for a few lousy swampedgemining camps. It stinks, Jig. You think we should back out?     I shrugged. You're the boss man. I'm only the guy that beats off thecreditors.     Yeah, Bucky said reflectively. And I hear starvation isn't acomfortable death. Okay, Jig. Let's go sign. He put his hand on thelatch and looked at my feet. And—uh—Jig, I....     I said, Skip it. The next time, just don't trip me up, that's all!     We had a nasty trip to Venus. Gertrude kept the brute tank on edge,and Gow, on the rare occasions he came up for air, went around lookinglike a disaster hoping to happen. To make it worse, Zurt the Jovianstrong-man got hurt during the take-off, and the Mercurian cave-cat hadkittens.     Nobody would have minded that, only one of 'em had only four legs. Itlived just long enough to scare that bunch of superstitious dopes outof their pants. Circus people are funny that way.     Shannon and I did a little quiet sleuthing, but it was a waste of time.Anybody in the gang might have let those electric worms out on us. Itdidn't help any to know that somebody, maybe the guy next to you atdinner, was busy thinking ways to kill you. By the time we hit Venus, Iwas ready to do a Brodie out the refuse chute.     Shannon set the crate down on the edge of Nahru, the first stop on ouritinerary. I stood beside him, looking out the ports at the scenery. Itwas Venus, all right. Blue mud and thick green jungle and rain, and abunch of ratty-looking plastic shacks huddling together in the middleof it. Men in slickers were coming out for a look.     I saw Beamish's sleek yacht parked on a cradle over to the left, andour router's runabout beside it. Bucky Shannon groaned.     A blue one, Jig. A morgue if I ever saw one!     I snarled, What do you want, with this lousy dog-and-pony show! andwent out. He followed. The gang was converging on the lock, but theyweren't happy. You get so you can feel those things. The steamy Venusheat was already sneaking into the ship.     While we passed the hatchway to the brute tank, I could hear Gertrude,screaming.  The canvasmen were busy setting up the annex, slopping and cursing inthe mud. The paste brigade was heading for the shacks. Shannon and Istood with the hot rain running off our slickers, looking.     I heard a noise behind me and looked around. Ahra the Nahali woman wasstanding in the mud with her arms up and her head thrown back, and hertriangular mouth open like a thirsty dog. She didn't have anything onbut her blue-green, hard scaled hide, and she was chuckling. It didn'tsound nice.     You find a lot of Nahali people in side-shows, doing tricks withthe electric power they carry in their own bodies. They're Venusianmiddle-swampers, they're not human, and they never forget it.     Ahra opened her slitted red eyes and looked at me and laughed withwhite reptilian teeth.     Death, she whispered. Death and trouble. The jungle tells me. I cansmell it in the swamp wind.     The hot rain sluiced over her. She shivered, and the pale skin underher jaw pulsed like a toad's, and her eyes were red.     The deep swamps are angry, she whispered. Something has been taken.They are angry, and I smell death in the wind!     She turned away, laughing, and I cursed her, and my stomach was tightand cold. Bucky said,     Let's eat if they have a bar in this dump.     We weren't half way across the mud puddle that passed as a landingfield when a man came out of a shack on the edge of the settlement. Wecould see him plainly, because he was off to one side of the crowd.     He fell on his knees in the mud, making noises. It took him three orfour tries to get our names out clear enough to understand.     Bucky said, Jig—it's Sam Kapper.     We started to run. The crowd, mostly big unshaken miners, wheeledaround to see what was happening. People began to close in on the manwho crawled and whimpered in the mud.     Sam Kapper was a hunter, supplying animals to zoos and circuses andcarnivals. He'd given us good deals a couple of times, when we weren'ttoo broke, and we were pretty friendly.     I hadn't seen him for three seasons. I remembered him as a bronzed,hard-bitten guy, lean and tough as a twist of tung wire. I felt sick,looking down at him.     Bucky started to help him up. Kapper was crying, and he jerked all overlike animals I've seen that were scared to death. Some guy leaned overand put a cigarette in his mouth and lighted it for him.     I was thinking about Kapper, then, and I didn't pay much attention. Ionly caught a glimpse of the man's face as he straightened up. I didn'trealize until later that he looked familiar.     We got Kapper inside the shack. It turned out to be a cheap bar, with acouple of curtained booths at the back. We got him into one and pulledthe curtain in a lot of curious faces. Kapper dragged hard on thecigarette. The man that gave it to him was gone.     Bucky said gently, Okay, Sam. Relax. What's the trouble?  Kapper tried to straighten up. He hadn't shaved. The lean hard linesof his face had gone slack and his eyes were bloodshot. He was coveredwith mud, and his mouth twitched like a sick old man's.     He said thickly, I found it. I said I'd do it, and I did. I found itand brought it out.     The cigarette stub fell out of his mouth. He didn't notice it. Helpme, he said simply. I'm scared. His mouth drooled.     I got it hidden. They want to find out, but I won't tell 'em. It'sgot to go back. Back where I found it. I tried to take it, but theywouldn't let me, and I was afraid they'd find it....     He reached suddenly and grabbed the edge of the table. I don't knowhow they found out about it, but they did. I've got to get it back.I've got to....     Bucky looked at me. Kapper was blue around the mouth. I was scared,suddenly. I said, Get what back where?     Bucky got up. I'll get a doctor, he said. Stick with him. Kappergrabbed his wrist. Kapper's nails were blue and the cords in his handsstood out like guy wires.     Don't leave me. Got to tell you—where it is. Got to take it back.Promise you'll take it back. He gasped and struggled over hisbreathing.     Sure, said Bucky. Sure, well take it back. What is it?     Kapper's face was horrible. I felt sick, listening to him fight forair. I wanted to go for a doctor anyway, but somehow I knew it was nouse. Kapper whispered,           Cansin     . Male. Only one. You don't know...! Take him back.     Where is it, Sam?     I reached across Bucky suddenly and jerked the curtain back. Beamishwas standing there. Beamish, bent over, with his ear cocked. Kappermade a harsh strangling noise and fell across the table.     Beamish never changed expression. He didn't move while Bucky feltKapper's pulse. Bucky didn't need to say anything. We knew.     Heart? said Beamish finally.     Yeah, said Bucky. He looked as bad as I felt. Poor Sam.     I looked at the cigarette stub smoldering on the table. I looked atBeamish with his round dead baby face. I climbed over Shannon andpushed Beamish suddenly down into his lap.     Keep this guy here till I get back, I said.     Shannon stared at me. Beamish started to get indignant. Shut up, Itold him. We got a contract. I yanked the curtains shut and walkedover to the bar.     I began to notice something, then. There were quite a lot of men in theplace. At first glance they looked okay—a hard-faced, muscular bunchof miners in dirty shirts and high boots.     Then I looked at their hands. They were dirty enough. But they neverdid any work in a mine, on Venus or anywhere else.     The place was awfully quiet, for that kind of a place. The bartenderwas a big pot-bellied swamp-edger with pale eyes and thick white haircoiled up on top of his bullet head. He was not happy.     I leaned on the bar.       Lhak     , I said. He poured it, sullenly, out of agreen bottle. I reached for it, casually.     That guy we brought in, I said. He sure has a skinful. Passed outcold. What's he been spiking his drinks with?           Selak     , said a voice in my ear. As if you didn't know.     I turned. The man who had given Kapper the cigarette was standingbehind me. And I remembered him, then.  ","Jig argues with Bucky, the owner of the circus, whose director is the former. Jig is drunk and is careless enough to insult the circus. He almost gets beaten when a stranger interferes. Jig feels pity towards his savior at first, but then he sees a sum of money in the man’s hands. Jig stops Bucky and the three of them begin to discuss business. Jig tries to show off the circus and asks for more money than it’s worth. He is suspicious of the man, but they make a deal. Then, Jig goes together with Bucky to pay the members of the gang and they have fun. After that, the two friends go to check on Gertrude, the main attraction. The creature’s depressing appearance makes Jig feel uneasy and pitiful, he has to carry Bucky, who is crying and falling asleep, away from the cage. Then both are attacked by Vapor snakes and Jig appears a hero by covering Bucky. He finds himself bitten all over and looking ridiculous, but at least alive. He encounters Bucky and they try to learn who wanted to kill them both. Then they go to Venus to meet Beamish, Jig feels the gang’s unhappiness with the travel, and he feels uneasy himself. The Nahali woman and her death predictions make him even more scared. Then they meet Sam who used to hunt animals for their circus, his terrible appearance makes Jig feel sick. Then together with Bucky, he tries to help the hunter by asking questions in the nearby bar. Jig feels even more scared and sick when Sam starts choking and his mouth gets blue. Jig wants to rush for a doctor, but finds Beamish listening behind the curtain. When Sam dies, Jig starts understanding and suspecting something, he talks to the bartender and suddenly recognizes the man who gave a cigarette to Sam."
"What is the significance of Jig and Bucky meeting Beamish on the story? </s>     The Blue Behemoth     By LEIGH BRACKETT     Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed     space-carny leased for a mysterious tour     of the inner worlds. It made a one-night     pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to     find that death stalked it from the     jungle in a tiny ball of flame.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of      thil     , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them.     We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute.     I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding!     Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments....     It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks!     I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame.     Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry.     I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be.     I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I....     Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon?     Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently:     Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel?     I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer.     The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad.     There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's.     He said, I don't think you understand.     I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc.     Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand.     I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed.     Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him.     Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money!     The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you?     Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity.     The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal.     I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole.     The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus.  I looked at Bucky. He looked hungrier than the Marshies did. We didn'tsay anything until we got Beamish into a curtained booth with a freshpitcher of      thil     on the table. Then I cleared my throat.     What exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Beamish?     Beamish sipped his drink, made a polite face, and put it down. I haveindependent means, gentlemen. It has always been my desire to lightenthe burden of life for those less fortunate....     Bucky got red around the ears. Just a minute, he murmured, andstarted to get up. I kicked him under the table.     Shut up, you lug. Let Mister Beamish finish.     He sat down, looking like a mean dog waiting for the postman. Beamishignored him. He went on, quietly,     I have always held that entertainment, of the right sort, is the mostvaluable aid humanity can have in its search for the alleviation oftoil and boredom....     I said, Sure, sure. But what was your idea?     There are many towns along the Venusian frontiers where noentertainment of the—      proper     sort has been available. I propose toremedy that. I propose to charter your circus, Mister Shannon, to makea tour of several settlements along the Tehara Belt.     Bucky had relaxed. His grey-green eyes began to gleam. He started tospeak, and I kicked him again.     That would be expensive, Mister Beamish, I said. We'd have to cancelseveral engagements....     He looked at me. I was lying, and he knew it. But he said,     I quite understand that. I would be prepared....     The curtains were yanked back suddenly. Beamish shut up. Bucky and Iglared at the head and shoulders poking in between the drapes.     It was Gow, our zoo-man—a big, ugly son-of-a-gun from a Terrancolony on Mercury. I was there once. Gow looks a lot like thescenery—scowling, unapproachable, and tough. His hands, holding thecurtains apart, had thick black hair on them and were not much largerthan the hams of a Venusian swamp-rhino.     He said, Boss, Gertrude's actin' up again.     Gertrude be blowed, growled Bucky. Can't you see I'm busy?     Gow's black eyes were unpleasant. I'm tellin' you, Boss, Gertrudeain't happy. She ain't had the right food. If something....     I said, That'll all be taken care of, Gow. Run along now.     He looked at me like he was thinking it wouldn't take much timber tofit me for a coffin. Okay! But Gertrude's unhappy. She's lonesome,see? And if she don't get happier pretty soon I ain't sure your tin-potship'll hold her.     He pulled the curtains to and departed. Bucky Shannon groaned. Beamishcleared his throat and said, rather stiffly,     Gertrude?     Yeah. She's kind of temperamental. Bucky took a quick drink. Ifinished for him.     She's the star attraction of our show, Mr. Beamish. A real blue-swampVenusian      cansin     . The only other one on the Triangle belongs to SavittBrothers, and she's much smaller than Gertrude.     She was also much younger, but I didn't go into that. Gertrude may bea little creaky, but she's still pretty impressive. I only hoped shewouldn't die on us, because without her we'd have a sicker-lookingcircus than even I could stand.     Beamish looked impressed. A      cansin     . Well, well! The mysterysurrounding the origin and species of the      cansin     is a fascinatingsubject. The extreme rarity of the animal....     We were getting off the subject. I said tactfully, We'd have to haveat least a hundred U.C.'s.     It was twice what we had any right to ask. I was prepared to dicker.Beamish looked at me with that innocent dead pan. For a fraction of asecond I thought I saw something back of his round blue eyes, and mystomach jumped like it was shot. Beamish smiled sweetly.     I'm not much of a bargainer. One hundred Universal Credits will beagreeable to me. He dragged out a roll as big as my two fists, peeledoff half a dozen credit slips, and laid them on the table.     By way of a retainer, gentleman. My attorney and I will call on you inthe morning with a contract and itinerary. Good night.     We said good night, trying not to drool. Beamish went away. Bucky madegrab for the money, but I beat him to it.     Scram, I said. There are guys waiting for this. Big guys with clubs.Here. I gave him a small-denomination slip I'd been holding out. Wecan get lushed enough on this.     Shannon has a good vocabulary. He used it. When he got his breath backhe said suddenly,     Beamish is pulling some kind of a game.     Yeah.     It may be crooked.     Sure. And he may be screwball and on the level. For Pete's sake! Iyelled. You want to sit here till we all dry up and blow away?     Shannon looked at me, kind of funny. He looked at the bulge in my tunicwhere the roll was. He raked back his thick light hair.     Yeah, he said. I hope there'll be enough left to bribe the jury. Hepoked his head outside. Hey, boy! More      thildatum     !  It was pretty late when we got back to the broken-down spaceport whereShannon's Imperial Circus was crouching beneath its attachments. Lateas it was, they were waiting for us. About twenty of them, sittingaround and smoking and looking very ugly.     It was awfully lonesome out there, with the desert cold and restlessunder the two moons. There's a smell to Mars, like something dead anddried long past decay, but still waiting. An unhappy smell. The blownred dust gritted in my teeth.     Bucky Shannon walked out into the glare of the light at the entrance tothe roped-off space around the main lock. He was pretty steady on hisfeet. He waved and said, Hiya, boys.     They got up off the steps, and the packing cases, and came toward us. Igrinned and got into my brassies. We felt we owed those boys a lot morethan money. It grates on a man's pride to have to sneak in and out ofhis own property through the sewage lock. This was the first time inweeks we'd come in at the front door.     I waved the money in their faces. That stopped them. Very solemnly,Bucky and I checked the bills, paid them, and pocketed the receipts.Bucky yawned and stretched sleepily.     Now? he said.     Now, I said.     We had a lot of fun. Some of the boys inside the ship came out to joinin. We raised a lot of dust and nobody got killed, quite. We all wenthome happy. They had their money, and we had their blood.     The news was all over the ship before we got inside. The freaks and thegreen girl from Tethys who could roll herself like a hoop, and Zurt themuscle man from Jupiter, and all the other assorted geeks and kinkersand joeys that make up the usual corny carnie were doing nip-ups in thepassageways and drooling over the thought of steer and toppings.     Bucky Shannon regarded them possessively, wiping blood from his nose.They're good guys, Jig. Swell people. They stuck by me, and I'verewarded them.     I said, Sure, rather sourly. Bucky hiccoughed.     Let's go see Gertrude.     I didn't want to see Gertrude. I never got over feeling funny goinginto the brute tank, especially at night or out in space. I'm a cityguy, myself. The smell and sound of wildness gives me goose bumps. ButBucky was looking stubborn, so I shrugged.     Okay. But just for a minute. Then we go beddy-bye.     You're a pal, Jif. Bes' li'l' guy inna worl'....     The fight had just put the topper on him. I was afraid he'd fall downthe ladder and break his neck. That's why I went along. If I hadn't....Oh, well, what's a few nightmares among friends?     It was dark down there in the tank. Way off at the other end, there wasa dim glow. Gow was evidently holding Gertrude's hand. We started downthe long passageway between the rows of cages and glassed-in tanks andcompression units.     Our footsteps sounded loud and empty on the iron floor. I wasn'tnear as happy as Shannon, and my skin began to crawl a little. It'sthe smell, I think; rank and sour and wild. And the sound of them,breathing and rustling in the dark, with the patient hatred walledaround them as strong as the cage bars.     Bucky Shannon lurched against me suddenly. I choked back a yell, andthen wiped the sweat off my forehead and cursed. The scream came again.A high, ragged, whistling screech like nothing this side of hell,ripping through the musty darkness. Gertrude, on the wailing wall.     It had been quiet. Now every brute in the place let go at the sametime. My stomach turned clear over. I called Gertrude every name Icould think of, and I couldn't hear myself doing it. Presently a greatmetallic clash nearly burst my eardrums, and the beasts shut up. Gowhad them nicely conditioned to that gong.  But they didn't quiet down. Not really. They were uneasy. You can feelthem inside you when they're uneasy. I think that's why I'm scared ofthem. They make me feel like I'm not human as I thought—like I wantedto put my back-hair up and snarl. Yeah. They were uneasy that night,all of a sudden....     Gow glared at us as we came up into the lantern light. She's gettin'worse, he said. She's lonesome.     That's tough, said Bucky Shannon. His grey-green eyes looked like anowl's. He swayed slightly. That's sure tough. He sniffled.     I looked at Gertrude. Her cage is the biggest and strongest in the tankand even so she looked as though she could break it open just taking adeep breath. I don't know if you've ever seen a      cansin     . There's onlytwo of them on the Triangle. If you haven't, nothing I can say willmake much difference.     They're what the brain gang calls an end of evolution. Seems oldDame Nature had an idea that didn't jell. The      cansins     were prettysuccessful for a while, it seems, but something gummed up the works andnow there's only a few left, way in the deep-swamp country, where eventhe Venusians hardly ever go. Living fossils.     I wouldn't know, of course, but Gertrude looks to me like she got stucksome place between a dinosaur and a grizzly bear, with maybe a littlebird blood thrown in. Anyway, she's big.     I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She was crouched in the cagewith her hands—yeah, hands—hanging over her knees and her snaky headsunk into her shoulders, looking out. Just looking. Not at anything.Her eyes were way back in deep horny pits, like cold green fire.     The lantern light was yellow on her blue-black skin, but it made themane, or crest, of coarse wide scales that ran from between her eyesclear down to her flat, short tail, burn all colors. She looked likeold Mother Misery herself, from way back before time began.     Gow said softly, She wants a mate. And somebody better get her one.     Bucky Shannon sniffled again. I said irritably, Be reasonable, Gow!Nobody's ever seen a male      cansin     . There may not even be any.     Gertrude screamed again. She didn't move, not even to raise her head.The sadness just built up inside her until it had to come out. Thatclose, the screech was deafening, and it turned me all limp and coldinside. The loneliness, the sheer stark, simple pain....     Bucky Shannon began to cry. I snarled, You'll have to snap her out ofthis, Gow. She's driving the rest of 'em nuts.     He hammered on his gong, and things quieted down again. Gow stoodlooking out over the tank, sniffing a little, like a hound. Then heturned to Gertrude.     I saved her life, he said. When we bought her out of Hanak's wreckand everybody thought she was too hurt to live, I saved her. I knowher. I can do things with her. But this time....     He shrugged. He was huge and tough and ugly, and his voice was like awoman's talking about a sick child.     This time, he said, I ain't sure.     Well for Pete's sake, do what you can. We got a charter, and we needher. I took Shannon's arm. Come to bed, Bucky darlin'.     He draped himself over my shoulder and we went off. Gow didn't look atus. Bucky sobbed.     You were right, Jig, he mumbled. Circus is no good. I know it. Butit's all I got. I love it, Jig. Unnerstan' me? Like Gow there withGertrude. She's ugly and no good, but he loves her. I love....     Sure, sure, I told him. Stop crying down my neck.     We were a long way from the light, then. The cages and tanks loomedhigh and black over us. It was still. The secret, uneasy motion allaround us and the scruffing of our feet only made it stiller.     Bucky was almost asleep on me. I started to slap him. And then the mistrose up out of the darkness in little lazy coils, sparkling faintlywith blue, cold fire.     I yelled, Gow! Gow, the Vapor snakes! Gow—for God's sake!     I started to run, back along the passageway. Bucky weighed on me, limpand heavy. The noise burst suddenly in a deafening hell of moans androars and shrieks, packed in tight by the metal walls, and above it allI could hear Gertrude's lonely, whistling scream.     I thought,       Somebody's down here. Somebody let 'em out. Somebody wantsto kill us!      I tried to yell again. It strangled in my throat. Isobbed, and the sweat was thick and cold on me.     One of Bucky's dragging, stumbling feet got between mine. We fell. Irolled on top of him, covering his face, and buried my own face in thehollow of his shoulder.     The first snake touched me. It was like a live wire, sliding along theback of my neck. I screamed. It came down along my cheek, hunting mymouth. There were more of them, burning me through my clothes.     Bucky moaned and kicked under me. I remember hanging on and thinking,This is it. This is it, and oh God, I'm scared!     Then I went out.      II     Kanza the Martian croaker, was bending over me when I woke up. Hislittle brown face was crinkled with laughter. He'd lost most of histeeth, and he gummed      thak     -weed. It smelt.     You pretty, Mis' Jig, he giggled. You funny like hell.     He slapped some cold greasy stuff on my face. It hurt. I cursed him andsaid, Where's Shannon? How is he?     Mis' Bucky okay. You save life. You big hero, Mis' Jig. Mis' Gow comenickuhtime get snakes. You hero. Haw! You funny like hell!     I said, Yeah, and pushed him away and got up. I almost fell downa couple of times, but presently I made it to the mirror over thewashstand—I was in my own cell—and I saw what Kanza meant. The damnedsnakes had done a good job. I looked like I was upholstered in Scotchplaid. I felt sick.     Bucky Shannon opened the door. He looked white and grim, and there wasa big burn across his neck. He said:     Beamish is here with his lawyer.     I picked up my shirt. Right with you.     Kanza went out, still giggling. Bucky closed the door.     Jig, he said, those vapor worms were all right when we went in.Somebody followed us down and let them out. On purpose.     I hurt all over. I growled, With that brain, son, you should go far.Nobody saw anything, of course? Bucky shook his head.     Question is, Jig, who wants to kill us, and why?     Beamish. He realizes he's been gypped.     One hundred U.C.'s, said Bucky softly, for a few lousy swampedgemining camps. It stinks, Jig. You think we should back out?     I shrugged. You're the boss man. I'm only the guy that beats off thecreditors.     Yeah, Bucky said reflectively. And I hear starvation isn't acomfortable death. Okay, Jig. Let's go sign. He put his hand on thelatch and looked at my feet. And—uh—Jig, I....     I said, Skip it. The next time, just don't trip me up, that's all!     We had a nasty trip to Venus. Gertrude kept the brute tank on edge,and Gow, on the rare occasions he came up for air, went around lookinglike a disaster hoping to happen. To make it worse, Zurt the Jovianstrong-man got hurt during the take-off, and the Mercurian cave-cat hadkittens.     Nobody would have minded that, only one of 'em had only four legs. Itlived just long enough to scare that bunch of superstitious dopes outof their pants. Circus people are funny that way.     Shannon and I did a little quiet sleuthing, but it was a waste of time.Anybody in the gang might have let those electric worms out on us. Itdidn't help any to know that somebody, maybe the guy next to you atdinner, was busy thinking ways to kill you. By the time we hit Venus, Iwas ready to do a Brodie out the refuse chute.     Shannon set the crate down on the edge of Nahru, the first stop on ouritinerary. I stood beside him, looking out the ports at the scenery. Itwas Venus, all right. Blue mud and thick green jungle and rain, and abunch of ratty-looking plastic shacks huddling together in the middleof it. Men in slickers were coming out for a look.     I saw Beamish's sleek yacht parked on a cradle over to the left, andour router's runabout beside it. Bucky Shannon groaned.     A blue one, Jig. A morgue if I ever saw one!     I snarled, What do you want, with this lousy dog-and-pony show! andwent out. He followed. The gang was converging on the lock, but theyweren't happy. You get so you can feel those things. The steamy Venusheat was already sneaking into the ship.     While we passed the hatchway to the brute tank, I could hear Gertrude,screaming.  The canvasmen were busy setting up the annex, slopping and cursing inthe mud. The paste brigade was heading for the shacks. Shannon and Istood with the hot rain running off our slickers, looking.     I heard a noise behind me and looked around. Ahra the Nahali woman wasstanding in the mud with her arms up and her head thrown back, and hertriangular mouth open like a thirsty dog. She didn't have anything onbut her blue-green, hard scaled hide, and she was chuckling. It didn'tsound nice.     You find a lot of Nahali people in side-shows, doing tricks withthe electric power they carry in their own bodies. They're Venusianmiddle-swampers, they're not human, and they never forget it.     Ahra opened her slitted red eyes and looked at me and laughed withwhite reptilian teeth.     Death, she whispered. Death and trouble. The jungle tells me. I cansmell it in the swamp wind.     The hot rain sluiced over her. She shivered, and the pale skin underher jaw pulsed like a toad's, and her eyes were red.     The deep swamps are angry, she whispered. Something has been taken.They are angry, and I smell death in the wind!     She turned away, laughing, and I cursed her, and my stomach was tightand cold. Bucky said,     Let's eat if they have a bar in this dump.     We weren't half way across the mud puddle that passed as a landingfield when a man came out of a shack on the edge of the settlement. Wecould see him plainly, because he was off to one side of the crowd.     He fell on his knees in the mud, making noises. It took him three orfour tries to get our names out clear enough to understand.     Bucky said, Jig—it's Sam Kapper.     We started to run. The crowd, mostly big unshaken miners, wheeledaround to see what was happening. People began to close in on the manwho crawled and whimpered in the mud.     Sam Kapper was a hunter, supplying animals to zoos and circuses andcarnivals. He'd given us good deals a couple of times, when we weren'ttoo broke, and we were pretty friendly.     I hadn't seen him for three seasons. I remembered him as a bronzed,hard-bitten guy, lean and tough as a twist of tung wire. I felt sick,looking down at him.     Bucky started to help him up. Kapper was crying, and he jerked all overlike animals I've seen that were scared to death. Some guy leaned overand put a cigarette in his mouth and lighted it for him.     I was thinking about Kapper, then, and I didn't pay much attention. Ionly caught a glimpse of the man's face as he straightened up. I didn'trealize until later that he looked familiar.     We got Kapper inside the shack. It turned out to be a cheap bar, with acouple of curtained booths at the back. We got him into one and pulledthe curtain in a lot of curious faces. Kapper dragged hard on thecigarette. The man that gave it to him was gone.     Bucky said gently, Okay, Sam. Relax. What's the trouble?  Kapper tried to straighten up. He hadn't shaved. The lean hard linesof his face had gone slack and his eyes were bloodshot. He was coveredwith mud, and his mouth twitched like a sick old man's.     He said thickly, I found it. I said I'd do it, and I did. I found itand brought it out.     The cigarette stub fell out of his mouth. He didn't notice it. Helpme, he said simply. I'm scared. His mouth drooled.     I got it hidden. They want to find out, but I won't tell 'em. It'sgot to go back. Back where I found it. I tried to take it, but theywouldn't let me, and I was afraid they'd find it....     He reached suddenly and grabbed the edge of the table. I don't knowhow they found out about it, but they did. I've got to get it back.I've got to....     Bucky looked at me. Kapper was blue around the mouth. I was scared,suddenly. I said, Get what back where?     Bucky got up. I'll get a doctor, he said. Stick with him. Kappergrabbed his wrist. Kapper's nails were blue and the cords in his handsstood out like guy wires.     Don't leave me. Got to tell you—where it is. Got to take it back.Promise you'll take it back. He gasped and struggled over hisbreathing.     Sure, said Bucky. Sure, well take it back. What is it?     Kapper's face was horrible. I felt sick, listening to him fight forair. I wanted to go for a doctor anyway, but somehow I knew it was nouse. Kapper whispered,           Cansin     . Male. Only one. You don't know...! Take him back.     Where is it, Sam?     I reached across Bucky suddenly and jerked the curtain back. Beamishwas standing there. Beamish, bent over, with his ear cocked. Kappermade a harsh strangling noise and fell across the table.     Beamish never changed expression. He didn't move while Bucky feltKapper's pulse. Bucky didn't need to say anything. We knew.     Heart? said Beamish finally.     Yeah, said Bucky. He looked as bad as I felt. Poor Sam.     I looked at the cigarette stub smoldering on the table. I looked atBeamish with his round dead baby face. I climbed over Shannon andpushed Beamish suddenly down into his lap.     Keep this guy here till I get back, I said.     Shannon stared at me. Beamish started to get indignant. Shut up, Itold him. We got a contract. I yanked the curtains shut and walkedover to the bar.     I began to notice something, then. There were quite a lot of men in theplace. At first glance they looked okay—a hard-faced, muscular bunchof miners in dirty shirts and high boots.     Then I looked at their hands. They were dirty enough. But they neverdid any work in a mine, on Venus or anywhere else.     The place was awfully quiet, for that kind of a place. The bartenderwas a big pot-bellied swamp-edger with pale eyes and thick white haircoiled up on top of his bullet head. He was not happy.     I leaned on the bar.       Lhak     , I said. He poured it, sullenly, out of agreen bottle. I reached for it, casually.     That guy we brought in, I said. He sure has a skinful. Passed outcold. What's he been spiking his drinks with?           Selak     , said a voice in my ear. As if you didn't know.     I turned. The man who had given Kapper the cigarette was standingbehind me. And I remembered him, then.  ","The first encounter between Beamish and the two occurred when Jig and Bucky were at the point of a fight. Beamish prevented them from this unnecessary action, and soon he saved the circus. The circus was broke, the performers were discontent with not getting their bills, the construction was loose, etc. There would be no tour and existence of the circus overall without this encounter. Being able to pay the gang, Jig and Bucky could show up without being afraid or ashamed to show up in their circus and keep doing business. This encounter was also somehow connected with the attempt to kill the two by letting the vapor snakes out. The trip to Venus in the end was also caused by this encounter, as it was the place where Beamish awaited for his partners and the gang. Therefore, he was somehow connected with them meeting Sam, a hunter supplying animals for the circus, and his eventual weird death. Beamish listening to their dialogue and overall investing in a broke circus creates a suspicion of his actions having some hidden reason. Together with the unhappiness of the gang and one creature smelling death, Beamish's unclear intentions seem scheming and threatening, adding to the intrigue of the whole story. "
"Describe the setting of the story </s>     The Blue Behemoth     By LEIGH BRACKETT     Shannon's Imperial Circus was a jinxed     space-carny leased for a mysterious tour     of the inner worlds. It made a one-night     pitch on a Venusian swamp-town—to     find that death stalked it from the     jungle in a tiny ball of flame.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories May 1943.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Bucky Shannon leaned forward across the little hexagonal table. Heknocked over the pitcher of      thil     , but it didn't matter. The pitcherwas empty. He jabbed me in the breastbone with his forefinger, notvery hard. Not hard enough to jar the ribs clean loose, just enough tospring them.     We, he said, are broke. We are finished, through. Washed up anddown the drain. He added, as an afterthought, Destitute.     I looked at him. I said sourly, You're kidding!     Kidding. Shannon put his elbows on the table and peered at me througha curtain of very blond hair that was trying hard to be red. He saysI'm kidding! With Shannon's Imperial Circus, the Greatest Show inSpace, plastered so thick with attachments....     It's no more plastered than you are. I was sore because he'd been alot quicker grabbing the pitcher. The Greatest Show in Space. Phooey!I've wet-nursed Shannon's Imperial Circus around the Triangle foreleven years, and I know. It's lousy, it's mangy, it's broken-down!Nothing works, from the ship to the roustabouts. In short, it stinks!     I must have had the pitcher oftener than I thought. Nobody insultsBuckhalter Shannon's Imperial Circus to Buckhalter Shannon's faceunless he's tired and wants a long rest in a comfy fracture-frame.     Shannon got up. He got up slowly. I had plenty of time to see hisgrey-green eyes get sleepy, and hear the quarter-Earth-blood Martiangirl wailing about love over by the battered piano, and watch theslanting cat-eyes of the little dark people at the tables swing roundtoward us, pleased and kind of hungry.     I had plenty of time to think how I only weigh one-thirty-seven toShannon's one-seventy-five, and how I'm not as young as I used to be.     I said, Bucky. Hold on, fella. I....     Somebody said, Excuse me, gentlemen. Is one of you Mister BuckhalterShannon?     Shannon put his hands down on his belt. He closed his eyes and smiledpleasantly and said, very gently:     Would you be collecting for the feed bill, or the fuel?     I shot a glance at the newcomer. He'd saved me from a beating, even ifhe was a lousy bill-collecter; and I felt sorry for him. Bucky Shannonsettled his shoulders and hips like a dancer.     The stranger was a little guy. He even made me look big. He was dressedin dark-green synthesilk, very conservative. There was a powdering ofgrey in his hair and his skin was pink, soft, and shaved painfullyclean. He had the kind of a face that nice maiden-ladies will trustwith their last dime. I looked for his strong-arm squad.     There didn't seem to be any. The little guy looked at Shannon with paleblue eyes like a baby, and his voice was softer than Bucky's.     He said, I don't think you understand.     I felt cold, suddenly, between the shoulders. Somebody scraped a chairback. It sounded like he'd ripped the floor open, it was so quiet. Igot my brassies on, and my hands were sweating. Bucky Shannon sighed,and let his fist start traveling, a long, deceptive arc.     Then I saw what the little guy was holding in his hand.     I yelled and knocked the table over into Bucky. It made a lot of noise.It knocked him sideways and down, and the little dark men jumped up,quivering and showing their teeth. The Martian girl screamed.     Bucky heaved the table off his lap and cursed me. What's eating you,Jig? I'm not going to hurt him.     Shut up, I said. Look what he's got there. Money!     The little guy looked at me. He hadn't turned a hair. Yes, he said.Money. Quite a lot of it. Would you gentlemen permit me to join you?     Bucky Shannon got up. He grinned his pleasantest grin. Delighted. I'mShannon. This is Jig Bentley, my business manager. He looked down atthe table. I'm sorry about that. Mistaken identity.     The little guy smiled. He did it with his lips. The rest of his facestayed placid and babyish, almost transparent. I realized with a startthat it wasn't transparent at all. It was the most complete dead-pan Iever met, and you couldn't see into those innocent blue eyes any morethan you could see through sheet metal.     I didn't like him. I didn't like him at all. But he had money. I said,Howdy. Let's go find a booth. These Marshies make me nervous, lookinglike hungry cats at a mouse-hole.     The little guy nodded. Excellent idea. My name is Beamish. SimonBeamish. I wish to—ah—charter your circus.  I looked at Bucky. He looked hungrier than the Marshies did. We didn'tsay anything until we got Beamish into a curtained booth with a freshpitcher of      thil     on the table. Then I cleared my throat.     What exactly did you have in mind, Mr. Beamish?     Beamish sipped his drink, made a polite face, and put it down. I haveindependent means, gentlemen. It has always been my desire to lightenthe burden of life for those less fortunate....     Bucky got red around the ears. Just a minute, he murmured, andstarted to get up. I kicked him under the table.     Shut up, you lug. Let Mister Beamish finish.     He sat down, looking like a mean dog waiting for the postman. Beamishignored him. He went on, quietly,     I have always held that entertainment, of the right sort, is the mostvaluable aid humanity can have in its search for the alleviation oftoil and boredom....     I said, Sure, sure. But what was your idea?     There are many towns along the Venusian frontiers where noentertainment of the—      proper     sort has been available. I propose toremedy that. I propose to charter your circus, Mister Shannon, to makea tour of several settlements along the Tehara Belt.     Bucky had relaxed. His grey-green eyes began to gleam. He started tospeak, and I kicked him again.     That would be expensive, Mister Beamish, I said. We'd have to cancelseveral engagements....     He looked at me. I was lying, and he knew it. But he said,     I quite understand that. I would be prepared....     The curtains were yanked back suddenly. Beamish shut up. Bucky and Iglared at the head and shoulders poking in between the drapes.     It was Gow, our zoo-man—a big, ugly son-of-a-gun from a Terrancolony on Mercury. I was there once. Gow looks a lot like thescenery—scowling, unapproachable, and tough. His hands, holding thecurtains apart, had thick black hair on them and were not much largerthan the hams of a Venusian swamp-rhino.     He said, Boss, Gertrude's actin' up again.     Gertrude be blowed, growled Bucky. Can't you see I'm busy?     Gow's black eyes were unpleasant. I'm tellin' you, Boss, Gertrudeain't happy. She ain't had the right food. If something....     I said, That'll all be taken care of, Gow. Run along now.     He looked at me like he was thinking it wouldn't take much timber tofit me for a coffin. Okay! But Gertrude's unhappy. She's lonesome,see? And if she don't get happier pretty soon I ain't sure your tin-potship'll hold her.     He pulled the curtains to and departed. Bucky Shannon groaned. Beamishcleared his throat and said, rather stiffly,     Gertrude?     Yeah. She's kind of temperamental. Bucky took a quick drink. Ifinished for him.     She's the star attraction of our show, Mr. Beamish. A real blue-swampVenusian      cansin     . The only other one on the Triangle belongs to SavittBrothers, and she's much smaller than Gertrude.     She was also much younger, but I didn't go into that. Gertrude may bea little creaky, but she's still pretty impressive. I only hoped shewouldn't die on us, because without her we'd have a sicker-lookingcircus than even I could stand.     Beamish looked impressed. A      cansin     . Well, well! The mysterysurrounding the origin and species of the      cansin     is a fascinatingsubject. The extreme rarity of the animal....     We were getting off the subject. I said tactfully, We'd have to haveat least a hundred U.C.'s.     It was twice what we had any right to ask. I was prepared to dicker.Beamish looked at me with that innocent dead pan. For a fraction of asecond I thought I saw something back of his round blue eyes, and mystomach jumped like it was shot. Beamish smiled sweetly.     I'm not much of a bargainer. One hundred Universal Credits will beagreeable to me. He dragged out a roll as big as my two fists, peeledoff half a dozen credit slips, and laid them on the table.     By way of a retainer, gentleman. My attorney and I will call on you inthe morning with a contract and itinerary. Good night.     We said good night, trying not to drool. Beamish went away. Bucky madegrab for the money, but I beat him to it.     Scram, I said. There are guys waiting for this. Big guys with clubs.Here. I gave him a small-denomination slip I'd been holding out. Wecan get lushed enough on this.     Shannon has a good vocabulary. He used it. When he got his breath backhe said suddenly,     Beamish is pulling some kind of a game.     Yeah.     It may be crooked.     Sure. And he may be screwball and on the level. For Pete's sake! Iyelled. You want to sit here till we all dry up and blow away?     Shannon looked at me, kind of funny. He looked at the bulge in my tunicwhere the roll was. He raked back his thick light hair.     Yeah, he said. I hope there'll be enough left to bribe the jury. Hepoked his head outside. Hey, boy! More      thildatum     !  It was pretty late when we got back to the broken-down spaceport whereShannon's Imperial Circus was crouching beneath its attachments. Lateas it was, they were waiting for us. About twenty of them, sittingaround and smoking and looking very ugly.     It was awfully lonesome out there, with the desert cold and restlessunder the two moons. There's a smell to Mars, like something dead anddried long past decay, but still waiting. An unhappy smell. The blownred dust gritted in my teeth.     Bucky Shannon walked out into the glare of the light at the entrance tothe roped-off space around the main lock. He was pretty steady on hisfeet. He waved and said, Hiya, boys.     They got up off the steps, and the packing cases, and came toward us. Igrinned and got into my brassies. We felt we owed those boys a lot morethan money. It grates on a man's pride to have to sneak in and out ofhis own property through the sewage lock. This was the first time inweeks we'd come in at the front door.     I waved the money in their faces. That stopped them. Very solemnly,Bucky and I checked the bills, paid them, and pocketed the receipts.Bucky yawned and stretched sleepily.     Now? he said.     Now, I said.     We had a lot of fun. Some of the boys inside the ship came out to joinin. We raised a lot of dust and nobody got killed, quite. We all wenthome happy. They had their money, and we had their blood.     The news was all over the ship before we got inside. The freaks and thegreen girl from Tethys who could roll herself like a hoop, and Zurt themuscle man from Jupiter, and all the other assorted geeks and kinkersand joeys that make up the usual corny carnie were doing nip-ups in thepassageways and drooling over the thought of steer and toppings.     Bucky Shannon regarded them possessively, wiping blood from his nose.They're good guys, Jig. Swell people. They stuck by me, and I'verewarded them.     I said, Sure, rather sourly. Bucky hiccoughed.     Let's go see Gertrude.     I didn't want to see Gertrude. I never got over feeling funny goinginto the brute tank, especially at night or out in space. I'm a cityguy, myself. The smell and sound of wildness gives me goose bumps. ButBucky was looking stubborn, so I shrugged.     Okay. But just for a minute. Then we go beddy-bye.     You're a pal, Jif. Bes' li'l' guy inna worl'....     The fight had just put the topper on him. I was afraid he'd fall downthe ladder and break his neck. That's why I went along. If I hadn't....Oh, well, what's a few nightmares among friends?     It was dark down there in the tank. Way off at the other end, there wasa dim glow. Gow was evidently holding Gertrude's hand. We started downthe long passageway between the rows of cages and glassed-in tanks andcompression units.     Our footsteps sounded loud and empty on the iron floor. I wasn'tnear as happy as Shannon, and my skin began to crawl a little. It'sthe smell, I think; rank and sour and wild. And the sound of them,breathing and rustling in the dark, with the patient hatred walledaround them as strong as the cage bars.     Bucky Shannon lurched against me suddenly. I choked back a yell, andthen wiped the sweat off my forehead and cursed. The scream came again.A high, ragged, whistling screech like nothing this side of hell,ripping through the musty darkness. Gertrude, on the wailing wall.     It had been quiet. Now every brute in the place let go at the sametime. My stomach turned clear over. I called Gertrude every name Icould think of, and I couldn't hear myself doing it. Presently a greatmetallic clash nearly burst my eardrums, and the beasts shut up. Gowhad them nicely conditioned to that gong.  But they didn't quiet down. Not really. They were uneasy. You can feelthem inside you when they're uneasy. I think that's why I'm scared ofthem. They make me feel like I'm not human as I thought—like I wantedto put my back-hair up and snarl. Yeah. They were uneasy that night,all of a sudden....     Gow glared at us as we came up into the lantern light. She's gettin'worse, he said. She's lonesome.     That's tough, said Bucky Shannon. His grey-green eyes looked like anowl's. He swayed slightly. That's sure tough. He sniffled.     I looked at Gertrude. Her cage is the biggest and strongest in the tankand even so she looked as though she could break it open just taking adeep breath. I don't know if you've ever seen a      cansin     . There's onlytwo of them on the Triangle. If you haven't, nothing I can say willmake much difference.     They're what the brain gang calls an end of evolution. Seems oldDame Nature had an idea that didn't jell. The      cansins     were prettysuccessful for a while, it seems, but something gummed up the works andnow there's only a few left, way in the deep-swamp country, where eventhe Venusians hardly ever go. Living fossils.     I wouldn't know, of course, but Gertrude looks to me like she got stucksome place between a dinosaur and a grizzly bear, with maybe a littlebird blood thrown in. Anyway, she's big.     I couldn't help feeling sorry for her. She was crouched in the cagewith her hands—yeah, hands—hanging over her knees and her snaky headsunk into her shoulders, looking out. Just looking. Not at anything.Her eyes were way back in deep horny pits, like cold green fire.     The lantern light was yellow on her blue-black skin, but it made themane, or crest, of coarse wide scales that ran from between her eyesclear down to her flat, short tail, burn all colors. She looked likeold Mother Misery herself, from way back before time began.     Gow said softly, She wants a mate. And somebody better get her one.     Bucky Shannon sniffled again. I said irritably, Be reasonable, Gow!Nobody's ever seen a male      cansin     . There may not even be any.     Gertrude screamed again. She didn't move, not even to raise her head.The sadness just built up inside her until it had to come out. Thatclose, the screech was deafening, and it turned me all limp and coldinside. The loneliness, the sheer stark, simple pain....     Bucky Shannon began to cry. I snarled, You'll have to snap her out ofthis, Gow. She's driving the rest of 'em nuts.     He hammered on his gong, and things quieted down again. Gow stoodlooking out over the tank, sniffing a little, like a hound. Then heturned to Gertrude.     I saved her life, he said. When we bought her out of Hanak's wreckand everybody thought she was too hurt to live, I saved her. I knowher. I can do things with her. But this time....     He shrugged. He was huge and tough and ugly, and his voice was like awoman's talking about a sick child.     This time, he said, I ain't sure.     Well for Pete's sake, do what you can. We got a charter, and we needher. I took Shannon's arm. Come to bed, Bucky darlin'.     He draped himself over my shoulder and we went off. Gow didn't look atus. Bucky sobbed.     You were right, Jig, he mumbled. Circus is no good. I know it. Butit's all I got. I love it, Jig. Unnerstan' me? Like Gow there withGertrude. She's ugly and no good, but he loves her. I love....     Sure, sure, I told him. Stop crying down my neck.     We were a long way from the light, then. The cages and tanks loomedhigh and black over us. It was still. The secret, uneasy motion allaround us and the scruffing of our feet only made it stiller.     Bucky was almost asleep on me. I started to slap him. And then the mistrose up out of the darkness in little lazy coils, sparkling faintlywith blue, cold fire.     I yelled, Gow! Gow, the Vapor snakes! Gow—for God's sake!     I started to run, back along the passageway. Bucky weighed on me, limpand heavy. The noise burst suddenly in a deafening hell of moans androars and shrieks, packed in tight by the metal walls, and above it allI could hear Gertrude's lonely, whistling scream.     I thought,       Somebody's down here. Somebody let 'em out. Somebody wantsto kill us!      I tried to yell again. It strangled in my throat. Isobbed, and the sweat was thick and cold on me.     One of Bucky's dragging, stumbling feet got between mine. We fell. Irolled on top of him, covering his face, and buried my own face in thehollow of his shoulder.     The first snake touched me. It was like a live wire, sliding along theback of my neck. I screamed. It came down along my cheek, hunting mymouth. There were more of them, burning me through my clothes.     Bucky moaned and kicked under me. I remember hanging on and thinking,This is it. This is it, and oh God, I'm scared!     Then I went out.      II     Kanza the Martian croaker, was bending over me when I woke up. Hislittle brown face was crinkled with laughter. He'd lost most of histeeth, and he gummed      thak     -weed. It smelt.     You pretty, Mis' Jig, he giggled. You funny like hell.     He slapped some cold greasy stuff on my face. It hurt. I cursed him andsaid, Where's Shannon? How is he?     Mis' Bucky okay. You save life. You big hero, Mis' Jig. Mis' Gow comenickuhtime get snakes. You hero. Haw! You funny like hell!     I said, Yeah, and pushed him away and got up. I almost fell downa couple of times, but presently I made it to the mirror over thewashstand—I was in my own cell—and I saw what Kanza meant. The damnedsnakes had done a good job. I looked like I was upholstered in Scotchplaid. I felt sick.     Bucky Shannon opened the door. He looked white and grim, and there wasa big burn across his neck. He said:     Beamish is here with his lawyer.     I picked up my shirt. Right with you.     Kanza went out, still giggling. Bucky closed the door.     Jig, he said, those vapor worms were all right when we went in.Somebody followed us down and let them out. On purpose.     I hurt all over. I growled, With that brain, son, you should go far.Nobody saw anything, of course? Bucky shook his head.     Question is, Jig, who wants to kill us, and why?     Beamish. He realizes he's been gypped.     One hundred U.C.'s, said Bucky softly, for a few lousy swampedgemining camps. It stinks, Jig. You think we should back out?     I shrugged. You're the boss man. I'm only the guy that beats off thecreditors.     Yeah, Bucky said reflectively. And I hear starvation isn't acomfortable death. Okay, Jig. Let's go sign. He put his hand on thelatch and looked at my feet. And—uh—Jig, I....     I said, Skip it. The next time, just don't trip me up, that's all!     We had a nasty trip to Venus. Gertrude kept the brute tank on edge,and Gow, on the rare occasions he came up for air, went around lookinglike a disaster hoping to happen. To make it worse, Zurt the Jovianstrong-man got hurt during the take-off, and the Mercurian cave-cat hadkittens.     Nobody would have minded that, only one of 'em had only four legs. Itlived just long enough to scare that bunch of superstitious dopes outof their pants. Circus people are funny that way.     Shannon and I did a little quiet sleuthing, but it was a waste of time.Anybody in the gang might have let those electric worms out on us. Itdidn't help any to know that somebody, maybe the guy next to you atdinner, was busy thinking ways to kill you. By the time we hit Venus, Iwas ready to do a Brodie out the refuse chute.     Shannon set the crate down on the edge of Nahru, the first stop on ouritinerary. I stood beside him, looking out the ports at the scenery. Itwas Venus, all right. Blue mud and thick green jungle and rain, and abunch of ratty-looking plastic shacks huddling together in the middleof it. Men in slickers were coming out for a look.     I saw Beamish's sleek yacht parked on a cradle over to the left, andour router's runabout beside it. Bucky Shannon groaned.     A blue one, Jig. A morgue if I ever saw one!     I snarled, What do you want, with this lousy dog-and-pony show! andwent out. He followed. The gang was converging on the lock, but theyweren't happy. You get so you can feel those things. The steamy Venusheat was already sneaking into the ship.     While we passed the hatchway to the brute tank, I could hear Gertrude,screaming.  The canvasmen were busy setting up the annex, slopping and cursing inthe mud. The paste brigade was heading for the shacks. Shannon and Istood with the hot rain running off our slickers, looking.     I heard a noise behind me and looked around. Ahra the Nahali woman wasstanding in the mud with her arms up and her head thrown back, and hertriangular mouth open like a thirsty dog. She didn't have anything onbut her blue-green, hard scaled hide, and she was chuckling. It didn'tsound nice.     You find a lot of Nahali people in side-shows, doing tricks withthe electric power they carry in their own bodies. They're Venusianmiddle-swampers, they're not human, and they never forget it.     Ahra opened her slitted red eyes and looked at me and laughed withwhite reptilian teeth.     Death, she whispered. Death and trouble. The jungle tells me. I cansmell it in the swamp wind.     The hot rain sluiced over her. She shivered, and the pale skin underher jaw pulsed like a toad's, and her eyes were red.     The deep swamps are angry, she whispered. Something has been taken.They are angry, and I smell death in the wind!     She turned away, laughing, and I cursed her, and my stomach was tightand cold. Bucky said,     Let's eat if they have a bar in this dump.     We weren't half way across the mud puddle that passed as a landingfield when a man came out of a shack on the edge of the settlement. Wecould see him plainly, because he was off to one side of the crowd.     He fell on his knees in the mud, making noises. It took him three orfour tries to get our names out clear enough to understand.     Bucky said, Jig—it's Sam Kapper.     We started to run. The crowd, mostly big unshaken miners, wheeledaround to see what was happening. People began to close in on the manwho crawled and whimpered in the mud.     Sam Kapper was a hunter, supplying animals to zoos and circuses andcarnivals. He'd given us good deals a couple of times, when we weren'ttoo broke, and we were pretty friendly.     I hadn't seen him for three seasons. I remembered him as a bronzed,hard-bitten guy, lean and tough as a twist of tung wire. I felt sick,looking down at him.     Bucky started to help him up. Kapper was crying, and he jerked all overlike animals I've seen that were scared to death. Some guy leaned overand put a cigarette in his mouth and lighted it for him.     I was thinking about Kapper, then, and I didn't pay much attention. Ionly caught a glimpse of the man's face as he straightened up. I didn'trealize until later that he looked familiar.     We got Kapper inside the shack. It turned out to be a cheap bar, with acouple of curtained booths at the back. We got him into one and pulledthe curtain in a lot of curious faces. Kapper dragged hard on thecigarette. The man that gave it to him was gone.     Bucky said gently, Okay, Sam. Relax. What's the trouble?  Kapper tried to straighten up. He hadn't shaved. The lean hard linesof his face had gone slack and his eyes were bloodshot. He was coveredwith mud, and his mouth twitched like a sick old man's.     He said thickly, I found it. I said I'd do it, and I did. I found itand brought it out.     The cigarette stub fell out of his mouth. He didn't notice it. Helpme, he said simply. I'm scared. His mouth drooled.     I got it hidden. They want to find out, but I won't tell 'em. It'sgot to go back. Back where I found it. I tried to take it, but theywouldn't let me, and I was afraid they'd find it....     He reached suddenly and grabbed the edge of the table. I don't knowhow they found out about it, but they did. I've got to get it back.I've got to....     Bucky looked at me. Kapper was blue around the mouth. I was scared,suddenly. I said, Get what back where?     Bucky got up. I'll get a doctor, he said. Stick with him. Kappergrabbed his wrist. Kapper's nails were blue and the cords in his handsstood out like guy wires.     Don't leave me. Got to tell you—where it is. Got to take it back.Promise you'll take it back. He gasped and struggled over hisbreathing.     Sure, said Bucky. Sure, well take it back. What is it?     Kapper's face was horrible. I felt sick, listening to him fight forair. I wanted to go for a doctor anyway, but somehow I knew it was nouse. Kapper whispered,           Cansin     . Male. Only one. You don't know...! Take him back.     Where is it, Sam?     I reached across Bucky suddenly and jerked the curtain back. Beamishwas standing there. Beamish, bent over, with his ear cocked. Kappermade a harsh strangling noise and fell across the table.     Beamish never changed expression. He didn't move while Bucky feltKapper's pulse. Bucky didn't need to say anything. We knew.     Heart? said Beamish finally.     Yeah, said Bucky. He looked as bad as I felt. Poor Sam.     I looked at the cigarette stub smoldering on the table. I looked atBeamish with his round dead baby face. I climbed over Shannon andpushed Beamish suddenly down into his lap.     Keep this guy here till I get back, I said.     Shannon stared at me. Beamish started to get indignant. Shut up, Itold him. We got a contract. I yanked the curtains shut and walkedover to the bar.     I began to notice something, then. There were quite a lot of men in theplace. At first glance they looked okay—a hard-faced, muscular bunchof miners in dirty shirts and high boots.     Then I looked at their hands. They were dirty enough. But they neverdid any work in a mine, on Venus or anywhere else.     The place was awfully quiet, for that kind of a place. The bartenderwas a big pot-bellied swamp-edger with pale eyes and thick white haircoiled up on top of his bullet head. He was not happy.     I leaned on the bar.       Lhak     , I said. He poured it, sullenly, out of agreen bottle. I reached for it, casually.     That guy we brought in, I said. He sure has a skinful. Passed outcold. What's he been spiking his drinks with?           Selak     , said a voice in my ear. As if you didn't know.     I turned. The man who had given Kapper the cigarette was standingbehind me. And I remembered him, then.  ","The story begins in the middle of some bar or club with a girl playing piano and drinks being served. When Beamish joined them, the three moved to a booth - a quieter place there. After the conversation, Jig and Bucky go to circus. At first, they meet the whole gang, coming through the main entrance. Then they move to the tank of a huge special creature, Gertrude, which is located a bit afar. On the way back home, outside the tank, the two were attacked by snakes. They woke up in different rooms, taken care of by Kanza the Martian croaker after being bitten by snakes and brought there by Gow, a member of the circus gang. Very soon they all together with the gang set off to Venus on a space ship to meet Beamish. On Venus the gang walked towards a local bar and the story ends there. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     SPACEMAN ON A SPREE     BY MACK REYNOLDS     Illustrated by Nodel     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      What's more important—Man's conquest     of space, or one spaceman's life?      I     They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension.     They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all.     In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much.     The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard.     He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft.     No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth.     They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn.  The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which wastypical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North Americawho still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia againsthaving his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould hiseyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses.     That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, HansGirard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convincedGubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch morecourage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon underthe Ultrawelfare State.     Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, Any morebright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing tothe cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim havemiserably failed.     Girard-Perregaux said easily, I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has.     That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly takePond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he hasbeen trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't twomen in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing ourdelving into space. Gubelin snapped his fingers. Like that, either ofus would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning theroad to his destiny.     His friend said drily, Either of us could have volunteered for pilottraining forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't.     At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkersthroughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who couldforesee that eventually our whole program would face ending due tolack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to faceadventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner ourancestors did?     Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced teaand tequila. He said, Nevertheless, both you and I conform with thepresent generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one'sway of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted withthe unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurouspastimes.     Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snaprebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. Facereality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond morethan is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in ourUltrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tombsecurity by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in oursociety that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low levelof subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being draftedinto industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of thepopulation is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitudedossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it wasyou yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing outthe more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but sixtrips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortablelife than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of thevery few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long yearsof drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, hemade his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He wasdrafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is nowfree from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen toour pleas for a few more trips?     But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for....  Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break offthe conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spokenman.     He said, No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man hasalways paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but inactuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him tothe least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no oneneed face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of thefact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond.     His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. Let'sleave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to thepoint. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It willtake months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiatepilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our nextexplorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have beenincreasingly hard to come by—even though in      our     minds, Hans, we arenear important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly sospark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will takehold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degeneratedto the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well bethat the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddieson Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of SpaceExploration.     So.... Girard-Perregaux said gently.     So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement!     Now we are getting to matters. Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as hisface took on an expression of Machiavellianism. And do not the endsjustify the means?     Gubelin blinked at him.     The other chuckled. The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you havefailed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever readof the sailor and his way of life?     Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got todo with it?     You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing morethan a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you neverheard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of hisbirth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months atsea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be outfor years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talkof his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would beone short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay andheading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morningwould find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off injail. So back to sea he'd have to go.     Gubelin grunted bitterly. Unfortunately, our present-day sailorcan't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'dpersonally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him overthe head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again.     He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to hisuniversal credit card. The ultimate means of exchange, he grunted.Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,nobody can, ah,      con     you out of it. Just how do you expect to severour present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg?     The other chuckled again. It is simply a matter of finding more modernmethods, my dear chap.  II     Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Anyexcuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the ageof twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn'tbeen a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have hisname pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated.     When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualificationswere such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation inthe Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking trainingfor space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others hadtaken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passedthe finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. Ithad been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faultytake-off on what should have been a routine Moon run.     Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration ofdangers met and passed.     Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law preventedhim from ever being called up for contributing to the country's laborneeds again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer.     He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn'tany particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get thereputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of thefellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied ornot. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else didyou need?     It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force.     In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistakein adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number ofworking hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were workingbut two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. Itbecame obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting inthirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it wasto have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and noneof them ever really becoming efficient.     The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remainunemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent ofunemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in areasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a yearand a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employeeswere needed, a draft lottery was held.     All persons registered in the labor force participated. If youwere drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosenmight feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they weregranted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasksthey fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, thedividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could besold for a lump sum on the market.     Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his ownvacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that mostof his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree wasobviously called for.     He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'daccumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intendedto blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit cardwas burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, hewasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly.     Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a thirdrate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in theclassiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show forall the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head.     Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through thecenturies since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip tothe tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage'sprofits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody getsquite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he whomust leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically andusually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spenthurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so longdenied him.     Si was going to do it differently this time.     Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. Theworks. But nothing but the best.  To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorableretirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin heattached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. Inthe Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually everperformed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren'tneeded. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,titles.     Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his creditcard was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to theauto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to thescreen and said, Balance check, please.     In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, Ten shares ofInalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, fourthousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two centsapiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars. Thescreen went dead.     One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safelyspend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped itwould. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and hewouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pondwas as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years.     He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tubetwo-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought downthe canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only oneplace really made sense. The big city.     He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimoreand Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. Hemight as well do it up brown.     He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged hiscar's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robotcontrols, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to hisdestination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information onthe hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelryhe'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebritygossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial.     Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond, he said aloud.     The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before theshot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes couldrefrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and thedirection of the pressure was reversed.     Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversingsub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened thecanopy and stepped into his hotel room.     A voice said gently, If the quarters are satisfactory, please presentyour credit card within ten minutes.     Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the mostswank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever sizethe guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it tothe full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both theEmpire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretchedthe all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis.     He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-diningtable, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dineor do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless hemanaged to acquire some feminine companionship, that was.     He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then floppedhimself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softnesshe presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in thatdirection so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into themattress.     He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that itfell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put itagainst the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so thatregistration could be completed.     For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take iteasy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollarsaround in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic inthe grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond.     He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drinkat the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be adime a dozen.     He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,Kudos Room.     The auto-elevator murmured politely, Yes, sir, the Kudos Room.  At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused amoment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this wasgoing to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and madehis way to the bar.     There was actually a bartender.     Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting anair of easy sophistication, Slivovitz Sour.     Yes, sir.     The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticedthey had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when thedrink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, soas to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him.     Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'ddreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confiningconning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it upto his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool totake a look at the others present.     To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. Nonethat he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of theUltrawelfare State or Sports personalities.     He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girlwho occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinkedand then swallowed.           Zo-ro-as-ter     , he breathed.     She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point ofhaving cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of hereyes. Every pore, but      every     pore, was in place. She sat with the easygrace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West.     His stare couldn't be ignored.     She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, A FarOut Cooler, please, Fredric. Then deliberately added, I thought theKudos Room was supposed to be exclusive.     There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went aboutbuilding the drink.     Si cleared his throat. Hey, he said, how about letting this one beon me?     Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out herOriental motif, rose. Really! she said, drawing it out.     The bartender said hurriedly, I beg your pardon, sir....     The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, Why, isn't that aspace pin?     Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, Yeah ... sure.     Good Heavens, you're a spaceman?     Sure. He pointed at the lapel pin. You can't wear one unless youbeen on at least a Moon run.     She was obviously both taken back and impressed. Why, she said,you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gaveyou.     Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. Call meSi, he said. Everybody calls me Si.     She said, I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meetingSeymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that.     Si, Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anythinglike this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of thecurrent sex symbols, but never in person. Call me Si, he said again.I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking toif they say Seymour.     I cried when they gave you that antique watch, she said, her tonesuch that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to havingmet him.     Si Pond was surprised. Cried? he said. Well, why? I was kind ofbored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work underhim in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it.           Academician     Gubelin? she said. You just call him      Doc     ?     Si was expansive. Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't havemuch time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Likethat. But how come you cried?  She looked down into the drink the bartender had placed before her,as though avoiding his face. I ... I suppose it was that speechDoctor Girard-Perregaux made. There you stood, so fine and straight inyour space-pilot uniform, the veteran of six exploration runs to theplanets....     Well, Si said modestly, two of my runs were only to the Moon.     ... and he said all those things about man's conquest of space. Andthe dream of the stars which man has held so long. And then the factthat you were the last of the space pilots. The last man in the wholeworld trained to pilot a space craft. And here you were, retiring.     Si grunted. Yeah. That's all part of the Doc's scheme to get me totake on another three runs. They're afraid the whole department'll bedropped by the Appropriations Committee on this here Economic PlanningBoard. Even if they can find some other patsy to train for the job,it'd take maybe a year before you could even send him on a Moon hop.So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying topressure me into more trips. Otherwise they got a Space ExplorationDepartment, with all the expense and all, but nobody to pilot theirships. It's kind of funny, in a way. You know what one of thosespaceships costs?     Funny? she said. Why, I don't think it's funny at all.     Si said, Look, how about another drink?     Natalie Paskov said, Oh, I'd love to have a drink with you, Mr....       Si, Si said. He motioned to the bartender with a circular twist ofthe hand indicating their need for two more of the same. How come youknow so much about it? You don't meet many people who are interestedin space any more. In fact, most people are almost contemptuous, like.Think it's kind of a big boondoggle deal to help use up a lot ofmaterials and all and keep the economy going.     Natalie said earnestly, Why, I've been a space fan all my life. I'veread all about it. Have always known the names of all the space pilotsand everything about them, ever since I was a child. I suppose you'dsay I have the dream that Doctor Girard-Perregaux spoke about.     Si chuckled. A real buff, eh? You know, it's kind of funny. I wasnever much interested in it. And I got a darn sight less interestedafter my first run and I found out what space cafard was.     She frowned. I don't believe I know much about that.     Sitting in the Kudos Room with the most beautiful girl to whom he hadever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. Old Gubelinkeeps that angle mostly hushed up and out of the magazine and newspaperarticles. Says there's enough adverse publicity about space explorationalready. But at this stage of the game when the whole ship's crammedtight with this automatic scientific apparatus and all, there'sprecious little room in the conning tower and you're the only manaboard. The Doc says later on when ships are bigger and there's a wholeflock of people aboard, there won't be any such thing as space cafard,but.... Of a sudden the right side of Si Pond's mouth began to ticand he hurriedly took up his drink and knocked it back.    ","Seymour Pond has just retired from his career as the last astronaut from the Ultrawelfare State at the age of thirty. At his going away party he is given a watch, and academics like Lifting Gubelin and Dr Hans Girarad-Perregaux speak on his behalf. Si has decided to take the money he has saved up from his time working, which most people in the Ultrawelfare state don't, and live a simple comfortable life. He intends to never work again, after his six space flights. The currency used in the state was universal, controlled by a personal credit card. Because most jobs were automated, few people had to work, so most people lived off of a set welfare, and those selected to work were given a little extra compensation. Si was one of these people. Gubelin and Perregaux are both horrified by the fact that Pond has decided to take an early retirement. He was their only pilot for their space program, and if they were to get another, it would take at least a year of training. Without a pilot, they are worried that their funding will be cut, and the space program will be shut down. They scheme together as to how to get Pond back in the space program. They think that the only way to get him back would be to make sure he was left without any money, and therefore would have no choice but to return to his former position. Si is planning a big night out. He has always gone and celebrated when there was a cause, and tonight, he was planning to spend at least half of all the money in his account. He gets dressed in his retirement rank suit to go out, checks his balance, and then takes his vacuum tube to New york city. Before he leaves, he books a room at a swanky hotel for the rich and famous, and after a few moments, his car transports him to his room. There is an amazing view of the city, and from his room, gets ready to go to the bar. At the bar he orders a drink, before noticing a beautiful woman beside him. They get to talking and before long, she tells him she recognises him, telling him about how moved she found his whole retirement ceremony. Making it very clear she wasn't happy he was retiring. He asks why she has an interest in space, to which she replies that she always has. He begins to explain the aspects of space flight, when the right side of his mouth begins to tick, and he knocks his drink back. "
"Please describe the Ultrawelfare State. </s>     SPACEMAN ON A SPREE     BY MACK REYNOLDS     Illustrated by Nodel     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      What's more important—Man's conquest     of space, or one spaceman's life?      I     They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension.     They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all.     In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much.     The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard.     He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft.     No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth.     They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn.  The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which wastypical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North Americawho still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia againsthaving his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould hiseyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses.     That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, HansGirard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convincedGubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch morecourage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon underthe Ultrawelfare State.     Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, Any morebright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing tothe cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim havemiserably failed.     Girard-Perregaux said easily, I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has.     That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly takePond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he hasbeen trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't twomen in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing ourdelving into space. Gubelin snapped his fingers. Like that, either ofus would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning theroad to his destiny.     His friend said drily, Either of us could have volunteered for pilottraining forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't.     At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkersthroughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who couldforesee that eventually our whole program would face ending due tolack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to faceadventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner ourancestors did?     Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced teaand tequila. He said, Nevertheless, both you and I conform with thepresent generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one'sway of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted withthe unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurouspastimes.     Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snaprebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. Facereality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond morethan is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in ourUltrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tombsecurity by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in oursociety that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low levelof subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being draftedinto industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of thepopulation is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitudedossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it wasyou yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing outthe more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but sixtrips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortablelife than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of thevery few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long yearsof drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, hemade his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He wasdrafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is nowfree from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen toour pleas for a few more trips?     But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for....  Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break offthe conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spokenman.     He said, No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man hasalways paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but inactuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him tothe least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no oneneed face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of thefact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond.     His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. Let'sleave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to thepoint. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It willtake months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiatepilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our nextexplorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have beenincreasingly hard to come by—even though in      our     minds, Hans, we arenear important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly sospark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will takehold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degeneratedto the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well bethat the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddieson Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of SpaceExploration.     So.... Girard-Perregaux said gently.     So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement!     Now we are getting to matters. Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as hisface took on an expression of Machiavellianism. And do not the endsjustify the means?     Gubelin blinked at him.     The other chuckled. The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you havefailed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever readof the sailor and his way of life?     Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got todo with it?     You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing morethan a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you neverheard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of hisbirth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months atsea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be outfor years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talkof his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would beone short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay andheading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morningwould find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off injail. So back to sea he'd have to go.     Gubelin grunted bitterly. Unfortunately, our present-day sailorcan't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'dpersonally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him overthe head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again.     He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to hisuniversal credit card. The ultimate means of exchange, he grunted.Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,nobody can, ah,      con     you out of it. Just how do you expect to severour present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg?     The other chuckled again. It is simply a matter of finding more modernmethods, my dear chap.  II     Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Anyexcuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the ageof twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn'tbeen a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have hisname pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated.     When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualificationswere such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation inthe Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking trainingfor space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others hadtaken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passedthe finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. Ithad been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faultytake-off on what should have been a routine Moon run.     Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration ofdangers met and passed.     Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law preventedhim from ever being called up for contributing to the country's laborneeds again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer.     He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn'tany particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get thereputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of thefellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied ornot. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else didyou need?     It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force.     In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistakein adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number ofworking hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were workingbut two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. Itbecame obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting inthirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it wasto have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and noneof them ever really becoming efficient.     The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remainunemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent ofunemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in areasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a yearand a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employeeswere needed, a draft lottery was held.     All persons registered in the labor force participated. If youwere drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosenmight feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they weregranted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasksthey fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, thedividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could besold for a lump sum on the market.     Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his ownvacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that mostof his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree wasobviously called for.     He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'daccumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intendedto blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit cardwas burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, hewasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly.     Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a thirdrate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in theclassiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show forall the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head.     Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through thecenturies since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip tothe tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage'sprofits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody getsquite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he whomust leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically andusually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spenthurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so longdenied him.     Si was going to do it differently this time.     Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. Theworks. But nothing but the best.  To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorableretirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin heattached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. Inthe Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually everperformed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren'tneeded. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,titles.     Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his creditcard was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to theauto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to thescreen and said, Balance check, please.     In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, Ten shares ofInalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, fourthousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two centsapiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars. Thescreen went dead.     One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safelyspend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped itwould. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and hewouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pondwas as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years.     He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tubetwo-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought downthe canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only oneplace really made sense. The big city.     He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimoreand Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. Hemight as well do it up brown.     He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged hiscar's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robotcontrols, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to hisdestination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information onthe hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelryhe'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebritygossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial.     Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond, he said aloud.     The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before theshot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes couldrefrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and thedirection of the pressure was reversed.     Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversingsub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened thecanopy and stepped into his hotel room.     A voice said gently, If the quarters are satisfactory, please presentyour credit card within ten minutes.     Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the mostswank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever sizethe guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it tothe full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both theEmpire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretchedthe all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis.     He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-diningtable, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dineor do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless hemanaged to acquire some feminine companionship, that was.     He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then floppedhimself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softnesshe presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in thatdirection so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into themattress.     He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that itfell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put itagainst the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so thatregistration could be completed.     For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take iteasy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollarsaround in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic inthe grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond.     He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drinkat the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be adime a dozen.     He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,Kudos Room.     The auto-elevator murmured politely, Yes, sir, the Kudos Room.  At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused amoment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this wasgoing to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and madehis way to the bar.     There was actually a bartender.     Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting anair of easy sophistication, Slivovitz Sour.     Yes, sir.     The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticedthey had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when thedrink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, soas to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him.     Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'ddreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confiningconning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it upto his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool totake a look at the others present.     To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. Nonethat he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of theUltrawelfare State or Sports personalities.     He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girlwho occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinkedand then swallowed.           Zo-ro-as-ter     , he breathed.     She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point ofhaving cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of hereyes. Every pore, but      every     pore, was in place. She sat with the easygrace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West.     His stare couldn't be ignored.     She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, A FarOut Cooler, please, Fredric. Then deliberately added, I thought theKudos Room was supposed to be exclusive.     There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went aboutbuilding the drink.     Si cleared his throat. Hey, he said, how about letting this one beon me?     Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out herOriental motif, rose. Really! she said, drawing it out.     The bartender said hurriedly, I beg your pardon, sir....     The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, Why, isn't that aspace pin?     Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, Yeah ... sure.     Good Heavens, you're a spaceman?     Sure. He pointed at the lapel pin. You can't wear one unless youbeen on at least a Moon run.     She was obviously both taken back and impressed. Why, she said,you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gaveyou.     Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. Call meSi, he said. Everybody calls me Si.     She said, I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meetingSeymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that.     Si, Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anythinglike this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of thecurrent sex symbols, but never in person. Call me Si, he said again.I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking toif they say Seymour.     I cried when they gave you that antique watch, she said, her tonesuch that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to havingmet him.     Si Pond was surprised. Cried? he said. Well, why? I was kind ofbored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work underhim in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it.           Academician     Gubelin? she said. You just call him      Doc     ?     Si was expansive. Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't havemuch time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Likethat. But how come you cried?  She looked down into the drink the bartender had placed before her,as though avoiding his face. I ... I suppose it was that speechDoctor Girard-Perregaux made. There you stood, so fine and straight inyour space-pilot uniform, the veteran of six exploration runs to theplanets....     Well, Si said modestly, two of my runs were only to the Moon.     ... and he said all those things about man's conquest of space. Andthe dream of the stars which man has held so long. And then the factthat you were the last of the space pilots. The last man in the wholeworld trained to pilot a space craft. And here you were, retiring.     Si grunted. Yeah. That's all part of the Doc's scheme to get me totake on another three runs. They're afraid the whole department'll bedropped by the Appropriations Committee on this here Economic PlanningBoard. Even if they can find some other patsy to train for the job,it'd take maybe a year before you could even send him on a Moon hop.So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying topressure me into more trips. Otherwise they got a Space ExplorationDepartment, with all the expense and all, but nobody to pilot theirships. It's kind of funny, in a way. You know what one of thosespaceships costs?     Funny? she said. Why, I don't think it's funny at all.     Si said, Look, how about another drink?     Natalie Paskov said, Oh, I'd love to have a drink with you, Mr....       Si, Si said. He motioned to the bartender with a circular twist ofthe hand indicating their need for two more of the same. How come youknow so much about it? You don't meet many people who are interestedin space any more. In fact, most people are almost contemptuous, like.Think it's kind of a big boondoggle deal to help use up a lot ofmaterials and all and keep the economy going.     Natalie said earnestly, Why, I've been a space fan all my life. I'veread all about it. Have always known the names of all the space pilotsand everything about them, ever since I was a child. I suppose you'dsay I have the dream that Doctor Girard-Perregaux spoke about.     Si chuckled. A real buff, eh? You know, it's kind of funny. I wasnever much interested in it. And I got a darn sight less interestedafter my first run and I found out what space cafard was.     She frowned. I don't believe I know much about that.     Sitting in the Kudos Room with the most beautiful girl to whom he hadever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. Old Gubelinkeeps that angle mostly hushed up and out of the magazine and newspaperarticles. Says there's enough adverse publicity about space explorationalready. But at this stage of the game when the whole ship's crammedtight with this automatic scientific apparatus and all, there'sprecious little room in the conning tower and you're the only manaboard. The Doc says later on when ships are bigger and there's a wholeflock of people aboard, there won't be any such thing as space cafard,but.... Of a sudden the right side of Si Pond's mouth began to ticand he hurriedly took up his drink and knocked it back.    ","The Ultrawelfare State is a distant future society, based upon the main ideas of communism. Every person in the state is guaranteed shares in the society, which translates to money, food, clothes, housing, medical care and education. The money of the nation is doled out by the economic planning board, who determine how the communal wealth is spent. Everyone is given a universal credit card, which only they can access, and they can check their balances on the teevee phones. The way in which people are selected to work in the state is very interesting. In this society, most jobs are automated, so very few people are unfortunate enough to have to work. People are selected for different jobs based on their physical and mental qualifications. People who don't work have their assigned shares to live off of, and those that are selected to work are given a little extra as compensation. When the society was first formed, they tried to give everyone work, but they realised that it was no good to have people working for two hours, two days a week, so they created the draft lottery. Most people live in small apartments, and the fortunate living Si, are able to afford vacuum tubes, which can take you anywhere in an instant. It is only the swankiest of places that have real people working in them. All payment is automated, and different settings of rooms can be changed in an instant in fancy hotels. "
"How do Gubelin and Perregaux plan to get Pond back in the space program? </s>     SPACEMAN ON A SPREE     BY MACK REYNOLDS     Illustrated by Nodel     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      What's more important—Man's conquest     of space, or one spaceman's life?      I     They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension.     They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all.     In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much.     The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard.     He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft.     No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth.     They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn.  The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which wastypical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North Americawho still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia againsthaving his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould hiseyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses.     That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, HansGirard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convincedGubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch morecourage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon underthe Ultrawelfare State.     Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, Any morebright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing tothe cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim havemiserably failed.     Girard-Perregaux said easily, I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has.     That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly takePond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he hasbeen trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't twomen in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing ourdelving into space. Gubelin snapped his fingers. Like that, either ofus would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning theroad to his destiny.     His friend said drily, Either of us could have volunteered for pilottraining forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't.     At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkersthroughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who couldforesee that eventually our whole program would face ending due tolack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to faceadventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner ourancestors did?     Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced teaand tequila. He said, Nevertheless, both you and I conform with thepresent generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one'sway of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted withthe unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurouspastimes.     Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snaprebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. Facereality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond morethan is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in ourUltrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tombsecurity by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in oursociety that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low levelof subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being draftedinto industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of thepopulation is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitudedossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it wasyou yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing outthe more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but sixtrips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortablelife than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of thevery few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long yearsof drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, hemade his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He wasdrafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is nowfree from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen toour pleas for a few more trips?     But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for....  Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break offthe conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spokenman.     He said, No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man hasalways paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but inactuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him tothe least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no oneneed face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of thefact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond.     His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. Let'sleave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to thepoint. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It willtake months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiatepilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our nextexplorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have beenincreasingly hard to come by—even though in      our     minds, Hans, we arenear important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly sospark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will takehold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degeneratedto the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well bethat the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddieson Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of SpaceExploration.     So.... Girard-Perregaux said gently.     So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement!     Now we are getting to matters. Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as hisface took on an expression of Machiavellianism. And do not the endsjustify the means?     Gubelin blinked at him.     The other chuckled. The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you havefailed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever readof the sailor and his way of life?     Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got todo with it?     You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing morethan a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you neverheard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of hisbirth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months atsea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be outfor years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talkof his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would beone short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay andheading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morningwould find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off injail. So back to sea he'd have to go.     Gubelin grunted bitterly. Unfortunately, our present-day sailorcan't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'dpersonally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him overthe head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again.     He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to hisuniversal credit card. The ultimate means of exchange, he grunted.Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,nobody can, ah,      con     you out of it. Just how do you expect to severour present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg?     The other chuckled again. It is simply a matter of finding more modernmethods, my dear chap.  II     Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Anyexcuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the ageof twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn'tbeen a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have hisname pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated.     When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualificationswere such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation inthe Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking trainingfor space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others hadtaken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passedthe finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. Ithad been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faultytake-off on what should have been a routine Moon run.     Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration ofdangers met and passed.     Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law preventedhim from ever being called up for contributing to the country's laborneeds again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer.     He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn'tany particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get thereputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of thefellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied ornot. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else didyou need?     It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force.     In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistakein adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number ofworking hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were workingbut two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. Itbecame obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting inthirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it wasto have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and noneof them ever really becoming efficient.     The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remainunemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent ofunemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in areasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a yearand a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employeeswere needed, a draft lottery was held.     All persons registered in the labor force participated. If youwere drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosenmight feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they weregranted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasksthey fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, thedividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could besold for a lump sum on the market.     Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his ownvacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that mostof his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree wasobviously called for.     He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'daccumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intendedto blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit cardwas burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, hewasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly.     Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a thirdrate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in theclassiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show forall the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head.     Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through thecenturies since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip tothe tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage'sprofits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody getsquite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he whomust leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically andusually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spenthurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so longdenied him.     Si was going to do it differently this time.     Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. Theworks. But nothing but the best.  To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorableretirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin heattached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. Inthe Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually everperformed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren'tneeded. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,titles.     Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his creditcard was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to theauto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to thescreen and said, Balance check, please.     In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, Ten shares ofInalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, fourthousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two centsapiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars. Thescreen went dead.     One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safelyspend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped itwould. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and hewouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pondwas as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years.     He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tubetwo-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought downthe canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only oneplace really made sense. The big city.     He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimoreand Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. Hemight as well do it up brown.     He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged hiscar's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robotcontrols, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to hisdestination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information onthe hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelryhe'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebritygossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial.     Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond, he said aloud.     The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before theshot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes couldrefrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and thedirection of the pressure was reversed.     Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversingsub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened thecanopy and stepped into his hotel room.     A voice said gently, If the quarters are satisfactory, please presentyour credit card within ten minutes.     Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the mostswank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever sizethe guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it tothe full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both theEmpire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretchedthe all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis.     He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-diningtable, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dineor do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless hemanaged to acquire some feminine companionship, that was.     He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then floppedhimself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softnesshe presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in thatdirection so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into themattress.     He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that itfell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put itagainst the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so thatregistration could be completed.     For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take iteasy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollarsaround in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic inthe grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond.     He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drinkat the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be adime a dozen.     He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,Kudos Room.     The auto-elevator murmured politely, Yes, sir, the Kudos Room.  At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused amoment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this wasgoing to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and madehis way to the bar.     There was actually a bartender.     Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting anair of easy sophistication, Slivovitz Sour.     Yes, sir.     The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticedthey had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when thedrink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, soas to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him.     Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'ddreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confiningconning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it upto his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool totake a look at the others present.     To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. Nonethat he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of theUltrawelfare State or Sports personalities.     He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girlwho occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinkedand then swallowed.           Zo-ro-as-ter     , he breathed.     She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point ofhaving cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of hereyes. Every pore, but      every     pore, was in place. She sat with the easygrace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West.     His stare couldn't be ignored.     She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, A FarOut Cooler, please, Fredric. Then deliberately added, I thought theKudos Room was supposed to be exclusive.     There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went aboutbuilding the drink.     Si cleared his throat. Hey, he said, how about letting this one beon me?     Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out herOriental motif, rose. Really! she said, drawing it out.     The bartender said hurriedly, I beg your pardon, sir....     The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, Why, isn't that aspace pin?     Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, Yeah ... sure.     Good Heavens, you're a spaceman?     Sure. He pointed at the lapel pin. You can't wear one unless youbeen on at least a Moon run.     She was obviously both taken back and impressed. Why, she said,you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gaveyou.     Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. Call meSi, he said. Everybody calls me Si.     She said, I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meetingSeymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that.     Si, Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anythinglike this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of thecurrent sex symbols, but never in person. Call me Si, he said again.I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking toif they say Seymour.     I cried when they gave you that antique watch, she said, her tonesuch that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to havingmet him.     Si Pond was surprised. Cried? he said. Well, why? I was kind ofbored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work underhim in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it.           Academician     Gubelin? she said. You just call him      Doc     ?     Si was expansive. Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't havemuch time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Likethat. But how come you cried?  She looked down into the drink the bartender had placed before her,as though avoiding his face. I ... I suppose it was that speechDoctor Girard-Perregaux made. There you stood, so fine and straight inyour space-pilot uniform, the veteran of six exploration runs to theplanets....     Well, Si said modestly, two of my runs were only to the Moon.     ... and he said all those things about man's conquest of space. Andthe dream of the stars which man has held so long. And then the factthat you were the last of the space pilots. The last man in the wholeworld trained to pilot a space craft. And here you were, retiring.     Si grunted. Yeah. That's all part of the Doc's scheme to get me totake on another three runs. They're afraid the whole department'll bedropped by the Appropriations Committee on this here Economic PlanningBoard. Even if they can find some other patsy to train for the job,it'd take maybe a year before you could even send him on a Moon hop.So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying topressure me into more trips. Otherwise they got a Space ExplorationDepartment, with all the expense and all, but nobody to pilot theirships. It's kind of funny, in a way. You know what one of thosespaceships costs?     Funny? she said. Why, I don't think it's funny at all.     Si said, Look, how about another drink?     Natalie Paskov said, Oh, I'd love to have a drink with you, Mr....       Si, Si said. He motioned to the bartender with a circular twist ofthe hand indicating their need for two more of the same. How come youknow so much about it? You don't meet many people who are interestedin space any more. In fact, most people are almost contemptuous, like.Think it's kind of a big boondoggle deal to help use up a lot ofmaterials and all and keep the economy going.     Natalie said earnestly, Why, I've been a space fan all my life. I'veread all about it. Have always known the names of all the space pilotsand everything about them, ever since I was a child. I suppose you'dsay I have the dream that Doctor Girard-Perregaux spoke about.     Si chuckled. A real buff, eh? You know, it's kind of funny. I wasnever much interested in it. And I got a darn sight less interestedafter my first run and I found out what space cafard was.     She frowned. I don't believe I know much about that.     Sitting in the Kudos Room with the most beautiful girl to whom he hadever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. Old Gubelinkeeps that angle mostly hushed up and out of the magazine and newspaperarticles. Says there's enough adverse publicity about space explorationalready. But at this stage of the game when the whole ship's crammedtight with this automatic scientific apparatus and all, there'sprecious little room in the conning tower and you're the only manaboard. The Doc says later on when ships are bigger and there's a wholeflock of people aboard, there won't be any such thing as space cafard,but.... Of a sudden the right side of Si Pond's mouth began to ticand he hurriedly took up his drink and knocked it back.    ","Gubelin and Perregaux know that they must get Pond back into their program, if they are going to save it from their funding being cut.  Perregaux tells Gubelin about a theory, where a sailor, who has been out at sea for many months, will always blow his hard earned money on one night out the minute he's back in town, no matter how much he wanted to save it. This is because of the loneliness of the sailor, and their need to make up for all the experiences that he has missed out on while he was at sea. The sailor will wake up the next morning, having spent all his money, without a cent to his name. Then, he will have to go back out to sea, to make back the money he has lost, so the cycle continues. Perregaux believes that Pond is this sailor, and if only they could set a trap for him, in which it would cause him to lose all his money in one night, he would have to go back to work for them. They plant Natalie Paskov, a beautiful woman at the bar where Pond goes. She interacts with him as if he's famous, stroking his ego. She then goes on to show her disdain for the idea that he has retired, and he orders them drinks. And so the night begins, with Pond starting to get drunk, and lose all his money to Natalie. "
"What was Seymour Pond's job, how was he selected for it, and what did it entail? </s>     SPACEMAN ON A SPREE     BY MACK REYNOLDS     Illustrated by Nodel     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      What's more important—Man's conquest     of space, or one spaceman's life?      I     They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension.     They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all.     In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much.     The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard.     He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft.     No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth.     They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn.  The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which wastypical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North Americawho still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia againsthaving his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould hiseyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses.     That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, HansGirard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convincedGubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch morecourage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon underthe Ultrawelfare State.     Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, Any morebright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing tothe cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim havemiserably failed.     Girard-Perregaux said easily, I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has.     That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly takePond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he hasbeen trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't twomen in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing ourdelving into space. Gubelin snapped his fingers. Like that, either ofus would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning theroad to his destiny.     His friend said drily, Either of us could have volunteered for pilottraining forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't.     At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkersthroughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who couldforesee that eventually our whole program would face ending due tolack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to faceadventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner ourancestors did?     Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced teaand tequila. He said, Nevertheless, both you and I conform with thepresent generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one'sway of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted withthe unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurouspastimes.     Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snaprebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. Facereality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond morethan is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in ourUltrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tombsecurity by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in oursociety that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low levelof subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being draftedinto industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of thepopulation is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitudedossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it wasyou yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing outthe more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but sixtrips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortablelife than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of thevery few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long yearsof drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, hemade his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He wasdrafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is nowfree from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen toour pleas for a few more trips?     But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for....  Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break offthe conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spokenman.     He said, No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man hasalways paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but inactuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him tothe least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no oneneed face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of thefact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond.     His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. Let'sleave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to thepoint. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It willtake months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiatepilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our nextexplorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have beenincreasingly hard to come by—even though in      our     minds, Hans, we arenear important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly sospark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will takehold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degeneratedto the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well bethat the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddieson Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of SpaceExploration.     So.... Girard-Perregaux said gently.     So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement!     Now we are getting to matters. Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as hisface took on an expression of Machiavellianism. And do not the endsjustify the means?     Gubelin blinked at him.     The other chuckled. The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you havefailed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever readof the sailor and his way of life?     Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got todo with it?     You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing morethan a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you neverheard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of hisbirth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months atsea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be outfor years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talkof his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would beone short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay andheading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morningwould find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off injail. So back to sea he'd have to go.     Gubelin grunted bitterly. Unfortunately, our present-day sailorcan't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'dpersonally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him overthe head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again.     He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to hisuniversal credit card. The ultimate means of exchange, he grunted.Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,nobody can, ah,      con     you out of it. Just how do you expect to severour present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg?     The other chuckled again. It is simply a matter of finding more modernmethods, my dear chap.  II     Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Anyexcuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the ageof twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn'tbeen a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have hisname pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated.     When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualificationswere such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation inthe Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking trainingfor space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others hadtaken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passedthe finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. Ithad been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faultytake-off on what should have been a routine Moon run.     Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration ofdangers met and passed.     Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law preventedhim from ever being called up for contributing to the country's laborneeds again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer.     He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn'tany particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get thereputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of thefellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied ornot. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else didyou need?     It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force.     In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistakein adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number ofworking hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were workingbut two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. Itbecame obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting inthirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it wasto have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and noneof them ever really becoming efficient.     The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remainunemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent ofunemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in areasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a yearand a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employeeswere needed, a draft lottery was held.     All persons registered in the labor force participated. If youwere drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosenmight feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they weregranted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasksthey fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, thedividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could besold for a lump sum on the market.     Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his ownvacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that mostof his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree wasobviously called for.     He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'daccumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intendedto blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit cardwas burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, hewasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly.     Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a thirdrate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in theclassiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show forall the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head.     Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through thecenturies since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip tothe tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage'sprofits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody getsquite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he whomust leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically andusually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spenthurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so longdenied him.     Si was going to do it differently this time.     Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. Theworks. But nothing but the best.  To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorableretirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin heattached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. Inthe Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually everperformed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren'tneeded. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,titles.     Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his creditcard was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to theauto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to thescreen and said, Balance check, please.     In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, Ten shares ofInalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, fourthousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two centsapiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars. Thescreen went dead.     One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safelyspend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped itwould. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and hewouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pondwas as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years.     He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tubetwo-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought downthe canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only oneplace really made sense. The big city.     He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimoreand Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. Hemight as well do it up brown.     He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged hiscar's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robotcontrols, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to hisdestination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information onthe hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelryhe'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebritygossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial.     Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond, he said aloud.     The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before theshot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes couldrefrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and thedirection of the pressure was reversed.     Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversingsub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened thecanopy and stepped into his hotel room.     A voice said gently, If the quarters are satisfactory, please presentyour credit card within ten minutes.     Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the mostswank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever sizethe guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it tothe full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both theEmpire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretchedthe all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis.     He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-diningtable, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dineor do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless hemanaged to acquire some feminine companionship, that was.     He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then floppedhimself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softnesshe presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in thatdirection so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into themattress.     He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that itfell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put itagainst the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so thatregistration could be completed.     For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take iteasy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollarsaround in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic inthe grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond.     He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drinkat the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be adime a dozen.     He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,Kudos Room.     The auto-elevator murmured politely, Yes, sir, the Kudos Room.  At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused amoment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this wasgoing to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and madehis way to the bar.     There was actually a bartender.     Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting anair of easy sophistication, Slivovitz Sour.     Yes, sir.     The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticedthey had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when thedrink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, soas to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him.     Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'ddreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confiningconning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it upto his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool totake a look at the others present.     To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. Nonethat he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of theUltrawelfare State or Sports personalities.     He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girlwho occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinkedand then swallowed.           Zo-ro-as-ter     , he breathed.     She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point ofhaving cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of hereyes. Every pore, but      every     pore, was in place. She sat with the easygrace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West.     His stare couldn't be ignored.     She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, A FarOut Cooler, please, Fredric. Then deliberately added, I thought theKudos Room was supposed to be exclusive.     There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went aboutbuilding the drink.     Si cleared his throat. Hey, he said, how about letting this one beon me?     Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out herOriental motif, rose. Really! she said, drawing it out.     The bartender said hurriedly, I beg your pardon, sir....     The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, Why, isn't that aspace pin?     Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, Yeah ... sure.     Good Heavens, you're a spaceman?     Sure. He pointed at the lapel pin. You can't wear one unless youbeen on at least a Moon run.     She was obviously both taken back and impressed. Why, she said,you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gaveyou.     Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. Call meSi, he said. Everybody calls me Si.     She said, I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meetingSeymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that.     Si, Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anythinglike this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of thecurrent sex symbols, but never in person. Call me Si, he said again.I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking toif they say Seymour.     I cried when they gave you that antique watch, she said, her tonesuch that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to havingmet him.     Si Pond was surprised. Cried? he said. Well, why? I was kind ofbored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work underhim in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it.           Academician     Gubelin? she said. You just call him      Doc     ?     Si was expansive. Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't havemuch time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Likethat. But how come you cried?  She looked down into the drink the bartender had placed before her,as though avoiding his face. I ... I suppose it was that speechDoctor Girard-Perregaux made. There you stood, so fine and straight inyour space-pilot uniform, the veteran of six exploration runs to theplanets....     Well, Si said modestly, two of my runs were only to the Moon.     ... and he said all those things about man's conquest of space. Andthe dream of the stars which man has held so long. And then the factthat you were the last of the space pilots. The last man in the wholeworld trained to pilot a space craft. And here you were, retiring.     Si grunted. Yeah. That's all part of the Doc's scheme to get me totake on another three runs. They're afraid the whole department'll bedropped by the Appropriations Committee on this here Economic PlanningBoard. Even if they can find some other patsy to train for the job,it'd take maybe a year before you could even send him on a Moon hop.So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying topressure me into more trips. Otherwise they got a Space ExplorationDepartment, with all the expense and all, but nobody to pilot theirships. It's kind of funny, in a way. You know what one of thosespaceships costs?     Funny? she said. Why, I don't think it's funny at all.     Si said, Look, how about another drink?     Natalie Paskov said, Oh, I'd love to have a drink with you, Mr....       Si, Si said. He motioned to the bartender with a circular twist ofthe hand indicating their need for two more of the same. How come youknow so much about it? You don't meet many people who are interestedin space any more. In fact, most people are almost contemptuous, like.Think it's kind of a big boondoggle deal to help use up a lot ofmaterials and all and keep the economy going.     Natalie said earnestly, Why, I've been a space fan all my life. I'veread all about it. Have always known the names of all the space pilotsand everything about them, ever since I was a child. I suppose you'dsay I have the dream that Doctor Girard-Perregaux spoke about.     Si chuckled. A real buff, eh? You know, it's kind of funny. I wasnever much interested in it. And I got a darn sight less interestedafter my first run and I found out what space cafard was.     She frowned. I don't believe I know much about that.     Sitting in the Kudos Room with the most beautiful girl to whom he hadever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. Old Gubelinkeeps that angle mostly hushed up and out of the magazine and newspaperarticles. Says there's enough adverse publicity about space explorationalready. But at this stage of the game when the whole ship's crammedtight with this automatic scientific apparatus and all, there'sprecious little room in the conning tower and you're the only manaboard. The Doc says later on when ships are bigger and there's a wholeflock of people aboard, there won't be any such thing as space cafard,but.... Of a sudden the right side of Si Pond's mouth began to ticand he hurriedly took up his drink and knocked it back.    ","Ponds was a space pilot for the department of space exploration. he had completed six space runs to the Moon, Mars, Venus, and Jupiter. He hated every minute of it. Initially, he was drafted into the workforce reserves. He was soon. selected for the job based on his physical attributes and mental qualifications. He had to go through rigorous training once he was selected. This training took several years. After this he was put into the field. He was crammed in a small little space cafard for what seemed like endless amounts of time. "
"What are Pond's views on wealth and fame? </s>     SPACEMAN ON A SPREE     BY MACK REYNOLDS     Illustrated by Nodel     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow June 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      What's more important—Man's conquest     of space, or one spaceman's life?      I     They gave him a gold watch. It was meant to be symbolical, of course.In the old tradition. It was in the way of an antique, being one of thetimepieces made generations past in the Alpine area of Eur-Asia. Itsquaintness lay in the fact that it was wound, not electronically bypower-radio, but by the actual physical movements of the bearer, a freeswinging rotor keeping the mainspring at a constant tension.     They also had a banquet for him, complete with speeches by suchbigwigs of the Department of Space Exploration as Academician LoftingGubelin and Doctor Hans Girard-Perregaux. There was also somebodyfrom the government who spoke, but he was one of those who werepseudo-elected and didn't know much about the field of space travelnor the significance of Seymour Pond's retirement. Si didn't bother toremember his name. He only wondered vaguely why the cloddy had turnedup at all.     In common with recipients of gold watches of a score of generationsbefore him, Si Pond would have preferred something a bit more tangiblein the way of reward, such as a few shares of Variable Basic to add tohis portfolio. But that, he supposed, was asking too much.     The fact of the matter was, Si knew that his retiring had set themback. They hadn't figured he had enough shares of Basic to see himthrough decently. Well, possibly he didn't, given their standards.But Space Pilot Seymour Pond didn't have their standards. He'd hadplenty of time to think it over. It was better to retire on a limitedcrediting, on a confoundedly limited crediting, than to take the two orthree more trips in hopes of attaining a higher standard.     He'd had plenty of time to figure it out, there alone in space on theMoon run, there on the Venus or Mars runs. There on the long, longhaul to the Jupiter satellites, fearfully checking the symptoms ofspace cafard, the madness compounded of claustrophobia, monotony,boredom and free fall. Plenty of time. Time to decide that a oneroom mini-auto-apartment, complete with an autochair and built-inautobar, and with one wall a teevee screen, was all he needed tofind contentment for a mighty long time. Possibly somebody likeDoc Girard-Perregaux might be horrified at the idea of living in amini-auto-apartment ... not realizing that to a pilot it was roomybeyond belief compared to the conning tower of a space craft.     No. Even as Si listened to their speeches, accepted the watch andmade a halting little talk of his own, he was grinning inwardly. Therewasn't anything they could do. He had them now. He had enough Basic tokeep him comfortably, by his standards, for the rest of his life. Hewas never going to subject himself to space cafard again. Just thinkingabout it, now, set the tic to going at the side of his mouth.     They could count down and blast off, for all he gave a damn.  The gold watch idea had been that of Lofting Gubelin, which wastypical, he being in the way of a living anachronism himself. In fact,Academician Gubelin was possibly the only living man on North Americawho still wore spectacles. His explanation was that a phobia againsthaving his eyes touched prohibited either surgery to remould hiseyeballs and cure his myopia, or contact lenses.     That was only an alibi so far as his closest associate, HansGirard-Perregaux, was concerned. Doctor Girard-Perregaux was convincedGubelin would have even worn facial hair, had he but a touch morecourage. Gubelin longed for yesteryear, a seldom found phenomenon underthe Ultrawelfare State.     Slumped in an autochair in the escape room of his Floridian home,Lofting Gubelin scowled at his friend. He said, acidly, Any morebright schemes, Hans? I presume you now acknowledge that appealing tothe cloddy's patriotism, sentiment and desire for public acclaim havemiserably failed.     Girard-Perregaux said easily, I wouldn't call Seymour Pond a cloddy.In his position, I am afraid I would do the same thing he has.     That's nonsense, Hans. Zoroaster! Either you or I would gladly takePond's place were we capable of performing the duties for which he hasbeen trained. There aren't two men on North America—there aren't twomen in the world!—who better realize the urgency of continuing ourdelving into space. Gubelin snapped his fingers. Like that, either ofus would give our lives to prevent man from completely abandoning theroad to his destiny.     His friend said drily, Either of us could have volunteered for pilottraining forty years ago, Lofting. We didn't.     At that time there wasn't such a blistering percentage of funkersthroughout this whole blistering Ultrawelfare State! Who couldforesee that eventually our whole program would face ending due tolack of courageous young men willing to take chances, willing to faceadventure, willing to react to the stimulus of danger in the manner ourancestors did?     Girard-Perregaux grunted his sarcasm and dialed a glass of iced teaand tequila. He said, Nevertheless, both you and I conform with thepresent generation in finding it far more pleasant to follow one'sway of life in the comfort of one's home than to be confronted withthe unpleasantness of facing nature's dangers in more adventurouspastimes.     Gubelin, half angry at his friend's argument, leaned forward to snaprebuttal, but the other was wagging a finger at him negatively. Facereality, Lofting. Don't require or expect from Seymour Pond morethan is to be found there. He is an average young man. Born in ourUltrawelfare State, he was guaranteed his fundamental womb-to-tombsecurity by being issued that minimum number of Basic shares in oursociety that allows him an income sufficient to secure the food,clothing, shelter, medical care and education to sustain a low levelof subsistence. Percentages were against his ever being draftedinto industry. Automation being what it is, only a fraction of thepopulation is ever called up. But Pond was. His industrial aptitudedossier revealed him a possible candidate for space pilot, and it wasyou yourself who talked him into taking the training ... pointing outthe more pragmatic advantages such as complete retirement after but sixtrips, added shares of Basic so that he could enjoy a more comfortablelife than most and the fame that would accrue to him as one of thevery few who still participate in travel to the planets. Very well.He was sold. Took his training, which, of course, required long yearsof drudgery to him. Then, performing his duties quite competently, hemade his six trips. He is now legally eligible for retirement. He wasdrafted into the working force reserves, served his time, and is nowfree from toil for the balance of his life. Why should he listen toour pleas for a few more trips?     But has he no spirit of adventure? Has he no feeling for....  Girard-Perregaux was wagging his finger again, a gesture that,seemingly mild though it was, had an astonishing ability to break offthe conversation of one who debated with the easy-seeming, quiet spokenman.     He said, No, he hasn't. Few there are who have, nowadays. Man hasalways paid lip service to adventure, hardships and excitement, but inactuality his instincts, like those of any other animal, lead him tothe least dangerous path. Today we've reached the point where no oneneed face danger—ever. There are few who don't take advantage of thefact. Including you and me, Lofting, and including Seymour Pond.     His friend and colleague changed subjects abruptly, impatiently. Let'sleave this blistering jabber about Pond's motivation and get to thepoint. The man is the only trained space pilot in the world. It willtake months, possibly more than a year, to bring another novitiatepilot to the point where he can safely be trusted to take our nextexplorer craft out. Appropriations for our expeditions have beenincreasingly hard to come by—even though in      our     minds, Hans, we arenear important breakthroughs, breakthroughs which might possibly sospark the race that a new dream to push man out to the stars will takehold of us. If it is admitted that our organization has degeneratedto the point that we haven't a single pilot, then it might well bethat the Economic Planning Board, and especially those cloddieson Appropriations, will terminate the whole Department of SpaceExploration.     So.... Girard-Perregaux said gently.     So some way we've got to bring Seymour Pond out of his retirement!     Now we are getting to matters. Girard-Perregaux nodded his agreement.Looking over the rim of his glass, his eyes narrowed in thought as hisface took on an expression of Machiavellianism. And do not the endsjustify the means?     Gubelin blinked at him.     The other chuckled. The trouble with you, Lofting, is that you havefailed to bring history to bear on our problem. Haven't you ever readof the sailor and his way of life?     Sailor? What in the name of the living Zoroaster has the sailor got todo with it?     You must realize, my dear Lofting, that our Si Pond is nothing morethan a latter-day sailor, with many of the problems and view-points,tendencies and weaknesses of the voyager of the past. Have you neverheard of the seaman who dreamed of returning to the village of hisbirth and buying a chicken farm or some such? All the long months atsea—and sometimes the tramp freighters or whaling craft would be outfor years at a stretch before returning to home port—he would talkof his retirement and his dream. And then? Then in port, it would beone short drink with the boys, before taking his accumulated pay andheading home. The one short drink would lead to another. And morningwould find him, drunk, rolled, tattooed and possibly sleeping it off injail. So back to sea he'd have to go.     Gubelin grunted bitterly. Unfortunately, our present-day sailorcan't be separated from his money quite so easily. If he could, I'dpersonally be willing to lure him down some dark alley, knock him overthe head and roll him myself. Just to bring him back to his job again.     He brought his wallet from his pocket, and flicked it open to hisuniversal credit card. The ultimate means of exchange, he grunted.Nobody can spend your money, but you, yourself. Nobody can steal it,nobody can, ah,      con     you out of it. Just how do you expect to severour present-day sailor and his accumulated nest egg?     The other chuckled again. It is simply a matter of finding more modernmethods, my dear chap.  II     Si Pond was a great believer in the institution of the spree. Anyexcuse would do. Back when he had finished basic education at the ageof twenty-five and was registered for the labor draft, there hadn'tbeen a chance in a hundred that he'd have the bad luck to have hisname pulled. But when it had been, Si had celebrated.     When he had been informed that his physical and mental qualificationswere such that he was eligible for the most dangerous occupation inthe Ultrawelfare State and had been pressured into taking trainingfor space pilot, he had celebrated once again. Twenty-two others hadtaken the training with him, and only he and Rod Cameroon had passedthe finals. On this occasion, he and Rod had celebrated together. Ithad been quite a party. Two weeks later, Rod had burned on a faultytake-off on what should have been a routine Moon run.     Each time Si returned from one of his own runs, he celebrated. A spree,a bust, a bat, a wing-ding, a night on the town. A commemoration ofdangers met and passed.     Now it was all over. At the age of thirty he was retired. Law preventedhim from ever being called up for contributing to the country's laborneeds again. And he most certainly wasn't going to volunteer.     He had taken his schooling much as had his contemporaries. There wasn'tany particular reason for trying to excell. You didn't want to get thereputation for being a wise guy, or a cloddy either. Just one of thefellas. You could do the same in life whether you really studied ornot. You had your Inalienable Basic stock, didn't you? What else didyou need?     It had come as a surprise when he'd been drafted for the labor force.     In the early days of the Ultrawelfare State, they had made a mistakein adapting to the automation of the second industrial revolution.They had attempted to give everyone work by reducing the number ofworking hours in the day, and the number of working days in the week.It finally became ludicrous when employees of industry were workingbut two days a week, two hours a day. In fact, it got chaotic. Itbecame obvious that it was more practical to have one worker putting inthirty-five hours a week and getting to know his job well, than it wasto have a score of employees, each working a few hours a week and noneof them ever really becoming efficient.     The only fair thing was to let the technologically unemployed remainunemployed, with their Inalienable Basic stock as the equivalent ofunemployment insurance, while the few workers still needed put in areasonable number of hours a day, a reasonable number of weeks a yearand a reasonable number of years in a life time. When new employeeswere needed, a draft lottery was held.     All persons registered in the labor force participated. If youwere drawn, you must need serve. The dissatisfaction those chosenmight feel at their poor luck was offset by the fact that they weregranted additional Variable Basic shares, according to the tasksthey fulfilled. Such shares could be added to their portfolios, thedividends becoming part of their current credit balance, or could besold for a lump sum on the market.     Yes, but now it was all over. He had his own little place, his ownvacuum-tube vehicle and twice the amount of shares of Basic that mostof his fellow citizens could boast. Si Pond had it made. A spree wasobviously called for.     He was going to do this one right. This was the big one. He'daccumulated a lot of dollars these past few months and he intendedto blow them, or at least a sizeable number of them. His credit cardwas burning a hole in his pocket, as the expression went. However, hewasn't going to rush into things. This had to be done correctly.     Too many a spree was played by ear. You started off with a few drinks,fell in with some second rate mopsy and usually wound up in a thirdrate groggery where you spent just as much as though you'd been in theclassiest joint in town. Came morning and you had nothing to show forall the dollars that had been spent but a rum-head.     Thus, Si was vaguely aware, it had always been down through thecenturies since the Phoenecian sailor, back from his year-long trip tothe tin mines of Cornwall, blew his hard earned share of the voyage'sprofits in a matter of days in the wine shops of Tyre. Nobody getsquite so little for his money as that loneliest of all workers, he whomust leave his home for distant lands, returning only periodically andusually with the salary of lengthy, weary periods of time to be spenthurriedly in an attempt to achieve the pleasure and happiness so longdenied him.     Si was going to do it differently this time.     Nothing but the best. Wine, women, song, food, entertainment. Theworks. But nothing but the best.  To start off, he dressed with great care in the honorableretirement-rank suit he had so recently purchased. His space pin heattached carefully to the lapel. That was a good beginning, he decided.A bit of prestige didn't hurt you when you went out on the town. Inthe Ultrawelfare State hardly one person in a hundred actually everperformed anything of value to society. The efforts of most weren'tneeded. Those few who did contribute were awarded honors, decorations,titles.     Attired satisfactorily, Si double-checked to see that his creditcard was in his pocket. As an after-thought, he went over to theauto-apartment's teevee-phone, flicked it on, held the card to thescreen and said, Balance check, please.     In a moment, the teevee-phone's robot voice reported, Ten shares ofInalienable Basic. Twelve shares of Variable Basic, current value, fourthousand, two hundred and thirty-three dollars and sixty-two centsapiece. Current cash credit, one thousand and eighty-four dollars. Thescreen went dead.     One thousand and eighty-four dollars. That was plenty. He could safelyspend as much as half of it, if the spree got as lively as he hoped itwould. His monthly dividends were due in another week or so, and hewouldn't have to worry about current expenses. Yes, indeedy, Si Pondwas as solvent as he had ever been in his thirty years.     He opened the small, closet-like door which housed his vacuum-tubetwo-seater, and wedged himself into the small vehicle. He brought downthe canopy, dropped the pressurizer and considered the dial. Only oneplace really made sense. The big city.     He considered for a moment, decided against the boroughs of Baltimoreand Boston, and selected Manhattan instead. He had the resources. Hemight as well do it up brown.     He dialed Manhattan and felt the sinking sensation that presaged hiscar's dropping to tube level. While it was being taken up by the robotcontrols, being shuttled here and there preparatory to the shot to hisdestination, he dialed the vehicle's teevee-phone for information onthe hotels of the island of the Hudson. He selected a swank hostelryhe'd read about and seen on the teevee casts of society and celebritygossip reporters, and dialed it on the car's destination dial.     Nothing too good for ex-Space Pilot Si Pond, he said aloud.     The car hesitated for a moment, that brief hesitation before theshot, and Si took the involuntary breath from which only heroes couldrefrain. He sank back slowly into the seat. Moments passed, and thedirection of the pressure was reversed.     Manhattan. The shuttling began again, and one or two more traversingsub-shots. Finally, the dash threw a green light and Si opened thecanopy and stepped into his hotel room.     A voice said gently, If the quarters are satisfactory, please presentyour credit card within ten minutes.     Si took his time. Not that he really needed it. It was by far the mostswank suite he had ever seen. One wall was a window of whatever sizethe guest might desire and Si touched the control that dilated it tothe full. His view opened in such wise that he could see both theEmpire State Building Museum and the Hudson. Beyond the river stretchedthe all but endless city which was Greater Metropolis.     He didn't take the time to flick on the menu, next to the auto-diningtable, nor to check the endless potables on the autobar list. All that,he well knew, would be superlative. Besides, he didn't plan to dineor do much drinking in his suite. He made a mock leer. Not unless hemanaged to acquire some feminine companionship, that was.     He looked briefly into the swimming pool and bath, then floppedhimself happily onto the bed. It wasn't up to the degree of softnesshe presently desired, and he dialed the thing to the ultimate in thatdirection so that with a laugh he sank almost out of sight into themattress.     He came back to his feet, gave his suit a quick patting so that itfell into press and, taking his credit card from his pocket, put itagainst the teevee-phone screen and pressed the hotel button so thatregistration could be completed.     For a moment he stood in the center of the floor, in thought. Take iteasy, Si Pond, take it all easy, this time. No throwing his dollarsaround in second-class groggeries, no eating in automated luncheterias.This time, be it the only time in his life, he was going to frolic inthe grand manner. No cloddy was Si Pond.     He decided a drink was in order to help him plan his strategy. A drinkat the hotel's famous Kudos Room where celebrities were reputed to be adime a dozen.     He left the suite and stepped into one of the elevators. He said,Kudos Room.     The auto-elevator murmured politely, Yes, sir, the Kudos Room.  At the door to the famous rendezvous of the swankiest set, Si paused amoment and looked about. He'd never been in a place like this, either.However, he stifled his first instinct to wonder about what this wasgoing to do to his current credit balance with an inner grin and madehis way to the bar.     There was actually a bartender.     Si Pond suppressed his astonishment and said, offhand, attempting anair of easy sophistication, Slivovitz Sour.     Yes, sir.     The drinks in the Kudos Room might be concocted by hand, but Si noticedthey had the routine teevee screens built into the bar for payment.He put his credit card on the screen immediately before him when thedrink came, and had to quell his desire to dial for a balance check, soas to be able to figure out what the Sour had cost him.     Well, this was something like it. This was the sort of thing he'ddreamed about, out there in the great alone, seated in the confiningconning tower of his space craft. He sipped at the drink, finding it upto his highest expectations, and then swiveled slightly on his stool totake a look at the others present.     To his disappointment, there were no recognizable celebrities. Nonethat he placed, at least—top teevee stars, top politicians of theUltrawelfare State or Sports personalities.     He turned back to his drink and noticed, for the first time, the girlwho occupied the stool two down from him. Si Pond blinked. He blinkedand then swallowed.           Zo-ro-as-ter     , he breathed.     She was done in the latest style from Shanghai, even to the point ofhaving cosmetically duplicated the Mongolian fold at the corners of hereyes. Every pore, but      every     pore, was in place. She sat with the easygrace of the Orient, so seldom found in the West.     His stare couldn't be ignored.     She looked at him coldly, turned to the bartender and murmured, A FarOut Cooler, please, Fredric. Then deliberately added, I thought theKudos Room was supposed to be exclusive.     There was nothing the bartender could say to that, and he went aboutbuilding the drink.     Si cleared his throat. Hey, he said, how about letting this one beon me?     Her eyebrows, which had been plucked and penciled to carry out herOriental motif, rose. Really! she said, drawing it out.     The bartender said hurriedly, I beg your pardon, sir....     The girl, her voice suddenly subtly changed, said, Why, isn't that aspace pin?     Si, disconcerted by the sudden reversal, said, Yeah ... sure.     Good Heavens, you're a spaceman?     Sure. He pointed at the lapel pin. You can't wear one unless youbeen on at least a Moon run.     She was obviously both taken back and impressed. Why, she said,you're Seymour Pond, the pilot. I tuned in on the banquet they gaveyou.     Si, carrying his glass, moved over to the stool next to her. Call meSi, he said. Everybody calls me Si.     She said, I'm Natalie. Natalie Paskov. Just Natalie. Imagine meetingSeymour Pond. Just sitting down next to him at a bar. Just like that.     Si, Si said, gratified. Holy Zoroaster, he'd never seen anythinglike this rarified pulchritude. Maybe on teevee, of course, one of thecurrent sex symbols, but never in person. Call me Si, he said again.I been called Si so long, I don't even know who somebody's talking toif they say Seymour.     I cried when they gave you that antique watch, she said, her tonesuch that it was obvious she hadn't quite adjusted as yet to havingmet him.     Si Pond was surprised. Cried? he said. Well, why? I was kind ofbored with the whole thing. But old Doc Gubelin, I used to work underhim in the Space Exploration department, he was hot for it.           Academician     Gubelin? she said. You just call him      Doc     ?     Si was expansive. Why, sure. In the Space Department we don't havemuch time for formality. Everybody's just Si, and Doc, and Jim. Likethat. But how come you cried?  She looked down into the drink the bartender had placed before her,as though avoiding his face. I ... I suppose it was that speechDoctor Girard-Perregaux made. There you stood, so fine and straight inyour space-pilot uniform, the veteran of six exploration runs to theplanets....     Well, Si said modestly, two of my runs were only to the Moon.     ... and he said all those things about man's conquest of space. Andthe dream of the stars which man has held so long. And then the factthat you were the last of the space pilots. The last man in the wholeworld trained to pilot a space craft. And here you were, retiring.     Si grunted. Yeah. That's all part of the Doc's scheme to get me totake on another three runs. They're afraid the whole department'll bedropped by the Appropriations Committee on this here Economic PlanningBoard. Even if they can find some other patsy to train for the job,it'd take maybe a year before you could even send him on a Moon hop.So old man Gubelin, and Girard-Perregaux too, they're both trying topressure me into more trips. Otherwise they got a Space ExplorationDepartment, with all the expense and all, but nobody to pilot theirships. It's kind of funny, in a way. You know what one of thosespaceships costs?     Funny? she said. Why, I don't think it's funny at all.     Si said, Look, how about another drink?     Natalie Paskov said, Oh, I'd love to have a drink with you, Mr....       Si, Si said. He motioned to the bartender with a circular twist ofthe hand indicating their need for two more of the same. How come youknow so much about it? You don't meet many people who are interestedin space any more. In fact, most people are almost contemptuous, like.Think it's kind of a big boondoggle deal to help use up a lot ofmaterials and all and keep the economy going.     Natalie said earnestly, Why, I've been a space fan all my life. I'veread all about it. Have always known the names of all the space pilotsand everything about them, ever since I was a child. I suppose you'dsay I have the dream that Doctor Girard-Perregaux spoke about.     Si chuckled. A real buff, eh? You know, it's kind of funny. I wasnever much interested in it. And I got a darn sight less interestedafter my first run and I found out what space cafard was.     She frowned. I don't believe I know much about that.     Sitting in the Kudos Room with the most beautiful girl to whom he hadever talked, Si could be nonchalant about the subject. Old Gubelinkeeps that angle mostly hushed up and out of the magazine and newspaperarticles. Says there's enough adverse publicity about space explorationalready. But at this stage of the game when the whole ship's crammedtight with this automatic scientific apparatus and all, there'sprecious little room in the conning tower and you're the only manaboard. The Doc says later on when ships are bigger and there's a wholeflock of people aboard, there won't be any such thing as space cafard,but.... Of a sudden the right side of Si Pond's mouth began to ticand he hurriedly took up his drink and knocked it back.    ","Pond seems to be obsessed with money. At his retirement, he is given a gold watch. He thinks to himself how much better it would have been if they had simply given him money instead. He vows to live a simple, comfortable life, keeping an eye on his money so it will last him for the rest of his days. He is very proud of the fact that he can afford a luxury like his vacuum tube. Whenever something goes well in Pond's life, he loves to splurge on a night out. He ends up spending enormous amounts of money on things that he sometimes deems as ""sub-par"" for a man of his status. On this one fateful night, he decides that he deserves the best of everything. He is obsessed with the idea of wealth and fame, and checks himself into the nicest hotel he can think of in New York City, partially because he presumes he might see some celebrities there. He checks the balance on his credit card often, and when he goes down to the hotel bar, he has to restrain himself from checking how much a single drink costs. He looks around for signs of famous people, but is disappointed when he sees none. He gives into the flattery of Natalie when she gushes over him, as if he were famous, believing her obvious depciet, and buying her a drink. Fame and money are everything to Pond. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     My Lady Greensleeves     By FREDERIK POHL     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        This guard smelled trouble and it could be       counted on to come—for a nose for trouble       was one of the many talents bred here!        I     His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy.     And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R.     He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in.     He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell?     The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie!     O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the      CivilService Guide to Prison Administration     : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book.     She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop.     The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is—     Shut up, Sodaro.  Captain O'leary put down his pencil and looked at the girl. She wasattractive and young—not beyond hope, surely. Maybe she had got offto a wrong start, but the question was, would putting her in thedisciplinary block help straighten her out? He rubbed his ear andlooked past her at the line of prisoners on the rap detail, waiting forhim to judge their cases.     He said patiently: Bradley, the rules are you have to mop out yourcell. If you didn't understand what Mathias was talking about, youshould have asked her. Now I'm warning you, the next time—     Hey, Cap'n, wait! Sodaro was looking alarmed. This isn't a firstoffense. Look at the rap sheet. Yesterday she pulled the same thing inthe mess hall. He shook his head reprovingly at the prisoner. Theblock guard had to break up a fight between her and another wench,and she claimed the same business—said she didn't understand when theother one asked her to move along. He added virtuously: The guardwarned her then that next time she'd get the Greensleeves for sure.     Inmate Bradley seemed to be on the verge of tears. She said tautly: Idon't care. I don't care!     O'Leary stopped her. That's enough! Three days in Block O!     It was the only thing to do—for her own sake as much as for his. Hehad managed, by strength of will, not to hear that she had omittedto say sir every time she spoke to him, but he couldn't keep it upforever and he certainly couldn't overlook hysteria. And hysteria wasclearly the next step for her.     All the same, he stared after her as she left. He handed the rap sheetto Sodaro and said absently: Too bad a kid like her has to be here.What's she in for?     You didn't know, Cap'n? Sodaro leered. She's in for conspiracy toviolate the Categoried Class laws. Don't waste your time with her,Cap'n. She's a figger-lover!     Captain O'Leary took a long drink of water from the fountain markedCivil Service. But it didn't wash the taste out of his mouth, thesmell from his nose.     What got into a girl to get her mixed up with that kind of dirtybusiness? He checked out of the cell blocks and walked across theyard, wondering about her. She'd had every advantage—decent CivilService parents, a good education, everything a girl could wish for. Ifanything, she had had a better environment than O'Leary himself, andlook what she had made of it.     The direction of evolution is toward specialization and Man is noexception, but with the difference that his is the one species thatcreates its own environment in which to specialize. From the momentthat clans formed, specialization began—the hunters using the weaponsmade by the flint-chippers, the food cooked in clay pots made by theceramists, over fire made by the shaman who guarded the sacred flame.     Civilization merely increased the extent of specialization. Fromthe born mechanic and the man with the gift of gab, society evolvedto the point of smaller contact and less communication between thespecializations, until now they could understand each other on only themost basic physical necessities—and not even always then.     But this was desirable, for the more specialists, the higher the degreeof civilization. The ultimate should be the complete segregationof each specialization—social and genetic measures to make thembreed true, because the unspecialized man is an uncivilized man,or at any rate he does not advance civilization. And letting thespecializations mix would produce genetic undesirables: clerk-laboreror Professional-GI misfits, for example, being only half specialized,would be good at no specialization.     And the basis of this specialization society was: The aptitude groupsare the true races of mankind. Putting it into law was only the legalenforcement of a demonstrable fact.     Evening, Cap'n. A bleary old inmate orderly stood up straight andtouched his cap as O'Leary passed by.     Evening.  O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't.     There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He      was     proud of it. It was      right     that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job.     If he had happened to be born a fig—a      clerk     , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter.     Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how      comfortable     it must be to be a wipe—a      laborer     .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf.     Of course, he wouldn't      really     want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't      meant     to be—     Evening, Cap'n.     He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate.     Evening, Conan, he said.     Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place.     So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers?      II     Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment.     And punishment is what you get.     Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock.     Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling.     Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other.     The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside.     The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves.     The outside guard shrugged.     Detail,      halt     ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards.     The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up.     Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready.     Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed.     Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses.     The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves.     However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch.  Sauer and Flock were what are called prison wolves. They werelaborers—wipes, for short—or, at any rate, they had been once.They had spent so much time in prisons that it was sometimes hard evenfor them to remember what they really were, outside. Sauer was a big,grinning redhead with eyes like a water moccasin. Flock was a lithefive-footer with the build of a water moccasin—and the sad, stupideyes of a calf.     Sauer stopped yelling for a moment. Hey, Flock!     What do you want, Sauer? called Flock from his own cell.     We got a lady with us! Maybe we ought to cut out this yelling soas not to disturb the lady! He screeched with howling, maniacallaughter. Anyway, if we don't cut this out, they'll get us in trouble,Flock!     Oh, you think so? shrieked Flock. Jeez, I wish you hadn't said that,Sauer. You got me scared! I'm so scared, I'm gonna have to yell!     The howling started all over again.     The inside guard finished putting the new prisoners away and turned offthe tangler field once more. He licked his lips. Say, you want to takea turn in here for a while?     Uh-uh. The outside guard shook his head.     You're yellow, the inside guard said moodily. Ah, I don't know why Idon't quit this lousy job. Hey, you! Pipe down or I'll come in and beatyour head off!     Ee-ee-ee! screamed Sauer in a shrill falsetto. I'm scared! Then hegrinned at the guard, all but his water-moccasin eyes. Don't you knowyou can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head, Boss?     Shut      up     ! yelled the inside guard.     Sue-Ann Bradley's weeping now was genuine. She simply could not helpit. The crazy yowling of the hard-timers, Sauer and Flock, was gettingunder her skin. They weren't even—even      human     , she told herselfmiserably, trying to weep silently so as not to give the guards thesatisfaction of hearing her—they were animals!     Resentment and anger, she could understand. She told herself doggedlythat resentment and anger were natural and right. They were perfectlynormal expressions of the freedom-loving citizen's rebellion againstthe vile and stifling system of Categoried Classes. It was      good     thatSauer and Flock still had enough spirit to struggle against the vicioussystem—     But did they have to scream so?     The senseless yelling was driving her crazy. She abandoned herself toweeping and she didn't even care who heard her any more. Senseless!     It never occurred to Sue-Ann Bradley that it might not be senseless,because noise hides noise. But then she hadn't been a prisoner verylong.      III     I smell trouble, said O'Leary to the warden.     Trouble? Trouble? Warden Schluckebier clutched his throat and hislittle round eyes looked terrified—as perhaps they should have. WardenGodfrey Schluckebier was the almighty Caesar of ten thousand inmates inthe Jug, but privately he was a fussy old man trying to hold onto thelast decent job he would have in his life.     Trouble?      What     trouble?     O'Leary shrugged. Different things. You know Lafon, from Block A? Thisafternoon, he was playing ball with the laundry orderlies in the yard.     The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: O'Leary, whatdid you want to worry me for? There's nothing wrong with playing ballin the yard. That's what recreation periods are for.     You don't see what I mean, Warden. Lafon was a professional on theoutside—an architect. Those laundry cons were laborers. Pros and wipesdon't mix; it isn't natural. And there are other things.     O'Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden thatit didn't      smell     right?     For instance—Well, there's Aunt Mathias in the women's block. She'sa pretty good old girl—that's why she's the block orderly. She's alifer, she's got no place to go, she gets along with the other women.But today she put a woman named Bradley on report. Why? Because shetold Bradley to mop up in wipe talk and Bradley didn't understand. NowMathias wouldn't—     The warden raised his hand. Please, O'Leary, don't bother me aboutthat kind of stuff. He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He pouredhimself a cup of steaming black coffee from a brewpot, reached in adesk drawer for something, hesitated, glanced at O'Leary, then droppeda pale blue tablet into the cup. He drank it down eagerly, ignoring thescalding heat.     He leaned back, looking suddenly happier and much more assured.     O'Leary, you're a guard captain, right? And I'm your warden. You haveyour job, keeping the inmates in line, and I have mine. Now your job isjust as important as my job, he said piously.       Everybody's     job isjust as important as everybody else's, right? But we have to stick toour own jobs. We don't want to try to      pass     .     O'Leary snapped erect, abruptly angry. Pass! What the devil way wasthat for the warden to talk to him?     Excuse the expression, O'Leary, the warden said anxiously. I mean,after all, 'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' right? He wasa great man for platitudes, was Warden Schluckebier.       You     know youdon't want to worry about      my     end of running the prison. And      I     don'twant to worry about      yours     . You see? And he folded his hands andsmiled like a civil-service Buddha.  O'Leary choked back his temper. Warden, I'm telling you that there'strouble coming up. I smell the signs.     Handle it, then! snapped the warden, irritated at last.     But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose—     It isn't, the warden said positively. Don't borrow trouble withall your supposing, O'Leary. He sipped the remains of his coffee,made a wry face, poured a fresh cup and, with an elaborate show of notnoticing what he was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets intoit this time.     He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect.     Well, then, he said at last. You just remember what I've told youtonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—'Oh, curse the thing.     His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably.     That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O'Leary;they gave you a lift, but they put you on edge.     Hello, barked the warden, not even glancing at the viewscreen. Whatthe devil do you want? Don't you know I'm—What? You did      what     ?You're going to WHAT?     He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure horror.Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His eyes opened likeclamshells in a steamer.     O'Leary, he said faintly, my mistake.     And he hung up—more or less by accident; the handset dropped from hisfingers.     The person on the other end of the phone was calling from Cell Block O.     Five minutes before, he hadn't been anywhere near the phone and itdidn't look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good.Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of thehard-timers of the Greensleeves.     His name was Flock.     He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across from him,thought that maybe, after all, the man was really in pain. Maybe thecrazy screams were screams of agony, because certainly his face was theface of an agonized man.     The outside guard bellowed: Okay, okay. Take ten!     Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What actually didhappen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch thatactuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prisonrules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited theGreensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst casehad to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining garment.     Rest period it was called—in the rule book. The inmates had a lesslovely term for it.  At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet.     Bradley was a little slow getting off the edge of the steel-slatbed—nobody had warned her that the eddy currents in the tangler fieldshad a way of making metal smoke-hot. She gasped but didn't cry out.Score one more painful lesson in her new language course. She rubbedthe backs of her thighs gingerly—and slowly, slowly, for the eddycurrents did not permit you to move fast. It was like pushing againstrubber; the faster you tried to move, the greater the resistance.     The guard peered genially into her cell. You're okay, auntie. Sheproudly ignored him as he slogged deliberately away on his rounds.He didn't have to untie her and practically stand over her whileshe attended to various personal matters, as he did with the maleprisoners. It was not much to be grateful for, but Sue-Ann Bradley wasgrateful. At least she didn't have to live      quite     like a fig—like anunderprivileged clerk, she told herself, conscience-stricken.     Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: What the hell'sthe matter with you? He opened the door of the cell with anasbestos-handled key held in a canvas glove.     Flock was in that cell and he was doubled over.     The guard looked at him doubtfully. It could be a trick, maybe.Couldn't it? But he could see Flock's face and the agony in it was realenough. And Flock was gasping, through real tears: Cramps. I—I—     Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut. The guard lumbered aroundFlock to the draw-strings at the back of the jacket. Funny smell inhere, he told himself—not for the first time. And imagine, some peopledidn't believe that wipes had a smell of their own! But this time, herealized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Something burning.Almost like meat scorching.     It wasn't pleasant. He finished untying Flock and turned away; let thestinking wipe take care of his own troubles. He only had ten minutes toget all the way around Block O and the inmates complained like crazy ifhe didn't make sure they all got the most possible free time. He waspretty good at snowshoeing through the tangler field. He was a littlevain about it, even; at times he had been known to boast of his abilityto make the rounds in two minutes, every time.     Every time but this.     For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close.     The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There wasFlock—astonishingly, he was half out of his jacket; his arms hadn'tbeen in the sleeves at all! And in one of the hands, incredibly, therewas something that glinted and smoked.     All right, croaked Flock, tears trickling out of eyes nearly shutwith pain.     But it wasn't the tears that held the guard; it was the shining,smoking thing, now poised at his throat. A shiv! It looked as thoughit had been made out of a bed-spring, ripped loose from its frame Godknows how, hidden inside the greensleeved jacket God knows how—filed,filed to sharpness over endless hours.     No wonder Flock moaned—the eddy currents in the shiv were slowlycooking his hand; and the blister against his abdomen, where the shivhad been hidden during other rest periods, felt like raw acid.       All right, whispered Flock, just walk out the door and you won't gethurt. Unless the other screw makes trouble, you won't get hurt, so tellhim not to, you hear?     He was nearly fainting with the pain.     But he hadn't let go.     He didn't let go. And he didn't stop.      IV     It was Flock on the phone to the warden—Flock with his eyes stillstreaming tears, Flock with Sauer standing right behind him, menacingthe two bound deck guards.     Sauer shoved Flock out of the way. Hey, Warden! he said, and thevoice was a cheerful bray, though the serpent eyes were cold andhating. Warden, you got to get a medic in here. My boy Flock, he hurthimself real bad and he needs a doctor. He gestured playfully at theguards with the shiv. I tell you, Warden. I got this knife and I gotyour guards here. Enough said? So get a medic in here quick, you hear?     And he snapped the connection.     O'Leary said: Warden, I told you I smelled trouble!     The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to speak, hesitated,and picked up the long-distance phone. He said sadly to the prisonoperator: Get me the governor—fast.       Riot!       The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots.     It snatched the city governor out of a friendly game of Senioritywith his manager and their wives—and just when he was holding thePorkbarrel Joker concealed in the hole.     It broke up the Base Championship Scramble Finals at Hap Arnold Fieldto the south, as half the contestants had to scramble in earnest to aRed Alert that was real.     It reached to police precinct houses and TV newsrooms and highwaycheckpoints, and from there it filtered into the homes and lives of thenineteen million persons that lived within a few dozen miles of the Jug.     Riot. And yet fewer than half a dozen men were involved.     A handful of men, and the enormous bulk of the city-state quivered inevery limb and class. In its ten million homes, in its hundreds ofthousands of public places, the city-state's people shook under theimpact of the news from the prison.     For the news touched them where their fears lay. Riot! And not merelya street brawl among roistering wipes, or a bar-room fight of greasersrelaxing from a hard day at the plant. The riot was down among thecorrupt sludge that underlay the state itself. Wipes brawled with wipesand no one cared; but in the Jug, all classes were cast together.  Forty miles to the south, Hap Arnold Field was a blaze of light. Theairmen tumbled out of their quarters and dayrooms at the screech ofthe alert siren, and behind them their wives and children stretchedand yawned and worried. An alert! The older kids fussed and complainedand their mothers shut them up. No, there wasn't any alert scheduledfor tonight; no, they didn't know where Daddy was going; no, the kidscouldn't get up yet—it was the middle of the night.     And as soon as they had the kids back in bed, most of the mothersstruggled into their own airwac uniforms and headed for the briefingarea to hear.     They caught the words from a distance—not quite correctly. Riot!gasped an aircraftswoman first-class, mother of three. The wipes! I      told     Charlie they'd get out of hand and—Alys, we aren't safe. Youknow how they are about GI women! I'm going right home and get a cluband stand right by the door and—     Club! snapped Alys, radarscope-sergeant, with two childrenquerulously awake in her nursery at home. What in God's name is theuse of a club? You can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head. You'dbetter come along to Supply with me and draw a gun—you'll need itbefore this night is over.     But the airmen themselves heard the briefing loud and clear over thescramble-call speakers, and they knew it was not merely a matter oftrouble in the wipe quarters. The Jug! The governor himself had calledthem out; they were to fly interdicting missions at such-and-suchlevels on such-and-such flight circuits around the prison.     The rockets took off on fountains of fire; and the jets took off with awhistling roar; and last of all, the helicopters took off ... and theywere the ones who might actually accomplish something. They took uptheir picket posts on the prison perimeter, a pilot and two bombardiersin each 'copter, stone-faced, staring grimly alert at the prison below.     They were ready for the breakout.     But there wasn't any breakout.     The rockets went home for fuel. The jets went home for fuel. Thehelicopters hung on—still ready, still waiting.     The rockets came back and roared harmlessly about, and went away again.They stayed away. The helicopter men never faltered and never relaxed.The prison below them was washed with light—from the guard posts onthe walls, from the cell blocks themselves, from the mobile lights ofthe guard squadrons surrounding the walls.     North of the prison, on the long, flat, damp developments of reclaimedland, the matchbox row houses of the clerical neighborhoods showedlights in every window as the figgers stood ready to repel invasionfrom their undesired neighbors to the east, the wipes. In the crowdedtenements of the laborers' quarters, the wipes shouted from window towindow; and there were crowds in the bright streets.     The whole bloody thing's going to blow up! a helicopter bombardieryelled bitterly to his pilot, above the flutter and roar of thewhirling blades. Look at the mobs in Greaserville! The first breakoutfrom the Jug's going to start a fight like you never saw and we'll beright in the middle of it!     He was partly right. He would be right in the middle of it—for everyman, woman and child in the city-state would be right in the middle ofit. There was no place anywhere that would be spared.      No mixing.     Thatwas the prescription that kept the city-state alive. There's no harm ina family fight—and aren't all mechanics a family, aren't all laborersa clan, aren't all clerks and office workers related by closer tiesthan blood or skin?     But the declassed cons of the Jug were the dregs of every class; andonce they spread, the neat compartmentation of society was pierced. Thebreakout would mean riot on a bigger scale than any prison had everknown.     But he was also partly wrong. Because the breakout wasn't seeming tocome.  ","Liam O’Leary is the captain of the guards at the Estates-General Correctional Institution (also known as the Jug). He starts off seeing a prisoner called Sue-Ann Bradley, who is having problems with a block guard named Sandro. She explains to him that Mathias, another prisoner, did not give her proper instructions and called the guards on her after ten minutes. O’Leary gives Sue-Ann a warning, but Sandro informs him that she has already received a similar warning the day before. He changes his mind and sends her to three days in Block O. O’Leary then begins to think about his job and how it is a good civil-service job. He then thinks about the figs (clerks) and how they are still important members of society even if there should not regularly be a cross between the barriers of the two classes. Sue-Ann, on the other hand, is taken to the Block O disciplinary block. The leading citizens, Flock, and Sauer begin shrieking at her as soon as she arrives. The guards exchange some words regarding the new additions to the block, and Sue-Ann walks through the gate to reach her cell. The two of them begin screaming and howling again. The guards are annoyed, and Sue-Ann starts to weep for real. Meanwhile, O’Leary informs Warden Godfrey Schluckebier of the upcoming trouble he senses, but the warden brushes his concerns as nothing dangerous. The warden reminds O’Leary that they each have their jobs to worry about. Suddenly, the warden gets a phone call, and he realizes that the call is made from Cell Block O by Flock. The events preceding this call cut back to Sue-Ann, who is still in her cell when Flock initially screams in agony. The guard issues a ten-minute rest period, and the tangler fields are turned off. While the inmates are getting up, the guard notices that Flock is still doubled over in pain due to his cramps. He unties the prisoner, but he sees a strange smell that is reminiscent of scorched meat. To his surprise, Flock threatens him with a hidden handmade shiv. Sauer and Flock take the guards hostage, and they threaten the warden to send a medic down for first aid for Flock. The warden then requests to speak to the governor, which triggers a huge effect on various events. Jets, rockets, and helicopters are sent to contain the possible breakout. There is also the possibility of riots starting. Everybody is fearful of what will happen once the inmates break out. However, even with this fearful anticipation from the outside world, the breakout does not seem to happen. "
"What does the conversation between Liam O’Leary and Warden Godfrey Schluckebier reveal about the society they live in? </s>     My Lady Greensleeves     By FREDERIK POHL     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        This guard smelled trouble and it could be       counted on to come—for a nose for trouble       was one of the many talents bred here!        I     His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy.     And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R.     He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in.     He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell?     The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie!     O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the      CivilService Guide to Prison Administration     : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book.     She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop.     The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is—     Shut up, Sodaro.  Captain O'leary put down his pencil and looked at the girl. She wasattractive and young—not beyond hope, surely. Maybe she had got offto a wrong start, but the question was, would putting her in thedisciplinary block help straighten her out? He rubbed his ear andlooked past her at the line of prisoners on the rap detail, waiting forhim to judge their cases.     He said patiently: Bradley, the rules are you have to mop out yourcell. If you didn't understand what Mathias was talking about, youshould have asked her. Now I'm warning you, the next time—     Hey, Cap'n, wait! Sodaro was looking alarmed. This isn't a firstoffense. Look at the rap sheet. Yesterday she pulled the same thing inthe mess hall. He shook his head reprovingly at the prisoner. Theblock guard had to break up a fight between her and another wench,and she claimed the same business—said she didn't understand when theother one asked her to move along. He added virtuously: The guardwarned her then that next time she'd get the Greensleeves for sure.     Inmate Bradley seemed to be on the verge of tears. She said tautly: Idon't care. I don't care!     O'Leary stopped her. That's enough! Three days in Block O!     It was the only thing to do—for her own sake as much as for his. Hehad managed, by strength of will, not to hear that she had omittedto say sir every time she spoke to him, but he couldn't keep it upforever and he certainly couldn't overlook hysteria. And hysteria wasclearly the next step for her.     All the same, he stared after her as she left. He handed the rap sheetto Sodaro and said absently: Too bad a kid like her has to be here.What's she in for?     You didn't know, Cap'n? Sodaro leered. She's in for conspiracy toviolate the Categoried Class laws. Don't waste your time with her,Cap'n. She's a figger-lover!     Captain O'Leary took a long drink of water from the fountain markedCivil Service. But it didn't wash the taste out of his mouth, thesmell from his nose.     What got into a girl to get her mixed up with that kind of dirtybusiness? He checked out of the cell blocks and walked across theyard, wondering about her. She'd had every advantage—decent CivilService parents, a good education, everything a girl could wish for. Ifanything, she had had a better environment than O'Leary himself, andlook what she had made of it.     The direction of evolution is toward specialization and Man is noexception, but with the difference that his is the one species thatcreates its own environment in which to specialize. From the momentthat clans formed, specialization began—the hunters using the weaponsmade by the flint-chippers, the food cooked in clay pots made by theceramists, over fire made by the shaman who guarded the sacred flame.     Civilization merely increased the extent of specialization. Fromthe born mechanic and the man with the gift of gab, society evolvedto the point of smaller contact and less communication between thespecializations, until now they could understand each other on only themost basic physical necessities—and not even always then.     But this was desirable, for the more specialists, the higher the degreeof civilization. The ultimate should be the complete segregationof each specialization—social and genetic measures to make thembreed true, because the unspecialized man is an uncivilized man,or at any rate he does not advance civilization. And letting thespecializations mix would produce genetic undesirables: clerk-laboreror Professional-GI misfits, for example, being only half specialized,would be good at no specialization.     And the basis of this specialization society was: The aptitude groupsare the true races of mankind. Putting it into law was only the legalenforcement of a demonstrable fact.     Evening, Cap'n. A bleary old inmate orderly stood up straight andtouched his cap as O'Leary passed by.     Evening.  O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't.     There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He      was     proud of it. It was      right     that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job.     If he had happened to be born a fig—a      clerk     , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter.     Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how      comfortable     it must be to be a wipe—a      laborer     .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf.     Of course, he wouldn't      really     want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't      meant     to be—     Evening, Cap'n.     He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate.     Evening, Conan, he said.     Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place.     So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers?      II     Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment.     And punishment is what you get.     Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock.     Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling.     Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other.     The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside.     The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves.     The outside guard shrugged.     Detail,      halt     ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards.     The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up.     Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready.     Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed.     Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses.     The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves.     However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch.  Sauer and Flock were what are called prison wolves. They werelaborers—wipes, for short—or, at any rate, they had been once.They had spent so much time in prisons that it was sometimes hard evenfor them to remember what they really were, outside. Sauer was a big,grinning redhead with eyes like a water moccasin. Flock was a lithefive-footer with the build of a water moccasin—and the sad, stupideyes of a calf.     Sauer stopped yelling for a moment. Hey, Flock!     What do you want, Sauer? called Flock from his own cell.     We got a lady with us! Maybe we ought to cut out this yelling soas not to disturb the lady! He screeched with howling, maniacallaughter. Anyway, if we don't cut this out, they'll get us in trouble,Flock!     Oh, you think so? shrieked Flock. Jeez, I wish you hadn't said that,Sauer. You got me scared! I'm so scared, I'm gonna have to yell!     The howling started all over again.     The inside guard finished putting the new prisoners away and turned offthe tangler field once more. He licked his lips. Say, you want to takea turn in here for a while?     Uh-uh. The outside guard shook his head.     You're yellow, the inside guard said moodily. Ah, I don't know why Idon't quit this lousy job. Hey, you! Pipe down or I'll come in and beatyour head off!     Ee-ee-ee! screamed Sauer in a shrill falsetto. I'm scared! Then hegrinned at the guard, all but his water-moccasin eyes. Don't you knowyou can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head, Boss?     Shut      up     ! yelled the inside guard.     Sue-Ann Bradley's weeping now was genuine. She simply could not helpit. The crazy yowling of the hard-timers, Sauer and Flock, was gettingunder her skin. They weren't even—even      human     , she told herselfmiserably, trying to weep silently so as not to give the guards thesatisfaction of hearing her—they were animals!     Resentment and anger, she could understand. She told herself doggedlythat resentment and anger were natural and right. They were perfectlynormal expressions of the freedom-loving citizen's rebellion againstthe vile and stifling system of Categoried Classes. It was      good     thatSauer and Flock still had enough spirit to struggle against the vicioussystem—     But did they have to scream so?     The senseless yelling was driving her crazy. She abandoned herself toweeping and she didn't even care who heard her any more. Senseless!     It never occurred to Sue-Ann Bradley that it might not be senseless,because noise hides noise. But then she hadn't been a prisoner verylong.      III     I smell trouble, said O'Leary to the warden.     Trouble? Trouble? Warden Schluckebier clutched his throat and hislittle round eyes looked terrified—as perhaps they should have. WardenGodfrey Schluckebier was the almighty Caesar of ten thousand inmates inthe Jug, but privately he was a fussy old man trying to hold onto thelast decent job he would have in his life.     Trouble?      What     trouble?     O'Leary shrugged. Different things. You know Lafon, from Block A? Thisafternoon, he was playing ball with the laundry orderlies in the yard.     The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: O'Leary, whatdid you want to worry me for? There's nothing wrong with playing ballin the yard. That's what recreation periods are for.     You don't see what I mean, Warden. Lafon was a professional on theoutside—an architect. Those laundry cons were laborers. Pros and wipesdon't mix; it isn't natural. And there are other things.     O'Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden thatit didn't      smell     right?     For instance—Well, there's Aunt Mathias in the women's block. She'sa pretty good old girl—that's why she's the block orderly. She's alifer, she's got no place to go, she gets along with the other women.But today she put a woman named Bradley on report. Why? Because shetold Bradley to mop up in wipe talk and Bradley didn't understand. NowMathias wouldn't—     The warden raised his hand. Please, O'Leary, don't bother me aboutthat kind of stuff. He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He pouredhimself a cup of steaming black coffee from a brewpot, reached in adesk drawer for something, hesitated, glanced at O'Leary, then droppeda pale blue tablet into the cup. He drank it down eagerly, ignoring thescalding heat.     He leaned back, looking suddenly happier and much more assured.     O'Leary, you're a guard captain, right? And I'm your warden. You haveyour job, keeping the inmates in line, and I have mine. Now your job isjust as important as my job, he said piously.       Everybody's     job isjust as important as everybody else's, right? But we have to stick toour own jobs. We don't want to try to      pass     .     O'Leary snapped erect, abruptly angry. Pass! What the devil way wasthat for the warden to talk to him?     Excuse the expression, O'Leary, the warden said anxiously. I mean,after all, 'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' right? He wasa great man for platitudes, was Warden Schluckebier.       You     know youdon't want to worry about      my     end of running the prison. And      I     don'twant to worry about      yours     . You see? And he folded his hands andsmiled like a civil-service Buddha.  O'Leary choked back his temper. Warden, I'm telling you that there'strouble coming up. I smell the signs.     Handle it, then! snapped the warden, irritated at last.     But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose—     It isn't, the warden said positively. Don't borrow trouble withall your supposing, O'Leary. He sipped the remains of his coffee,made a wry face, poured a fresh cup and, with an elaborate show of notnoticing what he was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets intoit this time.     He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect.     Well, then, he said at last. You just remember what I've told youtonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—'Oh, curse the thing.     His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably.     That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O'Leary;they gave you a lift, but they put you on edge.     Hello, barked the warden, not even glancing at the viewscreen. Whatthe devil do you want? Don't you know I'm—What? You did      what     ?You're going to WHAT?     He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure horror.Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His eyes opened likeclamshells in a steamer.     O'Leary, he said faintly, my mistake.     And he hung up—more or less by accident; the handset dropped from hisfingers.     The person on the other end of the phone was calling from Cell Block O.     Five minutes before, he hadn't been anywhere near the phone and itdidn't look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good.Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of thehard-timers of the Greensleeves.     His name was Flock.     He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across from him,thought that maybe, after all, the man was really in pain. Maybe thecrazy screams were screams of agony, because certainly his face was theface of an agonized man.     The outside guard bellowed: Okay, okay. Take ten!     Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What actually didhappen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch thatactuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prisonrules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited theGreensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst casehad to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining garment.     Rest period it was called—in the rule book. The inmates had a lesslovely term for it.  At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet.     Bradley was a little slow getting off the edge of the steel-slatbed—nobody had warned her that the eddy currents in the tangler fieldshad a way of making metal smoke-hot. She gasped but didn't cry out.Score one more painful lesson in her new language course. She rubbedthe backs of her thighs gingerly—and slowly, slowly, for the eddycurrents did not permit you to move fast. It was like pushing againstrubber; the faster you tried to move, the greater the resistance.     The guard peered genially into her cell. You're okay, auntie. Sheproudly ignored him as he slogged deliberately away on his rounds.He didn't have to untie her and practically stand over her whileshe attended to various personal matters, as he did with the maleprisoners. It was not much to be grateful for, but Sue-Ann Bradley wasgrateful. At least she didn't have to live      quite     like a fig—like anunderprivileged clerk, she told herself, conscience-stricken.     Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: What the hell'sthe matter with you? He opened the door of the cell with anasbestos-handled key held in a canvas glove.     Flock was in that cell and he was doubled over.     The guard looked at him doubtfully. It could be a trick, maybe.Couldn't it? But he could see Flock's face and the agony in it was realenough. And Flock was gasping, through real tears: Cramps. I—I—     Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut. The guard lumbered aroundFlock to the draw-strings at the back of the jacket. Funny smell inhere, he told himself—not for the first time. And imagine, some peopledidn't believe that wipes had a smell of their own! But this time, herealized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Something burning.Almost like meat scorching.     It wasn't pleasant. He finished untying Flock and turned away; let thestinking wipe take care of his own troubles. He only had ten minutes toget all the way around Block O and the inmates complained like crazy ifhe didn't make sure they all got the most possible free time. He waspretty good at snowshoeing through the tangler field. He was a littlevain about it, even; at times he had been known to boast of his abilityto make the rounds in two minutes, every time.     Every time but this.     For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close.     The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There wasFlock—astonishingly, he was half out of his jacket; his arms hadn'tbeen in the sleeves at all! And in one of the hands, incredibly, therewas something that glinted and smoked.     All right, croaked Flock, tears trickling out of eyes nearly shutwith pain.     But it wasn't the tears that held the guard; it was the shining,smoking thing, now poised at his throat. A shiv! It looked as thoughit had been made out of a bed-spring, ripped loose from its frame Godknows how, hidden inside the greensleeved jacket God knows how—filed,filed to sharpness over endless hours.     No wonder Flock moaned—the eddy currents in the shiv were slowlycooking his hand; and the blister against his abdomen, where the shivhad been hidden during other rest periods, felt like raw acid.       All right, whispered Flock, just walk out the door and you won't gethurt. Unless the other screw makes trouble, you won't get hurt, so tellhim not to, you hear?     He was nearly fainting with the pain.     But he hadn't let go.     He didn't let go. And he didn't stop.      IV     It was Flock on the phone to the warden—Flock with his eyes stillstreaming tears, Flock with Sauer standing right behind him, menacingthe two bound deck guards.     Sauer shoved Flock out of the way. Hey, Warden! he said, and thevoice was a cheerful bray, though the serpent eyes were cold andhating. Warden, you got to get a medic in here. My boy Flock, he hurthimself real bad and he needs a doctor. He gestured playfully at theguards with the shiv. I tell you, Warden. I got this knife and I gotyour guards here. Enough said? So get a medic in here quick, you hear?     And he snapped the connection.     O'Leary said: Warden, I told you I smelled trouble!     The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to speak, hesitated,and picked up the long-distance phone. He said sadly to the prisonoperator: Get me the governor—fast.       Riot!       The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots.     It snatched the city governor out of a friendly game of Senioritywith his manager and their wives—and just when he was holding thePorkbarrel Joker concealed in the hole.     It broke up the Base Championship Scramble Finals at Hap Arnold Fieldto the south, as half the contestants had to scramble in earnest to aRed Alert that was real.     It reached to police precinct houses and TV newsrooms and highwaycheckpoints, and from there it filtered into the homes and lives of thenineteen million persons that lived within a few dozen miles of the Jug.     Riot. And yet fewer than half a dozen men were involved.     A handful of men, and the enormous bulk of the city-state quivered inevery limb and class. In its ten million homes, in its hundreds ofthousands of public places, the city-state's people shook under theimpact of the news from the prison.     For the news touched them where their fears lay. Riot! And not merelya street brawl among roistering wipes, or a bar-room fight of greasersrelaxing from a hard day at the plant. The riot was down among thecorrupt sludge that underlay the state itself. Wipes brawled with wipesand no one cared; but in the Jug, all classes were cast together.  Forty miles to the south, Hap Arnold Field was a blaze of light. Theairmen tumbled out of their quarters and dayrooms at the screech ofthe alert siren, and behind them their wives and children stretchedand yawned and worried. An alert! The older kids fussed and complainedand their mothers shut them up. No, there wasn't any alert scheduledfor tonight; no, they didn't know where Daddy was going; no, the kidscouldn't get up yet—it was the middle of the night.     And as soon as they had the kids back in bed, most of the mothersstruggled into their own airwac uniforms and headed for the briefingarea to hear.     They caught the words from a distance—not quite correctly. Riot!gasped an aircraftswoman first-class, mother of three. The wipes! I      told     Charlie they'd get out of hand and—Alys, we aren't safe. Youknow how they are about GI women! I'm going right home and get a cluband stand right by the door and—     Club! snapped Alys, radarscope-sergeant, with two childrenquerulously awake in her nursery at home. What in God's name is theuse of a club? You can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head. You'dbetter come along to Supply with me and draw a gun—you'll need itbefore this night is over.     But the airmen themselves heard the briefing loud and clear over thescramble-call speakers, and they knew it was not merely a matter oftrouble in the wipe quarters. The Jug! The governor himself had calledthem out; they were to fly interdicting missions at such-and-suchlevels on such-and-such flight circuits around the prison.     The rockets took off on fountains of fire; and the jets took off with awhistling roar; and last of all, the helicopters took off ... and theywere the ones who might actually accomplish something. They took uptheir picket posts on the prison perimeter, a pilot and two bombardiersin each 'copter, stone-faced, staring grimly alert at the prison below.     They were ready for the breakout.     But there wasn't any breakout.     The rockets went home for fuel. The jets went home for fuel. Thehelicopters hung on—still ready, still waiting.     The rockets came back and roared harmlessly about, and went away again.They stayed away. The helicopter men never faltered and never relaxed.The prison below them was washed with light—from the guard posts onthe walls, from the cell blocks themselves, from the mobile lights ofthe guard squadrons surrounding the walls.     North of the prison, on the long, flat, damp developments of reclaimedland, the matchbox row houses of the clerical neighborhoods showedlights in every window as the figgers stood ready to repel invasionfrom their undesired neighbors to the east, the wipes. In the crowdedtenements of the laborers' quarters, the wipes shouted from window towindow; and there were crowds in the bright streets.     The whole bloody thing's going to blow up! a helicopter bombardieryelled bitterly to his pilot, above the flutter and roar of thewhirling blades. Look at the mobs in Greaserville! The first breakoutfrom the Jug's going to start a fight like you never saw and we'll beright in the middle of it!     He was partly right. He would be right in the middle of it—for everyman, woman and child in the city-state would be right in the middle ofit. There was no place anywhere that would be spared.      No mixing.     Thatwas the prescription that kept the city-state alive. There's no harm ina family fight—and aren't all mechanics a family, aren't all laborersa clan, aren't all clerks and office workers related by closer tiesthan blood or skin?     But the declassed cons of the Jug were the dregs of every class; andonce they spread, the neat compartmentation of society was pierced. Thebreakout would mean riot on a bigger scale than any prison had everknown.     But he was also partly wrong. Because the breakout wasn't seeming tocome.  ","The conversation between Liam O'Leary and Warden Godfrey Schluckebier reveals that their society heavily relies on specialization to thrive. It is initially said that the direction of evolution is towards specialization, and this also includes mankind. However, humans can create whatever environment they want to specialize in. The warden tells O'Leary that he should not involve himself in the warden's affairs and that he had his own job to do too. He emphasizes that everybody's jobs are important, but it is even more essential to stick to one's own and not pass on another person's occupation. Although O'Leary is upset at how the warden ignores his warnings, Schluckebier reminds him that 'specialization is the goal for civilization,' which means he does not want to worry about O'Leary's job nor should O'Leary worry about his. This goal also reveals how extreme the belief that a specialized society is one of a higher degree. Letting any specialization mix will only result in half-specialists, who fall in the same category as people who cannot specialize and ultimately serve no purpose to the future of humanity. "
"Who is Sue-Ann Bradley, and what are her traits? </s>     My Lady Greensleeves     By FREDERIK POHL     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        This guard smelled trouble and it could be       counted on to come—for a nose for trouble       was one of the many talents bred here!        I     His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy.     And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R.     He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in.     He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell?     The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie!     O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the      CivilService Guide to Prison Administration     : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book.     She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop.     The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is—     Shut up, Sodaro.  Captain O'leary put down his pencil and looked at the girl. She wasattractive and young—not beyond hope, surely. Maybe she had got offto a wrong start, but the question was, would putting her in thedisciplinary block help straighten her out? He rubbed his ear andlooked past her at the line of prisoners on the rap detail, waiting forhim to judge their cases.     He said patiently: Bradley, the rules are you have to mop out yourcell. If you didn't understand what Mathias was talking about, youshould have asked her. Now I'm warning you, the next time—     Hey, Cap'n, wait! Sodaro was looking alarmed. This isn't a firstoffense. Look at the rap sheet. Yesterday she pulled the same thing inthe mess hall. He shook his head reprovingly at the prisoner. Theblock guard had to break up a fight between her and another wench,and she claimed the same business—said she didn't understand when theother one asked her to move along. He added virtuously: The guardwarned her then that next time she'd get the Greensleeves for sure.     Inmate Bradley seemed to be on the verge of tears. She said tautly: Idon't care. I don't care!     O'Leary stopped her. That's enough! Three days in Block O!     It was the only thing to do—for her own sake as much as for his. Hehad managed, by strength of will, not to hear that she had omittedto say sir every time she spoke to him, but he couldn't keep it upforever and he certainly couldn't overlook hysteria. And hysteria wasclearly the next step for her.     All the same, he stared after her as she left. He handed the rap sheetto Sodaro and said absently: Too bad a kid like her has to be here.What's she in for?     You didn't know, Cap'n? Sodaro leered. She's in for conspiracy toviolate the Categoried Class laws. Don't waste your time with her,Cap'n. She's a figger-lover!     Captain O'Leary took a long drink of water from the fountain markedCivil Service. But it didn't wash the taste out of his mouth, thesmell from his nose.     What got into a girl to get her mixed up with that kind of dirtybusiness? He checked out of the cell blocks and walked across theyard, wondering about her. She'd had every advantage—decent CivilService parents, a good education, everything a girl could wish for. Ifanything, she had had a better environment than O'Leary himself, andlook what she had made of it.     The direction of evolution is toward specialization and Man is noexception, but with the difference that his is the one species thatcreates its own environment in which to specialize. From the momentthat clans formed, specialization began—the hunters using the weaponsmade by the flint-chippers, the food cooked in clay pots made by theceramists, over fire made by the shaman who guarded the sacred flame.     Civilization merely increased the extent of specialization. Fromthe born mechanic and the man with the gift of gab, society evolvedto the point of smaller contact and less communication between thespecializations, until now they could understand each other on only themost basic physical necessities—and not even always then.     But this was desirable, for the more specialists, the higher the degreeof civilization. The ultimate should be the complete segregationof each specialization—social and genetic measures to make thembreed true, because the unspecialized man is an uncivilized man,or at any rate he does not advance civilization. And letting thespecializations mix would produce genetic undesirables: clerk-laboreror Professional-GI misfits, for example, being only half specialized,would be good at no specialization.     And the basis of this specialization society was: The aptitude groupsare the true races of mankind. Putting it into law was only the legalenforcement of a demonstrable fact.     Evening, Cap'n. A bleary old inmate orderly stood up straight andtouched his cap as O'Leary passed by.     Evening.  O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't.     There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He      was     proud of it. It was      right     that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job.     If he had happened to be born a fig—a      clerk     , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter.     Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how      comfortable     it must be to be a wipe—a      laborer     .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf.     Of course, he wouldn't      really     want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't      meant     to be—     Evening, Cap'n.     He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate.     Evening, Conan, he said.     Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place.     So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers?      II     Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment.     And punishment is what you get.     Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock.     Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling.     Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other.     The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside.     The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves.     The outside guard shrugged.     Detail,      halt     ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards.     The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up.     Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready.     Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed.     Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses.     The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves.     However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch.  Sauer and Flock were what are called prison wolves. They werelaborers—wipes, for short—or, at any rate, they had been once.They had spent so much time in prisons that it was sometimes hard evenfor them to remember what they really were, outside. Sauer was a big,grinning redhead with eyes like a water moccasin. Flock was a lithefive-footer with the build of a water moccasin—and the sad, stupideyes of a calf.     Sauer stopped yelling for a moment. Hey, Flock!     What do you want, Sauer? called Flock from his own cell.     We got a lady with us! Maybe we ought to cut out this yelling soas not to disturb the lady! He screeched with howling, maniacallaughter. Anyway, if we don't cut this out, they'll get us in trouble,Flock!     Oh, you think so? shrieked Flock. Jeez, I wish you hadn't said that,Sauer. You got me scared! I'm so scared, I'm gonna have to yell!     The howling started all over again.     The inside guard finished putting the new prisoners away and turned offthe tangler field once more. He licked his lips. Say, you want to takea turn in here for a while?     Uh-uh. The outside guard shook his head.     You're yellow, the inside guard said moodily. Ah, I don't know why Idon't quit this lousy job. Hey, you! Pipe down or I'll come in and beatyour head off!     Ee-ee-ee! screamed Sauer in a shrill falsetto. I'm scared! Then hegrinned at the guard, all but his water-moccasin eyes. Don't you knowyou can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head, Boss?     Shut      up     ! yelled the inside guard.     Sue-Ann Bradley's weeping now was genuine. She simply could not helpit. The crazy yowling of the hard-timers, Sauer and Flock, was gettingunder her skin. They weren't even—even      human     , she told herselfmiserably, trying to weep silently so as not to give the guards thesatisfaction of hearing her—they were animals!     Resentment and anger, she could understand. She told herself doggedlythat resentment and anger were natural and right. They were perfectlynormal expressions of the freedom-loving citizen's rebellion againstthe vile and stifling system of Categoried Classes. It was      good     thatSauer and Flock still had enough spirit to struggle against the vicioussystem—     But did they have to scream so?     The senseless yelling was driving her crazy. She abandoned herself toweeping and she didn't even care who heard her any more. Senseless!     It never occurred to Sue-Ann Bradley that it might not be senseless,because noise hides noise. But then she hadn't been a prisoner verylong.      III     I smell trouble, said O'Leary to the warden.     Trouble? Trouble? Warden Schluckebier clutched his throat and hislittle round eyes looked terrified—as perhaps they should have. WardenGodfrey Schluckebier was the almighty Caesar of ten thousand inmates inthe Jug, but privately he was a fussy old man trying to hold onto thelast decent job he would have in his life.     Trouble?      What     trouble?     O'Leary shrugged. Different things. You know Lafon, from Block A? Thisafternoon, he was playing ball with the laundry orderlies in the yard.     The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: O'Leary, whatdid you want to worry me for? There's nothing wrong with playing ballin the yard. That's what recreation periods are for.     You don't see what I mean, Warden. Lafon was a professional on theoutside—an architect. Those laundry cons were laborers. Pros and wipesdon't mix; it isn't natural. And there are other things.     O'Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden thatit didn't      smell     right?     For instance—Well, there's Aunt Mathias in the women's block. She'sa pretty good old girl—that's why she's the block orderly. She's alifer, she's got no place to go, she gets along with the other women.But today she put a woman named Bradley on report. Why? Because shetold Bradley to mop up in wipe talk and Bradley didn't understand. NowMathias wouldn't—     The warden raised his hand. Please, O'Leary, don't bother me aboutthat kind of stuff. He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He pouredhimself a cup of steaming black coffee from a brewpot, reached in adesk drawer for something, hesitated, glanced at O'Leary, then droppeda pale blue tablet into the cup. He drank it down eagerly, ignoring thescalding heat.     He leaned back, looking suddenly happier and much more assured.     O'Leary, you're a guard captain, right? And I'm your warden. You haveyour job, keeping the inmates in line, and I have mine. Now your job isjust as important as my job, he said piously.       Everybody's     job isjust as important as everybody else's, right? But we have to stick toour own jobs. We don't want to try to      pass     .     O'Leary snapped erect, abruptly angry. Pass! What the devil way wasthat for the warden to talk to him?     Excuse the expression, O'Leary, the warden said anxiously. I mean,after all, 'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' right? He wasa great man for platitudes, was Warden Schluckebier.       You     know youdon't want to worry about      my     end of running the prison. And      I     don'twant to worry about      yours     . You see? And he folded his hands andsmiled like a civil-service Buddha.  O'Leary choked back his temper. Warden, I'm telling you that there'strouble coming up. I smell the signs.     Handle it, then! snapped the warden, irritated at last.     But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose—     It isn't, the warden said positively. Don't borrow trouble withall your supposing, O'Leary. He sipped the remains of his coffee,made a wry face, poured a fresh cup and, with an elaborate show of notnoticing what he was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets intoit this time.     He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect.     Well, then, he said at last. You just remember what I've told youtonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—'Oh, curse the thing.     His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably.     That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O'Leary;they gave you a lift, but they put you on edge.     Hello, barked the warden, not even glancing at the viewscreen. Whatthe devil do you want? Don't you know I'm—What? You did      what     ?You're going to WHAT?     He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure horror.Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His eyes opened likeclamshells in a steamer.     O'Leary, he said faintly, my mistake.     And he hung up—more or less by accident; the handset dropped from hisfingers.     The person on the other end of the phone was calling from Cell Block O.     Five minutes before, he hadn't been anywhere near the phone and itdidn't look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good.Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of thehard-timers of the Greensleeves.     His name was Flock.     He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across from him,thought that maybe, after all, the man was really in pain. Maybe thecrazy screams were screams of agony, because certainly his face was theface of an agonized man.     The outside guard bellowed: Okay, okay. Take ten!     Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What actually didhappen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch thatactuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prisonrules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited theGreensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst casehad to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining garment.     Rest period it was called—in the rule book. The inmates had a lesslovely term for it.  At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet.     Bradley was a little slow getting off the edge of the steel-slatbed—nobody had warned her that the eddy currents in the tangler fieldshad a way of making metal smoke-hot. She gasped but didn't cry out.Score one more painful lesson in her new language course. She rubbedthe backs of her thighs gingerly—and slowly, slowly, for the eddycurrents did not permit you to move fast. It was like pushing againstrubber; the faster you tried to move, the greater the resistance.     The guard peered genially into her cell. You're okay, auntie. Sheproudly ignored him as he slogged deliberately away on his rounds.He didn't have to untie her and practically stand over her whileshe attended to various personal matters, as he did with the maleprisoners. It was not much to be grateful for, but Sue-Ann Bradley wasgrateful. At least she didn't have to live      quite     like a fig—like anunderprivileged clerk, she told herself, conscience-stricken.     Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: What the hell'sthe matter with you? He opened the door of the cell with anasbestos-handled key held in a canvas glove.     Flock was in that cell and he was doubled over.     The guard looked at him doubtfully. It could be a trick, maybe.Couldn't it? But he could see Flock's face and the agony in it was realenough. And Flock was gasping, through real tears: Cramps. I—I—     Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut. The guard lumbered aroundFlock to the draw-strings at the back of the jacket. Funny smell inhere, he told himself—not for the first time. And imagine, some peopledidn't believe that wipes had a smell of their own! But this time, herealized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Something burning.Almost like meat scorching.     It wasn't pleasant. He finished untying Flock and turned away; let thestinking wipe take care of his own troubles. He only had ten minutes toget all the way around Block O and the inmates complained like crazy ifhe didn't make sure they all got the most possible free time. He waspretty good at snowshoeing through the tangler field. He was a littlevain about it, even; at times he had been known to boast of his abilityto make the rounds in two minutes, every time.     Every time but this.     For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close.     The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There wasFlock—astonishingly, he was half out of his jacket; his arms hadn'tbeen in the sleeves at all! And in one of the hands, incredibly, therewas something that glinted and smoked.     All right, croaked Flock, tears trickling out of eyes nearly shutwith pain.     But it wasn't the tears that held the guard; it was the shining,smoking thing, now poised at his throat. A shiv! It looked as thoughit had been made out of a bed-spring, ripped loose from its frame Godknows how, hidden inside the greensleeved jacket God knows how—filed,filed to sharpness over endless hours.     No wonder Flock moaned—the eddy currents in the shiv were slowlycooking his hand; and the blister against his abdomen, where the shivhad been hidden during other rest periods, felt like raw acid.       All right, whispered Flock, just walk out the door and you won't gethurt. Unless the other screw makes trouble, you won't get hurt, so tellhim not to, you hear?     He was nearly fainting with the pain.     But he hadn't let go.     He didn't let go. And he didn't stop.      IV     It was Flock on the phone to the warden—Flock with his eyes stillstreaming tears, Flock with Sauer standing right behind him, menacingthe two bound deck guards.     Sauer shoved Flock out of the way. Hey, Warden! he said, and thevoice was a cheerful bray, though the serpent eyes were cold andhating. Warden, you got to get a medic in here. My boy Flock, he hurthimself real bad and he needs a doctor. He gestured playfully at theguards with the shiv. I tell you, Warden. I got this knife and I gotyour guards here. Enough said? So get a medic in here quick, you hear?     And he snapped the connection.     O'Leary said: Warden, I told you I smelled trouble!     The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to speak, hesitated,and picked up the long-distance phone. He said sadly to the prisonoperator: Get me the governor—fast.       Riot!       The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots.     It snatched the city governor out of a friendly game of Senioritywith his manager and their wives—and just when he was holding thePorkbarrel Joker concealed in the hole.     It broke up the Base Championship Scramble Finals at Hap Arnold Fieldto the south, as half the contestants had to scramble in earnest to aRed Alert that was real.     It reached to police precinct houses and TV newsrooms and highwaycheckpoints, and from there it filtered into the homes and lives of thenineteen million persons that lived within a few dozen miles of the Jug.     Riot. And yet fewer than half a dozen men were involved.     A handful of men, and the enormous bulk of the city-state quivered inevery limb and class. In its ten million homes, in its hundreds ofthousands of public places, the city-state's people shook under theimpact of the news from the prison.     For the news touched them where their fears lay. Riot! And not merelya street brawl among roistering wipes, or a bar-room fight of greasersrelaxing from a hard day at the plant. The riot was down among thecorrupt sludge that underlay the state itself. Wipes brawled with wipesand no one cared; but in the Jug, all classes were cast together.  Forty miles to the south, Hap Arnold Field was a blaze of light. Theairmen tumbled out of their quarters and dayrooms at the screech ofthe alert siren, and behind them their wives and children stretchedand yawned and worried. An alert! The older kids fussed and complainedand their mothers shut them up. No, there wasn't any alert scheduledfor tonight; no, they didn't know where Daddy was going; no, the kidscouldn't get up yet—it was the middle of the night.     And as soon as they had the kids back in bed, most of the mothersstruggled into their own airwac uniforms and headed for the briefingarea to hear.     They caught the words from a distance—not quite correctly. Riot!gasped an aircraftswoman first-class, mother of three. The wipes! I      told     Charlie they'd get out of hand and—Alys, we aren't safe. Youknow how they are about GI women! I'm going right home and get a cluband stand right by the door and—     Club! snapped Alys, radarscope-sergeant, with two childrenquerulously awake in her nursery at home. What in God's name is theuse of a club? You can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head. You'dbetter come along to Supply with me and draw a gun—you'll need itbefore this night is over.     But the airmen themselves heard the briefing loud and clear over thescramble-call speakers, and they knew it was not merely a matter oftrouble in the wipe quarters. The Jug! The governor himself had calledthem out; they were to fly interdicting missions at such-and-suchlevels on such-and-such flight circuits around the prison.     The rockets took off on fountains of fire; and the jets took off with awhistling roar; and last of all, the helicopters took off ... and theywere the ones who might actually accomplish something. They took uptheir picket posts on the prison perimeter, a pilot and two bombardiersin each 'copter, stone-faced, staring grimly alert at the prison below.     They were ready for the breakout.     But there wasn't any breakout.     The rockets went home for fuel. The jets went home for fuel. Thehelicopters hung on—still ready, still waiting.     The rockets came back and roared harmlessly about, and went away again.They stayed away. The helicopter men never faltered and never relaxed.The prison below them was washed with light—from the guard posts onthe walls, from the cell blocks themselves, from the mobile lights ofthe guard squadrons surrounding the walls.     North of the prison, on the long, flat, damp developments of reclaimedland, the matchbox row houses of the clerical neighborhoods showedlights in every window as the figgers stood ready to repel invasionfrom their undesired neighbors to the east, the wipes. In the crowdedtenements of the laborers' quarters, the wipes shouted from window towindow; and there were crowds in the bright streets.     The whole bloody thing's going to blow up! a helicopter bombardieryelled bitterly to his pilot, above the flutter and roar of thewhirling blades. Look at the mobs in Greaserville! The first breakoutfrom the Jug's going to start a fight like you never saw and we'll beright in the middle of it!     He was partly right. He would be right in the middle of it—for everyman, woman and child in the city-state would be right in the middle ofit. There was no place anywhere that would be spared.      No mixing.     Thatwas the prescription that kept the city-state alive. There's no harm ina family fight—and aren't all mechanics a family, aren't all laborersa clan, aren't all clerks and office workers related by closer tiesthan blood or skin?     But the declassed cons of the Jug were the dregs of every class; andonce they spread, the neat compartmentation of society was pierced. Thebreakout would mean riot on a bigger scale than any prison had everknown.     But he was also partly wrong. Because the breakout wasn't seeming tocome.  ","Sue-Ann Bradley is also known as Detainee No. WFA-656R at the Estates-General Correctional Institution. She is a recent prisoner and has not been in prison for as long as many other inmates. Her parents both work in Civil Service. She has an excellent educational background and basically whatever a girl could want. However, she chooses to abandon all of that when she lets herself get tangled in dirty business that leads to her arrest. The main reason for her arrest is for conspiracy to violate the Categoried Class laws. She is also described to be a figger-lover because of her actions. Sue-Ann comes off as defiant and courageous when she first steps forward to confront Sandro and O’Leary to explain her side regarding the offense that Mathias reports her for doing. Inside Block O, she tries to walk bravely across the tanglefoot electronic fields only to fall on her face. Even though Sue-Ann is grateful to the guard for letting her attend to her affairs, she does make an effort to ignore him proudly. Despite this brave exterior that Sue-Ann exhibits, she does have moments of weakness. She begins to weep sincerely once the howling and screaming get worse. Although she initially refuses to let the guards hear her, she is eventually driven crazy by the senseless yelling and begins to weep freely. "
"Describe the main setting of the story. </s>     My Lady Greensleeves     By FREDERIK POHL     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        This guard smelled trouble and it could be       counted on to come—for a nose for trouble       was one of the many talents bred here!        I     His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy.     And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R.     He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in.     He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell?     The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie!     O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the      CivilService Guide to Prison Administration     : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book.     She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop.     The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is—     Shut up, Sodaro.  Captain O'leary put down his pencil and looked at the girl. She wasattractive and young—not beyond hope, surely. Maybe she had got offto a wrong start, but the question was, would putting her in thedisciplinary block help straighten her out? He rubbed his ear andlooked past her at the line of prisoners on the rap detail, waiting forhim to judge their cases.     He said patiently: Bradley, the rules are you have to mop out yourcell. If you didn't understand what Mathias was talking about, youshould have asked her. Now I'm warning you, the next time—     Hey, Cap'n, wait! Sodaro was looking alarmed. This isn't a firstoffense. Look at the rap sheet. Yesterday she pulled the same thing inthe mess hall. He shook his head reprovingly at the prisoner. Theblock guard had to break up a fight between her and another wench,and she claimed the same business—said she didn't understand when theother one asked her to move along. He added virtuously: The guardwarned her then that next time she'd get the Greensleeves for sure.     Inmate Bradley seemed to be on the verge of tears. She said tautly: Idon't care. I don't care!     O'Leary stopped her. That's enough! Three days in Block O!     It was the only thing to do—for her own sake as much as for his. Hehad managed, by strength of will, not to hear that she had omittedto say sir every time she spoke to him, but he couldn't keep it upforever and he certainly couldn't overlook hysteria. And hysteria wasclearly the next step for her.     All the same, he stared after her as she left. He handed the rap sheetto Sodaro and said absently: Too bad a kid like her has to be here.What's she in for?     You didn't know, Cap'n? Sodaro leered. She's in for conspiracy toviolate the Categoried Class laws. Don't waste your time with her,Cap'n. She's a figger-lover!     Captain O'Leary took a long drink of water from the fountain markedCivil Service. But it didn't wash the taste out of his mouth, thesmell from his nose.     What got into a girl to get her mixed up with that kind of dirtybusiness? He checked out of the cell blocks and walked across theyard, wondering about her. She'd had every advantage—decent CivilService parents, a good education, everything a girl could wish for. Ifanything, she had had a better environment than O'Leary himself, andlook what she had made of it.     The direction of evolution is toward specialization and Man is noexception, but with the difference that his is the one species thatcreates its own environment in which to specialize. From the momentthat clans formed, specialization began—the hunters using the weaponsmade by the flint-chippers, the food cooked in clay pots made by theceramists, over fire made by the shaman who guarded the sacred flame.     Civilization merely increased the extent of specialization. Fromthe born mechanic and the man with the gift of gab, society evolvedto the point of smaller contact and less communication between thespecializations, until now they could understand each other on only themost basic physical necessities—and not even always then.     But this was desirable, for the more specialists, the higher the degreeof civilization. The ultimate should be the complete segregationof each specialization—social and genetic measures to make thembreed true, because the unspecialized man is an uncivilized man,or at any rate he does not advance civilization. And letting thespecializations mix would produce genetic undesirables: clerk-laboreror Professional-GI misfits, for example, being only half specialized,would be good at no specialization.     And the basis of this specialization society was: The aptitude groupsare the true races of mankind. Putting it into law was only the legalenforcement of a demonstrable fact.     Evening, Cap'n. A bleary old inmate orderly stood up straight andtouched his cap as O'Leary passed by.     Evening.  O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't.     There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He      was     proud of it. It was      right     that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job.     If he had happened to be born a fig—a      clerk     , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter.     Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how      comfortable     it must be to be a wipe—a      laborer     .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf.     Of course, he wouldn't      really     want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't      meant     to be—     Evening, Cap'n.     He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate.     Evening, Conan, he said.     Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place.     So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers?      II     Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment.     And punishment is what you get.     Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock.     Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling.     Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other.     The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside.     The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves.     The outside guard shrugged.     Detail,      halt     ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards.     The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up.     Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready.     Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed.     Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses.     The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves.     However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch.  Sauer and Flock were what are called prison wolves. They werelaborers—wipes, for short—or, at any rate, they had been once.They had spent so much time in prisons that it was sometimes hard evenfor them to remember what they really were, outside. Sauer was a big,grinning redhead with eyes like a water moccasin. Flock was a lithefive-footer with the build of a water moccasin—and the sad, stupideyes of a calf.     Sauer stopped yelling for a moment. Hey, Flock!     What do you want, Sauer? called Flock from his own cell.     We got a lady with us! Maybe we ought to cut out this yelling soas not to disturb the lady! He screeched with howling, maniacallaughter. Anyway, if we don't cut this out, they'll get us in trouble,Flock!     Oh, you think so? shrieked Flock. Jeez, I wish you hadn't said that,Sauer. You got me scared! I'm so scared, I'm gonna have to yell!     The howling started all over again.     The inside guard finished putting the new prisoners away and turned offthe tangler field once more. He licked his lips. Say, you want to takea turn in here for a while?     Uh-uh. The outside guard shook his head.     You're yellow, the inside guard said moodily. Ah, I don't know why Idon't quit this lousy job. Hey, you! Pipe down or I'll come in and beatyour head off!     Ee-ee-ee! screamed Sauer in a shrill falsetto. I'm scared! Then hegrinned at the guard, all but his water-moccasin eyes. Don't you knowyou can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head, Boss?     Shut      up     ! yelled the inside guard.     Sue-Ann Bradley's weeping now was genuine. She simply could not helpit. The crazy yowling of the hard-timers, Sauer and Flock, was gettingunder her skin. They weren't even—even      human     , she told herselfmiserably, trying to weep silently so as not to give the guards thesatisfaction of hearing her—they were animals!     Resentment and anger, she could understand. She told herself doggedlythat resentment and anger were natural and right. They were perfectlynormal expressions of the freedom-loving citizen's rebellion againstthe vile and stifling system of Categoried Classes. It was      good     thatSauer and Flock still had enough spirit to struggle against the vicioussystem—     But did they have to scream so?     The senseless yelling was driving her crazy. She abandoned herself toweeping and she didn't even care who heard her any more. Senseless!     It never occurred to Sue-Ann Bradley that it might not be senseless,because noise hides noise. But then she hadn't been a prisoner verylong.      III     I smell trouble, said O'Leary to the warden.     Trouble? Trouble? Warden Schluckebier clutched his throat and hislittle round eyes looked terrified—as perhaps they should have. WardenGodfrey Schluckebier was the almighty Caesar of ten thousand inmates inthe Jug, but privately he was a fussy old man trying to hold onto thelast decent job he would have in his life.     Trouble?      What     trouble?     O'Leary shrugged. Different things. You know Lafon, from Block A? Thisafternoon, he was playing ball with the laundry orderlies in the yard.     The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: O'Leary, whatdid you want to worry me for? There's nothing wrong with playing ballin the yard. That's what recreation periods are for.     You don't see what I mean, Warden. Lafon was a professional on theoutside—an architect. Those laundry cons were laborers. Pros and wipesdon't mix; it isn't natural. And there are other things.     O'Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden thatit didn't      smell     right?     For instance—Well, there's Aunt Mathias in the women's block. She'sa pretty good old girl—that's why she's the block orderly. She's alifer, she's got no place to go, she gets along with the other women.But today she put a woman named Bradley on report. Why? Because shetold Bradley to mop up in wipe talk and Bradley didn't understand. NowMathias wouldn't—     The warden raised his hand. Please, O'Leary, don't bother me aboutthat kind of stuff. He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He pouredhimself a cup of steaming black coffee from a brewpot, reached in adesk drawer for something, hesitated, glanced at O'Leary, then droppeda pale blue tablet into the cup. He drank it down eagerly, ignoring thescalding heat.     He leaned back, looking suddenly happier and much more assured.     O'Leary, you're a guard captain, right? And I'm your warden. You haveyour job, keeping the inmates in line, and I have mine. Now your job isjust as important as my job, he said piously.       Everybody's     job isjust as important as everybody else's, right? But we have to stick toour own jobs. We don't want to try to      pass     .     O'Leary snapped erect, abruptly angry. Pass! What the devil way wasthat for the warden to talk to him?     Excuse the expression, O'Leary, the warden said anxiously. I mean,after all, 'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' right? He wasa great man for platitudes, was Warden Schluckebier.       You     know youdon't want to worry about      my     end of running the prison. And      I     don'twant to worry about      yours     . You see? And he folded his hands andsmiled like a civil-service Buddha.  O'Leary choked back his temper. Warden, I'm telling you that there'strouble coming up. I smell the signs.     Handle it, then! snapped the warden, irritated at last.     But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose—     It isn't, the warden said positively. Don't borrow trouble withall your supposing, O'Leary. He sipped the remains of his coffee,made a wry face, poured a fresh cup and, with an elaborate show of notnoticing what he was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets intoit this time.     He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect.     Well, then, he said at last. You just remember what I've told youtonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—'Oh, curse the thing.     His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably.     That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O'Leary;they gave you a lift, but they put you on edge.     Hello, barked the warden, not even glancing at the viewscreen. Whatthe devil do you want? Don't you know I'm—What? You did      what     ?You're going to WHAT?     He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure horror.Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His eyes opened likeclamshells in a steamer.     O'Leary, he said faintly, my mistake.     And he hung up—more or less by accident; the handset dropped from hisfingers.     The person on the other end of the phone was calling from Cell Block O.     Five minutes before, he hadn't been anywhere near the phone and itdidn't look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good.Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of thehard-timers of the Greensleeves.     His name was Flock.     He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across from him,thought that maybe, after all, the man was really in pain. Maybe thecrazy screams were screams of agony, because certainly his face was theface of an agonized man.     The outside guard bellowed: Okay, okay. Take ten!     Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What actually didhappen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch thatactuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prisonrules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited theGreensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst casehad to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining garment.     Rest period it was called—in the rule book. The inmates had a lesslovely term for it.  At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet.     Bradley was a little slow getting off the edge of the steel-slatbed—nobody had warned her that the eddy currents in the tangler fieldshad a way of making metal smoke-hot. She gasped but didn't cry out.Score one more painful lesson in her new language course. She rubbedthe backs of her thighs gingerly—and slowly, slowly, for the eddycurrents did not permit you to move fast. It was like pushing againstrubber; the faster you tried to move, the greater the resistance.     The guard peered genially into her cell. You're okay, auntie. Sheproudly ignored him as he slogged deliberately away on his rounds.He didn't have to untie her and practically stand over her whileshe attended to various personal matters, as he did with the maleprisoners. It was not much to be grateful for, but Sue-Ann Bradley wasgrateful. At least she didn't have to live      quite     like a fig—like anunderprivileged clerk, she told herself, conscience-stricken.     Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: What the hell'sthe matter with you? He opened the door of the cell with anasbestos-handled key held in a canvas glove.     Flock was in that cell and he was doubled over.     The guard looked at him doubtfully. It could be a trick, maybe.Couldn't it? But he could see Flock's face and the agony in it was realenough. And Flock was gasping, through real tears: Cramps. I—I—     Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut. The guard lumbered aroundFlock to the draw-strings at the back of the jacket. Funny smell inhere, he told himself—not for the first time. And imagine, some peopledidn't believe that wipes had a smell of their own! But this time, herealized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Something burning.Almost like meat scorching.     It wasn't pleasant. He finished untying Flock and turned away; let thestinking wipe take care of his own troubles. He only had ten minutes toget all the way around Block O and the inmates complained like crazy ifhe didn't make sure they all got the most possible free time. He waspretty good at snowshoeing through the tangler field. He was a littlevain about it, even; at times he had been known to boast of his abilityto make the rounds in two minutes, every time.     Every time but this.     For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close.     The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There wasFlock—astonishingly, he was half out of his jacket; his arms hadn'tbeen in the sleeves at all! And in one of the hands, incredibly, therewas something that glinted and smoked.     All right, croaked Flock, tears trickling out of eyes nearly shutwith pain.     But it wasn't the tears that held the guard; it was the shining,smoking thing, now poised at his throat. A shiv! It looked as thoughit had been made out of a bed-spring, ripped loose from its frame Godknows how, hidden inside the greensleeved jacket God knows how—filed,filed to sharpness over endless hours.     No wonder Flock moaned—the eddy currents in the shiv were slowlycooking his hand; and the blister against his abdomen, where the shivhad been hidden during other rest periods, felt like raw acid.       All right, whispered Flock, just walk out the door and you won't gethurt. Unless the other screw makes trouble, you won't get hurt, so tellhim not to, you hear?     He was nearly fainting with the pain.     But he hadn't let go.     He didn't let go. And he didn't stop.      IV     It was Flock on the phone to the warden—Flock with his eyes stillstreaming tears, Flock with Sauer standing right behind him, menacingthe two bound deck guards.     Sauer shoved Flock out of the way. Hey, Warden! he said, and thevoice was a cheerful bray, though the serpent eyes were cold andhating. Warden, you got to get a medic in here. My boy Flock, he hurthimself real bad and he needs a doctor. He gestured playfully at theguards with the shiv. I tell you, Warden. I got this knife and I gotyour guards here. Enough said? So get a medic in here quick, you hear?     And he snapped the connection.     O'Leary said: Warden, I told you I smelled trouble!     The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to speak, hesitated,and picked up the long-distance phone. He said sadly to the prisonoperator: Get me the governor—fast.       Riot!       The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots.     It snatched the city governor out of a friendly game of Senioritywith his manager and their wives—and just when he was holding thePorkbarrel Joker concealed in the hole.     It broke up the Base Championship Scramble Finals at Hap Arnold Fieldto the south, as half the contestants had to scramble in earnest to aRed Alert that was real.     It reached to police precinct houses and TV newsrooms and highwaycheckpoints, and from there it filtered into the homes and lives of thenineteen million persons that lived within a few dozen miles of the Jug.     Riot. And yet fewer than half a dozen men were involved.     A handful of men, and the enormous bulk of the city-state quivered inevery limb and class. In its ten million homes, in its hundreds ofthousands of public places, the city-state's people shook under theimpact of the news from the prison.     For the news touched them where their fears lay. Riot! And not merelya street brawl among roistering wipes, or a bar-room fight of greasersrelaxing from a hard day at the plant. The riot was down among thecorrupt sludge that underlay the state itself. Wipes brawled with wipesand no one cared; but in the Jug, all classes were cast together.  Forty miles to the south, Hap Arnold Field was a blaze of light. Theairmen tumbled out of their quarters and dayrooms at the screech ofthe alert siren, and behind them their wives and children stretchedand yawned and worried. An alert! The older kids fussed and complainedand their mothers shut them up. No, there wasn't any alert scheduledfor tonight; no, they didn't know where Daddy was going; no, the kidscouldn't get up yet—it was the middle of the night.     And as soon as they had the kids back in bed, most of the mothersstruggled into their own airwac uniforms and headed for the briefingarea to hear.     They caught the words from a distance—not quite correctly. Riot!gasped an aircraftswoman first-class, mother of three. The wipes! I      told     Charlie they'd get out of hand and—Alys, we aren't safe. Youknow how they are about GI women! I'm going right home and get a cluband stand right by the door and—     Club! snapped Alys, radarscope-sergeant, with two childrenquerulously awake in her nursery at home. What in God's name is theuse of a club? You can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head. You'dbetter come along to Supply with me and draw a gun—you'll need itbefore this night is over.     But the airmen themselves heard the briefing loud and clear over thescramble-call speakers, and they knew it was not merely a matter oftrouble in the wipe quarters. The Jug! The governor himself had calledthem out; they were to fly interdicting missions at such-and-suchlevels on such-and-such flight circuits around the prison.     The rockets took off on fountains of fire; and the jets took off with awhistling roar; and last of all, the helicopters took off ... and theywere the ones who might actually accomplish something. They took uptheir picket posts on the prison perimeter, a pilot and two bombardiersin each 'copter, stone-faced, staring grimly alert at the prison below.     They were ready for the breakout.     But there wasn't any breakout.     The rockets went home for fuel. The jets went home for fuel. Thehelicopters hung on—still ready, still waiting.     The rockets came back and roared harmlessly about, and went away again.They stayed away. The helicopter men never faltered and never relaxed.The prison below them was washed with light—from the guard posts onthe walls, from the cell blocks themselves, from the mobile lights ofthe guard squadrons surrounding the walls.     North of the prison, on the long, flat, damp developments of reclaimedland, the matchbox row houses of the clerical neighborhoods showedlights in every window as the figgers stood ready to repel invasionfrom their undesired neighbors to the east, the wipes. In the crowdedtenements of the laborers' quarters, the wipes shouted from window towindow; and there were crowds in the bright streets.     The whole bloody thing's going to blow up! a helicopter bombardieryelled bitterly to his pilot, above the flutter and roar of thewhirling blades. Look at the mobs in Greaserville! The first breakoutfrom the Jug's going to start a fight like you never saw and we'll beright in the middle of it!     He was partly right. He would be right in the middle of it—for everyman, woman and child in the city-state would be right in the middle ofit. There was no place anywhere that would be spared.      No mixing.     Thatwas the prescription that kept the city-state alive. There's no harm ina family fight—and aren't all mechanics a family, aren't all laborersa clan, aren't all clerks and office workers related by closer tiesthan blood or skin?     But the declassed cons of the Jug were the dregs of every class; andonce they spread, the neat compartmentation of society was pierced. Thebreakout would mean riot on a bigger scale than any prison had everknown.     But he was also partly wrong. Because the breakout wasn't seeming tocome.  ","The main setting of the story is inside of a prison. The cells need to be mopped out, and there is also a mess hall. There is also a water fountain that is marked as “Civil Service” that O’Leary drinks out of. Outside, the prison also has a cobblestone yard that the spray machines and sweeperdozers constantly clean. Some prisoners, however, still clean as a means of keeping themselves busy. Apart from the courtyard, there is a car pool inside the prison gates too. The Block O portion of the prison, also known as Greensleeves, has cells with green straitjackets for the prisoners to wear and steel-slat beds. Prisoners must take steel steps up to the block and walk through a gate. The most impressive feature of Block O is the tanglefoot electronic fields that can be turned on by a switch. Prisoners are unable to move against the electronic drag of the field, which makes them essentially harmless. There is a telephone in Block O as well, that one can use to call the warden. "
"What is the Jug a symbol of to the civilians in the outside world? </s>     My Lady Greensleeves     By FREDERIK POHL     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        This guard smelled trouble and it could be       counted on to come—for a nose for trouble       was one of the many talents bred here!        I     His name was Liam O'Leary and there was something stinking in hisnostrils. It was the smell of trouble. He hadn't found what the troublewas yet, but he would. That was his business. He was a captain ofguards in Estates-General Correctional Institution—better known toits inmates as the Jug—and if he hadn't been able to detect the scentof trouble brewing a cell-block away, he would never have survived toreach his captaincy.     And her name, he saw, was Sue-Ann Bradley, Detainee No. WFA-656R.     He frowned at the rap sheet, trying to figure out what got a girl likeher into a place like this. And, what was more important, why shecouldn't adjust herself to it, now that she was in.     He demanded: Why wouldn't you mop out your cell?     The girl lifted her head angrily and took a step forward. The blockguard, Sodaro, growled warningly: Watch it, auntie!     O'Leary shook his head. Let her talk, Sodaro. It said in the      CivilService Guide to Prison Administration     : Detainees will be permittedto speak in their own behalf in disciplinary proceedings. And O'Learywas a man who lived by the book.     She burst out: I never got a chance! That old witch Mathias never toldme I was supposed to mop up. She banged on the door and said, 'Slushup, sister!' And then, ten minutes later, she called the guards andtold them I refused to mop.     The block guard guffawed. Wipe talk—that's what she was telling youto do. Cap'n, you know what's funny about this? This Bradley is—     Shut up, Sodaro.  Captain O'leary put down his pencil and looked at the girl. She wasattractive and young—not beyond hope, surely. Maybe she had got offto a wrong start, but the question was, would putting her in thedisciplinary block help straighten her out? He rubbed his ear andlooked past her at the line of prisoners on the rap detail, waiting forhim to judge their cases.     He said patiently: Bradley, the rules are you have to mop out yourcell. If you didn't understand what Mathias was talking about, youshould have asked her. Now I'm warning you, the next time—     Hey, Cap'n, wait! Sodaro was looking alarmed. This isn't a firstoffense. Look at the rap sheet. Yesterday she pulled the same thing inthe mess hall. He shook his head reprovingly at the prisoner. Theblock guard had to break up a fight between her and another wench,and she claimed the same business—said she didn't understand when theother one asked her to move along. He added virtuously: The guardwarned her then that next time she'd get the Greensleeves for sure.     Inmate Bradley seemed to be on the verge of tears. She said tautly: Idon't care. I don't care!     O'Leary stopped her. That's enough! Three days in Block O!     It was the only thing to do—for her own sake as much as for his. Hehad managed, by strength of will, not to hear that she had omittedto say sir every time she spoke to him, but he couldn't keep it upforever and he certainly couldn't overlook hysteria. And hysteria wasclearly the next step for her.     All the same, he stared after her as she left. He handed the rap sheetto Sodaro and said absently: Too bad a kid like her has to be here.What's she in for?     You didn't know, Cap'n? Sodaro leered. She's in for conspiracy toviolate the Categoried Class laws. Don't waste your time with her,Cap'n. She's a figger-lover!     Captain O'Leary took a long drink of water from the fountain markedCivil Service. But it didn't wash the taste out of his mouth, thesmell from his nose.     What got into a girl to get her mixed up with that kind of dirtybusiness? He checked out of the cell blocks and walked across theyard, wondering about her. She'd had every advantage—decent CivilService parents, a good education, everything a girl could wish for. Ifanything, she had had a better environment than O'Leary himself, andlook what she had made of it.     The direction of evolution is toward specialization and Man is noexception, but with the difference that his is the one species thatcreates its own environment in which to specialize. From the momentthat clans formed, specialization began—the hunters using the weaponsmade by the flint-chippers, the food cooked in clay pots made by theceramists, over fire made by the shaman who guarded the sacred flame.     Civilization merely increased the extent of specialization. Fromthe born mechanic and the man with the gift of gab, society evolvedto the point of smaller contact and less communication between thespecializations, until now they could understand each other on only themost basic physical necessities—and not even always then.     But this was desirable, for the more specialists, the higher the degreeof civilization. The ultimate should be the complete segregationof each specialization—social and genetic measures to make thembreed true, because the unspecialized man is an uncivilized man,or at any rate he does not advance civilization. And letting thespecializations mix would produce genetic undesirables: clerk-laboreror Professional-GI misfits, for example, being only half specialized,would be good at no specialization.     And the basis of this specialization society was: The aptitude groupsare the true races of mankind. Putting it into law was only the legalenforcement of a demonstrable fact.     Evening, Cap'n. A bleary old inmate orderly stood up straight andtouched his cap as O'Leary passed by.     Evening.  O'Leary noted, with the part of his mind that always noted thosethings, that the orderly had been leaning on his broom until he'dnoticed the captain coming by. Of course, there wasn't much tosweep—the spray machines and sweeperdozers had been over thecobblestones of the yard twice already that day. But it was an inmate'sjob to keep busy. And it was a guard captain's job to notice when theydidn't.     There wasn't anything wrong with that job, he told himself. It was aperfectly good civil-service position—better than post-office clerk,not as good as Congressman, but a job you could be proud to hold. He      was     proud of it. It was      right     that he should be proud of it. He wascivil-service born and bred, and naturally he was proud and content todo a good, clean civil-service job.     If he had happened to be born a fig—a      clerk     , he correctedhimself—if he had happened to be born a clerk, why, he would have beenproud of that, too. There wasn't anything wrong with being a clerk—ora mechanic or a soldier, or even a laborer, for that matter.     Good laborers were the salt of the Earth! They weren't smart, maybe,but they had a—well, a sort of natural, relaxed joy of living. O'Learywas a broad-minded man and many times he had thought almost with atouch of envy how      comfortable     it must be to be a wipe—a      laborer     .No responsibilities. No worries. Just an easy, slow routine of work andloaf, work and loaf.     Of course, he wouldn't      really     want that kind of life, because he wasCivil Service and not the kind to try to cross over class barriers thatweren't      meant     to be—     Evening, Cap'n.     He nodded to the mechanic inmate who was, theoretically, in charge ofmaintaining the prison's car pool, just inside the gate.     Evening, Conan, he said.     Conan, now—he was a big buck greaser and he would be there for thenext hour, languidly poking a piece of fluff out of the air filter onthe prison jeep. Lazy, sure. Undependable, certainly. But he kept thecars going—and, O'Leary thought approvingly, when his sentence was upin another year or so, he would go back to his life with his statusrestored, a mechanic on the outside as he had been inside, and hecertainly would never risk coming back to the Jug by trying to pass asCivil Service or anything else. He knew his place.     So why didn't this girl, this Sue-Ann Bradley, know hers?      II     Every prison has its Greensleeves—sometimes they are called bydifferent names. Old Marquette called it the canary; Louisiana Statecalled it the red hats; elsewhere it was called the hole, thesnake pit, the Klondike. When you're in it, you don't much care whatit is called; it is a place for punishment.     And punishment is what you get.     Block O in Estates-General Correctional Institution was thedisciplinary block, and because of the green straitjackets itsinhabitants wore, it was called the Greensleeves. It was a community ofits own, an enclave within the larger city-state that was the Jug. Andlike any other community, it had its leading citizens ... two of them.Their names were Sauer and Flock.     Sue-Ann Bradley heard them before she reached the Greensleeves. Shewas in a detachment of three unfortunates like herself, convoyed by anirritable guard, climbing the steel steps toward Block O from the floorbelow, when she heard the yelling.     Owoo-o-o, screamed Sauer from one end of the cell block andYow-w-w! shrieked Flock at the other.     The inside deck guard of Block O looked nervously at the outside deckguard. The outside guard looked impassively back—after all, he was onthe outside.     The inside guard muttered: Wipe rats! They're getting on my nerves.     The outside guard shrugged.     Detail,      halt     ! The two guards turned to see what was coming in asthe three new candidates for the Greensleeves slumped to a stop at thehead of the stairs. Here they are, Sodaro told them. Take good careof 'em, will you? Especially the lady—she's going to like it here,because there's plenty of wipes and greasers and figgers to keep hercompany. He laughed coarsely and abandoned his charges to the Block Oguards.     The outside guard said sourly: A woman, for God's sake. Now O'Learyknows I hate it when there's a woman in here. It gets the others allriled up.     Let them in, the inside guard told him. The others are riled upalready.     Sue-Ann Bradley looked carefully at the floor and paid them noattention. The outside guard pulled the switch that turned on thetanglefoot electronic fields that swamped the floor of the blockcorridor and of each individual cell. While the fields were on, youcould ignore the prisoners—they simply could not move fast enough,against the electronic drag of the field, to do any harm. But it was arule that, even in Block O, you didn't leave the tangler fields on allthe time—only when the cell doors had to be opened or a prisoner'srestraining garment removed.     Sue-Ann walked bravely forward through the opened gate—and fell flaton her face. It was her first experience of a tanglefoot field. It waslike walking through molasses.     The guard guffawed and lifted her up by one shoulder. Take it easy,auntie. Come on, get in your cell. He steered her in the rightdirection and pointed to a greensleeved straitjacket on the cell cot.Put that on. Being as you're a lady, we won't tie it up, but the rulessay you got to wear it and the rules—Hey. She's crying! He shook hishead, marveling. It was the first time he had ever seen a prisoner cryin the Greensleeves.     However, he was wrong. Sue-Ann's shoulders were shaking, but not fromtears. Sue-Ann Bradley had got a good look at Sauer and at Flock as shepassed them by and she was fighting off an almost uncontrollable urgeto retch.  Sauer and Flock were what are called prison wolves. They werelaborers—wipes, for short—or, at any rate, they had been once.They had spent so much time in prisons that it was sometimes hard evenfor them to remember what they really were, outside. Sauer was a big,grinning redhead with eyes like a water moccasin. Flock was a lithefive-footer with the build of a water moccasin—and the sad, stupideyes of a calf.     Sauer stopped yelling for a moment. Hey, Flock!     What do you want, Sauer? called Flock from his own cell.     We got a lady with us! Maybe we ought to cut out this yelling soas not to disturb the lady! He screeched with howling, maniacallaughter. Anyway, if we don't cut this out, they'll get us in trouble,Flock!     Oh, you think so? shrieked Flock. Jeez, I wish you hadn't said that,Sauer. You got me scared! I'm so scared, I'm gonna have to yell!     The howling started all over again.     The inside guard finished putting the new prisoners away and turned offthe tangler field once more. He licked his lips. Say, you want to takea turn in here for a while?     Uh-uh. The outside guard shook his head.     You're yellow, the inside guard said moodily. Ah, I don't know why Idon't quit this lousy job. Hey, you! Pipe down or I'll come in and beatyour head off!     Ee-ee-ee! screamed Sauer in a shrill falsetto. I'm scared! Then hegrinned at the guard, all but his water-moccasin eyes. Don't you knowyou can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head, Boss?     Shut      up     ! yelled the inside guard.     Sue-Ann Bradley's weeping now was genuine. She simply could not helpit. The crazy yowling of the hard-timers, Sauer and Flock, was gettingunder her skin. They weren't even—even      human     , she told herselfmiserably, trying to weep silently so as not to give the guards thesatisfaction of hearing her—they were animals!     Resentment and anger, she could understand. She told herself doggedlythat resentment and anger were natural and right. They were perfectlynormal expressions of the freedom-loving citizen's rebellion againstthe vile and stifling system of Categoried Classes. It was      good     thatSauer and Flock still had enough spirit to struggle against the vicioussystem—     But did they have to scream so?     The senseless yelling was driving her crazy. She abandoned herself toweeping and she didn't even care who heard her any more. Senseless!     It never occurred to Sue-Ann Bradley that it might not be senseless,because noise hides noise. But then she hadn't been a prisoner verylong.      III     I smell trouble, said O'Leary to the warden.     Trouble? Trouble? Warden Schluckebier clutched his throat and hislittle round eyes looked terrified—as perhaps they should have. WardenGodfrey Schluckebier was the almighty Caesar of ten thousand inmates inthe Jug, but privately he was a fussy old man trying to hold onto thelast decent job he would have in his life.     Trouble?      What     trouble?     O'Leary shrugged. Different things. You know Lafon, from Block A? Thisafternoon, he was playing ball with the laundry orderlies in the yard.     The warden, faintly relieved, faintly annoyed, scolded: O'Leary, whatdid you want to worry me for? There's nothing wrong with playing ballin the yard. That's what recreation periods are for.     You don't see what I mean, Warden. Lafon was a professional on theoutside—an architect. Those laundry cons were laborers. Pros and wipesdon't mix; it isn't natural. And there are other things.     O'Leary hesitated, frowning. How could you explain to the warden thatit didn't      smell     right?     For instance—Well, there's Aunt Mathias in the women's block. She'sa pretty good old girl—that's why she's the block orderly. She's alifer, she's got no place to go, she gets along with the other women.But today she put a woman named Bradley on report. Why? Because shetold Bradley to mop up in wipe talk and Bradley didn't understand. NowMathias wouldn't—     The warden raised his hand. Please, O'Leary, don't bother me aboutthat kind of stuff. He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes. He pouredhimself a cup of steaming black coffee from a brewpot, reached in adesk drawer for something, hesitated, glanced at O'Leary, then droppeda pale blue tablet into the cup. He drank it down eagerly, ignoring thescalding heat.     He leaned back, looking suddenly happier and much more assured.     O'Leary, you're a guard captain, right? And I'm your warden. You haveyour job, keeping the inmates in line, and I have mine. Now your job isjust as important as my job, he said piously.       Everybody's     job isjust as important as everybody else's, right? But we have to stick toour own jobs. We don't want to try to      pass     .     O'Leary snapped erect, abruptly angry. Pass! What the devil way wasthat for the warden to talk to him?     Excuse the expression, O'Leary, the warden said anxiously. I mean,after all, 'Specialization is the goal of civilization,' right? He wasa great man for platitudes, was Warden Schluckebier.       You     know youdon't want to worry about      my     end of running the prison. And      I     don'twant to worry about      yours     . You see? And he folded his hands andsmiled like a civil-service Buddha.  O'Leary choked back his temper. Warden, I'm telling you that there'strouble coming up. I smell the signs.     Handle it, then! snapped the warden, irritated at last.     But suppose it's too big to handle. Suppose—     It isn't, the warden said positively. Don't borrow trouble withall your supposing, O'Leary. He sipped the remains of his coffee,made a wry face, poured a fresh cup and, with an elaborate show of notnoticing what he was doing, dropped three of the pale blue tablets intoit this time.     He sat beaming into space, waiting for the jolt to take effect.     Well, then, he said at last. You just remember what I've told youtonight, O'Leary, and we'll get along fine. 'Specialization is the—'Oh, curse the thing.     His phone was ringing. The warden picked it up irritably.     That was the trouble with those pale blue tablets, thought O'Leary;they gave you a lift, but they put you on edge.     Hello, barked the warden, not even glancing at the viewscreen. Whatthe devil do you want? Don't you know I'm—What? You did      what     ?You're going to WHAT?     He looked at the viewscreen at last with a look of pure horror.Whatever he saw on it, it did not reassure him. His eyes opened likeclamshells in a steamer.     O'Leary, he said faintly, my mistake.     And he hung up—more or less by accident; the handset dropped from hisfingers.     The person on the other end of the phone was calling from Cell Block O.     Five minutes before, he hadn't been anywhere near the phone and itdidn't look as if his chances of ever getting near it were very good.Because five minutes before, he was in his cell, with the rest of thehard-timers of the Greensleeves.     His name was Flock.     He was still yelling. Sue-Ann Bradley, in the cell across from him,thought that maybe, after all, the man was really in pain. Maybe thecrazy screams were screams of agony, because certainly his face was theface of an agonized man.     The outside guard bellowed: Okay, okay. Take ten!     Sue-Ann froze, waiting to see what would happen. What actually didhappen was that the guard reached up and closed the switch thatactuated the tangler fields on the floors of the cells. The prisonrules were humanitarian, even for the dregs that inhabited theGreensleeves. Ten minutes out of every two hours, even the worst casehad to be allowed to take his hands out of the restraining garment.     Rest period it was called—in the rule book. The inmates had a lesslovely term for it.  At the guard's yell, the inmates jumped to their feet.     Bradley was a little slow getting off the edge of the steel-slatbed—nobody had warned her that the eddy currents in the tangler fieldshad a way of making metal smoke-hot. She gasped but didn't cry out.Score one more painful lesson in her new language course. She rubbedthe backs of her thighs gingerly—and slowly, slowly, for the eddycurrents did not permit you to move fast. It was like pushing againstrubber; the faster you tried to move, the greater the resistance.     The guard peered genially into her cell. You're okay, auntie. Sheproudly ignored him as he slogged deliberately away on his rounds.He didn't have to untie her and practically stand over her whileshe attended to various personal matters, as he did with the maleprisoners. It was not much to be grateful for, but Sue-Ann Bradley wasgrateful. At least she didn't have to live      quite     like a fig—like anunderprivileged clerk, she told herself, conscience-stricken.     Across the hall, the guard was saying irritably: What the hell'sthe matter with you? He opened the door of the cell with anasbestos-handled key held in a canvas glove.     Flock was in that cell and he was doubled over.     The guard looked at him doubtfully. It could be a trick, maybe.Couldn't it? But he could see Flock's face and the agony in it was realenough. And Flock was gasping, through real tears: Cramps. I—I—     Ah, you wipes always got a pain in the gut. The guard lumbered aroundFlock to the draw-strings at the back of the jacket. Funny smell inhere, he told himself—not for the first time. And imagine, some peopledidn't believe that wipes had a smell of their own! But this time, herealized cloudily, it was a rather unusual smell. Something burning.Almost like meat scorching.     It wasn't pleasant. He finished untying Flock and turned away; let thestinking wipe take care of his own troubles. He only had ten minutes toget all the way around Block O and the inmates complained like crazy ifhe didn't make sure they all got the most possible free time. He waspretty good at snowshoeing through the tangler field. He was a littlevain about it, even; at times he had been known to boast of his abilityto make the rounds in two minutes, every time.     Every time but this.     For Flock moaned behind him, oddly close.     The guard turned, but not quickly enough. There wasFlock—astonishingly, he was half out of his jacket; his arms hadn'tbeen in the sleeves at all! And in one of the hands, incredibly, therewas something that glinted and smoked.     All right, croaked Flock, tears trickling out of eyes nearly shutwith pain.     But it wasn't the tears that held the guard; it was the shining,smoking thing, now poised at his throat. A shiv! It looked as thoughit had been made out of a bed-spring, ripped loose from its frame Godknows how, hidden inside the greensleeved jacket God knows how—filed,filed to sharpness over endless hours.     No wonder Flock moaned—the eddy currents in the shiv were slowlycooking his hand; and the blister against his abdomen, where the shivhad been hidden during other rest periods, felt like raw acid.       All right, whispered Flock, just walk out the door and you won't gethurt. Unless the other screw makes trouble, you won't get hurt, so tellhim not to, you hear?     He was nearly fainting with the pain.     But he hadn't let go.     He didn't let go. And he didn't stop.      IV     It was Flock on the phone to the warden—Flock with his eyes stillstreaming tears, Flock with Sauer standing right behind him, menacingthe two bound deck guards.     Sauer shoved Flock out of the way. Hey, Warden! he said, and thevoice was a cheerful bray, though the serpent eyes were cold andhating. Warden, you got to get a medic in here. My boy Flock, he hurthimself real bad and he needs a doctor. He gestured playfully at theguards with the shiv. I tell you, Warden. I got this knife and I gotyour guards here. Enough said? So get a medic in here quick, you hear?     And he snapped the connection.     O'Leary said: Warden, I told you I smelled trouble!     The warden lifted his head, glared, started feebly to speak, hesitated,and picked up the long-distance phone. He said sadly to the prisonoperator: Get me the governor—fast.       Riot!       The word spread out from the prison on seven-league boots.     It snatched the city governor out of a friendly game of Senioritywith his manager and their wives—and just when he was holding thePorkbarrel Joker concealed in the hole.     It broke up the Base Championship Scramble Finals at Hap Arnold Fieldto the south, as half the contestants had to scramble in earnest to aRed Alert that was real.     It reached to police precinct houses and TV newsrooms and highwaycheckpoints, and from there it filtered into the homes and lives of thenineteen million persons that lived within a few dozen miles of the Jug.     Riot. And yet fewer than half a dozen men were involved.     A handful of men, and the enormous bulk of the city-state quivered inevery limb and class. In its ten million homes, in its hundreds ofthousands of public places, the city-state's people shook under theimpact of the news from the prison.     For the news touched them where their fears lay. Riot! And not merelya street brawl among roistering wipes, or a bar-room fight of greasersrelaxing from a hard day at the plant. The riot was down among thecorrupt sludge that underlay the state itself. Wipes brawled with wipesand no one cared; but in the Jug, all classes were cast together.  Forty miles to the south, Hap Arnold Field was a blaze of light. Theairmen tumbled out of their quarters and dayrooms at the screech ofthe alert siren, and behind them their wives and children stretchedand yawned and worried. An alert! The older kids fussed and complainedand their mothers shut them up. No, there wasn't any alert scheduledfor tonight; no, they didn't know where Daddy was going; no, the kidscouldn't get up yet—it was the middle of the night.     And as soon as they had the kids back in bed, most of the mothersstruggled into their own airwac uniforms and headed for the briefingarea to hear.     They caught the words from a distance—not quite correctly. Riot!gasped an aircraftswoman first-class, mother of three. The wipes! I      told     Charlie they'd get out of hand and—Alys, we aren't safe. Youknow how they are about GI women! I'm going right home and get a cluband stand right by the door and—     Club! snapped Alys, radarscope-sergeant, with two childrenquerulously awake in her nursery at home. What in God's name is theuse of a club? You can't hurt a wipe by hitting him on the head. You'dbetter come along to Supply with me and draw a gun—you'll need itbefore this night is over.     But the airmen themselves heard the briefing loud and clear over thescramble-call speakers, and they knew it was not merely a matter oftrouble in the wipe quarters. The Jug! The governor himself had calledthem out; they were to fly interdicting missions at such-and-suchlevels on such-and-such flight circuits around the prison.     The rockets took off on fountains of fire; and the jets took off with awhistling roar; and last of all, the helicopters took off ... and theywere the ones who might actually accomplish something. They took uptheir picket posts on the prison perimeter, a pilot and two bombardiersin each 'copter, stone-faced, staring grimly alert at the prison below.     They were ready for the breakout.     But there wasn't any breakout.     The rockets went home for fuel. The jets went home for fuel. Thehelicopters hung on—still ready, still waiting.     The rockets came back and roared harmlessly about, and went away again.They stayed away. The helicopter men never faltered and never relaxed.The prison below them was washed with light—from the guard posts onthe walls, from the cell blocks themselves, from the mobile lights ofthe guard squadrons surrounding the walls.     North of the prison, on the long, flat, damp developments of reclaimedland, the matchbox row houses of the clerical neighborhoods showedlights in every window as the figgers stood ready to repel invasionfrom their undesired neighbors to the east, the wipes. In the crowdedtenements of the laborers' quarters, the wipes shouted from window towindow; and there were crowds in the bright streets.     The whole bloody thing's going to blow up! a helicopter bombardieryelled bitterly to his pilot, above the flutter and roar of thewhirling blades. Look at the mobs in Greaserville! The first breakoutfrom the Jug's going to start a fight like you never saw and we'll beright in the middle of it!     He was partly right. He would be right in the middle of it—for everyman, woman and child in the city-state would be right in the middle ofit. There was no place anywhere that would be spared.      No mixing.     Thatwas the prescription that kept the city-state alive. There's no harm ina family fight—and aren't all mechanics a family, aren't all laborersa clan, aren't all clerks and office workers related by closer tiesthan blood or skin?     But the declassed cons of the Jug were the dregs of every class; andonce they spread, the neat compartmentation of society was pierced. Thebreakout would mean riot on a bigger scale than any prison had everknown.     But he was also partly wrong. Because the breakout wasn't seeming tocome.  ","To the outside world, the Jug is a symbol of the lack of organization and control in the specialist society. Unlike normal street brawls or bar-room fights within the individual classes, the civilians see the Jug as where all classes end up together. This fact is extremely dangerous, because it goes against the values and goals of a higher civilization that the specialization society tries so hard to maintain. While most of the bonds that people form with one another are in their specialization classes, people from the Jug do not have to uphold this same obligation. There is also fear that once these criminals break out of the Jug, the neatly organized class order will become disrupted, and a riot larger than any prison can handle will occur amongst the people in the outside world. In the story, many already begin to prepare for the riots that will inevitably happen when the criminals break out of the Jug. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     CALL HIM NEMESIS     By DONALD E. WESTLAKE     Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on     your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and,     for that matter, so do the cops!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The man with the handkerchief mask said, All right, everybody, keeptight. This is a holdup.     There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall athis desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic namedRodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English andMiss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was MisterAnderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There wasMrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in theirjoint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollarsdimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his fatherin the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were threebank robbers.     The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, theyall wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefsover the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulledlow over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous.     The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-twocalibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One ofthe others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, andsaid to him in a low voice, Think about retirement, my friend. Thethird one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walkedquickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it withmoney.     It was just like the movies.     The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall andthe customers all over against the back wall, while the second manstayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed moneyinto the black satchel.     The man by the door said, Hurry up.     The man with the satchel said, One more drawer.     The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, Keep yourshirt on.     That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ranpelting in her stocking feet for the door.  The man by the door spread his arms out and shouted, Hey! The manwith the gun swung violently back, cursing, and fired the gun. But he'dbeen moving too fast, and so had Miss English, and all he hit was thebrass plate on Mr. Featherhall's desk.     The man by the door caught Miss English in a bear hug. She promptly didher best to scratch his eyes out. Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson went scootingout the front door and running down the street toward the policestation in the next block, shouting, Help! Help! Robbery!     The man with the gun cursed some more. The man with the satchel camerunning around from behind the counter, and the man by the door triedto keep Miss English from scratching his eyes out. Then the man withthe gun hit Miss English on the head. She fell unconscious to thefloor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front,in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine.     Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch.     Things got very fast and very confused then. Two police cars camedriving down the block and a half from the precinct house to the bank,and the car with the four robbers in it lurched away from the curb anddrove straight down the street toward the police station. The policecars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shootinglike the ships in pirate movies.     There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robberswere going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrongway and, as they'd come down with sirens wailing, there was a clearpath behind them.     Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenlystarted jouncing around. It smacked into a parked car and stopped. Andall the police went running down there to clap handcuffs on the robberswhen they crawled dazedly out of their car.     Hey, said Eddie Clayhorn, ten years old. Hey, that was something,huh, Mom?     Come along home, said his mother, grabbing his hand. We don't wantto be involved.  It was the nuttiest thing, said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. Anoperation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to theirgetaway car, you know what I mean?     Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. They always slip up, he said.Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up.     Yes, but their      tires     .     Well, said Pauling, it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbedwhatever was handiest.     What I can't figure out, said Stevenson, is exactly what made thosetires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't      that     hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fastenough to melt your tires down.     Pauling shrugged again. We got them. That's the important thing.     Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling outRockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubesblow out and there they are. Stevenson shook his head. I can't figureit.     Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, suggested Pauling. They pickedthe wrong car to steal.     And      that     doesn't make sense, either, said Stevenson. Why steal acar that could be identified as easily as that one?     Why? What was it, a foreign make?     No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like halfthe cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner hadburned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half ablock away.     Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car, said Pauling.     For a well-planned operation like this one, said Stevenson, theymade a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense.     What do they have to say about it? Pauling demanded.     Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all.     The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his headin. The owner of that Chevvy's here, he said.     Right, said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to thefront desk.     The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, talland paunchy. John Hastings, he said. They say you have my car here.     I believe so, yes, said Stevenson. I'm afraid it's in pretty badshape.     So I was told over the phone, said Hastings grimly. I've contactedmy insurance company.     Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd comewith me?  On the way around, Stevenson said, I believe you reported the carstolen almost immediately after it happened.     That's right, said Hastings. I stepped into a bar on my route. I'ma wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my carwas gone.     You left the keys in it?     Well, why not? demanded Hastings belligerently. If I'm making justa quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any onecustomer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not?     The car was stolen, Stevenson reminded him.     Hastings grumbled and glared. It's always been perfectly safe up tillnow.     Yes, sir. In here.     Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. It's ruined!he cried. What did you do to the tires?     Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup.     Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. Look at that!There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! Whatdid you use, incendiary bullets?     Stevenson shook his head. No, sir. When that happened they were twoblocks away from the nearest policeman.     Hmph. Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of      kids     had stolen the car.     It wasn't a bunch of kids, Stevenson told him. It was fourprofessional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it ina bank holdup.     Then why did they do      that     ?     Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again thecrudely-lettered words, The Scorpion burned black into the paint ofthe trunk lid. I really don't know, he said. It wasn't there beforethe car was stolen?     Of course not!     Stevenson frowned. Now, why in the world did they do that?     I suggest, said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, you ask them that.     Stevenson shook his head. It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talkingabout anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us. He looked at thetrunk lid again. It's the nuttiest thing, he said thoughtfully....     That was on Wednesday.     The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the      Daily News     brought a crankletter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from anewspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address.     The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point:     Dear Mr. Editor:     The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpionfights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avengingScorpion. WARN YOUR READERS!     Sincerely yours,     THE SCORPION     The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. Itdidn't rate a line in the paper.      II     The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn manwent berserk.     It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near JamaicaBay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was aMotor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins.     Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for thethird time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand.     As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted toawaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that hereally ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He thenallegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom.     Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. ThelmaStodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at thehouse at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-lockedbedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door andstop acting like a child. Neighbors reported to the police that theyheard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, Go away! Can't you let aman sleep?     At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block ofsimilar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly eruptedfrom his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, beingannoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shellsat them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in thehand and shoulder.     Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screamingout the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,Murder! Murder! At this point, neighbors called the police. Oneneighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two televisionstations, thereby earning forty dollars in news-tips rewards.  By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the BeltParkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at IdlewildAirport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up aposition across the street from the scene of carnage and went to workwith a Zoomar lens.     In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,firing at anything that moved.     The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. Oneconcentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighborsand ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens tosearch for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-homeaudience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers andundershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of thehouse.     The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at thecorner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. Thepolice used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, theyhad the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challengeanyone present to hand-to-hand combat.     The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy dayand all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again.     The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly anddramatically.     Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose ofshooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped andthrew the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithereddown to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fellbarrel first onto the lawn.     Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like awounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fallinto the arms of the waiting police.     They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actuallytrying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he wasshouting: My hands! My hands!     They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingerswere red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There wasanother burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder.     Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burnointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. Theneighbors went home and telephoned their friends.     On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of theprecincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant WilliamStevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappyindividual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all.     He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of thestock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, TheScorpion.  You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but politicalconnections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. AsCaptain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be bothmore imaginative than most—You gotta be able to second-guess thesmart boys—and to be a complete realist—You gotta have both feeton the ground. If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it wasbest not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks.     The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson? he demanded.     I'm not sure, admitted Stevenson. But we've got these two things.First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt forno reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifleall of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks toprove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'.     He says he put that on there himself, said the captain.     Stevenson shook his head. His      lawyer     says he put it on there.Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer'scase. He's trying to build up an insanity defense.     He put it on there himself, Stevenson, said the captain with wearypatience. What are you trying to prove?     I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. Andwhat about the getaway car? What about those tires melting?     They were defective, said Hanks promptly.     All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on thetrunk?     How do I know? demanded the captain. Kids put it on before the carwas stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?What do      they     say?     They say they didn't do it, said Stevenson. And they say they neversaw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd beenthere.     The captain shook his head. I don't get it, he admitted. What areyou trying to prove?     I guess, said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, Iguess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and madethat rifle too hot, and left his signature behind.     What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What areyou trying to hand me?     All I know, insisted Stevenson, is what I see.     And all      I     know, the captain told him, is Higgins put that name onhis rifle himself. He says so.     And what made it so hot?     Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What doyou      think     made it hot?     All of a sudden?     He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him.     How come the same name showed up each time, then? Stevenson askeddesperately.     How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do thesethings happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and theywrite 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happensall the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people?     But there's no explanation— started Stevenson.     What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just      gave     you theexplanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nuttyidea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea therewas a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandonedrefrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and gettingall upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.Remember?     I remember, said Stevenson.     Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson, the captain advised him.     Yes, sir, said Stevenson....     The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought acrank letter to the      Daily News     :     Dear Mr. Editor,     You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people couldnot escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal issafe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS.     Sincerely yours,     THE SCORPION     Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who hadseen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in thesame place, and forgotten.      III     Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids aroundfor the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked upcarrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're onyour way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as aJD.     The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entranceson two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, andthe street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sidesclaimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guysfrom both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but thathad been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, anddetermined that the matter could only be settled in a war.     The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but nopistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winnerwould have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, bothentrances.     The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separateclubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to playchicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn ofthe approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who mightcome wandering through.     Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteenyears old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of theScarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned toher. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street.     Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets weredark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephonepole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her ScarletRaider jacket and waited.     At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. Therumble had started.     At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down thestreet. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of themcarried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en maskson.     They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, Hey,you kids. Take off.     One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. Who, us?     Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way.     The subway's this way, objected the kid in the red mask.     Who cares? You go around the other way.  Listen, lady, said the kid in the red mask, aggrieved, we got a longway to go to get home.     Yeah, said another kid, in a black mask, and we're late as it is.     I couldn't care less, Judy told them callously. You can't go downthat street.     Why not? demanded yet another kid. This one was in the most completeand elaborate costume of them all, black leotards and a yellow shirtand a flowing: black cape. He wore a black and gold mask and had ablack knit cap jammed down tight onto his head. Why can't we go downthere? this apparition demanded.     Because I said so, Judy told him. Now, you kids get away from here.Take off.     Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume. Hey, they'refighting down there!     It's a rumble, said Judy proudly. You twerps don't want to beinvolved.     Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume again. And he wentrunning around Judy and dashing off down the street.     Hey, Eddie! shouted one of the other kids. Eddie, come back!     Judy wasn't sure what to do next. If she abandoned her post to chasethe one kid who'd gotten through, then maybe all the rest of them wouldcome running along after her. She didn't know what to do.     A sudden siren and a distant flashing red light solved her problems.Cheez, said one of the kids. The cops!     Fuzz! screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward theschoolyard, shouting, Fuzz! Fuzz! Clear out, it's the fuzz!     But then she stopped, wide-eyed, when she saw what was going on in theschoolyard.     The guys from both gangs were dancing. They were jumping around, wavingtheir arms, throwing their weapons away. Then they all started pullingoff their gang jackets and throwing them away, whooping and hollering.They were making such a racket themselves that they never heard Judy'swarning. They didn't even hear the police sirens. And all at once bothschoolyard entrances were full of cops, a cop had tight hold of Judyand the rumble was over.       Judy was so baffled and terrified that everything was just one greatbig blur. But in the middle of it all, she did see the little kid inthe yellow-and-black costume go scooting away down the street.     And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault.  Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he wasimpatient as well. All right, Stevenson, he said. Make it fast, I'vegot a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thingof yours again.     I'm afraid it is, Captain, said Stevenson. Did you see the morningpaper?     So what?     Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan?     Captain Hanks sighed. Stevenson, he said wearily, are you going totry to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What'sthe problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what?     Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,' Stevenson toldhim. One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was theChallengers.     So they changed their name, said Hanks.     Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name?     Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over.     It was a territorial war, Stevenson reminded him. They've admittedthat much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny everseeing that word on their jackets until after the fight.     A bunch of juvenile delinquents, said Hanks in disgust. You taketheir word?     Captain, did you read the article in the paper?     I glanced through it.     All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they startedfighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at onceall the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins andbelt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had topull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were latercollected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had beenbranded 'The Scorpion.'     Now, let      me     tell      you     something, said Hanks severely. They heardthe police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then theythrew their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't beenpart of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught beforethey could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showedup a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in itbut weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over theneighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and notbothering anybody.      That's     what happened. And all this talk aboutfreezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alecpunk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back toworrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kidgangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, oryou're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson.     Yes, sir, said Stevenson.  ","The story opens up on a bank robbery. Three men, wearing identical outfits and masks, walk in and threaten the citizens in the bank, raising a weapon. As the men are taking money from behind the counter, a woman, Miss English, makes a run for the door. She is shot at but missed, caught by one of the men at the door, and another citizen, Mr. Anderson, manages to escape and call for help. The men flee the bank and hop into a stolen car, just missing the incoming police. As the men get away, the car suddenly malfunctions and crashes into another car, and they are eventually caught by the police. Detective Stevenson discusses the incident with Detective Pauling, and he is perplexed by how the tires of the stolen car seemed to melt instantly, and how the words ""The Scorpion"" were branded into the car. The owner of the stolen car, John Hastings, arrives, and he confirms that the words were not on the car before it was stolen. Two days later, the Daily News receives a crank letter, addressed from ""The Scorpion"" and explaining that he fights crime, threatening criminals. The letter was not published. About a month after the robbery, another incident occurs in Brooklyn, where Jerome Higgins murders his wife and injures his sister after spending days in his bedroom. Police and cameramen arrive at his home, where a standoff occurs for an hour before Higgins suddenly throws his rifle and runs outside, his hands burned severely. Stevenson finds the rifle and sees ""The Scorpion"" burned into the side of it. Stevenson goes to Captain Hanks, questioning the similarities between the two events, and Hanks dismisses his conspiracies. The Daily Mail receives another letter, but still does not publish it. On Halloween, two gangs, the Challengers and the Scarlet Raiders, plan a rumble over territory. Judy Canzanetti is a lookout for the Scarlet Raiders, and she is guarding the street when a group of children approach her. Judy warns them to leave, but one of the children goes around her and runs down the street. Suddenly, the police arrive, and Judy warns the gang, but then sees them jumping around and throwing their weapons and jackets. Again, the words ""The Scorpion"" are found on the jackets of both gangs. Stevenson brings this up to Hanks again, but he denies it and tells him to stop bringing the theory up."
"What pattern does Stevenson notice in the crimes that makes him suspicious? </s>     CALL HIM NEMESIS     By DONALD E. WESTLAKE     Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on     your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and,     for that matter, so do the cops!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The man with the handkerchief mask said, All right, everybody, keeptight. This is a holdup.     There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall athis desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic namedRodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English andMiss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was MisterAnderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There wasMrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in theirjoint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollarsdimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his fatherin the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were threebank robbers.     The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, theyall wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefsover the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulledlow over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous.     The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-twocalibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One ofthe others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, andsaid to him in a low voice, Think about retirement, my friend. Thethird one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walkedquickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it withmoney.     It was just like the movies.     The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall andthe customers all over against the back wall, while the second manstayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed moneyinto the black satchel.     The man by the door said, Hurry up.     The man with the satchel said, One more drawer.     The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, Keep yourshirt on.     That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ranpelting in her stocking feet for the door.  The man by the door spread his arms out and shouted, Hey! The manwith the gun swung violently back, cursing, and fired the gun. But he'dbeen moving too fast, and so had Miss English, and all he hit was thebrass plate on Mr. Featherhall's desk.     The man by the door caught Miss English in a bear hug. She promptly didher best to scratch his eyes out. Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson went scootingout the front door and running down the street toward the policestation in the next block, shouting, Help! Help! Robbery!     The man with the gun cursed some more. The man with the satchel camerunning around from behind the counter, and the man by the door triedto keep Miss English from scratching his eyes out. Then the man withthe gun hit Miss English on the head. She fell unconscious to thefloor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front,in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine.     Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch.     Things got very fast and very confused then. Two police cars camedriving down the block and a half from the precinct house to the bank,and the car with the four robbers in it lurched away from the curb anddrove straight down the street toward the police station. The policecars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shootinglike the ships in pirate movies.     There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robberswere going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrongway and, as they'd come down with sirens wailing, there was a clearpath behind them.     Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenlystarted jouncing around. It smacked into a parked car and stopped. Andall the police went running down there to clap handcuffs on the robberswhen they crawled dazedly out of their car.     Hey, said Eddie Clayhorn, ten years old. Hey, that was something,huh, Mom?     Come along home, said his mother, grabbing his hand. We don't wantto be involved.  It was the nuttiest thing, said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. Anoperation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to theirgetaway car, you know what I mean?     Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. They always slip up, he said.Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up.     Yes, but their      tires     .     Well, said Pauling, it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbedwhatever was handiest.     What I can't figure out, said Stevenson, is exactly what made thosetires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't      that     hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fastenough to melt your tires down.     Pauling shrugged again. We got them. That's the important thing.     Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling outRockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubesblow out and there they are. Stevenson shook his head. I can't figureit.     Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, suggested Pauling. They pickedthe wrong car to steal.     And      that     doesn't make sense, either, said Stevenson. Why steal acar that could be identified as easily as that one?     Why? What was it, a foreign make?     No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like halfthe cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner hadburned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half ablock away.     Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car, said Pauling.     For a well-planned operation like this one, said Stevenson, theymade a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense.     What do they have to say about it? Pauling demanded.     Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all.     The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his headin. The owner of that Chevvy's here, he said.     Right, said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to thefront desk.     The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, talland paunchy. John Hastings, he said. They say you have my car here.     I believe so, yes, said Stevenson. I'm afraid it's in pretty badshape.     So I was told over the phone, said Hastings grimly. I've contactedmy insurance company.     Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd comewith me?  On the way around, Stevenson said, I believe you reported the carstolen almost immediately after it happened.     That's right, said Hastings. I stepped into a bar on my route. I'ma wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my carwas gone.     You left the keys in it?     Well, why not? demanded Hastings belligerently. If I'm making justa quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any onecustomer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not?     The car was stolen, Stevenson reminded him.     Hastings grumbled and glared. It's always been perfectly safe up tillnow.     Yes, sir. In here.     Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. It's ruined!he cried. What did you do to the tires?     Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup.     Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. Look at that!There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! Whatdid you use, incendiary bullets?     Stevenson shook his head. No, sir. When that happened they were twoblocks away from the nearest policeman.     Hmph. Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of      kids     had stolen the car.     It wasn't a bunch of kids, Stevenson told him. It was fourprofessional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it ina bank holdup.     Then why did they do      that     ?     Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again thecrudely-lettered words, The Scorpion burned black into the paint ofthe trunk lid. I really don't know, he said. It wasn't there beforethe car was stolen?     Of course not!     Stevenson frowned. Now, why in the world did they do that?     I suggest, said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, you ask them that.     Stevenson shook his head. It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talkingabout anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us. He looked at thetrunk lid again. It's the nuttiest thing, he said thoughtfully....     That was on Wednesday.     The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the      Daily News     brought a crankletter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from anewspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address.     The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point:     Dear Mr. Editor:     The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpionfights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avengingScorpion. WARN YOUR READERS!     Sincerely yours,     THE SCORPION     The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. Itdidn't rate a line in the paper.      II     The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn manwent berserk.     It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near JamaicaBay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was aMotor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins.     Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for thethird time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand.     As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted toawaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that hereally ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He thenallegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom.     Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. ThelmaStodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at thehouse at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-lockedbedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door andstop acting like a child. Neighbors reported to the police that theyheard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, Go away! Can't you let aman sleep?     At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block ofsimilar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly eruptedfrom his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, beingannoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shellsat them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in thehand and shoulder.     Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screamingout the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,Murder! Murder! At this point, neighbors called the police. Oneneighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two televisionstations, thereby earning forty dollars in news-tips rewards.  By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the BeltParkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at IdlewildAirport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up aposition across the street from the scene of carnage and went to workwith a Zoomar lens.     In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,firing at anything that moved.     The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. Oneconcentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighborsand ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens tosearch for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-homeaudience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers andundershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of thehouse.     The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at thecorner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. Thepolice used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, theyhad the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challengeanyone present to hand-to-hand combat.     The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy dayand all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again.     The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly anddramatically.     Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose ofshooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped andthrew the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithereddown to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fellbarrel first onto the lawn.     Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like awounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fallinto the arms of the waiting police.     They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actuallytrying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he wasshouting: My hands! My hands!     They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingerswere red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There wasanother burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder.     Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burnointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. Theneighbors went home and telephoned their friends.     On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of theprecincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant WilliamStevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappyindividual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all.     He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of thestock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, TheScorpion.  You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but politicalconnections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. AsCaptain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be bothmore imaginative than most—You gotta be able to second-guess thesmart boys—and to be a complete realist—You gotta have both feeton the ground. If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it wasbest not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks.     The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson? he demanded.     I'm not sure, admitted Stevenson. But we've got these two things.First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt forno reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifleall of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks toprove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'.     He says he put that on there himself, said the captain.     Stevenson shook his head. His      lawyer     says he put it on there.Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer'scase. He's trying to build up an insanity defense.     He put it on there himself, Stevenson, said the captain with wearypatience. What are you trying to prove?     I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. Andwhat about the getaway car? What about those tires melting?     They were defective, said Hanks promptly.     All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on thetrunk?     How do I know? demanded the captain. Kids put it on before the carwas stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?What do      they     say?     They say they didn't do it, said Stevenson. And they say they neversaw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd beenthere.     The captain shook his head. I don't get it, he admitted. What areyou trying to prove?     I guess, said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, Iguess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and madethat rifle too hot, and left his signature behind.     What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What areyou trying to hand me?     All I know, insisted Stevenson, is what I see.     And all      I     know, the captain told him, is Higgins put that name onhis rifle himself. He says so.     And what made it so hot?     Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What doyou      think     made it hot?     All of a sudden?     He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him.     How come the same name showed up each time, then? Stevenson askeddesperately.     How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do thesethings happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and theywrite 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happensall the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people?     But there's no explanation— started Stevenson.     What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just      gave     you theexplanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nuttyidea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea therewas a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandonedrefrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and gettingall upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.Remember?     I remember, said Stevenson.     Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson, the captain advised him.     Yes, sir, said Stevenson....     The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought acrank letter to the      Daily News     :     Dear Mr. Editor,     You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people couldnot escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal issafe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS.     Sincerely yours,     THE SCORPION     Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who hadseen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in thesame place, and forgotten.      III     Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids aroundfor the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked upcarrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're onyour way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as aJD.     The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entranceson two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, andthe street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sidesclaimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guysfrom both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but thathad been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, anddetermined that the matter could only be settled in a war.     The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but nopistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winnerwould have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, bothentrances.     The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separateclubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to playchicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn ofthe approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who mightcome wandering through.     Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteenyears old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of theScarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned toher. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street.     Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets weredark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephonepole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her ScarletRaider jacket and waited.     At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. Therumble had started.     At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down thestreet. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of themcarried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en maskson.     They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, Hey,you kids. Take off.     One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. Who, us?     Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way.     The subway's this way, objected the kid in the red mask.     Who cares? You go around the other way.  Listen, lady, said the kid in the red mask, aggrieved, we got a longway to go to get home.     Yeah, said another kid, in a black mask, and we're late as it is.     I couldn't care less, Judy told them callously. You can't go downthat street.     Why not? demanded yet another kid. This one was in the most completeand elaborate costume of them all, black leotards and a yellow shirtand a flowing: black cape. He wore a black and gold mask and had ablack knit cap jammed down tight onto his head. Why can't we go downthere? this apparition demanded.     Because I said so, Judy told him. Now, you kids get away from here.Take off.     Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume. Hey, they'refighting down there!     It's a rumble, said Judy proudly. You twerps don't want to beinvolved.     Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume again. And he wentrunning around Judy and dashing off down the street.     Hey, Eddie! shouted one of the other kids. Eddie, come back!     Judy wasn't sure what to do next. If she abandoned her post to chasethe one kid who'd gotten through, then maybe all the rest of them wouldcome running along after her. She didn't know what to do.     A sudden siren and a distant flashing red light solved her problems.Cheez, said one of the kids. The cops!     Fuzz! screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward theschoolyard, shouting, Fuzz! Fuzz! Clear out, it's the fuzz!     But then she stopped, wide-eyed, when she saw what was going on in theschoolyard.     The guys from both gangs were dancing. They were jumping around, wavingtheir arms, throwing their weapons away. Then they all started pullingoff their gang jackets and throwing them away, whooping and hollering.They were making such a racket themselves that they never heard Judy'swarning. They didn't even hear the police sirens. And all at once bothschoolyard entrances were full of cops, a cop had tight hold of Judyand the rumble was over.       Judy was so baffled and terrified that everything was just one greatbig blur. But in the middle of it all, she did see the little kid inthe yellow-and-black costume go scooting away down the street.     And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault.  Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he wasimpatient as well. All right, Stevenson, he said. Make it fast, I'vegot a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thingof yours again.     I'm afraid it is, Captain, said Stevenson. Did you see the morningpaper?     So what?     Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan?     Captain Hanks sighed. Stevenson, he said wearily, are you going totry to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What'sthe problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what?     Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,' Stevenson toldhim. One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was theChallengers.     So they changed their name, said Hanks.     Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name?     Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over.     It was a territorial war, Stevenson reminded him. They've admittedthat much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny everseeing that word on their jackets until after the fight.     A bunch of juvenile delinquents, said Hanks in disgust. You taketheir word?     Captain, did you read the article in the paper?     I glanced through it.     All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they startedfighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at onceall the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins andbelt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had topull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were latercollected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had beenbranded 'The Scorpion.'     Now, let      me     tell      you     something, said Hanks severely. They heardthe police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then theythrew their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't beenpart of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught beforethey could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showedup a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in itbut weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over theneighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and notbothering anybody.      That's     what happened. And all this talk aboutfreezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alecpunk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back toworrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kidgangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, oryou're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson.     Yes, sir, said Stevenson.  ","In all three incidents that take place in the story, the criminals were stopped and caught by the police. They all seemed to be mysteriously burned in one way or another: the tires on the car melted off, Higgins' hands were burned by the rifle, and the jackets and weapons of the gang members seemed to have the same effect. Additionally, all three events were tagged by ""The Scorpion"": the words were branded on the car, the rifle, and the jackets."
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     CALL HIM NEMESIS     By DONALD E. WESTLAKE     Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on     your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and,     for that matter, so do the cops!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The man with the handkerchief mask said, All right, everybody, keeptight. This is a holdup.     There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall athis desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic namedRodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English andMiss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was MisterAnderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There wasMrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in theirjoint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollarsdimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his fatherin the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were threebank robbers.     The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, theyall wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefsover the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulledlow over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous.     The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-twocalibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One ofthe others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, andsaid to him in a low voice, Think about retirement, my friend. Thethird one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walkedquickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it withmoney.     It was just like the movies.     The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall andthe customers all over against the back wall, while the second manstayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed moneyinto the black satchel.     The man by the door said, Hurry up.     The man with the satchel said, One more drawer.     The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, Keep yourshirt on.     That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ranpelting in her stocking feet for the door.  The man by the door spread his arms out and shouted, Hey! The manwith the gun swung violently back, cursing, and fired the gun. But he'dbeen moving too fast, and so had Miss English, and all he hit was thebrass plate on Mr. Featherhall's desk.     The man by the door caught Miss English in a bear hug. She promptly didher best to scratch his eyes out. Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson went scootingout the front door and running down the street toward the policestation in the next block, shouting, Help! Help! Robbery!     The man with the gun cursed some more. The man with the satchel camerunning around from behind the counter, and the man by the door triedto keep Miss English from scratching his eyes out. Then the man withthe gun hit Miss English on the head. She fell unconscious to thefloor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front,in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine.     Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch.     Things got very fast and very confused then. Two police cars camedriving down the block and a half from the precinct house to the bank,and the car with the four robbers in it lurched away from the curb anddrove straight down the street toward the police station. The policecars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shootinglike the ships in pirate movies.     There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robberswere going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrongway and, as they'd come down with sirens wailing, there was a clearpath behind them.     Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenlystarted jouncing around. It smacked into a parked car and stopped. Andall the police went running down there to clap handcuffs on the robberswhen they crawled dazedly out of their car.     Hey, said Eddie Clayhorn, ten years old. Hey, that was something,huh, Mom?     Come along home, said his mother, grabbing his hand. We don't wantto be involved.  It was the nuttiest thing, said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. Anoperation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to theirgetaway car, you know what I mean?     Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. They always slip up, he said.Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up.     Yes, but their      tires     .     Well, said Pauling, it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbedwhatever was handiest.     What I can't figure out, said Stevenson, is exactly what made thosetires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't      that     hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fastenough to melt your tires down.     Pauling shrugged again. We got them. That's the important thing.     Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling outRockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubesblow out and there they are. Stevenson shook his head. I can't figureit.     Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, suggested Pauling. They pickedthe wrong car to steal.     And      that     doesn't make sense, either, said Stevenson. Why steal acar that could be identified as easily as that one?     Why? What was it, a foreign make?     No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like halfthe cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner hadburned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half ablock away.     Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car, said Pauling.     For a well-planned operation like this one, said Stevenson, theymade a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense.     What do they have to say about it? Pauling demanded.     Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all.     The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his headin. The owner of that Chevvy's here, he said.     Right, said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to thefront desk.     The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, talland paunchy. John Hastings, he said. They say you have my car here.     I believe so, yes, said Stevenson. I'm afraid it's in pretty badshape.     So I was told over the phone, said Hastings grimly. I've contactedmy insurance company.     Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd comewith me?  On the way around, Stevenson said, I believe you reported the carstolen almost immediately after it happened.     That's right, said Hastings. I stepped into a bar on my route. I'ma wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my carwas gone.     You left the keys in it?     Well, why not? demanded Hastings belligerently. If I'm making justa quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any onecustomer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not?     The car was stolen, Stevenson reminded him.     Hastings grumbled and glared. It's always been perfectly safe up tillnow.     Yes, sir. In here.     Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. It's ruined!he cried. What did you do to the tires?     Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup.     Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. Look at that!There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! Whatdid you use, incendiary bullets?     Stevenson shook his head. No, sir. When that happened they were twoblocks away from the nearest policeman.     Hmph. Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of      kids     had stolen the car.     It wasn't a bunch of kids, Stevenson told him. It was fourprofessional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it ina bank holdup.     Then why did they do      that     ?     Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again thecrudely-lettered words, The Scorpion burned black into the paint ofthe trunk lid. I really don't know, he said. It wasn't there beforethe car was stolen?     Of course not!     Stevenson frowned. Now, why in the world did they do that?     I suggest, said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, you ask them that.     Stevenson shook his head. It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talkingabout anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us. He looked at thetrunk lid again. It's the nuttiest thing, he said thoughtfully....     That was on Wednesday.     The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the      Daily News     brought a crankletter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from anewspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address.     The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point:     Dear Mr. Editor:     The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpionfights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avengingScorpion. WARN YOUR READERS!     Sincerely yours,     THE SCORPION     The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. Itdidn't rate a line in the paper.      II     The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn manwent berserk.     It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near JamaicaBay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was aMotor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins.     Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for thethird time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand.     As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted toawaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that hereally ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He thenallegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom.     Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. ThelmaStodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at thehouse at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-lockedbedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door andstop acting like a child. Neighbors reported to the police that theyheard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, Go away! Can't you let aman sleep?     At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block ofsimilar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly eruptedfrom his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, beingannoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shellsat them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in thehand and shoulder.     Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screamingout the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,Murder! Murder! At this point, neighbors called the police. Oneneighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two televisionstations, thereby earning forty dollars in news-tips rewards.  By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the BeltParkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at IdlewildAirport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up aposition across the street from the scene of carnage and went to workwith a Zoomar lens.     In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,firing at anything that moved.     The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. Oneconcentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighborsand ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens tosearch for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-homeaudience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers andundershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of thehouse.     The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at thecorner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. Thepolice used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, theyhad the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challengeanyone present to hand-to-hand combat.     The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy dayand all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again.     The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly anddramatically.     Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose ofshooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped andthrew the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithereddown to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fellbarrel first onto the lawn.     Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like awounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fallinto the arms of the waiting police.     They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actuallytrying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he wasshouting: My hands! My hands!     They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingerswere red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There wasanother burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder.     Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burnointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. Theneighbors went home and telephoned their friends.     On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of theprecincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant WilliamStevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappyindividual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all.     He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of thestock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, TheScorpion.  You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but politicalconnections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. AsCaptain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be bothmore imaginative than most—You gotta be able to second-guess thesmart boys—and to be a complete realist—You gotta have both feeton the ground. If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it wasbest not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks.     The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson? he demanded.     I'm not sure, admitted Stevenson. But we've got these two things.First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt forno reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifleall of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks toprove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'.     He says he put that on there himself, said the captain.     Stevenson shook his head. His      lawyer     says he put it on there.Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer'scase. He's trying to build up an insanity defense.     He put it on there himself, Stevenson, said the captain with wearypatience. What are you trying to prove?     I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. Andwhat about the getaway car? What about those tires melting?     They were defective, said Hanks promptly.     All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on thetrunk?     How do I know? demanded the captain. Kids put it on before the carwas stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?What do      they     say?     They say they didn't do it, said Stevenson. And they say they neversaw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd beenthere.     The captain shook his head. I don't get it, he admitted. What areyou trying to prove?     I guess, said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, Iguess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and madethat rifle too hot, and left his signature behind.     What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What areyou trying to hand me?     All I know, insisted Stevenson, is what I see.     And all      I     know, the captain told him, is Higgins put that name onhis rifle himself. He says so.     And what made it so hot?     Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What doyou      think     made it hot?     All of a sudden?     He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him.     How come the same name showed up each time, then? Stevenson askeddesperately.     How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do thesethings happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and theywrite 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happensall the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people?     But there's no explanation— started Stevenson.     What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just      gave     you theexplanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nuttyidea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea therewas a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandonedrefrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and gettingall upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.Remember?     I remember, said Stevenson.     Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson, the captain advised him.     Yes, sir, said Stevenson....     The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought acrank letter to the      Daily News     :     Dear Mr. Editor,     You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people couldnot escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal issafe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS.     Sincerely yours,     THE SCORPION     Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who hadseen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in thesame place, and forgotten.      III     Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids aroundfor the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked upcarrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're onyour way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as aJD.     The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entranceson two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, andthe street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sidesclaimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guysfrom both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but thathad been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, anddetermined that the matter could only be settled in a war.     The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but nopistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winnerwould have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, bothentrances.     The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separateclubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to playchicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn ofthe approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who mightcome wandering through.     Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteenyears old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of theScarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned toher. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street.     Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets weredark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephonepole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her ScarletRaider jacket and waited.     At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. Therumble had started.     At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down thestreet. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of themcarried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en maskson.     They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, Hey,you kids. Take off.     One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. Who, us?     Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way.     The subway's this way, objected the kid in the red mask.     Who cares? You go around the other way.  Listen, lady, said the kid in the red mask, aggrieved, we got a longway to go to get home.     Yeah, said another kid, in a black mask, and we're late as it is.     I couldn't care less, Judy told them callously. You can't go downthat street.     Why not? demanded yet another kid. This one was in the most completeand elaborate costume of them all, black leotards and a yellow shirtand a flowing: black cape. He wore a black and gold mask and had ablack knit cap jammed down tight onto his head. Why can't we go downthere? this apparition demanded.     Because I said so, Judy told him. Now, you kids get away from here.Take off.     Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume. Hey, they'refighting down there!     It's a rumble, said Judy proudly. You twerps don't want to beinvolved.     Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume again. And he wentrunning around Judy and dashing off down the street.     Hey, Eddie! shouted one of the other kids. Eddie, come back!     Judy wasn't sure what to do next. If she abandoned her post to chasethe one kid who'd gotten through, then maybe all the rest of them wouldcome running along after her. She didn't know what to do.     A sudden siren and a distant flashing red light solved her problems.Cheez, said one of the kids. The cops!     Fuzz! screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward theschoolyard, shouting, Fuzz! Fuzz! Clear out, it's the fuzz!     But then she stopped, wide-eyed, when she saw what was going on in theschoolyard.     The guys from both gangs were dancing. They were jumping around, wavingtheir arms, throwing their weapons away. Then they all started pullingoff their gang jackets and throwing them away, whooping and hollering.They were making such a racket themselves that they never heard Judy'swarning. They didn't even hear the police sirens. And all at once bothschoolyard entrances were full of cops, a cop had tight hold of Judyand the rumble was over.       Judy was so baffled and terrified that everything was just one greatbig blur. But in the middle of it all, she did see the little kid inthe yellow-and-black costume go scooting away down the street.     And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault.  Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he wasimpatient as well. All right, Stevenson, he said. Make it fast, I'vegot a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thingof yours again.     I'm afraid it is, Captain, said Stevenson. Did you see the morningpaper?     So what?     Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan?     Captain Hanks sighed. Stevenson, he said wearily, are you going totry to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What'sthe problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what?     Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,' Stevenson toldhim. One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was theChallengers.     So they changed their name, said Hanks.     Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name?     Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over.     It was a territorial war, Stevenson reminded him. They've admittedthat much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny everseeing that word on their jackets until after the fight.     A bunch of juvenile delinquents, said Hanks in disgust. You taketheir word?     Captain, did you read the article in the paper?     I glanced through it.     All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they startedfighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at onceall the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins andbelt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had topull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were latercollected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had beenbranded 'The Scorpion.'     Now, let      me     tell      you     something, said Hanks severely. They heardthe police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then theythrew their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't beenpart of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught beforethey could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showedup a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in itbut weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over theneighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and notbothering anybody.      That's     what happened. And all this talk aboutfreezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alecpunk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back toworrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kidgangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, oryou're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson.     Yes, sir, said Stevenson.  ","The story takes place in New York City. The first scene takes place in a bank, where a police station is a few blocks away. The second crime takes place in Canarsie, a part of Brooklyn, at the home of Jerome Higgins, which is located in a residential neighborhood. The third crime takes place on Halloween in Manhattan, this time in a schoolyard, a neutral territory up for grabs between the Scarlet Raiders and the Challengers."
"What is the relationship between Stevenson and Hanks? </s>     CALL HIM NEMESIS     By DONALD E. WESTLAKE     Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on     your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and,     for that matter, so do the cops!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The man with the handkerchief mask said, All right, everybody, keeptight. This is a holdup.     There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall athis desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic namedRodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English andMiss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was MisterAnderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There wasMrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in theirjoint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollarsdimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his fatherin the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were threebank robbers.     The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, theyall wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefsover the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulledlow over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous.     The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-twocalibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One ofthe others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, andsaid to him in a low voice, Think about retirement, my friend. Thethird one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walkedquickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it withmoney.     It was just like the movies.     The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall andthe customers all over against the back wall, while the second manstayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed moneyinto the black satchel.     The man by the door said, Hurry up.     The man with the satchel said, One more drawer.     The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, Keep yourshirt on.     That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ranpelting in her stocking feet for the door.  The man by the door spread his arms out and shouted, Hey! The manwith the gun swung violently back, cursing, and fired the gun. But he'dbeen moving too fast, and so had Miss English, and all he hit was thebrass plate on Mr. Featherhall's desk.     The man by the door caught Miss English in a bear hug. She promptly didher best to scratch his eyes out. Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson went scootingout the front door and running down the street toward the policestation in the next block, shouting, Help! Help! Robbery!     The man with the gun cursed some more. The man with the satchel camerunning around from behind the counter, and the man by the door triedto keep Miss English from scratching his eyes out. Then the man withthe gun hit Miss English on the head. She fell unconscious to thefloor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front,in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine.     Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch.     Things got very fast and very confused then. Two police cars camedriving down the block and a half from the precinct house to the bank,and the car with the four robbers in it lurched away from the curb anddrove straight down the street toward the police station. The policecars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shootinglike the ships in pirate movies.     There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robberswere going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrongway and, as they'd come down with sirens wailing, there was a clearpath behind them.     Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenlystarted jouncing around. It smacked into a parked car and stopped. Andall the police went running down there to clap handcuffs on the robberswhen they crawled dazedly out of their car.     Hey, said Eddie Clayhorn, ten years old. Hey, that was something,huh, Mom?     Come along home, said his mother, grabbing his hand. We don't wantto be involved.  It was the nuttiest thing, said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. Anoperation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to theirgetaway car, you know what I mean?     Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. They always slip up, he said.Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up.     Yes, but their      tires     .     Well, said Pauling, it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbedwhatever was handiest.     What I can't figure out, said Stevenson, is exactly what made thosetires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't      that     hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fastenough to melt your tires down.     Pauling shrugged again. We got them. That's the important thing.     Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling outRockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubesblow out and there they are. Stevenson shook his head. I can't figureit.     Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, suggested Pauling. They pickedthe wrong car to steal.     And      that     doesn't make sense, either, said Stevenson. Why steal acar that could be identified as easily as that one?     Why? What was it, a foreign make?     No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like halfthe cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner hadburned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half ablock away.     Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car, said Pauling.     For a well-planned operation like this one, said Stevenson, theymade a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense.     What do they have to say about it? Pauling demanded.     Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all.     The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his headin. The owner of that Chevvy's here, he said.     Right, said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to thefront desk.     The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, talland paunchy. John Hastings, he said. They say you have my car here.     I believe so, yes, said Stevenson. I'm afraid it's in pretty badshape.     So I was told over the phone, said Hastings grimly. I've contactedmy insurance company.     Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd comewith me?  On the way around, Stevenson said, I believe you reported the carstolen almost immediately after it happened.     That's right, said Hastings. I stepped into a bar on my route. I'ma wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my carwas gone.     You left the keys in it?     Well, why not? demanded Hastings belligerently. If I'm making justa quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any onecustomer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not?     The car was stolen, Stevenson reminded him.     Hastings grumbled and glared. It's always been perfectly safe up tillnow.     Yes, sir. In here.     Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. It's ruined!he cried. What did you do to the tires?     Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup.     Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. Look at that!There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! Whatdid you use, incendiary bullets?     Stevenson shook his head. No, sir. When that happened they were twoblocks away from the nearest policeman.     Hmph. Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of      kids     had stolen the car.     It wasn't a bunch of kids, Stevenson told him. It was fourprofessional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it ina bank holdup.     Then why did they do      that     ?     Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again thecrudely-lettered words, The Scorpion burned black into the paint ofthe trunk lid. I really don't know, he said. It wasn't there beforethe car was stolen?     Of course not!     Stevenson frowned. Now, why in the world did they do that?     I suggest, said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, you ask them that.     Stevenson shook his head. It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talkingabout anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us. He looked at thetrunk lid again. It's the nuttiest thing, he said thoughtfully....     That was on Wednesday.     The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the      Daily News     brought a crankletter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from anewspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address.     The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point:     Dear Mr. Editor:     The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpionfights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avengingScorpion. WARN YOUR READERS!     Sincerely yours,     THE SCORPION     The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. Itdidn't rate a line in the paper.      II     The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn manwent berserk.     It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near JamaicaBay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was aMotor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins.     Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for thethird time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand.     As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted toawaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that hereally ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He thenallegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom.     Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. ThelmaStodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at thehouse at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-lockedbedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door andstop acting like a child. Neighbors reported to the police that theyheard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, Go away! Can't you let aman sleep?     At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block ofsimilar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly eruptedfrom his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, beingannoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shellsat them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in thehand and shoulder.     Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screamingout the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,Murder! Murder! At this point, neighbors called the police. Oneneighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two televisionstations, thereby earning forty dollars in news-tips rewards.  By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the BeltParkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at IdlewildAirport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up aposition across the street from the scene of carnage and went to workwith a Zoomar lens.     In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,firing at anything that moved.     The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. Oneconcentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighborsand ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens tosearch for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-homeaudience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers andundershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of thehouse.     The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at thecorner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. Thepolice used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, theyhad the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challengeanyone present to hand-to-hand combat.     The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy dayand all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again.     The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly anddramatically.     Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose ofshooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped andthrew the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithereddown to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fellbarrel first onto the lawn.     Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like awounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fallinto the arms of the waiting police.     They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actuallytrying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he wasshouting: My hands! My hands!     They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingerswere red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There wasanother burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder.     Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burnointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. Theneighbors went home and telephoned their friends.     On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of theprecincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant WilliamStevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappyindividual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all.     He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of thestock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, TheScorpion.  You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but politicalconnections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. AsCaptain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be bothmore imaginative than most—You gotta be able to second-guess thesmart boys—and to be a complete realist—You gotta have both feeton the ground. If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it wasbest not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks.     The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson? he demanded.     I'm not sure, admitted Stevenson. But we've got these two things.First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt forno reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifleall of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks toprove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'.     He says he put that on there himself, said the captain.     Stevenson shook his head. His      lawyer     says he put it on there.Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer'scase. He's trying to build up an insanity defense.     He put it on there himself, Stevenson, said the captain with wearypatience. What are you trying to prove?     I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. Andwhat about the getaway car? What about those tires melting?     They were defective, said Hanks promptly.     All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on thetrunk?     How do I know? demanded the captain. Kids put it on before the carwas stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?What do      they     say?     They say they didn't do it, said Stevenson. And they say they neversaw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd beenthere.     The captain shook his head. I don't get it, he admitted. What areyou trying to prove?     I guess, said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, Iguess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and madethat rifle too hot, and left his signature behind.     What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What areyou trying to hand me?     All I know, insisted Stevenson, is what I see.     And all      I     know, the captain told him, is Higgins put that name onhis rifle himself. He says so.     And what made it so hot?     Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What doyou      think     made it hot?     All of a sudden?     He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him.     How come the same name showed up each time, then? Stevenson askeddesperately.     How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do thesethings happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and theywrite 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happensall the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people?     But there's no explanation— started Stevenson.     What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just      gave     you theexplanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nuttyidea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea therewas a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandonedrefrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and gettingall upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.Remember?     I remember, said Stevenson.     Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson, the captain advised him.     Yes, sir, said Stevenson....     The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought acrank letter to the      Daily News     :     Dear Mr. Editor,     You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people couldnot escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal issafe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS.     Sincerely yours,     THE SCORPION     Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who hadseen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in thesame place, and forgotten.      III     Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids aroundfor the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked upcarrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're onyour way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as aJD.     The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entranceson two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, andthe street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sidesclaimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guysfrom both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but thathad been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, anddetermined that the matter could only be settled in a war.     The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but nopistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winnerwould have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, bothentrances.     The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separateclubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to playchicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn ofthe approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who mightcome wandering through.     Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteenyears old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of theScarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned toher. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street.     Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets weredark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephonepole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her ScarletRaider jacket and waited.     At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. Therumble had started.     At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down thestreet. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of themcarried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en maskson.     They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, Hey,you kids. Take off.     One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. Who, us?     Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way.     The subway's this way, objected the kid in the red mask.     Who cares? You go around the other way.  Listen, lady, said the kid in the red mask, aggrieved, we got a longway to go to get home.     Yeah, said another kid, in a black mask, and we're late as it is.     I couldn't care less, Judy told them callously. You can't go downthat street.     Why not? demanded yet another kid. This one was in the most completeand elaborate costume of them all, black leotards and a yellow shirtand a flowing: black cape. He wore a black and gold mask and had ablack knit cap jammed down tight onto his head. Why can't we go downthere? this apparition demanded.     Because I said so, Judy told him. Now, you kids get away from here.Take off.     Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume. Hey, they'refighting down there!     It's a rumble, said Judy proudly. You twerps don't want to beinvolved.     Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume again. And he wentrunning around Judy and dashing off down the street.     Hey, Eddie! shouted one of the other kids. Eddie, come back!     Judy wasn't sure what to do next. If she abandoned her post to chasethe one kid who'd gotten through, then maybe all the rest of them wouldcome running along after her. She didn't know what to do.     A sudden siren and a distant flashing red light solved her problems.Cheez, said one of the kids. The cops!     Fuzz! screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward theschoolyard, shouting, Fuzz! Fuzz! Clear out, it's the fuzz!     But then she stopped, wide-eyed, when she saw what was going on in theschoolyard.     The guys from both gangs were dancing. They were jumping around, wavingtheir arms, throwing their weapons away. Then they all started pullingoff their gang jackets and throwing them away, whooping and hollering.They were making such a racket themselves that they never heard Judy'swarning. They didn't even hear the police sirens. And all at once bothschoolyard entrances were full of cops, a cop had tight hold of Judyand the rumble was over.       Judy was so baffled and terrified that everything was just one greatbig blur. But in the middle of it all, she did see the little kid inthe yellow-and-black costume go scooting away down the street.     And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault.  Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he wasimpatient as well. All right, Stevenson, he said. Make it fast, I'vegot a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thingof yours again.     I'm afraid it is, Captain, said Stevenson. Did you see the morningpaper?     So what?     Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan?     Captain Hanks sighed. Stevenson, he said wearily, are you going totry to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What'sthe problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what?     Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,' Stevenson toldhim. One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was theChallengers.     So they changed their name, said Hanks.     Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name?     Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over.     It was a territorial war, Stevenson reminded him. They've admittedthat much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny everseeing that word on their jackets until after the fight.     A bunch of juvenile delinquents, said Hanks in disgust. You taketheir word?     Captain, did you read the article in the paper?     I glanced through it.     All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they startedfighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at onceall the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins andbelt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had topull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were latercollected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had beenbranded 'The Scorpion.'     Now, let      me     tell      you     something, said Hanks severely. They heardthe police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then theythrew their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't beenpart of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught beforethey could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showedup a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in itbut weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over theneighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and notbothering anybody.      That's     what happened. And all this talk aboutfreezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alecpunk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back toworrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kidgangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, oryou're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson.     Yes, sir, said Stevenson.  ","Stevenson and Hanks have a tense relationship. Though they are both in high positions at the police precinct, Hanks is the Captain, Stevenson's superior. This power dynamic is evident throughout the story, particularly when Stevenson tries to bring up his theories and suspicions about The Scorpion. Instead of hearing him out, Hanks refuses to listen, becoming increasingly frustrated and calling Stevenson's thoughts childlike nonsense. Despite this, Stevenson is still determined to get his idea through to Hanks."
"Who is ""The Scorpion"" and why are they significant? </s>     CALL HIM NEMESIS     By DONALD E. WESTLAKE     Criminals, beware; the Scorpion is on     your trail! Hoodlums fear his fury—and,     for that matter, so do the cops!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The man with the handkerchief mask said, All right, everybody, keeptight. This is a holdup.     There were twelve people in the bank. There was Mr. Featherhall athis desk, refusing to okay a personal check from a perfect stranger.There was the perfect stranger, an itinerant garage mechanic namedRodney (Rod) Strom, like the check said. There were Miss English andMiss Philicoff, the girls in the gilded teller cages. There was MisterAnderson, the guard, dozing by the door in his brown uniform. There wasMrs. Elizabeth Clayhorn, depositing her husband's pay check in theirjoint checking account, and with her was her ten-year-old son Edward(Eddie) Clayhorn, Junior. There was Charlie Casale, getting ten dollarsdimes, six dollars nickels and four dollars pennies for his fatherin the grocery store down the street. There was Mrs. Dolly Daniels,withdrawing money from her savings account again. And there were threebank robbers.     The three bank robbers looked like triplets. From the ground up, theyall wore scuffy black shoes, baggy-kneed and unpressed khaki trousers,brown cracked-leather jackets over flannel shirts, white handkerchiefsover the lower half of their faces and gray-and-white check caps pulledlow over their eyes. The eyes themselves looked dangerous.     The man who had spoken withdrew a small but mean-looking thirty-twocalibre pistol from his jacket pocket. He waved it menacingly. One ofthe others took the pistol away from Mister Anderson, the guard, andsaid to him in a low voice, Think about retirement, my friend. Thethird one, who carried a black satchel like a doctor's bag, walkedquickly around behind the teller's counter and started filling it withmoney.     It was just like the movies.     The man who had first spoken herded the tellers, Mr. Featherhall andthe customers all over against the back wall, while the second manstayed next to Mr. Anderson and the door. The third man stuffed moneyinto the black satchel.     The man by the door said, Hurry up.     The man with the satchel said, One more drawer.     The man with the gun turned to say to the man at the door, Keep yourshirt on.     That was all Miss English needed. She kicked off her shoes and ranpelting in her stocking feet for the door.  The man by the door spread his arms out and shouted, Hey! The manwith the gun swung violently back, cursing, and fired the gun. But he'dbeen moving too fast, and so had Miss English, and all he hit was thebrass plate on Mr. Featherhall's desk.     The man by the door caught Miss English in a bear hug. She promptly didher best to scratch his eyes out. Meanwhile, Mr. Anderson went scootingout the front door and running down the street toward the policestation in the next block, shouting, Help! Help! Robbery!     The man with the gun cursed some more. The man with the satchel camerunning around from behind the counter, and the man by the door triedto keep Miss English from scratching his eyes out. Then the man withthe gun hit Miss English on the head. She fell unconscious to thefloor, and all three of them ran out of the bank to the car out front,in which sat a very nervous-looking fourth man, gunning the engine.     Everyone except Miss English ran out after the bandits, to watch.     Things got very fast and very confused then. Two police cars camedriving down the block and a half from the precinct house to the bank,and the car with the four robbers in it lurched away from the curb anddrove straight down the street toward the police station. The policecars and the getaway car passed one another, with everybody shootinglike the ships in pirate movies.     There was so much confusion that it looked as though the bank robberswere going to get away after all. The police cars were aiming the wrongway and, as they'd come down with sirens wailing, there was a clearpath behind them.     Then, after the getaway car had gone more than two blocks, it suddenlystarted jouncing around. It smacked into a parked car and stopped. Andall the police went running down there to clap handcuffs on the robberswhen they crawled dazedly out of their car.     Hey, said Eddie Clayhorn, ten years old. Hey, that was something,huh, Mom?     Come along home, said his mother, grabbing his hand. We don't wantto be involved.  It was the nuttiest thing, said Detective-Sergeant Stevenson. Anoperation planned that well, you'd think they'd pay attention to theirgetaway car, you know what I mean?     Detective-Sergeant Pauling shrugged. They always slip up, he said.Sooner or later, on some minor detail, they always slip up.     Yes, but their      tires     .     Well, said Pauling, it was a stolen car. I suppose they just grabbedwhatever was handiest.     What I can't figure out, said Stevenson, is exactly what made thosetires do that. I mean, it was a hot day and all, but it wasn't      that     hot. And they weren't going that fast. I don't think you could go fastenough to melt your tires down.     Pauling shrugged again. We got them. That's the important thing.     Still and all, it's nutty. They're free and clear, barrelling outRockaway toward the Belt, and all at once their tires melt, the tubesblow out and there they are. Stevenson shook his head. I can't figureit.     Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, suggested Pauling. They pickedthe wrong car to steal.     And      that     doesn't make sense, either, said Stevenson. Why steal acar that could be identified as easily as that one?     Why? What was it, a foreign make?     No, it was a Chevvy, two-tone, three years old, looked just like halfthe cars on the streets. Except that in the trunk lid the owner hadburned in 'The Scorpion' in big black letters you could see half ablock away.     Maybe they didn't notice it when they stole the car, said Pauling.     For a well-planned operation like this one, said Stevenson, theymade a couple of really idiotic boners. It doesn't make any sense.     What do they have to say about it? Pauling demanded.     Nothing, what do you expect? They'll make no statement at all.     The squad-room door opened, and a uniformed patrolman stuck his headin. The owner of that Chevvy's here, he said.     Right, said Stevenson. He followed the patrolman down the hall to thefront desk.     The owner of the Chevvy was an angry-looking man of middle age, talland paunchy. John Hastings, he said. They say you have my car here.     I believe so, yes, said Stevenson. I'm afraid it's in pretty badshape.     So I was told over the phone, said Hastings grimly. I've contactedmy insurance company.     Good. The car's in the police garage, around the corner. If you'd comewith me?  On the way around, Stevenson said, I believe you reported the carstolen almost immediately after it happened.     That's right, said Hastings. I stepped into a bar on my route. I'ma wine and liquor salesman. When I came out five minutes later, my carwas gone.     You left the keys in it?     Well, why not? demanded Hastings belligerently. If I'm making justa quick stop—I never spend more than five minutes with any onecustomer—I always leave the keys in the car. Why not?     The car was stolen, Stevenson reminded him.     Hastings grumbled and glared. It's always been perfectly safe up tillnow.     Yes, sir. In here.     Hastings took one look at his car and hit the ceiling. It's ruined!he cried. What did you do to the tires?     Not a thing, sir. That happened to them in the holdup.     Hastings leaned down over one of the front tires. Look at that!There's melted rubber all over the rims. Those rims are ruined! Whatdid you use, incendiary bullets?     Stevenson shook his head. No, sir. When that happened they were twoblocks away from the nearest policeman.     Hmph. Hastings moved on around the car, stopping short to exclaim,What in the name of God is that? You didn't tell me a bunch of      kids     had stolen the car.     It wasn't a bunch of kids, Stevenson told him. It was fourprofessional criminals, I thought you knew that. They were using it ina bank holdup.     Then why did they do      that     ?     Stevenson followed Hastings' pointing finger, and saw again thecrudely-lettered words, The Scorpion burned black into the paint ofthe trunk lid. I really don't know, he said. It wasn't there beforethe car was stolen?     Of course not!     Stevenson frowned. Now, why in the world did they do that?     I suggest, said Hastings with heavy sarcasm, you ask them that.     Stevenson shook his head. It wouldn't do any good. They aren't talkingabout anything. I don't suppose they'll ever tell us. He looked at thetrunk lid again. It's the nuttiest thing, he said thoughtfully....     That was on Wednesday.     The Friday afternoon mail delivery to the      Daily News     brought a crankletter. It was in the crank letter's most obvious form; that is,the address had been clipped, a letter or a word at a time, from anewspaper and glued to the envelope. There was no return address.     The letter itself was in the same format. It was brief and to the point:     Dear Mr. Editor:     The Scorpion has struck. The bank robbers were captured. The Scorpionfights crime. Crooks and robbers are not safe from the avengingScorpion. WARN YOUR READERS!     Sincerely yours,     THE SCORPION     The warning was duly noted, and the letter filed in the wastebasket. Itdidn't rate a line in the paper.      II     The bank robbery occurred in late June. Early in August, a Brooklyn manwent berserk.     It happened in Canarsie, a section in southeast Brooklyn near JamaicaBay. This particular area of Canarsie was a residential neighborhood,composed of one and two family houses. The man who went berserk was aMotor Vehicle Bureau clerk named Jerome Higgins.     Two days before, he had flunked a Civil Service examination for thethird time. He reported himself sick and spent the two days at home,brooding, a bottle of blended whiskey at all times in his hand.     As the police reconstructed it later, Mrs. Higgins had attempted toawaken him on the third morning at seven-thirty, suggesting that hereally ought to stop being so foolish, and go back to work. He thenallegedly poked her in the eye, and locked her out of the bedroom.     Mrs. Higgins then apparently called her sister-in-law, a Mrs. ThelmaStodbetter, who was Mr. Higgins' sister. Mrs. Stodbetter arrived at thehouse at nine o'clock, and spent some time tapping at the still-lockedbedroom door, apparently requesting Mr. Higgins to unlock the door andstop acting like a child. Neighbors reported to the police that theyheard Mr. Higgins shout a number of times, Go away! Can't you let aman sleep?     At about ten-fifteen, neighbors heard shots from the Higgins residence,a two-story one-family pink stucco affair in the middle of a block ofsimilar homes. Mr. Higgins, it was learned later, had suddenly eruptedfrom his bedroom, brandishing a .30-.30 hunting rifle and, beingannoyed at the shrieks of his wife and sister, had fired seven shellsat them, killing his wife on the spot and wounding his sister in thehand and shoulder.     Mrs. Stodbetter, wounded and scared out of her wits, raced screamingout the front door of the house, crying for the police and shouting,Murder! Murder! At this point, neighbors called the police. Oneneighbor additionally phoned three newspapers and two televisionstations, thereby earning forty dollars in news-tips rewards.  By chance, a mobile television unit was at that moment on the BeltParkway, returning from having seen off a prime minister at IdlewildAirport. This unit was at once diverted to Canarsie, where it took up aposition across the street from the scene of carnage and went to workwith a Zoomar lens.     In the meantime, Mister Higgins had barricaded himself in his house,firing at anything that moved.     The two cameramen in the mobile unit worked their hearts out. Oneconcentrated on the movements of the police and firemen and neighborsand ambulance attendants, while the other used the Zoomar lens tosearch for Mr. Higgins. He found him occasionally, offering the at-homeaudience brief glimpses of a stocky balding man in brown trousers andundershirt, stalking from window to window on the second floor of thehouse.     The show lasted for nearly an hour. There were policemen everywhere,and firemen everywhere, and neighbors milling around down at thecorner, where the police had roped the block off, and occasionally Mr.Higgins would stick his rifle out a window and shoot at somebody. Thepolice used loudspeakers to tell Higgins he might as well give up, theyhad the place surrounded and could eventually starve him out anyway.Higgins used his own good lungs to shout obscenities back and challengeanyone present to hand-to-hand combat.     The police fired tear gas shells at the house, but it was a windy dayand all the windows in the Higgins house were either open or broken.Higgins was able to throw all the shells back out of the house again.     The show lasted for nearly an hour. Then it ended, suddenly anddramatically.     Higgins had showed himself to the Zoomar lens again, for the purpose ofshooting either the camera or its operator. All at once he yelped andthrew the rifle away. The rifle bounced onto the porch roof, slithereddown to the edge, hung for a second against the drain, and finally fellbarrel first onto the lawn.     Meanwhile, Higgins was running through the house, shouting like awounded bull. He thundered down the stairs and out, hollering, to fallinto the arms of the waiting police.     They had trouble holding him. At first they thought he was actuallytrying to get away, but then one of them heard what it was he wasshouting: My hands! My hands!     They looked at his hands. The palms and the palm-side of the fingerswere red and blistering, from what looked like severe burns. There wasanother burn on his right cheek and another one on his right shoulder.     Higgins, thoroughly chastened and bewildered, was led away for burnointment and jail. The television crew went on back to Manhattan. Theneighbors went home and telephoned their friends.     On-duty policemen had been called in from practically all of theprecincts in Brooklyn. Among them was Detective-Sergeant WilliamStevenson. Stevenson frowned thoughtfully at Higgins as that unhappyindividual was led away, and then strolled over to look at the rifle.He touched the stock, and it was somewhat warm but that was all.     He picked it up and turned it around. There, on the other side of thestock, burned into the wood, were the crudely-shaped letters, TheScorpion.  You don't get to be Precinct Captain on nothing but politicalconnections. Those help, of course, but you need more than that. AsCaptain Hanks was fond of pointing out, you needed as well to be bothmore imaginative than most—You gotta be able to second-guess thesmart boys—and to be a complete realist—You gotta have both feeton the ground. If these were somewhat contradictory qualities, it wasbest not to mention the fact to Captain Hanks.     The realist side of the captain's nature was currently at the fore.Just what are you trying to say, Stevenson? he demanded.     I'm not sure, admitted Stevenson. But we've got these two things.First, there's the getaway car from that bank job. The wheels melt forno reason at all, and somebody burns 'The Scorpion' onto the trunk.Then, yesterday, this guy Higgins out in Canarsie. He says the rifleall of a sudden got too hot to hold, and he's got the burn marks toprove it. And there on the rifle stock it is again. 'The Scorpion'.     He says he put that on there himself, said the captain.     Stevenson shook his head. His      lawyer     says he put it on there.Higgins says he doesn't remember doing it. That's half the lawyer'scase. He's trying to build up an insanity defense.     He put it on there himself, Stevenson, said the captain with wearypatience. What are you trying to prove?     I don't know. All I know is it's the nuttiest thing I ever saw. Andwhat about the getaway car? What about those tires melting?     They were defective, said Hanks promptly.     All four of them at once? And what about the thing written on thetrunk?     How do I know? demanded the captain. Kids put it on before the carwas stolen, maybe. Or maybe the hoods did it themselves, who knows?What do      they     say?     They say they didn't do it, said Stevenson. And they say they neversaw it before the robbery and they would have noticed it if it'd beenthere.     The captain shook his head. I don't get it, he admitted. What areyou trying to prove?     I guess, said Stevenson slowly, thinking it out as he went along, Iguess I'm trying to prove that somebody melted those tires, and madethat rifle too hot, and left his signature behind.     What? You mean like in the comic books? Come on, Stevenson! What areyou trying to hand me?     All I know, insisted Stevenson, is what I see.     And all      I     know, the captain told him, is Higgins put that name onhis rifle himself. He says so.     And what made it so hot?     Hell, man, he'd been firing that thing at people for an hour! What doyou      think     made it hot?     All of a sudden?     He noticed it all of a sudden, when it started to burn him.     How come the same name showed up each time, then? Stevenson askeddesperately.     How should I know? And why not, anyway? You know as well as I do thesethings happen. A bunch of teen-agers burgle a liquor store and theywrite 'The Golden Avengers' on the plate glass in lipstick. It happensall the time. Why not 'The Scorpion'? It couldn't occur to two people?     But there's no explanation— started Stevenson.     What do you mean, there's no explanation? I just      gave     you theexplanation. Look, Stevenson, I'm a busy man. You got a nuttyidea—like Wilcox a few years ago, remember him? Got the idea therewas a fiend around loose, stuffing all those kids into abandonedrefrigerators to starve. He went around trying to prove it, and gettingall upset, and pretty soon they had to put him away in the nut hatch.Remember?     I remember, said Stevenson.     Forget this silly stuff, Stevenson, the captain advised him.     Yes, sir, said Stevenson....     The day after Jerome Higgins went berserk, the afternoon mail brought acrank letter to the      Daily News     :     Dear Mr. Editor,     You did not warn your readers. The man who shot all those people couldnot escape the Scorpion. The Scorpion fights crime. No criminal issafe from the Scorpion. WARN YOUR READERS.     Sincerely yours,     THE SCORPION     Unfortunately, this letter was not read by the same individual who hadseen the first one, two months before. At any rate, it was filed in thesame place, and forgotten.      III     Hallowe'en is a good time for a rumble. There's too many kids aroundfor the cops to keep track of all of them, and if you're picked upcarrying a knife or a length of tire chain or something, why, you're onyour way to a Hallowe'en party and you're in costume. You're going as aJD.     The problem was this schoolyard. It was a block wide, with entranceson two streets. The street on the north was Challenger territory, andthe street on the south was Scarlet Raider territory, and both sidesclaimed the schoolyard. There had been a few skirmishes, a few guysfrom both gangs had been jumped and knocked around a little, but thathad been all. Finally, the War Lords from the two gangs had met, anddetermined that the matter could only be settled in a war.     The time was chosen: Hallowe'en. The place was chosen: the schoolyard.The weapons were chosen: pocket knives and tire chains okay, but nopistols or zip-guns. The time was fixed: eleven P.M. And the winnerwould have undisputed territorial rights to the schoolyard, bothentrances.     The night of the rumble, the gangs assembled in their separateclubrooms for last-minute instructions. Debs were sent out to playchicken at the intersections nearest the schoolyard, both to warn ofthe approach of cops and to keep out any non-combatant kids who mightcome wandering through.     Judy Canzanetti was a Deb with the Scarlet Raiders. She was fifteenyears old, short and black-haired and pretty in a movie-magazine,gum-chewing sort of way. She was proud of being in the Auxiliary of theScarlet Raiders, and proud also of the job that had been assigned toher. She was to stand chicken on the southwest corner of the street.     Judy took up her position at five minutes to eleven. The streets weredark and quiet. Few people cared to walk this neighborhood after dark,particularly on Hallowe'en. Judy leaned her back against the telephonepole on the corner, stuck her hands in the pockets of her ScarletRaider jacket and waited.     At eleven o'clock, she heard indistinct noises begin behind her. Therumble had started.     At five after eleven, a bunch of little kids came wandering down thestreet. They were all about ten or eleven years old, and most of themcarried trick-or-treat shopping bags. Some of them had Hallowe'en maskson.     They started to make the turn toward the schoolyard. Judy said, Hey,you kids. Take off.     One of them, wearing a red mask, turned to look at her. Who, us?     Yes, you! Stay out of that street. Go on down that way.     The subway's this way, objected the kid in the red mask.     Who cares? You go around the other way.  Listen, lady, said the kid in the red mask, aggrieved, we got a longway to go to get home.     Yeah, said another kid, in a black mask, and we're late as it is.     I couldn't care less, Judy told them callously. You can't go downthat street.     Why not? demanded yet another kid. This one was in the most completeand elaborate costume of them all, black leotards and a yellow shirtand a flowing: black cape. He wore a black and gold mask and had ablack knit cap jammed down tight onto his head. Why can't we go downthere? this apparition demanded.     Because I said so, Judy told him. Now, you kids get away from here.Take off.     Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume. Hey, they'refighting down there!     It's a rumble, said Judy proudly. You twerps don't want to beinvolved.     Hey! cried the kid in the black-and-yellow costume again. And he wentrunning around Judy and dashing off down the street.     Hey, Eddie! shouted one of the other kids. Eddie, come back!     Judy wasn't sure what to do next. If she abandoned her post to chasethe one kid who'd gotten through, then maybe all the rest of them wouldcome running along after her. She didn't know what to do.     A sudden siren and a distant flashing red light solved her problems.Cheez, said one of the kids. The cops!     Fuzz! screamed Judy. She turned and raced down the block toward theschoolyard, shouting, Fuzz! Fuzz! Clear out, it's the fuzz!     But then she stopped, wide-eyed, when she saw what was going on in theschoolyard.     The guys from both gangs were dancing. They were jumping around, wavingtheir arms, throwing their weapons away. Then they all started pullingoff their gang jackets and throwing them away, whooping and hollering.They were making such a racket themselves that they never heard Judy'swarning. They didn't even hear the police sirens. And all at once bothschoolyard entrances were full of cops, a cop had tight hold of Judyand the rumble was over.       Judy was so baffled and terrified that everything was just one greatbig blur. But in the middle of it all, she did see the little kid inthe yellow-and-black costume go scooting away down the street.     And she had the craziest idea that it was all his fault.  Captain Hanks was still in his realistic cycle this morning, and he wasimpatient as well. All right, Stevenson, he said. Make it fast, I'vegot a lot to do this morning. And I hope it isn't this comic-book thingof yours again.     I'm afraid it is, Captain, said Stevenson. Did you see the morningpaper?     So what?     Did you see that thing about the gang fight up in Manhattan?     Captain Hanks sighed. Stevenson, he said wearily, are you going totry to connect every single time the word 'scorpion' comes up? What'sthe problem with this one? These kid gangs have names, so what?     Neither one of them was called 'The Scorpions,' Stevenson toldhim. One of them was the Scarlet Raiders and the other gang was theChallengers.     So they changed their name, said Hanks.     Both gangs? Simultaneously? To the same name?     Why not? Maybe that's what they were fighting over.     It was a territorial war, Stevenson reminded him. They've admittedthat much. It says so in the paper. And it also says they all deny everseeing that word on their jackets until after the fight.     A bunch of juvenile delinquents, said Hanks in disgust. You taketheir word?     Captain, did you read the article in the paper?     I glanced through it.     All right. Here's what they say happened: They say they startedfighting at eleven o'clock. And they just got going when all at onceall the metal they were carrying—knives and tire chains and coins andbelt buckles and everything else—got freezing cold, too cold to touch.And then their leather jackets got freezing cold, so cold they had topull them off and throw them away. And when the jackets were latercollected, across the name of the gang on the back of each one had beenbranded 'The Scorpion.'     Now, let      me     tell      you     something, said Hanks severely. They heardthe police sirens, and they threw all their weapons away. Then theythrew their jackets away, to try to make believe they hadn't beenpart of the gang that had been fighting. But they were caught beforethey could get out of the schoolyard. If the squad cars had showedup a minute later, the schoolyard wouldn't have had anything in itbut weapons and jackets, and the kids would have been all over theneighborhood, nice as you please, minding their own business and notbothering anybody.      That's     what happened. And all this talk aboutfreezing cold and branding names into jackets is just some smart-alecpunk's idea of a way to razz the police. Now, you just go back toworrying about what's happening in this precinct and forget about kidgangs up in Manhattan and comic book things like the Scorpion, oryou're going to wind up like Wilcox, with that refrigerator business.Now, I don't want to hear any more about this nonsense, Stevenson.     Yes, sir, said Stevenson.  ","The Scorpion is a mysterious figure, self-proclaimed to be fighting crime, as stated in the crank letters to the Daily Mail. The true identity of The Scorpion is unknown, and no one has ever seen him. However, The Scorpion is a powerful force in the story, as he ends up being responsible for the capturing of several criminals. The Scorpion makes his presence known by tagging his signature at different crime scenes through branding, but the characters in the story, especially Stevenson, are determined to know who he is."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     THE BIG HEADACHE     BY JIM HARMON     What's the principal cause of headaches?     Why, having a head, of course!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him tocooperate in the experiment? Ferris asked eagerly.     How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor? Mitchell inquired.He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to      me     for helpagainst that repatriated fullback.     Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. Guess I gotcarried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for aquick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down.     I know, Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. Somehow the men with themoney just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would havefinanced a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the informationgained from that study is vital in cancer research.     When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value foranyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for afield test. Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of hisforehead. I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestorof all headaches.     Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expressionof demonic intensity. Ferris, would you consider—?     No! the smaller man yelled. You can't expect me to violateprofessional ethics and test my own discovery on myself.           Our     discovery, Mitchell said politely.     That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completelyethical with even a discovery partly mine.     You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?Our reputations don't go outside our own fields, Mitchell said. Butnow Macklin—     Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einsteinin the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the wordmathematician or even scientist was mentioned. No one knew whetherhis Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet beenable to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties butlooked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. Thegovernment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of theIdeal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets.     For the past seven years Macklin—who      was     the Advanced StudiesDepartment of Firestone University—had been involved in devising afaster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually thenearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knewthat the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of      Adastra per aspirin     .     The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health.     Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mildstroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It wasknown that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle ofthe headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for severalweeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seenaround the campus.  Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside thelaboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chairbehind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly.     Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up? Ferris demanded,pausing in mid-stride.     I imagine he will, Mitchell said. Macklin's always seemed a decentenough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trusteesmeetings.     He's always treated me like dirt, Ferris said heatedly. Everyone onthis campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash intheir smug faces.     Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack ofscientific detachment.     There came a discreet knock on the door.     Please come in, Mitchell said.     Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. Helooked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchellsuspected that that was his intention.     He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. Good of you to ask me over,Steven.     Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. How have you been,Harold?     Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. Fine, thank you,doctor.     Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. Nowwhat's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep theexplanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know.     Mitchell moved around the desk casually. Actually, Doctor, we haven'tthe right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be anelement of risk.     The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. Now youhave me intrigued. What is it all about?     Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches, Mitchell said.     Macklin nodded. That's right, Steven. Migraine.     That must be terrible, Ferris said. All your fine reputation andlavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearingagony begins, can it?     No, Harold, it isn't, Macklin admitted. What does your project haveto do with my headaches?     Doctor, Mitchell said, what would you say the most common complaintof man is?     I would have said the common cold, Macklin replied, but I supposefrom what you have said you mean headaches.  Headaches, Mitchell agreed. Everybody has them at some time in hislife. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide bytheir headaches.     Yes, Macklin said.     But think, Ferris interjected, what a boon it would be if everyonecould be cured of headaches      forever     by one simple injection.     I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But itwould please about everybody else.     Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscularpains, Mitchell said.     I see. Are you two saying you      have     such a shot? Can you cureheadaches?     We think we can, Ferris said.     How can you have a specific for a number of different causes? Macklinasked. I know that much about the subject.     There      are     a number of different causes for headaches—nervousstrain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,over-indulgence—but there is one      effect     of all of this, the one realcause of headaches, Mitchell announced.     We have definitely established this for this first time, Ferris added.     That's fine, Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. And this effect thatproduces headaches is?     The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain, Mitchellsaid eagerly. That is, the constriction of blood vessels in thetelencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by anover-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred avirus that feeds on pituitrin.     That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would meanthe end of the race as well, Macklin said. In certain areas it isvaluable to have a constriction of blood vessels.     The virus, Ferris explained, can easily be localized and stabilized.A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebralvessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluiddoesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain.     The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. If this reallyworks, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuffmakes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than themigraine. How should I go about removing my curse? He reinserted thepipe.     I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate, Ferris said. Ourdiscovery will work.  Will work, Macklin said thoughtfully. The operative word. It      hasn't     worked then?     Certainly it has, Ferris said. On rats, on chimps....     But not on humans? Macklin asked.     Not yet, Mitchell admitted.     Well, Macklin said. Well. He thumped pipe ashes out into his palm.Certainly you can get volunteers. Convicts. Conscientious objectorsfrom the Army.     We want you, Ferris told him.     Macklin coughed. I don't want to overestimate my value but thegovernment wouldn't like it very well if I died in the middle of thisproject. My wife would like it even less.     Ferris turned his back on the mathematician. Mitchell could see himmouthing the word      yellow     .     Doctor, Mitchell said quickly, I know it's a tremendous favor toask of a man of your position. But you can understand our problem.Unless we can produce quick, conclusive and dramatic proof of ourstudies we can get no more financial backing. We      should     run alarge-scale field test. But we haven't the time or money for that.We can cure the headaches of one person and that's the limit of ourresources.     I'm tempted, Macklin said hesitantly, but the answer is go. I mean'      no     '. I'd like to help you out, but I'm afraid I owe too much toothers to take the rest—the risk, I mean.     Macklin ran the back of his knuckles across his forehead. I reallywould like to take you up on it. When I start making slips like that itmeans another attack of migraine. The drilling, grinding pain throughmy temples and around my eyeballs. The flashes of light, the riotingpools of color playing on the back of my lids. Ugh.     Ferris smiled. Gynergen makes you sick, does it, doctor? Producesnausea, eh? The pain of that turns you almost wrong side out, doesn'tit? You aren't much better off with it than without, are you? I'veheard some say they preferred the migraine.     Macklin carefully arranged his pipe along with the tools he used totend it in a worn leather case. Tell me, he said, what is the worstthat could happen to me?     Low blood pressure, Ferris said.     That's not so bad, Macklin said. How low can it get?     When your heart stops, your blood pressure goes to its lowest point,Mitchell said.     A dew of perspiration had bloomed on Macklin's forehead. Is there muchrisk of that?     Practically none, Mitchell said. We have to give you the worstpossibilities.      All     our test animals survived and seem perfectly happyand contented. As I said, the virus is self-stabilizing. Ferris and Iare confident that there is no danger.... But we may be wrong.     Macklin held his head in both hands. Why did you two select      me     ?     You're an important man, doctor, Ferris said. Nobody would care ifMitchell or I cured ourselves of headaches—they might not even believeus if we said we did. But the proper authorities will believe a manof your reputation. Besides, neither of us has a record of chronicmigraine. You do.     Yes, I do, Macklin said. Very well. Go ahead. Give me yourinjection.     Mitchell cleared his throat. Are you positive, doctor? he askeduncertainly. Perhaps you would like a few days to think it over.     No! I'm ready. Go ahead, right now.     There's a simple release, Ferris said smoothly.     Macklin groped in his pocket for a pen.      II     Ferris! Mitchell yelled, slamming the laboratory door behind him.     Right here, the small man said briskly. He was sitting at a worktable, penciling notes. I've been expecting you.     Doctor—Harold—you shouldn't have given this story to thenewspapers, Mitchell said. He tapped the back of his hand against thefolded paper.     On the contrary, I should and I did, Ferris answered. We wantedsomething dramatic to show to the trustees and here it is.     Yes, we wanted to show our proof to the trustees—but not broadcastunverified results to the press. It's too early for that!     Don't be so stuffy and conservative, Mitchell! Macklin's cured, isn'the? By established periodic cycle he should be suffering hell rightnow, shouldn't he? But thanks to our treatment he is perfectly happy,with no unfortunate side effects such as gynergen produces.     It's a significant test case, yes. But not enough to go to thenewspapers with. If it wasn't enough to go to the press with, it wasn'tenough to try and breach the trustees with. Don't you see? The publicwill hand down a ukase demanding our virus, just as they demanded theSalk vaccine and the Grennell serum.     But—     The shrill call of the telephone interrupted Mitchell's objections.     Ferris excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He answered itand listened for a moment, his face growing impatient.     It's Macklin's wife, Ferris said. Do you want to talk to her? I'm nogood with hysterical women.     Hysterical? Mitchell muttered in alarm and went to the phone.     Hello? Mitchell said reluctantly. Mrs. Macklin?     You are the other one, the clear feminine voice said. Your name isMitchell.     She couldn't have sounded calmer or more self-possessed, Mitchellthought.     That's right, Mrs. Macklin. I'm Dr. Steven Mitchell, Dr. Ferris'sassociate.     Do you have a license to dispense narcotics?     What do you mean by that, Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said sharply.     I used to be a nurse, Dr. Mitchell. I know you've given my husbandheroin.     That's absurd. What makes you think a thing like that?     The—trance he's in now.     Now, Mrs. Macklin. Neither Dr. Ferris or myself have been near yourhusband for a full day. The effects of a narcotic would have worn offby this time.     Most known narcotics, she admitted, but evidently you havediscovered something new. Is it so expensive to refine you and Ferrishave to recruit new customers to keep yourselves supplied?     Mrs. Macklin! I think I had better talk to you later when you arecalmer.     Mitchell dropped the receiver heavily. What could be wrong withMacklin? he asked without removing his hand from the telephone.     Ferris frowned, making quotation marks above his nose. Let's have alook at the test animals.     Together they marched over to the cages and peered through thehoneycomb pattern of the wire. The test chimp, Dean, was sittingpeacefully in a corner scratching under his arms with the back of hisknuckles. Jerry, their control in the experiment, who was practicallyDean's twin except that he had received no injection of the E-M Virus,was stomping up and down punching his fingers through the wire,worrying the lock on the cage.     Jerry      is     a great deal more active than Dean, Mitchell said.     Yes, but Dean isn't sick. He just doesn't seem to have as much nervousenergy to burn up. Nothing wrong with his thyroid either.     They went to the smaller cages. They found the situation with the rats,Bud and Lou, much the same.     I don't know. Maybe they just have tired blood, Mitchell ventured.     Iron deficiency anemia?     Never mind, doctor. It was a form of humor. I think we had better seeexactly what is wrong with Elliot Macklin.     There's nothing wrong with him, Ferris snapped. He's probably justtrying to get us in trouble, the ingrate!  Macklin's traditional ranch house was small but attractive inaqua-tinted aluminum.     Under Mitchell's thumb the bell chimbed      dum-de-de-dum-dum-dum     .     As they waited Mitchell glanced at Ferris. He seemed completelyundisturbed, perhaps slightly curious.     The door unlatched and swung back.     Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said quickly, I'm sure we can help if thereis anything wrong with your husband. This is Dr. Ferris. I am Dr.Mitchell.     You had certainly      better     help him, gentlemen. She stood out of thedoorway for them to pass.     Mrs. Macklin was an attractive brunette in her late thirties. She worean expensive yellow dress. And she had a sharp-cornered jawline.     The Army officer came out into the hall to meet them.     You are the gentlemen who gave Dr. Macklin the unauthorizedinjection, he said.     It wasn't a question.     I don't like that 'unauthorized', Ferris snapped.     The colonel—Mitchell spotted the eagles on his green tunic—lifteda heavy eyebrow. No? Are you medical doctors? Are you authorized totreat illnesses?     We weren't treating an illness, Mitchell said. We were discovering amethod of treatment. What concern is it of yours?     The colonel smiled thinly. Dr. Macklin is my concern. And everythingthat happens to him. The Army doesn't like what you have done to him.     Mitchell wondered desperately just what they had done to the man.     Can we see him? Mitchell asked.     Why not? You can't do much worse than murder him now. That might bejust as well. We have laws to cover that.     The colonel led them into the comfortable, over-feminine living room.Macklin sat in an easy chair draped in embroidery, smoking. Mitchellsuddenly realized Macklin used a pipe as a form of masculine protest tohis home surroundings.     On the coffee table in front of Macklin were some odd-shaped buildingblocks such as were used in nursery schools. A second uniformedman—another colonel but with the snake-entwined staff of the medicalcorps in his insignia—was kneeling at the table on the marble-effectcarpet.     The Army physician stood up and brushed his knees, undusted from thescrupulously clean rug.     What's wrong with him, Sidney? the other officer asked the doctor.     Not a thing, Sidney said. He's the healthiest, happiest, mostwell-adjusted man I've ever examined, Carson.     But— Colonel Carson protested.     Oh, he's changed all right, the Army doctor answered. He's not thesame man as he used to be.     How is he different? Mitchell demanded.     The medic examined Mitchell and Ferris critically before answering. Heused to be a mathematical genius.     And now? Mitchell said impatiently.     Now he is a moron, the medic said.      III     Mitchell tried to stop Colonel Sidney as he went past, but the doctormumbled he had a report to make.     Mitchell and Ferris stared at Colonel Carson and Macklin and at eachother.     What did he mean, Macklin is an idiot? Mitchell asked.     Not an idiot, Colonel Carson corrected primly. Dr. Macklin is amoron. He's legally responsible, but he's extremely stupid.     I'm not so dumb, Macklin said defensively.     I beg your pardon, sir, Carson said. I didn't intend any offense.But according to all the standard intelligence tests we have given you,your clinical intelligence quotient is that of a moron.     That's just on book learning, Macklin said. There's a lot you learnin life that you don't get out of books, son.     I'm confident that's true, sir, Colonel Carson said. He turned to thetwo biologists. Perhaps we had better speak outside.     But— Mitchell said, impatient to examine Macklin for himself. Verywell. Let's step into the hall.     Ferris followed them docilely.     What have you done to him? the colonel asked straightforwardly.     We merely cured him of his headaches, Mitchell said.     How?     Mitchell did his best to explain the F-M Virus.     You mean, the Army officer said levelly you have infected him withsome kind of a disease to rot his brain?     No, no! Could I talk to the other man, the doctor? Maybe I can makehim understand.     All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as ifhe had been kicked in the head by a mule, Colonel Carson said.     I think I can explain, Ferris interrupted.     You can? Mitchell said.     Ferris nodded. We made a slight miscalculation. It appears as if thevirus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract inthe cerebrum. It isn't more than necessary to stop headaches. But thatnecessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the braincells to function properly.     Why won't they function? Carson roared.     They don't get enough food—blood, oxygen, hemoglobin, Ferrisexplained. The cerebral vessels don't contract enough to pump theblood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The braincells remain sluggish, dormant. Perhaps decaying.     The colonel yelled.     Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was correct.  The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklinmeans to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Plutobefore we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. Youmight just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capitalis replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearlyonce in a human race.     Just a moment, Mitchell interrupted, we can cure Macklin.     You      can     ? Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man wasgoing to clasp his hands and sink to his knees.     Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We haveantitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as abeneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary.     Good! Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at theknees.     Just you wait a second now, boys, Elliot Macklin said. He was leaningin the doorway, holding his pipe. I've been listening to what you'vebeen saying and I don't like it.     What do you mean you don't like it? Carson demanded. He added, Sir?     I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be.     Yes, doctor, Mitchell said eagerly, just as you used to be.           With     my headaches, like before?     Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time toframe an answer. Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functionsproperly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research isa dismal failure.     I wouldn't go that far, Ferris remarked cheerfully.     Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he sawMacklin slowly shaking his head.     No, sir! the mathematician said. I shall not go back to my originalstate. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,worrying.     You mean wondering, Mitchell said.     Macklin nodded. Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It'speaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wifeand all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry?     Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it.     That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him, Mitchellsaid.     It's not his decision to make, the colonel said. He's an idiot now.     No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared tohis former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. Thereare millions of morons running around loose in the United States. Theycan get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of themdo. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't      think     you can.     No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state. The colonel lookedmomentarily glum that it wasn't.     Mitchell looked back at Macklin. Where did his wife get to, Colonel?I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisionsfor himself. Perhaps she could influence him.     Maybe, the colonel said. Let's find her.  They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picturewindow an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached.     Mrs. Macklin, the colonel began, these gentlemen believe they cancure your husband of his present condition.     Really? she said. Did you speak to Elliot about that?     Y-yes, Colonel Carson said, but he's not himself. He refused thetreatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence.     She nodded. If those are his wishes, I can't go against them.     But Mrs. Macklin! Mitchell protested. You will have to get a courtorder overruling your husband's wishes.     She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. Thatwas my original thought. But I've redecided.     Redecided! Carson burst out almost hysterically.     Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to puthim back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again,where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happynow. Like a child, but happy.     Mrs. Macklin, the Army man said levelly, if you don't help usrestore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court orderdeclaring him incompetent.     But he is not! Legally, I mean, the woman stormed.     Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give usthe edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Oncehe's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell andFerris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklinto sanity.     I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner, she said.     The colonel looked smug. Why not?     Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, isinvolved.     There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But—     It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history ofvascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want togive those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. Toparalyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority.     I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatmentthere is      no     chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.Macklin, Mitchell interjected.     Her mouth grew petulant. I don't care. I would rather have a livehusband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make himcomfortable....     Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell ledhim back into the hall.     I'm no psychiatrist, Mitchell said, but I think she wants Macklinstupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,and now she can dominate him completely.     What is she? A monster? the Army officer muttered.     No, Mitchell said. She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealousof her husband's genius.     Maybe, Carson said. I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tellthe Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk.     I'll go with you, Ferris said.     Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist.     Carson squinted. Any particular reason, doctor?     To celebrate, Ferris said.     The colonel shrugged. That's as good a reason as any.     On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together inbewilderment.      IV     Macklin was playing jacks.     He didn't have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a greatcurving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Plutoand the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Nothis head. Mitchell's. Both heads were initialed M so it was all thesame.       Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial difficulty.     He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to hisheart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver fromthe nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger.     After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer.     Hello? Elliot Macklin said.     Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered thephone instead of his wife.     Can you speak freely, doctor? Mitchell asked.     Of course, the mathematician said. I can talk fine.     I mean, are you alone?     Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she's asleep. That Armydoctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn't let him giveme anything, though.     Good boy, the biologist said. Listen, doctor—Elliot—El, old son.I'm not against you like all the others. I don't want to make you goback to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me,don't you?     There was a slight hesitation.     Sure, Macklin said, if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you?     But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second ifI could have some reason for not telling you the truth.     I suppose so, Macklin said humbly.     You've found yourself worrying—thinking—about a lot of otherproblems since we left you, haven't you? Maybe not the same kind ofscientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn't used tohave time to think about.     If you say so.     Now, you know it's so. But how would you like to get rid of thoseworries just as you got rid of the others? Mitchell asked.     I guess I'd like that, the mathematician replied.     Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it's at, don'tyou?     No, I—yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won't try to put meback where I was instead of helping me more?     I couldn't do that against your wishes. That would be illegal!     If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army iswatching me pretty close.     That's alright, Mitchell said quickly. You can bring along ColonelCarson.     But he won't like you fixing me up more.     But he can't stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me—Iwant you to come right on over here, El.     If you say so, Macklin said uncertainly.  ","Ferris and Mitchell discuss the struggles they are experiencing with their research. They are eager to test their new research and want the test subject to be Elliot Macklin, a well-known and attractive scientist with a reputation akin to Albert Einstein. Macklin experiences migraines and the two believe that their injection shot could cure them. The two want Macklin to participate because it could ensure that their research will have strong financial support.Macklin soon enters their laboratory and begins to ask about what they’re looking to do with their research. Ferris and Mitchell discuss their theory with Macklin and how their supposed cure works. They mention to Macklin, to his dismay, that it has only been tested on animals. Macklin is skeptical and considers the injection too risky and initially does not agree to take the treatment. Macklin begins to start experiencing a migraine. As he suffers through a migraine, Ferris and Mitchell use the opportunity to try again to convince him to participate in the research. They further emphasize the very minimal potential risk. Macklin finally agrees to take the injection due to the immense pain he is experiencing. Later on, Mitchell is upset with Ferris for sharing their unverified results with the press. Ferris exclaims to Mitchell that the experiment with Macklin was a success and that he should not be concerned. The phone rings and Ferris answers it but quickly passes it to Mitchell. Macklin’s wife is on the phone accusing them of giving her husband heroin as Macklin appears to be in a trance. The doctors are concerned by the news and decide to check on the test animals. They do not find anything of concern with the test animals and go to Macklin’s house. Ferris does not seem worried to Mitchell as they wait to be let into the house. When they enter the house, an army Colonel meets them and expresses his unhappiness with their actions. As the group heads into the living room, they greet an army physician that tells them that medically there is nothing wrong with Macklin’s health the only difference is that Macklin is no longer a mathematical genius. The three go into the hallway and discuss how the experiment most likely went wrong. The Colonel becomes upset because Macklin was very important to many missions because of his invaluable research. Mitchell suddenly exclaims that he thinks that Macklin can be cured. However, Macklin overhears the possibility of a cure and protests receiving the treatment. The Colonel is upset at Macklin’s reaction and tries to convince Macklin’s wife to force him to be cured. Macklin’s wife does not wish to go against her husband’s wishes. They leave the house without convincing Macklin or his wife. Later on, Mitchell wakes up and calls Macklin. Mitchell attempts to get Macklin to trust him and goes about luring Macklin back to the laboratory by saying that he can help with the new types of worries that Macklin experiences. "
"Describe the setting of the story </s>     THE BIG HEADACHE     BY JIM HARMON     What's the principal cause of headaches?     Why, having a head, of course!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him tocooperate in the experiment? Ferris asked eagerly.     How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor? Mitchell inquired.He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to      me     for helpagainst that repatriated fullback.     Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. Guess I gotcarried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for aquick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down.     I know, Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. Somehow the men with themoney just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would havefinanced a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the informationgained from that study is vital in cancer research.     When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value foranyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for afield test. Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of hisforehead. I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestorof all headaches.     Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expressionof demonic intensity. Ferris, would you consider—?     No! the smaller man yelled. You can't expect me to violateprofessional ethics and test my own discovery on myself.           Our     discovery, Mitchell said politely.     That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completelyethical with even a discovery partly mine.     You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?Our reputations don't go outside our own fields, Mitchell said. Butnow Macklin—     Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einsteinin the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the wordmathematician or even scientist was mentioned. No one knew whetherhis Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet beenable to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties butlooked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. Thegovernment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of theIdeal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets.     For the past seven years Macklin—who      was     the Advanced StudiesDepartment of Firestone University—had been involved in devising afaster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually thenearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knewthat the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of      Adastra per aspirin     .     The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health.     Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mildstroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It wasknown that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle ofthe headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for severalweeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seenaround the campus.  Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside thelaboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chairbehind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly.     Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up? Ferris demanded,pausing in mid-stride.     I imagine he will, Mitchell said. Macklin's always seemed a decentenough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trusteesmeetings.     He's always treated me like dirt, Ferris said heatedly. Everyone onthis campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash intheir smug faces.     Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack ofscientific detachment.     There came a discreet knock on the door.     Please come in, Mitchell said.     Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. Helooked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchellsuspected that that was his intention.     He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. Good of you to ask me over,Steven.     Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. How have you been,Harold?     Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. Fine, thank you,doctor.     Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. Nowwhat's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep theexplanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know.     Mitchell moved around the desk casually. Actually, Doctor, we haven'tthe right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be anelement of risk.     The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. Now youhave me intrigued. What is it all about?     Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches, Mitchell said.     Macklin nodded. That's right, Steven. Migraine.     That must be terrible, Ferris said. All your fine reputation andlavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearingagony begins, can it?     No, Harold, it isn't, Macklin admitted. What does your project haveto do with my headaches?     Doctor, Mitchell said, what would you say the most common complaintof man is?     I would have said the common cold, Macklin replied, but I supposefrom what you have said you mean headaches.  Headaches, Mitchell agreed. Everybody has them at some time in hislife. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide bytheir headaches.     Yes, Macklin said.     But think, Ferris interjected, what a boon it would be if everyonecould be cured of headaches      forever     by one simple injection.     I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But itwould please about everybody else.     Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscularpains, Mitchell said.     I see. Are you two saying you      have     such a shot? Can you cureheadaches?     We think we can, Ferris said.     How can you have a specific for a number of different causes? Macklinasked. I know that much about the subject.     There      are     a number of different causes for headaches—nervousstrain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,over-indulgence—but there is one      effect     of all of this, the one realcause of headaches, Mitchell announced.     We have definitely established this for this first time, Ferris added.     That's fine, Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. And this effect thatproduces headaches is?     The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain, Mitchellsaid eagerly. That is, the constriction of blood vessels in thetelencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by anover-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred avirus that feeds on pituitrin.     That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would meanthe end of the race as well, Macklin said. In certain areas it isvaluable to have a constriction of blood vessels.     The virus, Ferris explained, can easily be localized and stabilized.A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebralvessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluiddoesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain.     The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. If this reallyworks, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuffmakes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than themigraine. How should I go about removing my curse? He reinserted thepipe.     I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate, Ferris said. Ourdiscovery will work.  Will work, Macklin said thoughtfully. The operative word. It      hasn't     worked then?     Certainly it has, Ferris said. On rats, on chimps....     But not on humans? Macklin asked.     Not yet, Mitchell admitted.     Well, Macklin said. Well. He thumped pipe ashes out into his palm.Certainly you can get volunteers. Convicts. Conscientious objectorsfrom the Army.     We want you, Ferris told him.     Macklin coughed. I don't want to overestimate my value but thegovernment wouldn't like it very well if I died in the middle of thisproject. My wife would like it even less.     Ferris turned his back on the mathematician. Mitchell could see himmouthing the word      yellow     .     Doctor, Mitchell said quickly, I know it's a tremendous favor toask of a man of your position. But you can understand our problem.Unless we can produce quick, conclusive and dramatic proof of ourstudies we can get no more financial backing. We      should     run alarge-scale field test. But we haven't the time or money for that.We can cure the headaches of one person and that's the limit of ourresources.     I'm tempted, Macklin said hesitantly, but the answer is go. I mean'      no     '. I'd like to help you out, but I'm afraid I owe too much toothers to take the rest—the risk, I mean.     Macklin ran the back of his knuckles across his forehead. I reallywould like to take you up on it. When I start making slips like that itmeans another attack of migraine. The drilling, grinding pain throughmy temples and around my eyeballs. The flashes of light, the riotingpools of color playing on the back of my lids. Ugh.     Ferris smiled. Gynergen makes you sick, does it, doctor? Producesnausea, eh? The pain of that turns you almost wrong side out, doesn'tit? You aren't much better off with it than without, are you? I'veheard some say they preferred the migraine.     Macklin carefully arranged his pipe along with the tools he used totend it in a worn leather case. Tell me, he said, what is the worstthat could happen to me?     Low blood pressure, Ferris said.     That's not so bad, Macklin said. How low can it get?     When your heart stops, your blood pressure goes to its lowest point,Mitchell said.     A dew of perspiration had bloomed on Macklin's forehead. Is there muchrisk of that?     Practically none, Mitchell said. We have to give you the worstpossibilities.      All     our test animals survived and seem perfectly happyand contented. As I said, the virus is self-stabilizing. Ferris and Iare confident that there is no danger.... But we may be wrong.     Macklin held his head in both hands. Why did you two select      me     ?     You're an important man, doctor, Ferris said. Nobody would care ifMitchell or I cured ourselves of headaches—they might not even believeus if we said we did. But the proper authorities will believe a manof your reputation. Besides, neither of us has a record of chronicmigraine. You do.     Yes, I do, Macklin said. Very well. Go ahead. Give me yourinjection.     Mitchell cleared his throat. Are you positive, doctor? he askeduncertainly. Perhaps you would like a few days to think it over.     No! I'm ready. Go ahead, right now.     There's a simple release, Ferris said smoothly.     Macklin groped in his pocket for a pen.      II     Ferris! Mitchell yelled, slamming the laboratory door behind him.     Right here, the small man said briskly. He was sitting at a worktable, penciling notes. I've been expecting you.     Doctor—Harold—you shouldn't have given this story to thenewspapers, Mitchell said. He tapped the back of his hand against thefolded paper.     On the contrary, I should and I did, Ferris answered. We wantedsomething dramatic to show to the trustees and here it is.     Yes, we wanted to show our proof to the trustees—but not broadcastunverified results to the press. It's too early for that!     Don't be so stuffy and conservative, Mitchell! Macklin's cured, isn'the? By established periodic cycle he should be suffering hell rightnow, shouldn't he? But thanks to our treatment he is perfectly happy,with no unfortunate side effects such as gynergen produces.     It's a significant test case, yes. But not enough to go to thenewspapers with. If it wasn't enough to go to the press with, it wasn'tenough to try and breach the trustees with. Don't you see? The publicwill hand down a ukase demanding our virus, just as they demanded theSalk vaccine and the Grennell serum.     But—     The shrill call of the telephone interrupted Mitchell's objections.     Ferris excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He answered itand listened for a moment, his face growing impatient.     It's Macklin's wife, Ferris said. Do you want to talk to her? I'm nogood with hysterical women.     Hysterical? Mitchell muttered in alarm and went to the phone.     Hello? Mitchell said reluctantly. Mrs. Macklin?     You are the other one, the clear feminine voice said. Your name isMitchell.     She couldn't have sounded calmer or more self-possessed, Mitchellthought.     That's right, Mrs. Macklin. I'm Dr. Steven Mitchell, Dr. Ferris'sassociate.     Do you have a license to dispense narcotics?     What do you mean by that, Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said sharply.     I used to be a nurse, Dr. Mitchell. I know you've given my husbandheroin.     That's absurd. What makes you think a thing like that?     The—trance he's in now.     Now, Mrs. Macklin. Neither Dr. Ferris or myself have been near yourhusband for a full day. The effects of a narcotic would have worn offby this time.     Most known narcotics, she admitted, but evidently you havediscovered something new. Is it so expensive to refine you and Ferrishave to recruit new customers to keep yourselves supplied?     Mrs. Macklin! I think I had better talk to you later when you arecalmer.     Mitchell dropped the receiver heavily. What could be wrong withMacklin? he asked without removing his hand from the telephone.     Ferris frowned, making quotation marks above his nose. Let's have alook at the test animals.     Together they marched over to the cages and peered through thehoneycomb pattern of the wire. The test chimp, Dean, was sittingpeacefully in a corner scratching under his arms with the back of hisknuckles. Jerry, their control in the experiment, who was practicallyDean's twin except that he had received no injection of the E-M Virus,was stomping up and down punching his fingers through the wire,worrying the lock on the cage.     Jerry      is     a great deal more active than Dean, Mitchell said.     Yes, but Dean isn't sick. He just doesn't seem to have as much nervousenergy to burn up. Nothing wrong with his thyroid either.     They went to the smaller cages. They found the situation with the rats,Bud and Lou, much the same.     I don't know. Maybe they just have tired blood, Mitchell ventured.     Iron deficiency anemia?     Never mind, doctor. It was a form of humor. I think we had better seeexactly what is wrong with Elliot Macklin.     There's nothing wrong with him, Ferris snapped. He's probably justtrying to get us in trouble, the ingrate!  Macklin's traditional ranch house was small but attractive inaqua-tinted aluminum.     Under Mitchell's thumb the bell chimbed      dum-de-de-dum-dum-dum     .     As they waited Mitchell glanced at Ferris. He seemed completelyundisturbed, perhaps slightly curious.     The door unlatched and swung back.     Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said quickly, I'm sure we can help if thereis anything wrong with your husband. This is Dr. Ferris. I am Dr.Mitchell.     You had certainly      better     help him, gentlemen. She stood out of thedoorway for them to pass.     Mrs. Macklin was an attractive brunette in her late thirties. She worean expensive yellow dress. And she had a sharp-cornered jawline.     The Army officer came out into the hall to meet them.     You are the gentlemen who gave Dr. Macklin the unauthorizedinjection, he said.     It wasn't a question.     I don't like that 'unauthorized', Ferris snapped.     The colonel—Mitchell spotted the eagles on his green tunic—lifteda heavy eyebrow. No? Are you medical doctors? Are you authorized totreat illnesses?     We weren't treating an illness, Mitchell said. We were discovering amethod of treatment. What concern is it of yours?     The colonel smiled thinly. Dr. Macklin is my concern. And everythingthat happens to him. The Army doesn't like what you have done to him.     Mitchell wondered desperately just what they had done to the man.     Can we see him? Mitchell asked.     Why not? You can't do much worse than murder him now. That might bejust as well. We have laws to cover that.     The colonel led them into the comfortable, over-feminine living room.Macklin sat in an easy chair draped in embroidery, smoking. Mitchellsuddenly realized Macklin used a pipe as a form of masculine protest tohis home surroundings.     On the coffee table in front of Macklin were some odd-shaped buildingblocks such as were used in nursery schools. A second uniformedman—another colonel but with the snake-entwined staff of the medicalcorps in his insignia—was kneeling at the table on the marble-effectcarpet.     The Army physician stood up and brushed his knees, undusted from thescrupulously clean rug.     What's wrong with him, Sidney? the other officer asked the doctor.     Not a thing, Sidney said. He's the healthiest, happiest, mostwell-adjusted man I've ever examined, Carson.     But— Colonel Carson protested.     Oh, he's changed all right, the Army doctor answered. He's not thesame man as he used to be.     How is he different? Mitchell demanded.     The medic examined Mitchell and Ferris critically before answering. Heused to be a mathematical genius.     And now? Mitchell said impatiently.     Now he is a moron, the medic said.      III     Mitchell tried to stop Colonel Sidney as he went past, but the doctormumbled he had a report to make.     Mitchell and Ferris stared at Colonel Carson and Macklin and at eachother.     What did he mean, Macklin is an idiot? Mitchell asked.     Not an idiot, Colonel Carson corrected primly. Dr. Macklin is amoron. He's legally responsible, but he's extremely stupid.     I'm not so dumb, Macklin said defensively.     I beg your pardon, sir, Carson said. I didn't intend any offense.But according to all the standard intelligence tests we have given you,your clinical intelligence quotient is that of a moron.     That's just on book learning, Macklin said. There's a lot you learnin life that you don't get out of books, son.     I'm confident that's true, sir, Colonel Carson said. He turned to thetwo biologists. Perhaps we had better speak outside.     But— Mitchell said, impatient to examine Macklin for himself. Verywell. Let's step into the hall.     Ferris followed them docilely.     What have you done to him? the colonel asked straightforwardly.     We merely cured him of his headaches, Mitchell said.     How?     Mitchell did his best to explain the F-M Virus.     You mean, the Army officer said levelly you have infected him withsome kind of a disease to rot his brain?     No, no! Could I talk to the other man, the doctor? Maybe I can makehim understand.     All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as ifhe had been kicked in the head by a mule, Colonel Carson said.     I think I can explain, Ferris interrupted.     You can? Mitchell said.     Ferris nodded. We made a slight miscalculation. It appears as if thevirus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract inthe cerebrum. It isn't more than necessary to stop headaches. But thatnecessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the braincells to function properly.     Why won't they function? Carson roared.     They don't get enough food—blood, oxygen, hemoglobin, Ferrisexplained. The cerebral vessels don't contract enough to pump theblood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The braincells remain sluggish, dormant. Perhaps decaying.     The colonel yelled.     Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was correct.  The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklinmeans to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Plutobefore we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. Youmight just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capitalis replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearlyonce in a human race.     Just a moment, Mitchell interrupted, we can cure Macklin.     You      can     ? Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man wasgoing to clasp his hands and sink to his knees.     Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We haveantitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as abeneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary.     Good! Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at theknees.     Just you wait a second now, boys, Elliot Macklin said. He was leaningin the doorway, holding his pipe. I've been listening to what you'vebeen saying and I don't like it.     What do you mean you don't like it? Carson demanded. He added, Sir?     I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be.     Yes, doctor, Mitchell said eagerly, just as you used to be.           With     my headaches, like before?     Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time toframe an answer. Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functionsproperly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research isa dismal failure.     I wouldn't go that far, Ferris remarked cheerfully.     Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he sawMacklin slowly shaking his head.     No, sir! the mathematician said. I shall not go back to my originalstate. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,worrying.     You mean wondering, Mitchell said.     Macklin nodded. Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It'speaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wifeand all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry?     Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it.     That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him, Mitchellsaid.     It's not his decision to make, the colonel said. He's an idiot now.     No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared tohis former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. Thereare millions of morons running around loose in the United States. Theycan get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of themdo. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't      think     you can.     No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state. The colonel lookedmomentarily glum that it wasn't.     Mitchell looked back at Macklin. Where did his wife get to, Colonel?I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisionsfor himself. Perhaps she could influence him.     Maybe, the colonel said. Let's find her.  They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picturewindow an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached.     Mrs. Macklin, the colonel began, these gentlemen believe they cancure your husband of his present condition.     Really? she said. Did you speak to Elliot about that?     Y-yes, Colonel Carson said, but he's not himself. He refused thetreatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence.     She nodded. If those are his wishes, I can't go against them.     But Mrs. Macklin! Mitchell protested. You will have to get a courtorder overruling your husband's wishes.     She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. Thatwas my original thought. But I've redecided.     Redecided! Carson burst out almost hysterically.     Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to puthim back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again,where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happynow. Like a child, but happy.     Mrs. Macklin, the Army man said levelly, if you don't help usrestore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court orderdeclaring him incompetent.     But he is not! Legally, I mean, the woman stormed.     Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give usthe edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Oncehe's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell andFerris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklinto sanity.     I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner, she said.     The colonel looked smug. Why not?     Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, isinvolved.     There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But—     It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history ofvascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want togive those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. Toparalyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority.     I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatmentthere is      no     chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.Macklin, Mitchell interjected.     Her mouth grew petulant. I don't care. I would rather have a livehusband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make himcomfortable....     Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell ledhim back into the hall.     I'm no psychiatrist, Mitchell said, but I think she wants Macklinstupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,and now she can dominate him completely.     What is she? A monster? the Army officer muttered.     No, Mitchell said. She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealousof her husband's genius.     Maybe, Carson said. I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tellthe Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk.     I'll go with you, Ferris said.     Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist.     Carson squinted. Any particular reason, doctor?     To celebrate, Ferris said.     The colonel shrugged. That's as good a reason as any.     On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together inbewilderment.      IV     Macklin was playing jacks.     He didn't have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a greatcurving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Plutoand the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Nothis head. Mitchell's. Both heads were initialed M so it was all thesame.       Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial difficulty.     He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to hisheart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver fromthe nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger.     After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer.     Hello? Elliot Macklin said.     Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered thephone instead of his wife.     Can you speak freely, doctor? Mitchell asked.     Of course, the mathematician said. I can talk fine.     I mean, are you alone?     Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she's asleep. That Armydoctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn't let him giveme anything, though.     Good boy, the biologist said. Listen, doctor—Elliot—El, old son.I'm not against you like all the others. I don't want to make you goback to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me,don't you?     There was a slight hesitation.     Sure, Macklin said, if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you?     But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second ifI could have some reason for not telling you the truth.     I suppose so, Macklin said humbly.     You've found yourself worrying—thinking—about a lot of otherproblems since we left you, haven't you? Maybe not the same kind ofscientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn't used tohave time to think about.     If you say so.     Now, you know it's so. But how would you like to get rid of thoseworries just as you got rid of the others? Mitchell asked.     I guess I'd like that, the mathematician replied.     Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it's at, don'tyou?     No, I—yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won't try to put meback where I was instead of helping me more?     I couldn't do that against your wishes. That would be illegal!     If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army iswatching me pretty close.     That's alright, Mitchell said quickly. You can bring along ColonelCarson.     But he won't like you fixing me up more.     But he can't stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me—Iwant you to come right on over here, El.     If you say so, Macklin said uncertainly.  ","The story begins with the two doctors, Ferris and Mitchell, discussing their research in a laboratory in the biology building. Macklin comes into their office to discuss their potential cure for headaches. It is in the office that Macklin agrees and is administered the experimental cure. Later, Mitchell is angry at Ferris and goes to scold him in the laboratory. After they receive a concerning call from Macklin’s wife, the two examine their test animals kept in cages. With no significant revelations found, they head to Macklin’s house. Macklin’s house is described as a traditional ranch style home. At the house, they see Macklin sitting in a very femininely decorated living room. Ferris, Mitchell, and the Colonel have discussions throughout the house about the possibility of a cure and how they might be able to get Macklin to take the cure. They leave the house without any success. The next section of the story begins with Mitchell waking up in his bed where he suddenly calls Macklin in an attempt to lure him back to the laboratory.  "
"Describe Elliot Macklin and his established health issues? </s>     THE BIG HEADACHE     BY JIM HARMON     What's the principal cause of headaches?     Why, having a head, of course!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him tocooperate in the experiment? Ferris asked eagerly.     How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor? Mitchell inquired.He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to      me     for helpagainst that repatriated fullback.     Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. Guess I gotcarried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for aquick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down.     I know, Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. Somehow the men with themoney just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would havefinanced a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the informationgained from that study is vital in cancer research.     When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value foranyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for afield test. Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of hisforehead. I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestorof all headaches.     Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expressionof demonic intensity. Ferris, would you consider—?     No! the smaller man yelled. You can't expect me to violateprofessional ethics and test my own discovery on myself.           Our     discovery, Mitchell said politely.     That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completelyethical with even a discovery partly mine.     You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?Our reputations don't go outside our own fields, Mitchell said. Butnow Macklin—     Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einsteinin the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the wordmathematician or even scientist was mentioned. No one knew whetherhis Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet beenable to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties butlooked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. Thegovernment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of theIdeal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets.     For the past seven years Macklin—who      was     the Advanced StudiesDepartment of Firestone University—had been involved in devising afaster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually thenearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knewthat the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of      Adastra per aspirin     .     The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health.     Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mildstroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It wasknown that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle ofthe headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for severalweeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seenaround the campus.  Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside thelaboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chairbehind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly.     Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up? Ferris demanded,pausing in mid-stride.     I imagine he will, Mitchell said. Macklin's always seemed a decentenough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trusteesmeetings.     He's always treated me like dirt, Ferris said heatedly. Everyone onthis campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash intheir smug faces.     Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack ofscientific detachment.     There came a discreet knock on the door.     Please come in, Mitchell said.     Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. Helooked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchellsuspected that that was his intention.     He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. Good of you to ask me over,Steven.     Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. How have you been,Harold?     Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. Fine, thank you,doctor.     Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. Nowwhat's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep theexplanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know.     Mitchell moved around the desk casually. Actually, Doctor, we haven'tthe right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be anelement of risk.     The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. Now youhave me intrigued. What is it all about?     Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches, Mitchell said.     Macklin nodded. That's right, Steven. Migraine.     That must be terrible, Ferris said. All your fine reputation andlavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearingagony begins, can it?     No, Harold, it isn't, Macklin admitted. What does your project haveto do with my headaches?     Doctor, Mitchell said, what would you say the most common complaintof man is?     I would have said the common cold, Macklin replied, but I supposefrom what you have said you mean headaches.  Headaches, Mitchell agreed. Everybody has them at some time in hislife. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide bytheir headaches.     Yes, Macklin said.     But think, Ferris interjected, what a boon it would be if everyonecould be cured of headaches      forever     by one simple injection.     I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But itwould please about everybody else.     Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscularpains, Mitchell said.     I see. Are you two saying you      have     such a shot? Can you cureheadaches?     We think we can, Ferris said.     How can you have a specific for a number of different causes? Macklinasked. I know that much about the subject.     There      are     a number of different causes for headaches—nervousstrain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,over-indulgence—but there is one      effect     of all of this, the one realcause of headaches, Mitchell announced.     We have definitely established this for this first time, Ferris added.     That's fine, Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. And this effect thatproduces headaches is?     The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain, Mitchellsaid eagerly. That is, the constriction of blood vessels in thetelencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by anover-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred avirus that feeds on pituitrin.     That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would meanthe end of the race as well, Macklin said. In certain areas it isvaluable to have a constriction of blood vessels.     The virus, Ferris explained, can easily be localized and stabilized.A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebralvessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluiddoesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain.     The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. If this reallyworks, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuffmakes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than themigraine. How should I go about removing my curse? He reinserted thepipe.     I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate, Ferris said. Ourdiscovery will work.  Will work, Macklin said thoughtfully. The operative word. It      hasn't     worked then?     Certainly it has, Ferris said. On rats, on chimps....     But not on humans? Macklin asked.     Not yet, Mitchell admitted.     Well, Macklin said. Well. He thumped pipe ashes out into his palm.Certainly you can get volunteers. Convicts. Conscientious objectorsfrom the Army.     We want you, Ferris told him.     Macklin coughed. I don't want to overestimate my value but thegovernment wouldn't like it very well if I died in the middle of thisproject. My wife would like it even less.     Ferris turned his back on the mathematician. Mitchell could see himmouthing the word      yellow     .     Doctor, Mitchell said quickly, I know it's a tremendous favor toask of a man of your position. But you can understand our problem.Unless we can produce quick, conclusive and dramatic proof of ourstudies we can get no more financial backing. We      should     run alarge-scale field test. But we haven't the time or money for that.We can cure the headaches of one person and that's the limit of ourresources.     I'm tempted, Macklin said hesitantly, but the answer is go. I mean'      no     '. I'd like to help you out, but I'm afraid I owe too much toothers to take the rest—the risk, I mean.     Macklin ran the back of his knuckles across his forehead. I reallywould like to take you up on it. When I start making slips like that itmeans another attack of migraine. The drilling, grinding pain throughmy temples and around my eyeballs. The flashes of light, the riotingpools of color playing on the back of my lids. Ugh.     Ferris smiled. Gynergen makes you sick, does it, doctor? Producesnausea, eh? The pain of that turns you almost wrong side out, doesn'tit? You aren't much better off with it than without, are you? I'veheard some say they preferred the migraine.     Macklin carefully arranged his pipe along with the tools he used totend it in a worn leather case. Tell me, he said, what is the worstthat could happen to me?     Low blood pressure, Ferris said.     That's not so bad, Macklin said. How low can it get?     When your heart stops, your blood pressure goes to its lowest point,Mitchell said.     A dew of perspiration had bloomed on Macklin's forehead. Is there muchrisk of that?     Practically none, Mitchell said. We have to give you the worstpossibilities.      All     our test animals survived and seem perfectly happyand contented. As I said, the virus is self-stabilizing. Ferris and Iare confident that there is no danger.... But we may be wrong.     Macklin held his head in both hands. Why did you two select      me     ?     You're an important man, doctor, Ferris said. Nobody would care ifMitchell or I cured ourselves of headaches—they might not even believeus if we said we did. But the proper authorities will believe a manof your reputation. Besides, neither of us has a record of chronicmigraine. You do.     Yes, I do, Macklin said. Very well. Go ahead. Give me yourinjection.     Mitchell cleared his throat. Are you positive, doctor? he askeduncertainly. Perhaps you would like a few days to think it over.     No! I'm ready. Go ahead, right now.     There's a simple release, Ferris said smoothly.     Macklin groped in his pocket for a pen.      II     Ferris! Mitchell yelled, slamming the laboratory door behind him.     Right here, the small man said briskly. He was sitting at a worktable, penciling notes. I've been expecting you.     Doctor—Harold—you shouldn't have given this story to thenewspapers, Mitchell said. He tapped the back of his hand against thefolded paper.     On the contrary, I should and I did, Ferris answered. We wantedsomething dramatic to show to the trustees and here it is.     Yes, we wanted to show our proof to the trustees—but not broadcastunverified results to the press. It's too early for that!     Don't be so stuffy and conservative, Mitchell! Macklin's cured, isn'the? By established periodic cycle he should be suffering hell rightnow, shouldn't he? But thanks to our treatment he is perfectly happy,with no unfortunate side effects such as gynergen produces.     It's a significant test case, yes. But not enough to go to thenewspapers with. If it wasn't enough to go to the press with, it wasn'tenough to try and breach the trustees with. Don't you see? The publicwill hand down a ukase demanding our virus, just as they demanded theSalk vaccine and the Grennell serum.     But—     The shrill call of the telephone interrupted Mitchell's objections.     Ferris excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He answered itand listened for a moment, his face growing impatient.     It's Macklin's wife, Ferris said. Do you want to talk to her? I'm nogood with hysterical women.     Hysterical? Mitchell muttered in alarm and went to the phone.     Hello? Mitchell said reluctantly. Mrs. Macklin?     You are the other one, the clear feminine voice said. Your name isMitchell.     She couldn't have sounded calmer or more self-possessed, Mitchellthought.     That's right, Mrs. Macklin. I'm Dr. Steven Mitchell, Dr. Ferris'sassociate.     Do you have a license to dispense narcotics?     What do you mean by that, Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said sharply.     I used to be a nurse, Dr. Mitchell. I know you've given my husbandheroin.     That's absurd. What makes you think a thing like that?     The—trance he's in now.     Now, Mrs. Macklin. Neither Dr. Ferris or myself have been near yourhusband for a full day. The effects of a narcotic would have worn offby this time.     Most known narcotics, she admitted, but evidently you havediscovered something new. Is it so expensive to refine you and Ferrishave to recruit new customers to keep yourselves supplied?     Mrs. Macklin! I think I had better talk to you later when you arecalmer.     Mitchell dropped the receiver heavily. What could be wrong withMacklin? he asked without removing his hand from the telephone.     Ferris frowned, making quotation marks above his nose. Let's have alook at the test animals.     Together they marched over to the cages and peered through thehoneycomb pattern of the wire. The test chimp, Dean, was sittingpeacefully in a corner scratching under his arms with the back of hisknuckles. Jerry, their control in the experiment, who was practicallyDean's twin except that he had received no injection of the E-M Virus,was stomping up and down punching his fingers through the wire,worrying the lock on the cage.     Jerry      is     a great deal more active than Dean, Mitchell said.     Yes, but Dean isn't sick. He just doesn't seem to have as much nervousenergy to burn up. Nothing wrong with his thyroid either.     They went to the smaller cages. They found the situation with the rats,Bud and Lou, much the same.     I don't know. Maybe they just have tired blood, Mitchell ventured.     Iron deficiency anemia?     Never mind, doctor. It was a form of humor. I think we had better seeexactly what is wrong with Elliot Macklin.     There's nothing wrong with him, Ferris snapped. He's probably justtrying to get us in trouble, the ingrate!  Macklin's traditional ranch house was small but attractive inaqua-tinted aluminum.     Under Mitchell's thumb the bell chimbed      dum-de-de-dum-dum-dum     .     As they waited Mitchell glanced at Ferris. He seemed completelyundisturbed, perhaps slightly curious.     The door unlatched and swung back.     Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said quickly, I'm sure we can help if thereis anything wrong with your husband. This is Dr. Ferris. I am Dr.Mitchell.     You had certainly      better     help him, gentlemen. She stood out of thedoorway for them to pass.     Mrs. Macklin was an attractive brunette in her late thirties. She worean expensive yellow dress. And she had a sharp-cornered jawline.     The Army officer came out into the hall to meet them.     You are the gentlemen who gave Dr. Macklin the unauthorizedinjection, he said.     It wasn't a question.     I don't like that 'unauthorized', Ferris snapped.     The colonel—Mitchell spotted the eagles on his green tunic—lifteda heavy eyebrow. No? Are you medical doctors? Are you authorized totreat illnesses?     We weren't treating an illness, Mitchell said. We were discovering amethod of treatment. What concern is it of yours?     The colonel smiled thinly. Dr. Macklin is my concern. And everythingthat happens to him. The Army doesn't like what you have done to him.     Mitchell wondered desperately just what they had done to the man.     Can we see him? Mitchell asked.     Why not? You can't do much worse than murder him now. That might bejust as well. We have laws to cover that.     The colonel led them into the comfortable, over-feminine living room.Macklin sat in an easy chair draped in embroidery, smoking. Mitchellsuddenly realized Macklin used a pipe as a form of masculine protest tohis home surroundings.     On the coffee table in front of Macklin were some odd-shaped buildingblocks such as were used in nursery schools. A second uniformedman—another colonel but with the snake-entwined staff of the medicalcorps in his insignia—was kneeling at the table on the marble-effectcarpet.     The Army physician stood up and brushed his knees, undusted from thescrupulously clean rug.     What's wrong with him, Sidney? the other officer asked the doctor.     Not a thing, Sidney said. He's the healthiest, happiest, mostwell-adjusted man I've ever examined, Carson.     But— Colonel Carson protested.     Oh, he's changed all right, the Army doctor answered. He's not thesame man as he used to be.     How is he different? Mitchell demanded.     The medic examined Mitchell and Ferris critically before answering. Heused to be a mathematical genius.     And now? Mitchell said impatiently.     Now he is a moron, the medic said.      III     Mitchell tried to stop Colonel Sidney as he went past, but the doctormumbled he had a report to make.     Mitchell and Ferris stared at Colonel Carson and Macklin and at eachother.     What did he mean, Macklin is an idiot? Mitchell asked.     Not an idiot, Colonel Carson corrected primly. Dr. Macklin is amoron. He's legally responsible, but he's extremely stupid.     I'm not so dumb, Macklin said defensively.     I beg your pardon, sir, Carson said. I didn't intend any offense.But according to all the standard intelligence tests we have given you,your clinical intelligence quotient is that of a moron.     That's just on book learning, Macklin said. There's a lot you learnin life that you don't get out of books, son.     I'm confident that's true, sir, Colonel Carson said. He turned to thetwo biologists. Perhaps we had better speak outside.     But— Mitchell said, impatient to examine Macklin for himself. Verywell. Let's step into the hall.     Ferris followed them docilely.     What have you done to him? the colonel asked straightforwardly.     We merely cured him of his headaches, Mitchell said.     How?     Mitchell did his best to explain the F-M Virus.     You mean, the Army officer said levelly you have infected him withsome kind of a disease to rot his brain?     No, no! Could I talk to the other man, the doctor? Maybe I can makehim understand.     All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as ifhe had been kicked in the head by a mule, Colonel Carson said.     I think I can explain, Ferris interrupted.     You can? Mitchell said.     Ferris nodded. We made a slight miscalculation. It appears as if thevirus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract inthe cerebrum. It isn't more than necessary to stop headaches. But thatnecessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the braincells to function properly.     Why won't they function? Carson roared.     They don't get enough food—blood, oxygen, hemoglobin, Ferrisexplained. The cerebral vessels don't contract enough to pump theblood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The braincells remain sluggish, dormant. Perhaps decaying.     The colonel yelled.     Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was correct.  The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklinmeans to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Plutobefore we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. Youmight just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capitalis replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearlyonce in a human race.     Just a moment, Mitchell interrupted, we can cure Macklin.     You      can     ? Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man wasgoing to clasp his hands and sink to his knees.     Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We haveantitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as abeneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary.     Good! Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at theknees.     Just you wait a second now, boys, Elliot Macklin said. He was leaningin the doorway, holding his pipe. I've been listening to what you'vebeen saying and I don't like it.     What do you mean you don't like it? Carson demanded. He added, Sir?     I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be.     Yes, doctor, Mitchell said eagerly, just as you used to be.           With     my headaches, like before?     Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time toframe an answer. Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functionsproperly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research isa dismal failure.     I wouldn't go that far, Ferris remarked cheerfully.     Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he sawMacklin slowly shaking his head.     No, sir! the mathematician said. I shall not go back to my originalstate. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,worrying.     You mean wondering, Mitchell said.     Macklin nodded. Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It'speaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wifeand all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry?     Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it.     That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him, Mitchellsaid.     It's not his decision to make, the colonel said. He's an idiot now.     No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared tohis former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. Thereare millions of morons running around loose in the United States. Theycan get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of themdo. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't      think     you can.     No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state. The colonel lookedmomentarily glum that it wasn't.     Mitchell looked back at Macklin. Where did his wife get to, Colonel?I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisionsfor himself. Perhaps she could influence him.     Maybe, the colonel said. Let's find her.  They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picturewindow an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached.     Mrs. Macklin, the colonel began, these gentlemen believe they cancure your husband of his present condition.     Really? she said. Did you speak to Elliot about that?     Y-yes, Colonel Carson said, but he's not himself. He refused thetreatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence.     She nodded. If those are his wishes, I can't go against them.     But Mrs. Macklin! Mitchell protested. You will have to get a courtorder overruling your husband's wishes.     She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. Thatwas my original thought. But I've redecided.     Redecided! Carson burst out almost hysterically.     Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to puthim back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again,where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happynow. Like a child, but happy.     Mrs. Macklin, the Army man said levelly, if you don't help usrestore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court orderdeclaring him incompetent.     But he is not! Legally, I mean, the woman stormed.     Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give usthe edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Oncehe's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell andFerris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklinto sanity.     I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner, she said.     The colonel looked smug. Why not?     Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, isinvolved.     There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But—     It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history ofvascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want togive those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. Toparalyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority.     I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatmentthere is      no     chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.Macklin, Mitchell interjected.     Her mouth grew petulant. I don't care. I would rather have a livehusband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make himcomfortable....     Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell ledhim back into the hall.     I'm no psychiatrist, Mitchell said, but I think she wants Macklinstupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,and now she can dominate him completely.     What is she? A monster? the Army officer muttered.     No, Mitchell said. She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealousof her husband's genius.     Maybe, Carson said. I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tellthe Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk.     I'll go with you, Ferris said.     Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist.     Carson squinted. Any particular reason, doctor?     To celebrate, Ferris said.     The colonel shrugged. That's as good a reason as any.     On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together inbewilderment.      IV     Macklin was playing jacks.     He didn't have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a greatcurving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Plutoand the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Nothis head. Mitchell's. Both heads were initialed M so it was all thesame.       Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial difficulty.     He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to hisheart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver fromthe nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger.     After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer.     Hello? Elliot Macklin said.     Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered thephone instead of his wife.     Can you speak freely, doctor? Mitchell asked.     Of course, the mathematician said. I can talk fine.     I mean, are you alone?     Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she's asleep. That Armydoctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn't let him giveme anything, though.     Good boy, the biologist said. Listen, doctor—Elliot—El, old son.I'm not against you like all the others. I don't want to make you goback to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me,don't you?     There was a slight hesitation.     Sure, Macklin said, if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you?     But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second ifI could have some reason for not telling you the truth.     I suppose so, Macklin said humbly.     You've found yourself worrying—thinking—about a lot of otherproblems since we left you, haven't you? Maybe not the same kind ofscientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn't used tohave time to think about.     If you say so.     Now, you know it's so. But how would you like to get rid of thoseworries just as you got rid of the others? Mitchell asked.     I guess I'd like that, the mathematician replied.     Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it's at, don'tyou?     No, I—yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won't try to put meback where I was instead of helping me more?     I couldn't do that against your wishes. That would be illegal!     If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army iswatching me pretty close.     That's alright, Mitchell said quickly. You can bring along ColonelCarson.     But he won't like you fixing me up more.     But he can't stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me—Iwant you to come right on over here, El.     If you say so, Macklin said uncertainly.  ","It is well-known that Macklin succumbs to migraines from time to time in his life. Physically, Macklin is very fit and is regarded as having a built, athletic frame. However, internally he does suffer from various ailments. His migraine symptoms involve incorrectly substituting words with others, overstimulation of color and light between his eyes, and a concrete pain through his temples. In addition to the migraines, Macklin has a history of vascular spasms. He had even experienced a pseudo stroke in the past. "
"Describe the experiment and the mechanisms of how it works. </s>     THE BIG HEADACHE     BY JIM HARMON     What's the principal cause of headaches?     Why, having a head, of course!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him tocooperate in the experiment? Ferris asked eagerly.     How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor? Mitchell inquired.He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to      me     for helpagainst that repatriated fullback.     Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. Guess I gotcarried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for aquick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down.     I know, Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. Somehow the men with themoney just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would havefinanced a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the informationgained from that study is vital in cancer research.     When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value foranyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for afield test. Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of hisforehead. I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestorof all headaches.     Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expressionof demonic intensity. Ferris, would you consider—?     No! the smaller man yelled. You can't expect me to violateprofessional ethics and test my own discovery on myself.           Our     discovery, Mitchell said politely.     That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completelyethical with even a discovery partly mine.     You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?Our reputations don't go outside our own fields, Mitchell said. Butnow Macklin—     Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einsteinin the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the wordmathematician or even scientist was mentioned. No one knew whetherhis Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet beenable to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties butlooked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. Thegovernment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of theIdeal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets.     For the past seven years Macklin—who      was     the Advanced StudiesDepartment of Firestone University—had been involved in devising afaster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually thenearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knewthat the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of      Adastra per aspirin     .     The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health.     Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mildstroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It wasknown that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle ofthe headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for severalweeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seenaround the campus.  Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside thelaboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chairbehind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly.     Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up? Ferris demanded,pausing in mid-stride.     I imagine he will, Mitchell said. Macklin's always seemed a decentenough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trusteesmeetings.     He's always treated me like dirt, Ferris said heatedly. Everyone onthis campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash intheir smug faces.     Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack ofscientific detachment.     There came a discreet knock on the door.     Please come in, Mitchell said.     Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. Helooked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchellsuspected that that was his intention.     He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. Good of you to ask me over,Steven.     Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. How have you been,Harold?     Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. Fine, thank you,doctor.     Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. Nowwhat's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep theexplanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know.     Mitchell moved around the desk casually. Actually, Doctor, we haven'tthe right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be anelement of risk.     The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. Now youhave me intrigued. What is it all about?     Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches, Mitchell said.     Macklin nodded. That's right, Steven. Migraine.     That must be terrible, Ferris said. All your fine reputation andlavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearingagony begins, can it?     No, Harold, it isn't, Macklin admitted. What does your project haveto do with my headaches?     Doctor, Mitchell said, what would you say the most common complaintof man is?     I would have said the common cold, Macklin replied, but I supposefrom what you have said you mean headaches.  Headaches, Mitchell agreed. Everybody has them at some time in hislife. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide bytheir headaches.     Yes, Macklin said.     But think, Ferris interjected, what a boon it would be if everyonecould be cured of headaches      forever     by one simple injection.     I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But itwould please about everybody else.     Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscularpains, Mitchell said.     I see. Are you two saying you      have     such a shot? Can you cureheadaches?     We think we can, Ferris said.     How can you have a specific for a number of different causes? Macklinasked. I know that much about the subject.     There      are     a number of different causes for headaches—nervousstrain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,over-indulgence—but there is one      effect     of all of this, the one realcause of headaches, Mitchell announced.     We have definitely established this for this first time, Ferris added.     That's fine, Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. And this effect thatproduces headaches is?     The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain, Mitchellsaid eagerly. That is, the constriction of blood vessels in thetelencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by anover-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred avirus that feeds on pituitrin.     That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would meanthe end of the race as well, Macklin said. In certain areas it isvaluable to have a constriction of blood vessels.     The virus, Ferris explained, can easily be localized and stabilized.A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebralvessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluiddoesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain.     The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. If this reallyworks, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuffmakes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than themigraine. How should I go about removing my curse? He reinserted thepipe.     I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate, Ferris said. Ourdiscovery will work.  Will work, Macklin said thoughtfully. The operative word. It      hasn't     worked then?     Certainly it has, Ferris said. On rats, on chimps....     But not on humans? Macklin asked.     Not yet, Mitchell admitted.     Well, Macklin said. Well. He thumped pipe ashes out into his palm.Certainly you can get volunteers. Convicts. Conscientious objectorsfrom the Army.     We want you, Ferris told him.     Macklin coughed. I don't want to overestimate my value but thegovernment wouldn't like it very well if I died in the middle of thisproject. My wife would like it even less.     Ferris turned his back on the mathematician. Mitchell could see himmouthing the word      yellow     .     Doctor, Mitchell said quickly, I know it's a tremendous favor toask of a man of your position. But you can understand our problem.Unless we can produce quick, conclusive and dramatic proof of ourstudies we can get no more financial backing. We      should     run alarge-scale field test. But we haven't the time or money for that.We can cure the headaches of one person and that's the limit of ourresources.     I'm tempted, Macklin said hesitantly, but the answer is go. I mean'      no     '. I'd like to help you out, but I'm afraid I owe too much toothers to take the rest—the risk, I mean.     Macklin ran the back of his knuckles across his forehead. I reallywould like to take you up on it. When I start making slips like that itmeans another attack of migraine. The drilling, grinding pain throughmy temples and around my eyeballs. The flashes of light, the riotingpools of color playing on the back of my lids. Ugh.     Ferris smiled. Gynergen makes you sick, does it, doctor? Producesnausea, eh? The pain of that turns you almost wrong side out, doesn'tit? You aren't much better off with it than without, are you? I'veheard some say they preferred the migraine.     Macklin carefully arranged his pipe along with the tools he used totend it in a worn leather case. Tell me, he said, what is the worstthat could happen to me?     Low blood pressure, Ferris said.     That's not so bad, Macklin said. How low can it get?     When your heart stops, your blood pressure goes to its lowest point,Mitchell said.     A dew of perspiration had bloomed on Macklin's forehead. Is there muchrisk of that?     Practically none, Mitchell said. We have to give you the worstpossibilities.      All     our test animals survived and seem perfectly happyand contented. As I said, the virus is self-stabilizing. Ferris and Iare confident that there is no danger.... But we may be wrong.     Macklin held his head in both hands. Why did you two select      me     ?     You're an important man, doctor, Ferris said. Nobody would care ifMitchell or I cured ourselves of headaches—they might not even believeus if we said we did. But the proper authorities will believe a manof your reputation. Besides, neither of us has a record of chronicmigraine. You do.     Yes, I do, Macklin said. Very well. Go ahead. Give me yourinjection.     Mitchell cleared his throat. Are you positive, doctor? he askeduncertainly. Perhaps you would like a few days to think it over.     No! I'm ready. Go ahead, right now.     There's a simple release, Ferris said smoothly.     Macklin groped in his pocket for a pen.      II     Ferris! Mitchell yelled, slamming the laboratory door behind him.     Right here, the small man said briskly. He was sitting at a worktable, penciling notes. I've been expecting you.     Doctor—Harold—you shouldn't have given this story to thenewspapers, Mitchell said. He tapped the back of his hand against thefolded paper.     On the contrary, I should and I did, Ferris answered. We wantedsomething dramatic to show to the trustees and here it is.     Yes, we wanted to show our proof to the trustees—but not broadcastunverified results to the press. It's too early for that!     Don't be so stuffy and conservative, Mitchell! Macklin's cured, isn'the? By established periodic cycle he should be suffering hell rightnow, shouldn't he? But thanks to our treatment he is perfectly happy,with no unfortunate side effects such as gynergen produces.     It's a significant test case, yes. But not enough to go to thenewspapers with. If it wasn't enough to go to the press with, it wasn'tenough to try and breach the trustees with. Don't you see? The publicwill hand down a ukase demanding our virus, just as they demanded theSalk vaccine and the Grennell serum.     But—     The shrill call of the telephone interrupted Mitchell's objections.     Ferris excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He answered itand listened for a moment, his face growing impatient.     It's Macklin's wife, Ferris said. Do you want to talk to her? I'm nogood with hysterical women.     Hysterical? Mitchell muttered in alarm and went to the phone.     Hello? Mitchell said reluctantly. Mrs. Macklin?     You are the other one, the clear feminine voice said. Your name isMitchell.     She couldn't have sounded calmer or more self-possessed, Mitchellthought.     That's right, Mrs. Macklin. I'm Dr. Steven Mitchell, Dr. Ferris'sassociate.     Do you have a license to dispense narcotics?     What do you mean by that, Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said sharply.     I used to be a nurse, Dr. Mitchell. I know you've given my husbandheroin.     That's absurd. What makes you think a thing like that?     The—trance he's in now.     Now, Mrs. Macklin. Neither Dr. Ferris or myself have been near yourhusband for a full day. The effects of a narcotic would have worn offby this time.     Most known narcotics, she admitted, but evidently you havediscovered something new. Is it so expensive to refine you and Ferrishave to recruit new customers to keep yourselves supplied?     Mrs. Macklin! I think I had better talk to you later when you arecalmer.     Mitchell dropped the receiver heavily. What could be wrong withMacklin? he asked without removing his hand from the telephone.     Ferris frowned, making quotation marks above his nose. Let's have alook at the test animals.     Together they marched over to the cages and peered through thehoneycomb pattern of the wire. The test chimp, Dean, was sittingpeacefully in a corner scratching under his arms with the back of hisknuckles. Jerry, their control in the experiment, who was practicallyDean's twin except that he had received no injection of the E-M Virus,was stomping up and down punching his fingers through the wire,worrying the lock on the cage.     Jerry      is     a great deal more active than Dean, Mitchell said.     Yes, but Dean isn't sick. He just doesn't seem to have as much nervousenergy to burn up. Nothing wrong with his thyroid either.     They went to the smaller cages. They found the situation with the rats,Bud and Lou, much the same.     I don't know. Maybe they just have tired blood, Mitchell ventured.     Iron deficiency anemia?     Never mind, doctor. It was a form of humor. I think we had better seeexactly what is wrong with Elliot Macklin.     There's nothing wrong with him, Ferris snapped. He's probably justtrying to get us in trouble, the ingrate!  Macklin's traditional ranch house was small but attractive inaqua-tinted aluminum.     Under Mitchell's thumb the bell chimbed      dum-de-de-dum-dum-dum     .     As they waited Mitchell glanced at Ferris. He seemed completelyundisturbed, perhaps slightly curious.     The door unlatched and swung back.     Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said quickly, I'm sure we can help if thereis anything wrong with your husband. This is Dr. Ferris. I am Dr.Mitchell.     You had certainly      better     help him, gentlemen. She stood out of thedoorway for them to pass.     Mrs. Macklin was an attractive brunette in her late thirties. She worean expensive yellow dress. And she had a sharp-cornered jawline.     The Army officer came out into the hall to meet them.     You are the gentlemen who gave Dr. Macklin the unauthorizedinjection, he said.     It wasn't a question.     I don't like that 'unauthorized', Ferris snapped.     The colonel—Mitchell spotted the eagles on his green tunic—lifteda heavy eyebrow. No? Are you medical doctors? Are you authorized totreat illnesses?     We weren't treating an illness, Mitchell said. We were discovering amethod of treatment. What concern is it of yours?     The colonel smiled thinly. Dr. Macklin is my concern. And everythingthat happens to him. The Army doesn't like what you have done to him.     Mitchell wondered desperately just what they had done to the man.     Can we see him? Mitchell asked.     Why not? You can't do much worse than murder him now. That might bejust as well. We have laws to cover that.     The colonel led them into the comfortable, over-feminine living room.Macklin sat in an easy chair draped in embroidery, smoking. Mitchellsuddenly realized Macklin used a pipe as a form of masculine protest tohis home surroundings.     On the coffee table in front of Macklin were some odd-shaped buildingblocks such as were used in nursery schools. A second uniformedman—another colonel but with the snake-entwined staff of the medicalcorps in his insignia—was kneeling at the table on the marble-effectcarpet.     The Army physician stood up and brushed his knees, undusted from thescrupulously clean rug.     What's wrong with him, Sidney? the other officer asked the doctor.     Not a thing, Sidney said. He's the healthiest, happiest, mostwell-adjusted man I've ever examined, Carson.     But— Colonel Carson protested.     Oh, he's changed all right, the Army doctor answered. He's not thesame man as he used to be.     How is he different? Mitchell demanded.     The medic examined Mitchell and Ferris critically before answering. Heused to be a mathematical genius.     And now? Mitchell said impatiently.     Now he is a moron, the medic said.      III     Mitchell tried to stop Colonel Sidney as he went past, but the doctormumbled he had a report to make.     Mitchell and Ferris stared at Colonel Carson and Macklin and at eachother.     What did he mean, Macklin is an idiot? Mitchell asked.     Not an idiot, Colonel Carson corrected primly. Dr. Macklin is amoron. He's legally responsible, but he's extremely stupid.     I'm not so dumb, Macklin said defensively.     I beg your pardon, sir, Carson said. I didn't intend any offense.But according to all the standard intelligence tests we have given you,your clinical intelligence quotient is that of a moron.     That's just on book learning, Macklin said. There's a lot you learnin life that you don't get out of books, son.     I'm confident that's true, sir, Colonel Carson said. He turned to thetwo biologists. Perhaps we had better speak outside.     But— Mitchell said, impatient to examine Macklin for himself. Verywell. Let's step into the hall.     Ferris followed them docilely.     What have you done to him? the colonel asked straightforwardly.     We merely cured him of his headaches, Mitchell said.     How?     Mitchell did his best to explain the F-M Virus.     You mean, the Army officer said levelly you have infected him withsome kind of a disease to rot his brain?     No, no! Could I talk to the other man, the doctor? Maybe I can makehim understand.     All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as ifhe had been kicked in the head by a mule, Colonel Carson said.     I think I can explain, Ferris interrupted.     You can? Mitchell said.     Ferris nodded. We made a slight miscalculation. It appears as if thevirus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract inthe cerebrum. It isn't more than necessary to stop headaches. But thatnecessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the braincells to function properly.     Why won't they function? Carson roared.     They don't get enough food—blood, oxygen, hemoglobin, Ferrisexplained. The cerebral vessels don't contract enough to pump theblood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The braincells remain sluggish, dormant. Perhaps decaying.     The colonel yelled.     Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was correct.  The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklinmeans to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Plutobefore we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. Youmight just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capitalis replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearlyonce in a human race.     Just a moment, Mitchell interrupted, we can cure Macklin.     You      can     ? Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man wasgoing to clasp his hands and sink to his knees.     Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We haveantitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as abeneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary.     Good! Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at theknees.     Just you wait a second now, boys, Elliot Macklin said. He was leaningin the doorway, holding his pipe. I've been listening to what you'vebeen saying and I don't like it.     What do you mean you don't like it? Carson demanded. He added, Sir?     I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be.     Yes, doctor, Mitchell said eagerly, just as you used to be.           With     my headaches, like before?     Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time toframe an answer. Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functionsproperly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research isa dismal failure.     I wouldn't go that far, Ferris remarked cheerfully.     Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he sawMacklin slowly shaking his head.     No, sir! the mathematician said. I shall not go back to my originalstate. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,worrying.     You mean wondering, Mitchell said.     Macklin nodded. Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It'speaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wifeand all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry?     Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it.     That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him, Mitchellsaid.     It's not his decision to make, the colonel said. He's an idiot now.     No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared tohis former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. Thereare millions of morons running around loose in the United States. Theycan get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of themdo. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't      think     you can.     No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state. The colonel lookedmomentarily glum that it wasn't.     Mitchell looked back at Macklin. Where did his wife get to, Colonel?I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisionsfor himself. Perhaps she could influence him.     Maybe, the colonel said. Let's find her.  They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picturewindow an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached.     Mrs. Macklin, the colonel began, these gentlemen believe they cancure your husband of his present condition.     Really? she said. Did you speak to Elliot about that?     Y-yes, Colonel Carson said, but he's not himself. He refused thetreatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence.     She nodded. If those are his wishes, I can't go against them.     But Mrs. Macklin! Mitchell protested. You will have to get a courtorder overruling your husband's wishes.     She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. Thatwas my original thought. But I've redecided.     Redecided! Carson burst out almost hysterically.     Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to puthim back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again,where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happynow. Like a child, but happy.     Mrs. Macklin, the Army man said levelly, if you don't help usrestore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court orderdeclaring him incompetent.     But he is not! Legally, I mean, the woman stormed.     Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give usthe edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Oncehe's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell andFerris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklinto sanity.     I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner, she said.     The colonel looked smug. Why not?     Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, isinvolved.     There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But—     It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history ofvascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want togive those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. Toparalyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority.     I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatmentthere is      no     chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.Macklin, Mitchell interjected.     Her mouth grew petulant. I don't care. I would rather have a livehusband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make himcomfortable....     Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell ledhim back into the hall.     I'm no psychiatrist, Mitchell said, but I think she wants Macklinstupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,and now she can dominate him completely.     What is she? A monster? the Army officer muttered.     No, Mitchell said. She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealousof her husband's genius.     Maybe, Carson said. I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tellthe Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk.     I'll go with you, Ferris said.     Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist.     Carson squinted. Any particular reason, doctor?     To celebrate, Ferris said.     The colonel shrugged. That's as good a reason as any.     On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together inbewilderment.      IV     Macklin was playing jacks.     He didn't have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a greatcurving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Plutoand the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Nothis head. Mitchell's. Both heads were initialed M so it was all thesame.       Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial difficulty.     He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to hisheart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver fromthe nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger.     After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer.     Hello? Elliot Macklin said.     Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered thephone instead of his wife.     Can you speak freely, doctor? Mitchell asked.     Of course, the mathematician said. I can talk fine.     I mean, are you alone?     Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she's asleep. That Armydoctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn't let him giveme anything, though.     Good boy, the biologist said. Listen, doctor—Elliot—El, old son.I'm not against you like all the others. I don't want to make you goback to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me,don't you?     There was a slight hesitation.     Sure, Macklin said, if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you?     But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second ifI could have some reason for not telling you the truth.     I suppose so, Macklin said humbly.     You've found yourself worrying—thinking—about a lot of otherproblems since we left you, haven't you? Maybe not the same kind ofscientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn't used tohave time to think about.     If you say so.     Now, you know it's so. But how would you like to get rid of thoseworries just as you got rid of the others? Mitchell asked.     I guess I'd like that, the mathematician replied.     Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it's at, don'tyou?     No, I—yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won't try to put meback where I was instead of helping me more?     I couldn't do that against your wishes. That would be illegal!     If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army iswatching me pretty close.     That's alright, Mitchell said quickly. You can bring along ColonelCarson.     But he won't like you fixing me up more.     But he can't stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me—Iwant you to come right on over here, El.     If you say so, Macklin said uncertainly.  ","Ferris and Mitchell believe they have an injection that can cure headaches forever. They acknowledge during their initial discussion with Macklin that there is a potential risk with the injection, but they heavily downplay the risk. From their research, the two doctors believe that the over-production in the pituitary gland creates a pressure effect that constricts blood vessels in a section of the frontal lobe. Their injection is synthetically made that is meant to feed on the pituitrin that causes the pressure effect. They believe their virus is safe because it is able to target a specific area and remain stabilized within the brain cells. After they give Macklin the injection, they later receive news that he has become a moron and is no longer a mathematical genius. The injection was successful in stopping the pain but in doing so it stopped the brain cells from functioning properly because the vessels cannot pump the necessary amount of blood through the brain to maintain an active and alert mind. "
"How do people react to the choice of using the cure? </s>     THE BIG HEADACHE     BY JIM HARMON     What's the principal cause of headaches?     Why, having a head, of course!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     Do you think we'll have to use force on Macklin to get him tocooperate in the experiment? Ferris asked eagerly.     How are you going to go about forcing him, Doctor? Mitchell inquired.He outweighs you by fifty pounds and you needn't look to      me     for helpagainst that repatriated fullback.     Ferris fingered the collar of his starched lab smock. Guess I gotcarried away for a moment. But Macklin is exactly what we need for aquick, dramatic test. We've had it if he turns us down.     I know, Mitchell said, exhaling deeply. Somehow the men with themoney just can't seem to understand basic research. Who would havefinanced a study of cyclic periods of the hedgehog? Yet the informationgained from that study is vital in cancer research.     When we prove our results that should be of enough practical value foranyone. But those crummy trustees didn't even leave us enough for afield test. Ferris scrubbed his thin hand over the bony ridge of hisforehead. I've been worrying so much about this I've got the ancestorof all headaches.     Mitchell's blue eyes narrowed and his boyish face took on an expressionof demonic intensity. Ferris, would you consider—?     No! the smaller man yelled. You can't expect me to violateprofessional ethics and test my own discovery on myself.           Our     discovery, Mitchell said politely.     That's what I meant to say. But I'm not sure it would be completelyethical with even a discovery partly mine.     You're right. Besides who cares if you or I are cured of headaches?Our reputations don't go outside our own fields, Mitchell said. Butnow Macklin—     Elliot Macklin had inherited the reputation of the late Albert Einsteinin the popular mind. He was the man people thought of when the wordmathematician or even scientist was mentioned. No one knew whetherhis Theory of Spatium was correct or not because no one had yet beenable to frame an argument with it. Macklin was in his early fifties butlooked in his late thirties, with the build of a football player. Thegovernment took up a lot of his time using him as the symbol of theIdeal Scientist to help recruit Science and Engineering Cadets.     For the past seven years Macklin—who      was     the Advanced StudiesDepartment of Firestone University—had been involved in devising afaster-than-light drive to help the Army reach Pluto and eventually thenearer stars. Mitchell had overheard two coeds talking and so knewthat the project was nearing completion. If so, it was a case of      Adastra per aspirin     .     The only thing that could delay the project was Macklin's health.     Despite his impressive body, some years before he had suffered a mildstroke ... or at least a vascular spasm of a cerebral artery. It wasknown that he suffered from the vilest variety of migraine. A cycle ofthe headaches had caused him to be absent from his classes for severalweeks, and there were an unusual number of military uniforms seenaround the campus.  Ferris paced off the tidy measurements of the office outside thelaboratory in the biology building. Mitchell sat slumped in the chairbehind the blond imitation wood desk, watching him disinterestedly.     Do you suppose the Great Man will actually show up? Ferris demanded,pausing in mid-stride.     I imagine he will, Mitchell said. Macklin's always seemed a decentenough fellow when I've had lunch with him or seen him at the trusteesmeetings.     He's always treated me like dirt, Ferris said heatedly. Everyone onthis campus treats biologists like dirt. Sometimes I want to bash intheir smug faces.     Sometimes, Mitchell reflected, Ferris displayed a certain lack ofscientific detachment.     There came a discreet knock on the door.     Please come in, Mitchell said.     Elliot Macklin entered in a cloud of pipe smoke and a tweed jacket. Helooked more than a little like a postgraduate student, and Mitchellsuspected that that was his intention.     He shook hands warmly with Mitchell. Good of you to ask me over,Steven.     Macklin threw a big arm across Ferris' shoulders. How have you been,Harold?     Ferris' face flickered between pink and white. Fine, thank you,doctor.     Macklin dropped on the edge of the desk and adjusted his pipe. Nowwhat's this about you wanting my help on something? And please keep theexplanation simple. Biology isn't my field, you know.     Mitchell moved around the desk casually. Actually, Doctor, we haven'tthe right to ask this of a man of your importance. There may be anelement of risk.     The mathematician clamped onto his pipe and showed his teeth. Now youhave me intrigued. What is it all about?     Doctor, we understand you have severe headaches, Mitchell said.     Macklin nodded. That's right, Steven. Migraine.     That must be terrible, Ferris said. All your fine reputation andlavish salary can't be much consolation when that ripping, tearingagony begins, can it?     No, Harold, it isn't, Macklin admitted. What does your project haveto do with my headaches?     Doctor, Mitchell said, what would you say the most common complaintof man is?     I would have said the common cold, Macklin replied, but I supposefrom what you have said you mean headaches.  Headaches, Mitchell agreed. Everybody has them at some time in hislife. Some people have them every day. Some are driven to suicide bytheir headaches.     Yes, Macklin said.     But think, Ferris interjected, what a boon it would be if everyonecould be cured of headaches      forever     by one simple injection.     I don't suppose the manufacturers of aspirin would like you. But itwould please about everybody else.     Aspirins would still be used to reduce fever and relieve muscularpains, Mitchell said.     I see. Are you two saying you      have     such a shot? Can you cureheadaches?     We think we can, Ferris said.     How can you have a specific for a number of different causes? Macklinasked. I know that much about the subject.     There      are     a number of different causes for headaches—nervousstrain, fatigue, physical diseases from kidney complaints to tumors,over-indulgence—but there is one      effect     of all of this, the one realcause of headaches, Mitchell announced.     We have definitely established this for this first time, Ferris added.     That's fine, Macklin said, sucking on his pipe. And this effect thatproduces headaches is?     The pressure effect caused by pituitrin in the brain, Mitchellsaid eagerly. That is, the constriction of blood vessels in thetelencephalon section of the frontal lobes. It's caused by anover-production of the pituitary gland. We have artificially bred avirus that feeds on pituitrin.     That may mean the end of headaches, but I would think it would meanthe end of the race as well, Macklin said. In certain areas it isvaluable to have a constriction of blood vessels.     The virus, Ferris explained, can easily be localized and stabilized.A colony of virus in the brain cells will relax the cerebralvessels—and only the cerebral vessels—so that the cerebrospinal fluiddoesn't create pressure in the cavities of the brain.     The mathematician took the pipe out of his mouth. If this reallyworks, I could stop using that damned gynergen, couldn't I? The stuffmakes me violently sick to my stomach. But it's better than themigraine. How should I go about removing my curse? He reinserted thepipe.     I assure you, you can forget ergotamine tartrate, Ferris said. Ourdiscovery will work.  Will work, Macklin said thoughtfully. The operative word. It      hasn't     worked then?     Certainly it has, Ferris said. On rats, on chimps....     But not on humans? Macklin asked.     Not yet, Mitchell admitted.     Well, Macklin said. Well. He thumped pipe ashes out into his palm.Certainly you can get volunteers. Convicts. Conscientious objectorsfrom the Army.     We want you, Ferris told him.     Macklin coughed. I don't want to overestimate my value but thegovernment wouldn't like it very well if I died in the middle of thisproject. My wife would like it even less.     Ferris turned his back on the mathematician. Mitchell could see himmouthing the word      yellow     .     Doctor, Mitchell said quickly, I know it's a tremendous favor toask of a man of your position. But you can understand our problem.Unless we can produce quick, conclusive and dramatic proof of ourstudies we can get no more financial backing. We      should     run alarge-scale field test. But we haven't the time or money for that.We can cure the headaches of one person and that's the limit of ourresources.     I'm tempted, Macklin said hesitantly, but the answer is go. I mean'      no     '. I'd like to help you out, but I'm afraid I owe too much toothers to take the rest—the risk, I mean.     Macklin ran the back of his knuckles across his forehead. I reallywould like to take you up on it. When I start making slips like that itmeans another attack of migraine. The drilling, grinding pain throughmy temples and around my eyeballs. The flashes of light, the riotingpools of color playing on the back of my lids. Ugh.     Ferris smiled. Gynergen makes you sick, does it, doctor? Producesnausea, eh? The pain of that turns you almost wrong side out, doesn'tit? You aren't much better off with it than without, are you? I'veheard some say they preferred the migraine.     Macklin carefully arranged his pipe along with the tools he used totend it in a worn leather case. Tell me, he said, what is the worstthat could happen to me?     Low blood pressure, Ferris said.     That's not so bad, Macklin said. How low can it get?     When your heart stops, your blood pressure goes to its lowest point,Mitchell said.     A dew of perspiration had bloomed on Macklin's forehead. Is there muchrisk of that?     Practically none, Mitchell said. We have to give you the worstpossibilities.      All     our test animals survived and seem perfectly happyand contented. As I said, the virus is self-stabilizing. Ferris and Iare confident that there is no danger.... But we may be wrong.     Macklin held his head in both hands. Why did you two select      me     ?     You're an important man, doctor, Ferris said. Nobody would care ifMitchell or I cured ourselves of headaches—they might not even believeus if we said we did. But the proper authorities will believe a manof your reputation. Besides, neither of us has a record of chronicmigraine. You do.     Yes, I do, Macklin said. Very well. Go ahead. Give me yourinjection.     Mitchell cleared his throat. Are you positive, doctor? he askeduncertainly. Perhaps you would like a few days to think it over.     No! I'm ready. Go ahead, right now.     There's a simple release, Ferris said smoothly.     Macklin groped in his pocket for a pen.      II     Ferris! Mitchell yelled, slamming the laboratory door behind him.     Right here, the small man said briskly. He was sitting at a worktable, penciling notes. I've been expecting you.     Doctor—Harold—you shouldn't have given this story to thenewspapers, Mitchell said. He tapped the back of his hand against thefolded paper.     On the contrary, I should and I did, Ferris answered. We wantedsomething dramatic to show to the trustees and here it is.     Yes, we wanted to show our proof to the trustees—but not broadcastunverified results to the press. It's too early for that!     Don't be so stuffy and conservative, Mitchell! Macklin's cured, isn'the? By established periodic cycle he should be suffering hell rightnow, shouldn't he? But thanks to our treatment he is perfectly happy,with no unfortunate side effects such as gynergen produces.     It's a significant test case, yes. But not enough to go to thenewspapers with. If it wasn't enough to go to the press with, it wasn'tenough to try and breach the trustees with. Don't you see? The publicwill hand down a ukase demanding our virus, just as they demanded theSalk vaccine and the Grennell serum.     But—     The shrill call of the telephone interrupted Mitchell's objections.     Ferris excused himself and crossed to the instrument. He answered itand listened for a moment, his face growing impatient.     It's Macklin's wife, Ferris said. Do you want to talk to her? I'm nogood with hysterical women.     Hysterical? Mitchell muttered in alarm and went to the phone.     Hello? Mitchell said reluctantly. Mrs. Macklin?     You are the other one, the clear feminine voice said. Your name isMitchell.     She couldn't have sounded calmer or more self-possessed, Mitchellthought.     That's right, Mrs. Macklin. I'm Dr. Steven Mitchell, Dr. Ferris'sassociate.     Do you have a license to dispense narcotics?     What do you mean by that, Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said sharply.     I used to be a nurse, Dr. Mitchell. I know you've given my husbandheroin.     That's absurd. What makes you think a thing like that?     The—trance he's in now.     Now, Mrs. Macklin. Neither Dr. Ferris or myself have been near yourhusband for a full day. The effects of a narcotic would have worn offby this time.     Most known narcotics, she admitted, but evidently you havediscovered something new. Is it so expensive to refine you and Ferrishave to recruit new customers to keep yourselves supplied?     Mrs. Macklin! I think I had better talk to you later when you arecalmer.     Mitchell dropped the receiver heavily. What could be wrong withMacklin? he asked without removing his hand from the telephone.     Ferris frowned, making quotation marks above his nose. Let's have alook at the test animals.     Together they marched over to the cages and peered through thehoneycomb pattern of the wire. The test chimp, Dean, was sittingpeacefully in a corner scratching under his arms with the back of hisknuckles. Jerry, their control in the experiment, who was practicallyDean's twin except that he had received no injection of the E-M Virus,was stomping up and down punching his fingers through the wire,worrying the lock on the cage.     Jerry      is     a great deal more active than Dean, Mitchell said.     Yes, but Dean isn't sick. He just doesn't seem to have as much nervousenergy to burn up. Nothing wrong with his thyroid either.     They went to the smaller cages. They found the situation with the rats,Bud and Lou, much the same.     I don't know. Maybe they just have tired blood, Mitchell ventured.     Iron deficiency anemia?     Never mind, doctor. It was a form of humor. I think we had better seeexactly what is wrong with Elliot Macklin.     There's nothing wrong with him, Ferris snapped. He's probably justtrying to get us in trouble, the ingrate!  Macklin's traditional ranch house was small but attractive inaqua-tinted aluminum.     Under Mitchell's thumb the bell chimbed      dum-de-de-dum-dum-dum     .     As they waited Mitchell glanced at Ferris. He seemed completelyundisturbed, perhaps slightly curious.     The door unlatched and swung back.     Mrs. Macklin, Mitchell said quickly, I'm sure we can help if thereis anything wrong with your husband. This is Dr. Ferris. I am Dr.Mitchell.     You had certainly      better     help him, gentlemen. She stood out of thedoorway for them to pass.     Mrs. Macklin was an attractive brunette in her late thirties. She worean expensive yellow dress. And she had a sharp-cornered jawline.     The Army officer came out into the hall to meet them.     You are the gentlemen who gave Dr. Macklin the unauthorizedinjection, he said.     It wasn't a question.     I don't like that 'unauthorized', Ferris snapped.     The colonel—Mitchell spotted the eagles on his green tunic—lifteda heavy eyebrow. No? Are you medical doctors? Are you authorized totreat illnesses?     We weren't treating an illness, Mitchell said. We were discovering amethod of treatment. What concern is it of yours?     The colonel smiled thinly. Dr. Macklin is my concern. And everythingthat happens to him. The Army doesn't like what you have done to him.     Mitchell wondered desperately just what they had done to the man.     Can we see him? Mitchell asked.     Why not? You can't do much worse than murder him now. That might bejust as well. We have laws to cover that.     The colonel led them into the comfortable, over-feminine living room.Macklin sat in an easy chair draped in embroidery, smoking. Mitchellsuddenly realized Macklin used a pipe as a form of masculine protest tohis home surroundings.     On the coffee table in front of Macklin were some odd-shaped buildingblocks such as were used in nursery schools. A second uniformedman—another colonel but with the snake-entwined staff of the medicalcorps in his insignia—was kneeling at the table on the marble-effectcarpet.     The Army physician stood up and brushed his knees, undusted from thescrupulously clean rug.     What's wrong with him, Sidney? the other officer asked the doctor.     Not a thing, Sidney said. He's the healthiest, happiest, mostwell-adjusted man I've ever examined, Carson.     But— Colonel Carson protested.     Oh, he's changed all right, the Army doctor answered. He's not thesame man as he used to be.     How is he different? Mitchell demanded.     The medic examined Mitchell and Ferris critically before answering. Heused to be a mathematical genius.     And now? Mitchell said impatiently.     Now he is a moron, the medic said.      III     Mitchell tried to stop Colonel Sidney as he went past, but the doctormumbled he had a report to make.     Mitchell and Ferris stared at Colonel Carson and Macklin and at eachother.     What did he mean, Macklin is an idiot? Mitchell asked.     Not an idiot, Colonel Carson corrected primly. Dr. Macklin is amoron. He's legally responsible, but he's extremely stupid.     I'm not so dumb, Macklin said defensively.     I beg your pardon, sir, Carson said. I didn't intend any offense.But according to all the standard intelligence tests we have given you,your clinical intelligence quotient is that of a moron.     That's just on book learning, Macklin said. There's a lot you learnin life that you don't get out of books, son.     I'm confident that's true, sir, Colonel Carson said. He turned to thetwo biologists. Perhaps we had better speak outside.     But— Mitchell said, impatient to examine Macklin for himself. Verywell. Let's step into the hall.     Ferris followed them docilely.     What have you done to him? the colonel asked straightforwardly.     We merely cured him of his headaches, Mitchell said.     How?     Mitchell did his best to explain the F-M Virus.     You mean, the Army officer said levelly you have infected him withsome kind of a disease to rot his brain?     No, no! Could I talk to the other man, the doctor? Maybe I can makehim understand.     All I want to know is why Elliot Macklin has been made as simple as ifhe had been kicked in the head by a mule, Colonel Carson said.     I think I can explain, Ferris interrupted.     You can? Mitchell said.     Ferris nodded. We made a slight miscalculation. It appears as if thevirus colony overcontrols the supply of posterior pituitary extract inthe cerebrum. It isn't more than necessary to stop headaches. But thatnecessary amount of control to stop pain is too much to allow the braincells to function properly.     Why won't they function? Carson roared.     They don't get enough food—blood, oxygen, hemoglobin, Ferrisexplained. The cerebral vessels don't contract enough to pump theblood through the brain as fast and as hard as is needed. The braincells remain sluggish, dormant. Perhaps decaying.     The colonel yelled.     Mitchell groaned. He was abruptly sure Ferris was correct.  The colonel drew himself to attention, fists trembling at his sides.I'll see you hung for treason! Don't you know what Elliot Macklinmeans to us? Do you want those filthy Luxemburgians to reach Plutobefore we do? Macklin's formula is essential to the FTL engine. Youmight just as well have blown up Washington, D.C. Better! The capitalis replaceable. But the chances of an Elliot Macklin are very nearlyonce in a human race.     Just a moment, Mitchell interrupted, we can cure Macklin.     You      can     ? Carson said. For a moment Mitchell thought the man wasgoing to clasp his hands and sink to his knees.     Certainly. We have learned to stabilize the virus colonies. We haveantitoxin to combat the virus. We had always thought of it as abeneficial parasite, but we can wipe it out if necessary.     Good! Carson clasped his hands and gave at least slightly at theknees.     Just you wait a second now, boys, Elliot Macklin said. He was leaningin the doorway, holding his pipe. I've been listening to what you'vebeen saying and I don't like it.     What do you mean you don't like it? Carson demanded. He added, Sir?     I figure you mean to put me back like I used to be.     Yes, doctor, Mitchell said eagerly, just as you used to be.           With     my headaches, like before?     Mitchell coughed into his fist for an instant, to give him time toframe an answer. Unfortunately, yes. Apparently if your mind functionsproperly once again you will have the headaches again. Our research isa dismal failure.     I wouldn't go that far, Ferris remarked cheerfully.     Mitchell was about to ask his associate what he meant when he sawMacklin slowly shaking his head.     No, sir! the mathematician said. I shall not go back to my originalstate. I can remember what it was like. Always worrying, worrying,worrying.     You mean wondering, Mitchell said.     Macklin nodded. Troubled, anyway. Disturbed by every little thing.How high was up, which infinity was bigger than what infinity—say,what was an infinity anyway? All that sort of schoolboy things. It'speaceful this way. My head doesn't hurt. I've got a good-looking wifeand all the money I need. I've got it made. Why worry?     Colonel Carson opened his mouth, then closed it.     That's right, Colonel. There's no use in arguing with him, Mitchellsaid.     It's not his decision to make, the colonel said. He's an idiot now.     No, Colonel. As you said, he's a moron. He seems an idiot compared tohis former level of intelligence but he's legally responsible. Thereare millions of morons running around loose in the United States. Theycan get married, own property, vote, even hold office. Many of themdo. You can't force him into being cured.... At least, I don't      think     you can.     No, I can't. This is hardly a totalitarian state. The colonel lookedmomentarily glum that it wasn't.     Mitchell looked back at Macklin. Where did his wife get to, Colonel?I don't think that even previously he made too many personal decisionsfor himself. Perhaps she could influence him.     Maybe, the colonel said. Let's find her.  They found Mrs. Macklin in the dining room, her face at the picturewindow an attractive silhouette. She turned as the men approached.     Mrs. Macklin, the colonel began, these gentlemen believe they cancure your husband of his present condition.     Really? she said. Did you speak to Elliot about that?     Y-yes, Colonel Carson said, but he's not himself. He refused thetreatment. He wants to remain in his state of lower intelligence.     She nodded. If those are his wishes, I can't go against them.     But Mrs. Macklin! Mitchell protested. You will have to get a courtorder overruling your husband's wishes.     She smoothed an eyebrow with the third finger of her right hand. Thatwas my original thought. But I've redecided.     Redecided! Carson burst out almost hysterically.     Yes. I can't go against Elliot's wishes. It would be monstrous to puthim back where he would suffer the hell of those headaches once again,where he never had a moment's peace from worry and pressure. He's happynow. Like a child, but happy.     Mrs. Macklin, the Army man said levelly, if you don't help usrestore your husband's mind we will be forced to get a court orderdeclaring him incompetent.     But he is not! Legally, I mean, the woman stormed.     Maybe not. It's a borderline case. But I think any court would give usthe edge where restoring the mind of Elliot Macklin was concerned. Oncehe's certified incompetent, authorities can rule whether Mitchell andFerris' antitoxin treatment is the best method of restoring Dr. Macklinto sanity.     I doubt very much if the court would rule in that manner, she said.     The colonel looked smug. Why not?     Because, Colonel, the matter of my husband's health, his very life, isinvolved.     There is some degree of risk in shock treatments, too. But—     It isn't quite the same, Colonel. Elliot Macklin has a history ofvascular spasm, a mild pseudostroke some years ago. Now you want togive those cerebral arteries back the ability to constrict. Toparalyze. To kill. No court would give you that authority.     I suppose there's some chance of that. But without the treatmentthere is      no     chance of your husband regaining his right senses, Mrs.Macklin, Mitchell interjected.     Her mouth grew petulant. I don't care. I would rather have a livehusband than a dead genius. I can take care of him this way, make himcomfortable....     Carson opened his mouth and closed his fist, then relaxed. Mitchell ledhim back into the hall.     I'm no psychiatrist, Mitchell said, but I think she wants Macklinstupid. Prefers it that way. She's always dominated his personal life,and now she can dominate him completely.     What is she? A monster? the Army officer muttered.     No, Mitchell said. She's an intelligent woman unconsciously jealousof her husband's genius.     Maybe, Carson said. I don't know. I don't know what the hell to tellthe Pentagon. I think I'll go out and get drunk.     I'll go with you, Ferris said.     Mitchell glanced sharply at the little biologist.     Carson squinted. Any particular reason, doctor?     To celebrate, Ferris said.     The colonel shrugged. That's as good a reason as any.     On the street, Mitchell watched the two men go off together inbewilderment.      IV     Macklin was playing jacks.     He didn't have a head on his shoulders and he was squatting on a greatcurving surface that was Spacetime, and his jacks were Earth and Plutoand the rest of the planets. And for a ball he was using a head. Nothis head. Mitchell's. Both heads were initialed M so it was all thesame.       Mitchell forced himself to awaken, with some initial difficulty.     He lay there, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, listening to hisheart race, and then convulsively snatched the telephone receiver fromthe nightstand. He stabbed out a number with a vicious index finger.     After a time there came a dull click and a sleepy answer.     Hello? Elliot Macklin said.     Mitchell smiled to himself. He was in luck; Macklin had answered thephone instead of his wife.     Can you speak freely, doctor? Mitchell asked.     Of course, the mathematician said. I can talk fine.     I mean, are you alone?     Oh, you want to know if my wife is around. No, she's asleep. That Armydoctor, Colonel Sidney, he gave her a sedative. I wouldn't let him giveme anything, though.     Good boy, the biologist said. Listen, doctor—Elliot—El, old son.I'm not against you like all the others. I don't want to make you goback to all that worrying and thinking and headaches. You believe me,don't you?     There was a slight hesitation.     Sure, Macklin said, if you say so. Why shouldn't I believe you?     But there was a hesitation there, El. You worried for just a second ifI could have some reason for not telling you the truth.     I suppose so, Macklin said humbly.     You've found yourself worrying—thinking—about a lot of otherproblems since we left you, haven't you? Maybe not the same kind ofscientific problem. But more personal ones, ones you didn't used tohave time to think about.     If you say so.     Now, you know it's so. But how would you like to get rid of thoseworries just as you got rid of the others? Mitchell asked.     I guess I'd like that, the mathematician replied.     Then come on over to my laboratory. You remember where it's at, don'tyou?     No, I—yes, I guess I do. But how do I know you won't try to put meback where I was instead of helping me more?     I couldn't do that against your wishes. That would be illegal!     If you say so. But I don't guess I can come anyway. The Army iswatching me pretty close.     That's alright, Mitchell said quickly. You can bring along ColonelCarson.     But he won't like you fixing me up more.     But he can't stop me! Not if you want me to do it. Now listen to me—Iwant you to come right on over here, El.     If you say so, Macklin said uncertainly.  ","When Macklin overhears the possibility of receiving a cure to return him back to his previous state before the injection, he protests that he does not want to receive a cure. He does not want to reverse the injection because he remembers how awful the migraines were and refuses to return back to his original state where he has to experience them. He recollects how he was always worrying back then. He is perfectly content with living in a peaceful existence as he has all the money he could want and an attractive wife. The Colonel is shocked at Macklin’s revelation and is upset when he realizes he cannot force Macklin to be cured. The Colonel, Ferris, and Mitchell go to Macklin’s wife to try to convince her to get him to be cured. The Colonel is desperate as he wants to use Macklin’s intelligence since it is such a great advantage for the country. Macklin’s wife supports her husband’s decision because she recognizes the pain and suffering Macklin has experienced. She is glad that he can be peaceful and happy, even if he is childish. Ferris seems unphased and is overall happy to celebrate that the injection did work to cure headaches. Mitchell still wants to attempt to convince Macklin to take the cure. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     CINDERELLA STORY     By ALLEN KIM LANG       What a bank! The First Vice-President       was a cool cat—the elevator and the       money operators all wore earmuffs—was       just as phony as a three-dollar bill!       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The First Vice-President of the William Howard Taft National Bank andTrust Company, the gentleman to whom Miss Orison McCall was applyingfor a job, was not at all the public picture of a banker. His suit ofhound's-tooth checks, the scarlet vest peeping above the vee of hisjacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curiousbank indeed. I gotta say, chick, these references of yours reallyswing, said the Vice-President, Mr. Wanji. Your last boss says youcome on real cool in the secretary-bit.     He was a very kind employer, Orison said. She tried to keep fromstaring at the most remarkable item of Mr. Wanji's costume, a pair offurry green earmuffs. It was not cold.     Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. What colorbread you got eyes for taking down, baby? he asked.     Beg pardon?     What kinda salary you bucking for? he translated, bouncing up anddown on the toes of his rough-leather desert boots.     I was making one-twenty a week in my last position, Miss McCall said.     You're worth more'n that, just to jazz up the decor, Mr. Wanji said.What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. Okay? He caughtOrison's look of bewilderment. One each, a Franklin and a Grant, heexplained further. She still looked blank. Sister, you gonna workin a bank, you gotta know who's picture's on the paper. That's ahunnerd-fifty a week, doll.     That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji, Orison said. It was indeed.     Crazy! Mr. Wanji grabbed Orison's right hand and shook it withathletic vigor. You just now joined up with our herd. I wanna tellyou, chick, it's none too soon we got some decent scenery aroundthis tomb, girlwise. He took her arm and led her toward the bank ofelevators. The uniformed operator nodded to Mr. Wanji, bowed slightlyto Orison. He, too, she observed, wore earmuffs. His were more formalthan Mr. Wanji's, being midnight blue in color. Lift us to five, Mac,Mr. Wanji said. As the elevator door shut he explained to Orison,You can make the Taft Bank scene anywhere between the street floorand floor five. Basement and everything higher'n fifth floor is IronCurtain Country far's you're concerned. Dig, baby?     Yes, sir, Orison said. She was wondering if she'd be issued earmuffs,now that she'd become an employee of this most peculiar bank.     The elevator opened on five to a tiny office, just large enough tohold a single desk and two chairs. On the desk were a telephone anda microphone. Beside them was a double-decked In and Out basket.Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey, Mr. Wanji said.     What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji? Orison asked.     The Vice-President pointed to the newspaper folded in the In basket.Flip on the microphone and read the paper to it, he said. When youget done reading the paper, someone will run you up something new toread. Okay?     It seems a rather peculiar job, Orison said. After all, I'm asecretary. Is reading the newspaper aloud supposed to familiarize mewith the Bank's operation?     Don't bug me, kid, Mr. Wanji said. All you gotta do is read thatthere paper into this here microphone. Can do?     Yes, sir, Orison said. While you're here, Mr. Wanji, I'd like toask you about my withholding tax, social security, credit union,coffee-breaks, union membership, lunch hour and the like. Shall we takecare of these details now? Or would you—     You just take care of that chicken-flickin' kinda stuff any way seemsbest to you, kid, Mr. Wanji said.     Yes, sir, Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank'smight explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department'ssecretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall,girl Government spy. She picked up the newspaper from the In basket,unfolded it to discover the day's      Wall Street Journal     , and began atthe top of column one to read it aloud. Wanji stood before the desk,nodding his head as he listened. You blowing real good, kid, he said.The boss is gonna dig you the most.     Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read theone into the other. Mr. Wanji flicked his fingers in a good-by, thentook off upstairs in the elevator.  By lunchtime Orison had finished the      Wall Street Journal     and hadbegun reading a book an earmuffed page had brought her. The book was afantastic novel of some sort, named      The Hobbit     . Reading this peculiarfare into the microphone before her, Miss McCall was more certain thanever that the Taft Bank was, as her boss in Washington had told her,the front for some highly irregular goings-on. An odd business for aFederal Mata Hari, Orison thought, reading a nonsense story into amicrophone for an invisible audience.     Orison switched off her microphone at noon, marked her place in thebook and took the elevator down to the ground floor. The operator wasa new man, ears concealed behind scarlet earmuffs. In the car, comingdown from the interdicted upper floors, were several gentlemen withbriefcases. As though they were members of a ballet-troupe, thesegentlemen whipped off their hats with a single motion as Orison steppedaboard the elevator. Each of the chivalrous men, hat pressed to hisheart, wore a pair of earmuffs. Orison nodded bemused acknowledgmentof their gesture, and got off in the lobby vowing never to put a pennyinto this curiousest of banks.     Lunch at the stand-up counter down the street was a normal interlude.Girls from the ground-floor offices of Taft Bank chattered together,eyed Orison with the coolness due so attractive a competitor, andfavored her with no gambit to enter their conversations. Orison sighed,finished her tuna salad on whole-wheat, then went back upstairs to herlonely desk and her microphone. By five, Orison had finished the book,reading rapidly and becoming despite herself engrossed in the saga ofBilbo Baggins, Hobbit. She switched off the microphone, put on herlight coat, and rode downstairs in an elevator filled with earmuffed,silent, hat-clasping gentlemen.     What I need, Orison thought, walking rapidly to the busline, is adouble Scotch, followed by a double Scotch. And what the William HowardTaft National Bank and Trust Company needs is a joint raid by forces ofthe U.S. Treasury Department and the American Psychiatric Association.Earmuffs, indeed. Fairy-tales read into a microphone. A Vice-Presidentwith the vocabulary of a racetrack tout. And what goes on in thoseupper floors? Orison stopped in at the restaurant nearest her apartmenthouse—the Windsor Arms—and ordered a meal and a single Martini. Herboss in Washington had told her that this job of hers, spying on TaftBank from within, might prove dangerous. Indeed it was, she thought.She was in danger of becoming a solitary drinker.     Home in her apartment, Orison set the notes of her first day'sobservations in order. Presumably Washington would call tonight forher initial report. Item: some of the men at the Bank wore earmuffs,several didn't. Item: the Vice-President's name was Mr. Wanji:Oriental? Item: the top eight floors of the Taft Bank Building seemedto be off-limits to all personnel not wearing earmuffs. Item: she wasbeing employed at a very respectable salary to read newsprint andnonsense into a microphone. Let Washington make sense of that, shethought.  In a gloomy mood, Orison McCall showered and dressed for bed. Eleveno'clock. Washington should be calling soon, inquiring after the resultsof her first day's spying.     No call. Orison slipped between the sheets at eleven-thirty. The clockwas set; the lights were out. Wasn't Washington going to call her?Perhaps, she thought, the Department had discovered that the Earmuffshad her phone tapped.     Testing, a baritone voice muttered.     Orison sat up, clutching the sheet around her throat. Beg pardon? shesaid.     Testing, the male voice repeated. One, two, three; three, two, one.Do you read me? Over.     Orison reached under the bed for a shoe. Gripping it like a Scout-ax,she reached for the light cord with her free hand and tugged at it.     The room was empty.     Testing, the voice repeated.     What you're testing, Orison said in a firm voice, is my patience.Who are you?     Department of Treasury Monitor J-12, the male voice said. Do youhave anything to report, Miss McCall?     Where are you, Monitor? she demanded.     That's classified information, the voice said. Please speak directlyto your pillow, Miss McCall.     Orison lay down cautiously. All right, she whispered to her pillow.     Over here, the voice instructed her, coming from the unruffled pillowbeside her.     Orison transferred her head to the pillow to her left. A radio? sheasked.     Of a sort, Monitor J-12 agreed. We have to maintain communicationssecurity. Have you anything to report?     I got the job, Orison said. Are you ... in that pillow ... all thetime?     No, Miss McCall, the voice said. Only at report times. Shall weestablish our rendezvous here at eleven-fifteen, Central Standard Time,every day?     You make it sound so improper, Orison said.     I'm far enough away to do you no harm, Miss McCall, the monitor said.Now, tell me what happened at the bank today.     Orison briefed her pillow on the Earmuffs, on her task of reading to amicrophone, and on the generally mimsy tone of the William Howard TaftNational Bank and Trust Company. That's about it, so far, she said.     Good report, J-12 said from the pillow. Sounds like you've droppedinto a real snakepit, beautiful.     How do you know ... why do you think I'm beautiful? Orison asked.     Native optimism, the voice said. Good night. J-12 signed off witha peculiar electronic pop that puzzled Orison for a moment. Then sheplaced the sound: J-12 had kissed his microphone.     Orison flung the shoe and the pillow under her bed, and resolvedto write Washington for permission to make her future reports byregistered mail.      II     At ten o'clock the next morning, reading page four of the current      Wall Street Journal     , Orison was interrupted by the click of a pairof leather heels. The gentleman whose heels had just slammed togetherwas bowing. And she saw with some gratification that he was notwearing earmuffs. My name, the stranger said, is Dink Gerding. I amPresident of this bank, and wish at this time to welcome you to ourlittle family.     I'm Orison McCall, she said. A handsome man, she mused. Twenty-eight?So tall. Could he ever be interested in a girl just five-foot-three?Maybe higher heels?     We're pleased with your work, Miss McCall, Dink Gerding said. He tookthe chair to the right of her desk.     It's nothing, Orison said, switching off the microphone.     On the contrary, Miss McCall. Your duties are most important, he said.     Reading papers and fairy-tales into this microphone is nothing anyreasonably astute sixth-grader couldn't do as well, Orison said.     You'll be reading silently before long, Mr. Gerding said. He smiled,as though this explained everything. By the way, your officialdesignation is Confidential Secretary. It's me whose confidences you'reto keep secret. If I ever need a letter written, may I stop down hereand dictate it?     Please do, Orison said. This bank president, for all his grace andpresence, was obviously as kookie as his bank.     Have you ever worked in a bank before, Miss McCall? Mr. Gerdingasked, as though following her train of thought.     No, sir, she said. Though I've been associated with a rather largefinancial organization.     You may find some of our methods a little strange, but you'll get usedto them, he said. Meanwhile, I'd be most grateful if you'd dispensewith calling me 'sir.' My name is Dink. It is ridiculous, but I'd enjoyyour using it.     Dink? she asked. And I suppose you're to call me Orison?     That's the drill, he said. One more question, Orison. Dinner thisevening?     Direct, she thought. Perhaps that's why he's president of a bank, andstill so young. We've hardly met, she said.     But we're on a first-name basis already, he pointed out. Dance?     I'd love to, Orison said, half expecting an orchestra to march,playing, from the elevator.     Then I'll pick you up at seven. Windsor Arms, if I remember yourpersonnel form correctly. He stood, lean, all bone and muscle,and bowed slightly. West Point? Hardly. His manners were European.Sandhurst, perhaps, or Saint Cyr. Was she supposed to reply with acurtsy? Orison wondered.     Thank you, she said.     He was a soldier, or had been: the way, when he turned, his shouldersstayed square. The crisp clicking of his steps, a military metronome,to the elevator. When the door slicked open Orison, staring after Dink,saw that each of the half-dozen men aboard snapped off their hats (butnot their earmuffs) and bowed, the earmuffed operator bowing with them.Small bows, true; just head-and-neck. But not to her. To Dink Gerding.  Orison finished the      Wall Street Journal     by early afternoon. Apage came up a moment later with fresh reading-matter: a copy ofyesterday's      Congressional Record     . She launched into the      Record     ,thinking as she read of meeting again this evening that handsomemadman, that splendid lunatic, that unlikely bank-president. You readso      well     , darling, someone said across the desk.     Orison looked up. Oh, hello, she said. I didn't hear you come up.     I walk ever so lightly, the woman said, standing hip-shot in frontof the desk, and pounce ever so hard. She smiled. Opulent, Orisonthought. Built like a burlesque queen. No, she thought, I don't likeher. Can't. Wouldn't if I could. Never cared for cats.     I'm Orison McCall, she said, and tried to smile back without showingteeth.     Delighted, the visitor said, handing over an undelighted palm. I'mAuga Vingt. Auga, to my friends.     Won't you sit down, Miss Vingt?     So kind of you, darling, Auga Vingt said, but I shan't have time tovisit. I just wanted to stop and welcome you as a Taft Bank co-worker.One for all, all for one. Yea, Team. You know.     Thanks, Orison said.     Common courtesy, Miss Vingt explained. Also, darling, I'd like todraw your attention to one little point. Dink Gerding—you know, theshoulders and muscles and crewcut? Well, he's posted property. Shouldyou throw your starveling charms at my Dink, you'd only get your littleeyes scratched out. Word to the wise,      n'est-ce pas     ?     Sorry you have to leave so suddenly, Orison said, rolling her      WallStreet Journal     into a club and standing. Darling.     So remember, Tiny, Dink Gerding is mine. You're all alone up here.You could get broken nails, fall down the elevator shaft, all sorts ofannoyance. Understand me, darling?     You make it very clear, Orison said. Now you'd best hurry back toyour stanchion, Bossy, before the hay's all gone.     Isn't it lovely, the way you and I reached an understanding rightoff? Auga asked. Well, ta-ta. She turned and walked to the elevator,displaying, Orison thought, a disgraceful amount of ungirdled rhumbamotion.     The elevator stopped to pick up the odious Auga. A passenger, male,stepped off. Good morning, Mr. Gerding, Miss Vingt said, bowing.     Carry on, Colonel, the stranger replied. As the elevator door closed,he stepped up to Orison's desk. Good morning. Miss McCall, he said.     What is this? Orison demanded. Visiting-day at the zoo? She pausedand shook her head. Excuse me, sir, she said. It's just that ...Vingt thing....     Auga is rather intense, the new Mr. Gerding said.     Yeah, intense, Orison said. Like a kidney-stone.     I stopped by to welcome you to the William Howard Taft National Bankand Trust Company family, Miss McCall, he said. I'm Kraft Gerding,Dink's elder brother. I understand you've met Dink already.     Yes, sir, Orison said. The hair of this new Mr. Gerding was croppedeven closer than Dink's. His mustache was gray-tipped, like a patchof frosted furze; and his eyes, like Dink's, were cobalt blue. Thehead, Orison mused, would look quite at home in one of Kaiser Bill'sspike-topped      Pickelhauben     ; but the ears were in evidence, and seemednormal. Mr. Kraft Gerding bowed—what continental manners these bankershad!—and Orison half expected him to free her hand from the rolled-uppaper she still clutched and plant a kiss on it.  Instead, Kraft Gerding smiled a smile as frosty as his mustache andsaid, I understand that my younger brother has been talking with you,Miss McCall. Quite proper, I know. But I must warn you against mixingbusiness with pleasure.     Orison jumped up, tossing the paper into her wastebasket. I quit! sheshouted. You can take this crazy bank ... into bankruptcy, for all Icare. I'm not going to perch up here, target for every uncaged idiot infinance, and listen to another word.     Dearest lady, my humblest pardon, Kraft Gerding said, bowing again,a bit lower. Your work is splendid; your presence is Taft Bank's mostcharming asset; my only wish is to serve and protect you. To this end,dear lady, I feel it my duty to warn you against my brother. A word tothe wise....           N'est-ce pas?      Orison said. Well, Buster, here's a word to thefoolish. Get lost.     Kraft Gerding bowed and flashed his gelid smile. Until we meet again?     I'll hold my breath, Orison promised. The elevator is just behindyou. Push a button, will you? And      bon voyage     .     Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison witha cold, quick bow, then disappeared into the mysterious heights abovefifth floor.     First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding.Surely, Orison thought, recovering the      Wall Street Journal     from herwastebasket and smoothing it, no one would convert a major Midwesternbank into a lunatic asylum. How else, though, could the behaviorof the Earmuffs be explained? Could madmen run a bank? Why not, shethought. History is rich in examples of madmen running nations, banksand all. She began again to read the paper into the microphone. If shefinished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limitsupper floors.     Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by thesudden buzz of her telephone. She picked it up.       Wanji e-Kal, Datto.Dink ger-Dink d'summa.          Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg beforereplying, I'm a local girl. Try me in English.     Oh. Hi, Miss McCall, the voice said. Guess I goofed. I'm in kindaclutch. This is Wanji. I got a kite for Mr. Dink Gerding. If you seehim, tell him the escudo green is pale. Got that, doll?     Yes, Mr. Wanji. I'll tell Mr. Gerding. Orison clicked the phone down.What now, Mata Hari? she asked herself. What was the curious languageMr. Wanji had used? She'd have to report the message to Washington bytonight's pillow, and let the polyglots of Treasury Intelligence puzzleit out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk,she had a vague excuse to prowl the upper floors. The Earmuffs couldonly fire her.     Orison folded the paper and put it in the Out basket. Someone wouldbe here in a moment with something new to read. She'd best get going.The elevator? No. The operators had surely been instructed to keep heroff the upstairs floors.     But the building had a stairway.      III     The door on the sixth floor was locked. Orison went on up the stairs toseven. The glass of the door there was painted black on the inside, andthe landing was cellar-dark. Orison closed her eyes for a moment. Therewas a curious sound. The buzzing of a million bees, barely within thefringes of her hearing. Somehow, a very pleasant sound.     She opened her eyes and tried the knob. The door opened.     Orison was blinded by the lights, brilliant as noonday sun. The roomextended through the entire seventh floor, its windows boarded shut,its ceiling a mass of fluorescent lamps. Set about the floor weregalvanized steel tanks, rectangular and a little bigger than bathtubs.Orison counted the rows of tanks. Twelve rows, nine tiers. One hundredand eight tanks. She walked closer. The tubs were laced together bystrands of angel-hair, delicate white lattices scintillating withpink. She walked to the nearest of the tubs and looked in. It was halffull of a greenish fluid, seething with tiny pink bubbles. For a momentOrison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from theliquid. Then she screamed.       The pink bubbles, the tiny flesh-colored flecks glinting light fromthe spun-sugar bridges between the tanks, were spiders. Millionsupon millions of spiders, each the size of a mustard-seed; crawling,leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orisonput her hands over her ears and screamed again, backing toward thestairway door.     Into a pair of arms.     I had hoped you'd be happy here, Miss McCall, Kraft Gerding said.Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to haveher wrists seized by two Earmuffs that had appeared with the elderGerding. It seems that our Pandora doesn't care for spiders, hesaid. Really, Miss McCall, our little pets are quite harmless. Werewe to toss you into one of these tanks.... Orison struggled againsther two      sumo     -sized captors, whose combined weights exceeded hers bysome quarter-ton, without doing more than lifting her feet from thefloor. ... your flesh would be unharmed, though they spun and dartedall around you. Our Microfabridae are petrovorous, Miss McCall. Ofcourse, once they discovered your teeth, and through them a skeleton ofcalcium, a delicacy they find most toothsome, you'd be filleted withinminutes.     Elder Compassion wouldn't like your harming the girl, Sire, one ofthe earmuffed      sumo     -wrestlers protested.     Elder Compassion has no rank, Kraft Gerding said. Miss McCall, youmust tell me what you were doing here, or I'll toss you to the spiders.     Dink ... Dink! Orison shouted.     My beloved younger brother is otherwise engaged than in the rescue ofdamsels in distress, Kraft said. Someone, after all, has to mind thebank.     I came to bring a message to Dink, Orison said. Let me go, youacromegalic apes!     The message? Kraft Gerding demanded.     Something about escudo green. Put me down!  Suddenly she was dropped. Her mountainous keepers were on the floor asthough struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, theirfaces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly loweringhimself to one knee. Dink had entered the spider-room. Withoutquestions, he strode between the shiko-ing Earmuffs and put his armsaround Orison.     They can't harm you, he said. She turned to press her face againsthis chest. You're all right, child. Breathe deep, swallow, and turnyour brain back on. All right, now?     All right, she said, still trembling. They were going to throw me tothe spiders.     Kraft told you that? Dink Gerding released her and turned to thekneeling man. Stand up, Elder Brother.     I....     Dink brought his right fist up from hip-level, crashing it into Kraft'sjaw. Kraft Gerding joined the Earmuffs on the floor.     If you'd care to stand again, Elder Brother, you may attempt torecover your dignity without regard for the difference in our rank.Kraft struggled to one knee and remained kneeling, gazing up at Dinkthrough half-closed eyes. No? Then get out of here, all of you.      Samma!          Kraft Gerding arose, stared for a moment at Dink and Orison, then, withthe merest hint of a bow, led his two giant Earmuffs to the elevator.     I wish you hadn't come up here, Orison, Dink said. Why did you doit?     Have you read the story of Bluebeard? Orison asked. She stood closeto Dink, keeping her eyes on the nearest spidertank. I had to seewhat it was you kept up here so secretly, what it was that I wasforbidden to see. My excuse was to have been that I was looking foryou, to deliver a message from Mr. Wanji. He said I was to tell youthat the escudo green is pale.     You're too curious, and Wanji is too careless, Dink said. Now, whatis this thing you have about spiders?     I've always been terrified of them, Orison said. When I was a littlegirl, I had to stay upstairs all day one Sunday because there was aspider hanging from his thread in the stairway. I waited until Dad camehome and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetitefor supper.     Strange, Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and pluckedone of the tiny pink creatures from a web-bridge. This is no spider,Orison, he said.     She backed away from Dink Gerding and the minuscule creature he cuppedin the palm of his hand. These are Microfabridae, more nearly relatedto shellfish than to spiders, he said. They're stone-and-metaleaters. They literally couldn't harm a fly. Look at it, Orison. Heextended his palm. Orison forced herself to look. The little creature,flesh-colored against his flesh, was nearly invisible, scuttling aroundthe bowl of his hand. Pretty little fellow, isn't he? Dink asked.Here. You hold him.     I'd rather not, she protested.     I'd be happier if you did, Dink said.  Orison extended her hand as into a furnace. Dink brushed theMicrofabridus from his palm to hers. It felt crisp and hard, likea legged grain of sand. Dink took a magnifier from his pocket andunfolded it, to hold it over Orison's palm.     He's like a baby crawdad, Orison said.     A sort of crustacean, Dink agreed. We use them in a commercialprocess we're developing. That's why we keep this floor closed off andsecret. We don't have a patent on the use of Microfabridae, you see.     What do they do? Orison asked.     That's still a secret, Dink said, smiling. I can't tell even youthat, not yet, even though you're my most confidential secretary.     What's he doing now? Orison asked, watching the Microfabridus,perched up on the rear four of his six microscopic legs, scratchingagainst her high-school class-ring with his tiny chelae.     They like gold, Dink explained, peering across her shoulder,comfortably close. They're attracted to it by a chemical tropism, aschildren are attracted to candy. Toss him back into his tank, Orison.We'd better get you down where you belong.     Orison brushed the midget crustacean off her finger into the nearesttank, where he joined the busy boil of his fellows. She felt her ring.It was pitted where the Microfabridus had been nibbling. Strange,using crawdads in a bank, she said. She stood silent for a moment. Ithought I heard music, she said. I heard it when I came in. Somethinglike the sighing of wind in winter trees.     That's the hymn of the Microfabridae, Dink said. They all singtogether while they work, a chorus of some twenty million voices. Hetook her arm. If you listen very carefully, you'll find the song theselittle workers sing the most beautiful music in the world.     Orison closed her eyes, leaning back into Dink's arms, listening tothe music that seemed on the outermost edge of her hearing. Wildness,storm and danger were its theme, counterpointed by promises of peaceand harbor. She heard the wash of giant waves in the song, the crashof breakers against granite, cold and insatiable. And behind this, thequiet of sheltered tide-pools, the soft lub of sea-arms landlocked.It's an ancient song, Dink said. The Microfabridae have beensinging it for a million years. He released her, and opened awood-covered wooden box. He scooped up a cupful of the sand inside.Hold out your hands, he told Orison. He filled them with the sand.Throw our singers some supper for their song, he said.     Orison went with her cupped hands to the nearest tank and sprinkled themineral fishfood around inside it. The Microfabridae leaped from theliquid like miniature porpoises, seizing the grains of sand in mid-air.They're so very strange, Orison said. At the bottom of the tank shethought she saw Ben Franklin again, winking at her through the bubblinglife. Nonsense, she thought, brushing her hands.  ","Orison McCall is applying for a job at the William Howard Taft National Bank and Trust Company. She is a government spy who has been selected from the Treasury Department to work at the bank. The man who she meets for the job is Mr. Wanji, the First Vice President. He dresses strangely compared to the regular banker. Mr. Wanji also speaks to Orison in strange slang and leaves her with the job of reading newspapers into a microphone. She takes her lunch break at noon, eats a tuna salad on whole-wheat, and returns to reading at her desk until five. Orison gets the job and notes that the bank is very bizarre. All of the workers wear earmuffs, and her only task is to read into a microphone. After her dinner, she goes home and waits to receive a call from Washington. At eleven-thirty, she receives a call from Monitor J-12 from the Department of Treasury. He asks Orison for a report but flirts with her slightly by calling her beautiful and kissing the microphone. The next morning, the bank President Dink Gerding personally welcomes her. She notes that he is as crazy as the rest of the bank, and he asks her out for dinner even though they have just met. Once Orison begins reading a copy of yesterday’s Congressional Record, Auga Vingt silently comes and introduces herself. She threatens Orison to stay away from Dink, to which Orison agrees and tells her to leave. Then, Kraft Gerding introduces himself to her, and she threatens to quit because of how crazy this bank is. Orison then receives a call from Wanji, and he tells her to tell Dink that escudo green is pale. Although she is banned from taking the elevator to the upper floor, she takes the stairs to the seventh floor instead and is greeted by the sight of millions of spiders in pink liquid. Kraft threatens to toss her into the tank, but then Dink comes and rescues her. He crashes his fist into Kraft’s jaw, and the perpetrators leave him and Orison alone. He explains to her that the creatures are Microfabridae and are more closely related to shellfish than spiders. She holds one, and Dink says that the company is raising them in secret because it does not have a patent. He lets her listen to the hymn of the Microfabridae and feed the tiny creatures. Orison swears that she can see Benjamin Franklin winking at her, but she believes it is nonsense. "
"Describe the setting of the story </s>     CINDERELLA STORY     By ALLEN KIM LANG       What a bank! The First Vice-President       was a cool cat—the elevator and the       money operators all wore earmuffs—was       just as phony as a three-dollar bill!       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The First Vice-President of the William Howard Taft National Bank andTrust Company, the gentleman to whom Miss Orison McCall was applyingfor a job, was not at all the public picture of a banker. His suit ofhound's-tooth checks, the scarlet vest peeping above the vee of hisjacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curiousbank indeed. I gotta say, chick, these references of yours reallyswing, said the Vice-President, Mr. Wanji. Your last boss says youcome on real cool in the secretary-bit.     He was a very kind employer, Orison said. She tried to keep fromstaring at the most remarkable item of Mr. Wanji's costume, a pair offurry green earmuffs. It was not cold.     Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. What colorbread you got eyes for taking down, baby? he asked.     Beg pardon?     What kinda salary you bucking for? he translated, bouncing up anddown on the toes of his rough-leather desert boots.     I was making one-twenty a week in my last position, Miss McCall said.     You're worth more'n that, just to jazz up the decor, Mr. Wanji said.What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. Okay? He caughtOrison's look of bewilderment. One each, a Franklin and a Grant, heexplained further. She still looked blank. Sister, you gonna workin a bank, you gotta know who's picture's on the paper. That's ahunnerd-fifty a week, doll.     That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji, Orison said. It was indeed.     Crazy! Mr. Wanji grabbed Orison's right hand and shook it withathletic vigor. You just now joined up with our herd. I wanna tellyou, chick, it's none too soon we got some decent scenery aroundthis tomb, girlwise. He took her arm and led her toward the bank ofelevators. The uniformed operator nodded to Mr. Wanji, bowed slightlyto Orison. He, too, she observed, wore earmuffs. His were more formalthan Mr. Wanji's, being midnight blue in color. Lift us to five, Mac,Mr. Wanji said. As the elevator door shut he explained to Orison,You can make the Taft Bank scene anywhere between the street floorand floor five. Basement and everything higher'n fifth floor is IronCurtain Country far's you're concerned. Dig, baby?     Yes, sir, Orison said. She was wondering if she'd be issued earmuffs,now that she'd become an employee of this most peculiar bank.     The elevator opened on five to a tiny office, just large enough tohold a single desk and two chairs. On the desk were a telephone anda microphone. Beside them was a double-decked In and Out basket.Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey, Mr. Wanji said.     What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji? Orison asked.     The Vice-President pointed to the newspaper folded in the In basket.Flip on the microphone and read the paper to it, he said. When youget done reading the paper, someone will run you up something new toread. Okay?     It seems a rather peculiar job, Orison said. After all, I'm asecretary. Is reading the newspaper aloud supposed to familiarize mewith the Bank's operation?     Don't bug me, kid, Mr. Wanji said. All you gotta do is read thatthere paper into this here microphone. Can do?     Yes, sir, Orison said. While you're here, Mr. Wanji, I'd like toask you about my withholding tax, social security, credit union,coffee-breaks, union membership, lunch hour and the like. Shall we takecare of these details now? Or would you—     You just take care of that chicken-flickin' kinda stuff any way seemsbest to you, kid, Mr. Wanji said.     Yes, sir, Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank'smight explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department'ssecretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall,girl Government spy. She picked up the newspaper from the In basket,unfolded it to discover the day's      Wall Street Journal     , and began atthe top of column one to read it aloud. Wanji stood before the desk,nodding his head as he listened. You blowing real good, kid, he said.The boss is gonna dig you the most.     Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read theone into the other. Mr. Wanji flicked his fingers in a good-by, thentook off upstairs in the elevator.  By lunchtime Orison had finished the      Wall Street Journal     and hadbegun reading a book an earmuffed page had brought her. The book was afantastic novel of some sort, named      The Hobbit     . Reading this peculiarfare into the microphone before her, Miss McCall was more certain thanever that the Taft Bank was, as her boss in Washington had told her,the front for some highly irregular goings-on. An odd business for aFederal Mata Hari, Orison thought, reading a nonsense story into amicrophone for an invisible audience.     Orison switched off her microphone at noon, marked her place in thebook and took the elevator down to the ground floor. The operator wasa new man, ears concealed behind scarlet earmuffs. In the car, comingdown from the interdicted upper floors, were several gentlemen withbriefcases. As though they were members of a ballet-troupe, thesegentlemen whipped off their hats with a single motion as Orison steppedaboard the elevator. Each of the chivalrous men, hat pressed to hisheart, wore a pair of earmuffs. Orison nodded bemused acknowledgmentof their gesture, and got off in the lobby vowing never to put a pennyinto this curiousest of banks.     Lunch at the stand-up counter down the street was a normal interlude.Girls from the ground-floor offices of Taft Bank chattered together,eyed Orison with the coolness due so attractive a competitor, andfavored her with no gambit to enter their conversations. Orison sighed,finished her tuna salad on whole-wheat, then went back upstairs to herlonely desk and her microphone. By five, Orison had finished the book,reading rapidly and becoming despite herself engrossed in the saga ofBilbo Baggins, Hobbit. She switched off the microphone, put on herlight coat, and rode downstairs in an elevator filled with earmuffed,silent, hat-clasping gentlemen.     What I need, Orison thought, walking rapidly to the busline, is adouble Scotch, followed by a double Scotch. And what the William HowardTaft National Bank and Trust Company needs is a joint raid by forces ofthe U.S. Treasury Department and the American Psychiatric Association.Earmuffs, indeed. Fairy-tales read into a microphone. A Vice-Presidentwith the vocabulary of a racetrack tout. And what goes on in thoseupper floors? Orison stopped in at the restaurant nearest her apartmenthouse—the Windsor Arms—and ordered a meal and a single Martini. Herboss in Washington had told her that this job of hers, spying on TaftBank from within, might prove dangerous. Indeed it was, she thought.She was in danger of becoming a solitary drinker.     Home in her apartment, Orison set the notes of her first day'sobservations in order. Presumably Washington would call tonight forher initial report. Item: some of the men at the Bank wore earmuffs,several didn't. Item: the Vice-President's name was Mr. Wanji:Oriental? Item: the top eight floors of the Taft Bank Building seemedto be off-limits to all personnel not wearing earmuffs. Item: she wasbeing employed at a very respectable salary to read newsprint andnonsense into a microphone. Let Washington make sense of that, shethought.  In a gloomy mood, Orison McCall showered and dressed for bed. Eleveno'clock. Washington should be calling soon, inquiring after the resultsof her first day's spying.     No call. Orison slipped between the sheets at eleven-thirty. The clockwas set; the lights were out. Wasn't Washington going to call her?Perhaps, she thought, the Department had discovered that the Earmuffshad her phone tapped.     Testing, a baritone voice muttered.     Orison sat up, clutching the sheet around her throat. Beg pardon? shesaid.     Testing, the male voice repeated. One, two, three; three, two, one.Do you read me? Over.     Orison reached under the bed for a shoe. Gripping it like a Scout-ax,she reached for the light cord with her free hand and tugged at it.     The room was empty.     Testing, the voice repeated.     What you're testing, Orison said in a firm voice, is my patience.Who are you?     Department of Treasury Monitor J-12, the male voice said. Do youhave anything to report, Miss McCall?     Where are you, Monitor? she demanded.     That's classified information, the voice said. Please speak directlyto your pillow, Miss McCall.     Orison lay down cautiously. All right, she whispered to her pillow.     Over here, the voice instructed her, coming from the unruffled pillowbeside her.     Orison transferred her head to the pillow to her left. A radio? sheasked.     Of a sort, Monitor J-12 agreed. We have to maintain communicationssecurity. Have you anything to report?     I got the job, Orison said. Are you ... in that pillow ... all thetime?     No, Miss McCall, the voice said. Only at report times. Shall weestablish our rendezvous here at eleven-fifteen, Central Standard Time,every day?     You make it sound so improper, Orison said.     I'm far enough away to do you no harm, Miss McCall, the monitor said.Now, tell me what happened at the bank today.     Orison briefed her pillow on the Earmuffs, on her task of reading to amicrophone, and on the generally mimsy tone of the William Howard TaftNational Bank and Trust Company. That's about it, so far, she said.     Good report, J-12 said from the pillow. Sounds like you've droppedinto a real snakepit, beautiful.     How do you know ... why do you think I'm beautiful? Orison asked.     Native optimism, the voice said. Good night. J-12 signed off witha peculiar electronic pop that puzzled Orison for a moment. Then sheplaced the sound: J-12 had kissed his microphone.     Orison flung the shoe and the pillow under her bed, and resolvedto write Washington for permission to make her future reports byregistered mail.      II     At ten o'clock the next morning, reading page four of the current      Wall Street Journal     , Orison was interrupted by the click of a pairof leather heels. The gentleman whose heels had just slammed togetherwas bowing. And she saw with some gratification that he was notwearing earmuffs. My name, the stranger said, is Dink Gerding. I amPresident of this bank, and wish at this time to welcome you to ourlittle family.     I'm Orison McCall, she said. A handsome man, she mused. Twenty-eight?So tall. Could he ever be interested in a girl just five-foot-three?Maybe higher heels?     We're pleased with your work, Miss McCall, Dink Gerding said. He tookthe chair to the right of her desk.     It's nothing, Orison said, switching off the microphone.     On the contrary, Miss McCall. Your duties are most important, he said.     Reading papers and fairy-tales into this microphone is nothing anyreasonably astute sixth-grader couldn't do as well, Orison said.     You'll be reading silently before long, Mr. Gerding said. He smiled,as though this explained everything. By the way, your officialdesignation is Confidential Secretary. It's me whose confidences you'reto keep secret. If I ever need a letter written, may I stop down hereand dictate it?     Please do, Orison said. This bank president, for all his grace andpresence, was obviously as kookie as his bank.     Have you ever worked in a bank before, Miss McCall? Mr. Gerdingasked, as though following her train of thought.     No, sir, she said. Though I've been associated with a rather largefinancial organization.     You may find some of our methods a little strange, but you'll get usedto them, he said. Meanwhile, I'd be most grateful if you'd dispensewith calling me 'sir.' My name is Dink. It is ridiculous, but I'd enjoyyour using it.     Dink? she asked. And I suppose you're to call me Orison?     That's the drill, he said. One more question, Orison. Dinner thisevening?     Direct, she thought. Perhaps that's why he's president of a bank, andstill so young. We've hardly met, she said.     But we're on a first-name basis already, he pointed out. Dance?     I'd love to, Orison said, half expecting an orchestra to march,playing, from the elevator.     Then I'll pick you up at seven. Windsor Arms, if I remember yourpersonnel form correctly. He stood, lean, all bone and muscle,and bowed slightly. West Point? Hardly. His manners were European.Sandhurst, perhaps, or Saint Cyr. Was she supposed to reply with acurtsy? Orison wondered.     Thank you, she said.     He was a soldier, or had been: the way, when he turned, his shouldersstayed square. The crisp clicking of his steps, a military metronome,to the elevator. When the door slicked open Orison, staring after Dink,saw that each of the half-dozen men aboard snapped off their hats (butnot their earmuffs) and bowed, the earmuffed operator bowing with them.Small bows, true; just head-and-neck. But not to her. To Dink Gerding.  Orison finished the      Wall Street Journal     by early afternoon. Apage came up a moment later with fresh reading-matter: a copy ofyesterday's      Congressional Record     . She launched into the      Record     ,thinking as she read of meeting again this evening that handsomemadman, that splendid lunatic, that unlikely bank-president. You readso      well     , darling, someone said across the desk.     Orison looked up. Oh, hello, she said. I didn't hear you come up.     I walk ever so lightly, the woman said, standing hip-shot in frontof the desk, and pounce ever so hard. She smiled. Opulent, Orisonthought. Built like a burlesque queen. No, she thought, I don't likeher. Can't. Wouldn't if I could. Never cared for cats.     I'm Orison McCall, she said, and tried to smile back without showingteeth.     Delighted, the visitor said, handing over an undelighted palm. I'mAuga Vingt. Auga, to my friends.     Won't you sit down, Miss Vingt?     So kind of you, darling, Auga Vingt said, but I shan't have time tovisit. I just wanted to stop and welcome you as a Taft Bank co-worker.One for all, all for one. Yea, Team. You know.     Thanks, Orison said.     Common courtesy, Miss Vingt explained. Also, darling, I'd like todraw your attention to one little point. Dink Gerding—you know, theshoulders and muscles and crewcut? Well, he's posted property. Shouldyou throw your starveling charms at my Dink, you'd only get your littleeyes scratched out. Word to the wise,      n'est-ce pas     ?     Sorry you have to leave so suddenly, Orison said, rolling her      WallStreet Journal     into a club and standing. Darling.     So remember, Tiny, Dink Gerding is mine. You're all alone up here.You could get broken nails, fall down the elevator shaft, all sorts ofannoyance. Understand me, darling?     You make it very clear, Orison said. Now you'd best hurry back toyour stanchion, Bossy, before the hay's all gone.     Isn't it lovely, the way you and I reached an understanding rightoff? Auga asked. Well, ta-ta. She turned and walked to the elevator,displaying, Orison thought, a disgraceful amount of ungirdled rhumbamotion.     The elevator stopped to pick up the odious Auga. A passenger, male,stepped off. Good morning, Mr. Gerding, Miss Vingt said, bowing.     Carry on, Colonel, the stranger replied. As the elevator door closed,he stepped up to Orison's desk. Good morning. Miss McCall, he said.     What is this? Orison demanded. Visiting-day at the zoo? She pausedand shook her head. Excuse me, sir, she said. It's just that ...Vingt thing....     Auga is rather intense, the new Mr. Gerding said.     Yeah, intense, Orison said. Like a kidney-stone.     I stopped by to welcome you to the William Howard Taft National Bankand Trust Company family, Miss McCall, he said. I'm Kraft Gerding,Dink's elder brother. I understand you've met Dink already.     Yes, sir, Orison said. The hair of this new Mr. Gerding was croppedeven closer than Dink's. His mustache was gray-tipped, like a patchof frosted furze; and his eyes, like Dink's, were cobalt blue. Thehead, Orison mused, would look quite at home in one of Kaiser Bill'sspike-topped      Pickelhauben     ; but the ears were in evidence, and seemednormal. Mr. Kraft Gerding bowed—what continental manners these bankershad!—and Orison half expected him to free her hand from the rolled-uppaper she still clutched and plant a kiss on it.  Instead, Kraft Gerding smiled a smile as frosty as his mustache andsaid, I understand that my younger brother has been talking with you,Miss McCall. Quite proper, I know. But I must warn you against mixingbusiness with pleasure.     Orison jumped up, tossing the paper into her wastebasket. I quit! sheshouted. You can take this crazy bank ... into bankruptcy, for all Icare. I'm not going to perch up here, target for every uncaged idiot infinance, and listen to another word.     Dearest lady, my humblest pardon, Kraft Gerding said, bowing again,a bit lower. Your work is splendid; your presence is Taft Bank's mostcharming asset; my only wish is to serve and protect you. To this end,dear lady, I feel it my duty to warn you against my brother. A word tothe wise....           N'est-ce pas?      Orison said. Well, Buster, here's a word to thefoolish. Get lost.     Kraft Gerding bowed and flashed his gelid smile. Until we meet again?     I'll hold my breath, Orison promised. The elevator is just behindyou. Push a button, will you? And      bon voyage     .     Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison witha cold, quick bow, then disappeared into the mysterious heights abovefifth floor.     First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding.Surely, Orison thought, recovering the      Wall Street Journal     from herwastebasket and smoothing it, no one would convert a major Midwesternbank into a lunatic asylum. How else, though, could the behaviorof the Earmuffs be explained? Could madmen run a bank? Why not, shethought. History is rich in examples of madmen running nations, banksand all. She began again to read the paper into the microphone. If shefinished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limitsupper floors.     Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by thesudden buzz of her telephone. She picked it up.       Wanji e-Kal, Datto.Dink ger-Dink d'summa.          Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg beforereplying, I'm a local girl. Try me in English.     Oh. Hi, Miss McCall, the voice said. Guess I goofed. I'm in kindaclutch. This is Wanji. I got a kite for Mr. Dink Gerding. If you seehim, tell him the escudo green is pale. Got that, doll?     Yes, Mr. Wanji. I'll tell Mr. Gerding. Orison clicked the phone down.What now, Mata Hari? she asked herself. What was the curious languageMr. Wanji had used? She'd have to report the message to Washington bytonight's pillow, and let the polyglots of Treasury Intelligence puzzleit out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk,she had a vague excuse to prowl the upper floors. The Earmuffs couldonly fire her.     Orison folded the paper and put it in the Out basket. Someone wouldbe here in a moment with something new to read. She'd best get going.The elevator? No. The operators had surely been instructed to keep heroff the upstairs floors.     But the building had a stairway.      III     The door on the sixth floor was locked. Orison went on up the stairs toseven. The glass of the door there was painted black on the inside, andthe landing was cellar-dark. Orison closed her eyes for a moment. Therewas a curious sound. The buzzing of a million bees, barely within thefringes of her hearing. Somehow, a very pleasant sound.     She opened her eyes and tried the knob. The door opened.     Orison was blinded by the lights, brilliant as noonday sun. The roomextended through the entire seventh floor, its windows boarded shut,its ceiling a mass of fluorescent lamps. Set about the floor weregalvanized steel tanks, rectangular and a little bigger than bathtubs.Orison counted the rows of tanks. Twelve rows, nine tiers. One hundredand eight tanks. She walked closer. The tubs were laced together bystrands of angel-hair, delicate white lattices scintillating withpink. She walked to the nearest of the tubs and looked in. It was halffull of a greenish fluid, seething with tiny pink bubbles. For a momentOrison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from theliquid. Then she screamed.       The pink bubbles, the tiny flesh-colored flecks glinting light fromthe spun-sugar bridges between the tanks, were spiders. Millionsupon millions of spiders, each the size of a mustard-seed; crawling,leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orisonput her hands over her ears and screamed again, backing toward thestairway door.     Into a pair of arms.     I had hoped you'd be happy here, Miss McCall, Kraft Gerding said.Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to haveher wrists seized by two Earmuffs that had appeared with the elderGerding. It seems that our Pandora doesn't care for spiders, hesaid. Really, Miss McCall, our little pets are quite harmless. Werewe to toss you into one of these tanks.... Orison struggled againsther two      sumo     -sized captors, whose combined weights exceeded hers bysome quarter-ton, without doing more than lifting her feet from thefloor. ... your flesh would be unharmed, though they spun and dartedall around you. Our Microfabridae are petrovorous, Miss McCall. Ofcourse, once they discovered your teeth, and through them a skeleton ofcalcium, a delicacy they find most toothsome, you'd be filleted withinminutes.     Elder Compassion wouldn't like your harming the girl, Sire, one ofthe earmuffed      sumo     -wrestlers protested.     Elder Compassion has no rank, Kraft Gerding said. Miss McCall, youmust tell me what you were doing here, or I'll toss you to the spiders.     Dink ... Dink! Orison shouted.     My beloved younger brother is otherwise engaged than in the rescue ofdamsels in distress, Kraft said. Someone, after all, has to mind thebank.     I came to bring a message to Dink, Orison said. Let me go, youacromegalic apes!     The message? Kraft Gerding demanded.     Something about escudo green. Put me down!  Suddenly she was dropped. Her mountainous keepers were on the floor asthough struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, theirfaces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly loweringhimself to one knee. Dink had entered the spider-room. Withoutquestions, he strode between the shiko-ing Earmuffs and put his armsaround Orison.     They can't harm you, he said. She turned to press her face againsthis chest. You're all right, child. Breathe deep, swallow, and turnyour brain back on. All right, now?     All right, she said, still trembling. They were going to throw me tothe spiders.     Kraft told you that? Dink Gerding released her and turned to thekneeling man. Stand up, Elder Brother.     I....     Dink brought his right fist up from hip-level, crashing it into Kraft'sjaw. Kraft Gerding joined the Earmuffs on the floor.     If you'd care to stand again, Elder Brother, you may attempt torecover your dignity without regard for the difference in our rank.Kraft struggled to one knee and remained kneeling, gazing up at Dinkthrough half-closed eyes. No? Then get out of here, all of you.      Samma!          Kraft Gerding arose, stared for a moment at Dink and Orison, then, withthe merest hint of a bow, led his two giant Earmuffs to the elevator.     I wish you hadn't come up here, Orison, Dink said. Why did you doit?     Have you read the story of Bluebeard? Orison asked. She stood closeto Dink, keeping her eyes on the nearest spidertank. I had to seewhat it was you kept up here so secretly, what it was that I wasforbidden to see. My excuse was to have been that I was looking foryou, to deliver a message from Mr. Wanji. He said I was to tell youthat the escudo green is pale.     You're too curious, and Wanji is too careless, Dink said. Now, whatis this thing you have about spiders?     I've always been terrified of them, Orison said. When I was a littlegirl, I had to stay upstairs all day one Sunday because there was aspider hanging from his thread in the stairway. I waited until Dad camehome and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetitefor supper.     Strange, Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and pluckedone of the tiny pink creatures from a web-bridge. This is no spider,Orison, he said.     She backed away from Dink Gerding and the minuscule creature he cuppedin the palm of his hand. These are Microfabridae, more nearly relatedto shellfish than to spiders, he said. They're stone-and-metaleaters. They literally couldn't harm a fly. Look at it, Orison. Heextended his palm. Orison forced herself to look. The little creature,flesh-colored against his flesh, was nearly invisible, scuttling aroundthe bowl of his hand. Pretty little fellow, isn't he? Dink asked.Here. You hold him.     I'd rather not, she protested.     I'd be happier if you did, Dink said.  Orison extended her hand as into a furnace. Dink brushed theMicrofabridus from his palm to hers. It felt crisp and hard, likea legged grain of sand. Dink took a magnifier from his pocket andunfolded it, to hold it over Orison's palm.     He's like a baby crawdad, Orison said.     A sort of crustacean, Dink agreed. We use them in a commercialprocess we're developing. That's why we keep this floor closed off andsecret. We don't have a patent on the use of Microfabridae, you see.     What do they do? Orison asked.     That's still a secret, Dink said, smiling. I can't tell even youthat, not yet, even though you're my most confidential secretary.     What's he doing now? Orison asked, watching the Microfabridus,perched up on the rear four of his six microscopic legs, scratchingagainst her high-school class-ring with his tiny chelae.     They like gold, Dink explained, peering across her shoulder,comfortably close. They're attracted to it by a chemical tropism, aschildren are attracted to candy. Toss him back into his tank, Orison.We'd better get you down where you belong.     Orison brushed the midget crustacean off her finger into the nearesttank, where he joined the busy boil of his fellows. She felt her ring.It was pitted where the Microfabridus had been nibbling. Strange,using crawdads in a bank, she said. She stood silent for a moment. Ithought I heard music, she said. I heard it when I came in. Somethinglike the sighing of wind in winter trees.     That's the hymn of the Microfabridae, Dink said. They all singtogether while they work, a chorus of some twenty million voices. Hetook her arm. If you listen very carefully, you'll find the song theselittle workers sing the most beautiful music in the world.     Orison closed her eyes, leaning back into Dink's arms, listening tothe music that seemed on the outermost edge of her hearing. Wildness,storm and danger were its theme, counterpointed by promises of peaceand harbor. She heard the wash of giant waves in the song, the crashof breakers against granite, cold and insatiable. And behind this, thequiet of sheltered tide-pools, the soft lub of sea-arms landlocked.It's an ancient song, Dink said. The Microfabridae have beensinging it for a million years. He released her, and opened awood-covered wooden box. He scooped up a cupful of the sand inside.Hold out your hands, he told Orison. He filled them with the sand.Throw our singers some supper for their song, he said.     Orison went with her cupped hands to the nearest tank and sprinkled themineral fishfood around inside it. The Microfabridae leaped from theliquid like miniature porpoises, seizing the grains of sand in mid-air.They're so very strange, Orison said. At the bottom of the tank shethought she saw Ben Franklin again, winking at her through the bubblinglife. Nonsense, she thought, brushing her hands.  ","The location is primarily set at the William Howard Taft National Bank and Trust Company. Orison’s office is on the fifth floor, and it is a tiny space just large enough to hold a single desk and two chairs. There is also a telephone, a microphone, and a double-decked basket. The basket is an “In” and “Out” basket for the papers she will read. There is also an elevator, and there are always operators in earmuffs present. Although she is not allowed onto the upper floors by elevator, the building has a staircase that leads up to the upper levels. The sixth floor is locked, but the seventh floor has a glass door that is painted black and a cellar-dark landing. Inside, there is a mass of fluorescent lamps on the ceiling and boarded shut windows. One hundred and eighty steel tanks line the floor. The tanks are half-full with greenish fluid and laced together by angel-hair, delicate white lattices sparkling with pink. From the outside of the building, there is a stand-up counter down the street to eat. There is also a restaurant near Orison’s apartment called the Windsor Arms, where she grabs a meal and a single Martini. Her apartment is described as having a place to shower in and a bed. There is also a pillow, and it is where Monitor J-12 communicates with her. "
"What are the Microfabridae, and what characteristics do their music have? </s>     CINDERELLA STORY     By ALLEN KIM LANG       What a bank! The First Vice-President       was a cool cat—the elevator and the       money operators all wore earmuffs—was       just as phony as a three-dollar bill!       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The First Vice-President of the William Howard Taft National Bank andTrust Company, the gentleman to whom Miss Orison McCall was applyingfor a job, was not at all the public picture of a banker. His suit ofhound's-tooth checks, the scarlet vest peeping above the vee of hisjacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curiousbank indeed. I gotta say, chick, these references of yours reallyswing, said the Vice-President, Mr. Wanji. Your last boss says youcome on real cool in the secretary-bit.     He was a very kind employer, Orison said. She tried to keep fromstaring at the most remarkable item of Mr. Wanji's costume, a pair offurry green earmuffs. It was not cold.     Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. What colorbread you got eyes for taking down, baby? he asked.     Beg pardon?     What kinda salary you bucking for? he translated, bouncing up anddown on the toes of his rough-leather desert boots.     I was making one-twenty a week in my last position, Miss McCall said.     You're worth more'n that, just to jazz up the decor, Mr. Wanji said.What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. Okay? He caughtOrison's look of bewilderment. One each, a Franklin and a Grant, heexplained further. She still looked blank. Sister, you gonna workin a bank, you gotta know who's picture's on the paper. That's ahunnerd-fifty a week, doll.     That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji, Orison said. It was indeed.     Crazy! Mr. Wanji grabbed Orison's right hand and shook it withathletic vigor. You just now joined up with our herd. I wanna tellyou, chick, it's none too soon we got some decent scenery aroundthis tomb, girlwise. He took her arm and led her toward the bank ofelevators. The uniformed operator nodded to Mr. Wanji, bowed slightlyto Orison. He, too, she observed, wore earmuffs. His were more formalthan Mr. Wanji's, being midnight blue in color. Lift us to five, Mac,Mr. Wanji said. As the elevator door shut he explained to Orison,You can make the Taft Bank scene anywhere between the street floorand floor five. Basement and everything higher'n fifth floor is IronCurtain Country far's you're concerned. Dig, baby?     Yes, sir, Orison said. She was wondering if she'd be issued earmuffs,now that she'd become an employee of this most peculiar bank.     The elevator opened on five to a tiny office, just large enough tohold a single desk and two chairs. On the desk were a telephone anda microphone. Beside them was a double-decked In and Out basket.Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey, Mr. Wanji said.     What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji? Orison asked.     The Vice-President pointed to the newspaper folded in the In basket.Flip on the microphone and read the paper to it, he said. When youget done reading the paper, someone will run you up something new toread. Okay?     It seems a rather peculiar job, Orison said. After all, I'm asecretary. Is reading the newspaper aloud supposed to familiarize mewith the Bank's operation?     Don't bug me, kid, Mr. Wanji said. All you gotta do is read thatthere paper into this here microphone. Can do?     Yes, sir, Orison said. While you're here, Mr. Wanji, I'd like toask you about my withholding tax, social security, credit union,coffee-breaks, union membership, lunch hour and the like. Shall we takecare of these details now? Or would you—     You just take care of that chicken-flickin' kinda stuff any way seemsbest to you, kid, Mr. Wanji said.     Yes, sir, Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank'smight explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department'ssecretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall,girl Government spy. She picked up the newspaper from the In basket,unfolded it to discover the day's      Wall Street Journal     , and began atthe top of column one to read it aloud. Wanji stood before the desk,nodding his head as he listened. You blowing real good, kid, he said.The boss is gonna dig you the most.     Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read theone into the other. Mr. Wanji flicked his fingers in a good-by, thentook off upstairs in the elevator.  By lunchtime Orison had finished the      Wall Street Journal     and hadbegun reading a book an earmuffed page had brought her. The book was afantastic novel of some sort, named      The Hobbit     . Reading this peculiarfare into the microphone before her, Miss McCall was more certain thanever that the Taft Bank was, as her boss in Washington had told her,the front for some highly irregular goings-on. An odd business for aFederal Mata Hari, Orison thought, reading a nonsense story into amicrophone for an invisible audience.     Orison switched off her microphone at noon, marked her place in thebook and took the elevator down to the ground floor. The operator wasa new man, ears concealed behind scarlet earmuffs. In the car, comingdown from the interdicted upper floors, were several gentlemen withbriefcases. As though they were members of a ballet-troupe, thesegentlemen whipped off their hats with a single motion as Orison steppedaboard the elevator. Each of the chivalrous men, hat pressed to hisheart, wore a pair of earmuffs. Orison nodded bemused acknowledgmentof their gesture, and got off in the lobby vowing never to put a pennyinto this curiousest of banks.     Lunch at the stand-up counter down the street was a normal interlude.Girls from the ground-floor offices of Taft Bank chattered together,eyed Orison with the coolness due so attractive a competitor, andfavored her with no gambit to enter their conversations. Orison sighed,finished her tuna salad on whole-wheat, then went back upstairs to herlonely desk and her microphone. By five, Orison had finished the book,reading rapidly and becoming despite herself engrossed in the saga ofBilbo Baggins, Hobbit. She switched off the microphone, put on herlight coat, and rode downstairs in an elevator filled with earmuffed,silent, hat-clasping gentlemen.     What I need, Orison thought, walking rapidly to the busline, is adouble Scotch, followed by a double Scotch. And what the William HowardTaft National Bank and Trust Company needs is a joint raid by forces ofthe U.S. Treasury Department and the American Psychiatric Association.Earmuffs, indeed. Fairy-tales read into a microphone. A Vice-Presidentwith the vocabulary of a racetrack tout. And what goes on in thoseupper floors? Orison stopped in at the restaurant nearest her apartmenthouse—the Windsor Arms—and ordered a meal and a single Martini. Herboss in Washington had told her that this job of hers, spying on TaftBank from within, might prove dangerous. Indeed it was, she thought.She was in danger of becoming a solitary drinker.     Home in her apartment, Orison set the notes of her first day'sobservations in order. Presumably Washington would call tonight forher initial report. Item: some of the men at the Bank wore earmuffs,several didn't. Item: the Vice-President's name was Mr. Wanji:Oriental? Item: the top eight floors of the Taft Bank Building seemedto be off-limits to all personnel not wearing earmuffs. Item: she wasbeing employed at a very respectable salary to read newsprint andnonsense into a microphone. Let Washington make sense of that, shethought.  In a gloomy mood, Orison McCall showered and dressed for bed. Eleveno'clock. Washington should be calling soon, inquiring after the resultsof her first day's spying.     No call. Orison slipped between the sheets at eleven-thirty. The clockwas set; the lights were out. Wasn't Washington going to call her?Perhaps, she thought, the Department had discovered that the Earmuffshad her phone tapped.     Testing, a baritone voice muttered.     Orison sat up, clutching the sheet around her throat. Beg pardon? shesaid.     Testing, the male voice repeated. One, two, three; three, two, one.Do you read me? Over.     Orison reached under the bed for a shoe. Gripping it like a Scout-ax,she reached for the light cord with her free hand and tugged at it.     The room was empty.     Testing, the voice repeated.     What you're testing, Orison said in a firm voice, is my patience.Who are you?     Department of Treasury Monitor J-12, the male voice said. Do youhave anything to report, Miss McCall?     Where are you, Monitor? she demanded.     That's classified information, the voice said. Please speak directlyto your pillow, Miss McCall.     Orison lay down cautiously. All right, she whispered to her pillow.     Over here, the voice instructed her, coming from the unruffled pillowbeside her.     Orison transferred her head to the pillow to her left. A radio? sheasked.     Of a sort, Monitor J-12 agreed. We have to maintain communicationssecurity. Have you anything to report?     I got the job, Orison said. Are you ... in that pillow ... all thetime?     No, Miss McCall, the voice said. Only at report times. Shall weestablish our rendezvous here at eleven-fifteen, Central Standard Time,every day?     You make it sound so improper, Orison said.     I'm far enough away to do you no harm, Miss McCall, the monitor said.Now, tell me what happened at the bank today.     Orison briefed her pillow on the Earmuffs, on her task of reading to amicrophone, and on the generally mimsy tone of the William Howard TaftNational Bank and Trust Company. That's about it, so far, she said.     Good report, J-12 said from the pillow. Sounds like you've droppedinto a real snakepit, beautiful.     How do you know ... why do you think I'm beautiful? Orison asked.     Native optimism, the voice said. Good night. J-12 signed off witha peculiar electronic pop that puzzled Orison for a moment. Then sheplaced the sound: J-12 had kissed his microphone.     Orison flung the shoe and the pillow under her bed, and resolvedto write Washington for permission to make her future reports byregistered mail.      II     At ten o'clock the next morning, reading page four of the current      Wall Street Journal     , Orison was interrupted by the click of a pairof leather heels. The gentleman whose heels had just slammed togetherwas bowing. And she saw with some gratification that he was notwearing earmuffs. My name, the stranger said, is Dink Gerding. I amPresident of this bank, and wish at this time to welcome you to ourlittle family.     I'm Orison McCall, she said. A handsome man, she mused. Twenty-eight?So tall. Could he ever be interested in a girl just five-foot-three?Maybe higher heels?     We're pleased with your work, Miss McCall, Dink Gerding said. He tookthe chair to the right of her desk.     It's nothing, Orison said, switching off the microphone.     On the contrary, Miss McCall. Your duties are most important, he said.     Reading papers and fairy-tales into this microphone is nothing anyreasonably astute sixth-grader couldn't do as well, Orison said.     You'll be reading silently before long, Mr. Gerding said. He smiled,as though this explained everything. By the way, your officialdesignation is Confidential Secretary. It's me whose confidences you'reto keep secret. If I ever need a letter written, may I stop down hereand dictate it?     Please do, Orison said. This bank president, for all his grace andpresence, was obviously as kookie as his bank.     Have you ever worked in a bank before, Miss McCall? Mr. Gerdingasked, as though following her train of thought.     No, sir, she said. Though I've been associated with a rather largefinancial organization.     You may find some of our methods a little strange, but you'll get usedto them, he said. Meanwhile, I'd be most grateful if you'd dispensewith calling me 'sir.' My name is Dink. It is ridiculous, but I'd enjoyyour using it.     Dink? she asked. And I suppose you're to call me Orison?     That's the drill, he said. One more question, Orison. Dinner thisevening?     Direct, she thought. Perhaps that's why he's president of a bank, andstill so young. We've hardly met, she said.     But we're on a first-name basis already, he pointed out. Dance?     I'd love to, Orison said, half expecting an orchestra to march,playing, from the elevator.     Then I'll pick you up at seven. Windsor Arms, if I remember yourpersonnel form correctly. He stood, lean, all bone and muscle,and bowed slightly. West Point? Hardly. His manners were European.Sandhurst, perhaps, or Saint Cyr. Was she supposed to reply with acurtsy? Orison wondered.     Thank you, she said.     He was a soldier, or had been: the way, when he turned, his shouldersstayed square. The crisp clicking of his steps, a military metronome,to the elevator. When the door slicked open Orison, staring after Dink,saw that each of the half-dozen men aboard snapped off their hats (butnot their earmuffs) and bowed, the earmuffed operator bowing with them.Small bows, true; just head-and-neck. But not to her. To Dink Gerding.  Orison finished the      Wall Street Journal     by early afternoon. Apage came up a moment later with fresh reading-matter: a copy ofyesterday's      Congressional Record     . She launched into the      Record     ,thinking as she read of meeting again this evening that handsomemadman, that splendid lunatic, that unlikely bank-president. You readso      well     , darling, someone said across the desk.     Orison looked up. Oh, hello, she said. I didn't hear you come up.     I walk ever so lightly, the woman said, standing hip-shot in frontof the desk, and pounce ever so hard. She smiled. Opulent, Orisonthought. Built like a burlesque queen. No, she thought, I don't likeher. Can't. Wouldn't if I could. Never cared for cats.     I'm Orison McCall, she said, and tried to smile back without showingteeth.     Delighted, the visitor said, handing over an undelighted palm. I'mAuga Vingt. Auga, to my friends.     Won't you sit down, Miss Vingt?     So kind of you, darling, Auga Vingt said, but I shan't have time tovisit. I just wanted to stop and welcome you as a Taft Bank co-worker.One for all, all for one. Yea, Team. You know.     Thanks, Orison said.     Common courtesy, Miss Vingt explained. Also, darling, I'd like todraw your attention to one little point. Dink Gerding—you know, theshoulders and muscles and crewcut? Well, he's posted property. Shouldyou throw your starveling charms at my Dink, you'd only get your littleeyes scratched out. Word to the wise,      n'est-ce pas     ?     Sorry you have to leave so suddenly, Orison said, rolling her      WallStreet Journal     into a club and standing. Darling.     So remember, Tiny, Dink Gerding is mine. You're all alone up here.You could get broken nails, fall down the elevator shaft, all sorts ofannoyance. Understand me, darling?     You make it very clear, Orison said. Now you'd best hurry back toyour stanchion, Bossy, before the hay's all gone.     Isn't it lovely, the way you and I reached an understanding rightoff? Auga asked. Well, ta-ta. She turned and walked to the elevator,displaying, Orison thought, a disgraceful amount of ungirdled rhumbamotion.     The elevator stopped to pick up the odious Auga. A passenger, male,stepped off. Good morning, Mr. Gerding, Miss Vingt said, bowing.     Carry on, Colonel, the stranger replied. As the elevator door closed,he stepped up to Orison's desk. Good morning. Miss McCall, he said.     What is this? Orison demanded. Visiting-day at the zoo? She pausedand shook her head. Excuse me, sir, she said. It's just that ...Vingt thing....     Auga is rather intense, the new Mr. Gerding said.     Yeah, intense, Orison said. Like a kidney-stone.     I stopped by to welcome you to the William Howard Taft National Bankand Trust Company family, Miss McCall, he said. I'm Kraft Gerding,Dink's elder brother. I understand you've met Dink already.     Yes, sir, Orison said. The hair of this new Mr. Gerding was croppedeven closer than Dink's. His mustache was gray-tipped, like a patchof frosted furze; and his eyes, like Dink's, were cobalt blue. Thehead, Orison mused, would look quite at home in one of Kaiser Bill'sspike-topped      Pickelhauben     ; but the ears were in evidence, and seemednormal. Mr. Kraft Gerding bowed—what continental manners these bankershad!—and Orison half expected him to free her hand from the rolled-uppaper she still clutched and plant a kiss on it.  Instead, Kraft Gerding smiled a smile as frosty as his mustache andsaid, I understand that my younger brother has been talking with you,Miss McCall. Quite proper, I know. But I must warn you against mixingbusiness with pleasure.     Orison jumped up, tossing the paper into her wastebasket. I quit! sheshouted. You can take this crazy bank ... into bankruptcy, for all Icare. I'm not going to perch up here, target for every uncaged idiot infinance, and listen to another word.     Dearest lady, my humblest pardon, Kraft Gerding said, bowing again,a bit lower. Your work is splendid; your presence is Taft Bank's mostcharming asset; my only wish is to serve and protect you. To this end,dear lady, I feel it my duty to warn you against my brother. A word tothe wise....           N'est-ce pas?      Orison said. Well, Buster, here's a word to thefoolish. Get lost.     Kraft Gerding bowed and flashed his gelid smile. Until we meet again?     I'll hold my breath, Orison promised. The elevator is just behindyou. Push a button, will you? And      bon voyage     .     Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison witha cold, quick bow, then disappeared into the mysterious heights abovefifth floor.     First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding.Surely, Orison thought, recovering the      Wall Street Journal     from herwastebasket and smoothing it, no one would convert a major Midwesternbank into a lunatic asylum. How else, though, could the behaviorof the Earmuffs be explained? Could madmen run a bank? Why not, shethought. History is rich in examples of madmen running nations, banksand all. She began again to read the paper into the microphone. If shefinished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limitsupper floors.     Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by thesudden buzz of her telephone. She picked it up.       Wanji e-Kal, Datto.Dink ger-Dink d'summa.          Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg beforereplying, I'm a local girl. Try me in English.     Oh. Hi, Miss McCall, the voice said. Guess I goofed. I'm in kindaclutch. This is Wanji. I got a kite for Mr. Dink Gerding. If you seehim, tell him the escudo green is pale. Got that, doll?     Yes, Mr. Wanji. I'll tell Mr. Gerding. Orison clicked the phone down.What now, Mata Hari? she asked herself. What was the curious languageMr. Wanji had used? She'd have to report the message to Washington bytonight's pillow, and let the polyglots of Treasury Intelligence puzzleit out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk,she had a vague excuse to prowl the upper floors. The Earmuffs couldonly fire her.     Orison folded the paper and put it in the Out basket. Someone wouldbe here in a moment with something new to read. She'd best get going.The elevator? No. The operators had surely been instructed to keep heroff the upstairs floors.     But the building had a stairway.      III     The door on the sixth floor was locked. Orison went on up the stairs toseven. The glass of the door there was painted black on the inside, andthe landing was cellar-dark. Orison closed her eyes for a moment. Therewas a curious sound. The buzzing of a million bees, barely within thefringes of her hearing. Somehow, a very pleasant sound.     She opened her eyes and tried the knob. The door opened.     Orison was blinded by the lights, brilliant as noonday sun. The roomextended through the entire seventh floor, its windows boarded shut,its ceiling a mass of fluorescent lamps. Set about the floor weregalvanized steel tanks, rectangular and a little bigger than bathtubs.Orison counted the rows of tanks. Twelve rows, nine tiers. One hundredand eight tanks. She walked closer. The tubs were laced together bystrands of angel-hair, delicate white lattices scintillating withpink. She walked to the nearest of the tubs and looked in. It was halffull of a greenish fluid, seething with tiny pink bubbles. For a momentOrison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from theliquid. Then she screamed.       The pink bubbles, the tiny flesh-colored flecks glinting light fromthe spun-sugar bridges between the tanks, were spiders. Millionsupon millions of spiders, each the size of a mustard-seed; crawling,leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orisonput her hands over her ears and screamed again, backing toward thestairway door.     Into a pair of arms.     I had hoped you'd be happy here, Miss McCall, Kraft Gerding said.Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to haveher wrists seized by two Earmuffs that had appeared with the elderGerding. It seems that our Pandora doesn't care for spiders, hesaid. Really, Miss McCall, our little pets are quite harmless. Werewe to toss you into one of these tanks.... Orison struggled againsther two      sumo     -sized captors, whose combined weights exceeded hers bysome quarter-ton, without doing more than lifting her feet from thefloor. ... your flesh would be unharmed, though they spun and dartedall around you. Our Microfabridae are petrovorous, Miss McCall. Ofcourse, once they discovered your teeth, and through them a skeleton ofcalcium, a delicacy they find most toothsome, you'd be filleted withinminutes.     Elder Compassion wouldn't like your harming the girl, Sire, one ofthe earmuffed      sumo     -wrestlers protested.     Elder Compassion has no rank, Kraft Gerding said. Miss McCall, youmust tell me what you were doing here, or I'll toss you to the spiders.     Dink ... Dink! Orison shouted.     My beloved younger brother is otherwise engaged than in the rescue ofdamsels in distress, Kraft said. Someone, after all, has to mind thebank.     I came to bring a message to Dink, Orison said. Let me go, youacromegalic apes!     The message? Kraft Gerding demanded.     Something about escudo green. Put me down!  Suddenly she was dropped. Her mountainous keepers were on the floor asthough struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, theirfaces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly loweringhimself to one knee. Dink had entered the spider-room. Withoutquestions, he strode between the shiko-ing Earmuffs and put his armsaround Orison.     They can't harm you, he said. She turned to press her face againsthis chest. You're all right, child. Breathe deep, swallow, and turnyour brain back on. All right, now?     All right, she said, still trembling. They were going to throw me tothe spiders.     Kraft told you that? Dink Gerding released her and turned to thekneeling man. Stand up, Elder Brother.     I....     Dink brought his right fist up from hip-level, crashing it into Kraft'sjaw. Kraft Gerding joined the Earmuffs on the floor.     If you'd care to stand again, Elder Brother, you may attempt torecover your dignity without regard for the difference in our rank.Kraft struggled to one knee and remained kneeling, gazing up at Dinkthrough half-closed eyes. No? Then get out of here, all of you.      Samma!          Kraft Gerding arose, stared for a moment at Dink and Orison, then, withthe merest hint of a bow, led his two giant Earmuffs to the elevator.     I wish you hadn't come up here, Orison, Dink said. Why did you doit?     Have you read the story of Bluebeard? Orison asked. She stood closeto Dink, keeping her eyes on the nearest spidertank. I had to seewhat it was you kept up here so secretly, what it was that I wasforbidden to see. My excuse was to have been that I was looking foryou, to deliver a message from Mr. Wanji. He said I was to tell youthat the escudo green is pale.     You're too curious, and Wanji is too careless, Dink said. Now, whatis this thing you have about spiders?     I've always been terrified of them, Orison said. When I was a littlegirl, I had to stay upstairs all day one Sunday because there was aspider hanging from his thread in the stairway. I waited until Dad camehome and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetitefor supper.     Strange, Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and pluckedone of the tiny pink creatures from a web-bridge. This is no spider,Orison, he said.     She backed away from Dink Gerding and the minuscule creature he cuppedin the palm of his hand. These are Microfabridae, more nearly relatedto shellfish than to spiders, he said. They're stone-and-metaleaters. They literally couldn't harm a fly. Look at it, Orison. Heextended his palm. Orison forced herself to look. The little creature,flesh-colored against his flesh, was nearly invisible, scuttling aroundthe bowl of his hand. Pretty little fellow, isn't he? Dink asked.Here. You hold him.     I'd rather not, she protested.     I'd be happier if you did, Dink said.  Orison extended her hand as into a furnace. Dink brushed theMicrofabridus from his palm to hers. It felt crisp and hard, likea legged grain of sand. Dink took a magnifier from his pocket andunfolded it, to hold it over Orison's palm.     He's like a baby crawdad, Orison said.     A sort of crustacean, Dink agreed. We use them in a commercialprocess we're developing. That's why we keep this floor closed off andsecret. We don't have a patent on the use of Microfabridae, you see.     What do they do? Orison asked.     That's still a secret, Dink said, smiling. I can't tell even youthat, not yet, even though you're my most confidential secretary.     What's he doing now? Orison asked, watching the Microfabridus,perched up on the rear four of his six microscopic legs, scratchingagainst her high-school class-ring with his tiny chelae.     They like gold, Dink explained, peering across her shoulder,comfortably close. They're attracted to it by a chemical tropism, aschildren are attracted to candy. Toss him back into his tank, Orison.We'd better get you down where you belong.     Orison brushed the midget crustacean off her finger into the nearesttank, where he joined the busy boil of his fellows. She felt her ring.It was pitted where the Microfabridus had been nibbling. Strange,using crawdads in a bank, she said. She stood silent for a moment. Ithought I heard music, she said. I heard it when I came in. Somethinglike the sighing of wind in winter trees.     That's the hymn of the Microfabridae, Dink said. They all singtogether while they work, a chorus of some twenty million voices. Hetook her arm. If you listen very carefully, you'll find the song theselittle workers sing the most beautiful music in the world.     Orison closed her eyes, leaning back into Dink's arms, listening tothe music that seemed on the outermost edge of her hearing. Wildness,storm and danger were its theme, counterpointed by promises of peaceand harbor. She heard the wash of giant waves in the song, the crashof breakers against granite, cold and insatiable. And behind this, thequiet of sheltered tide-pools, the soft lub of sea-arms landlocked.It's an ancient song, Dink said. The Microfabridae have beensinging it for a million years. He released her, and opened awood-covered wooden box. He scooped up a cupful of the sand inside.Hold out your hands, he told Orison. He filled them with the sand.Throw our singers some supper for their song, he said.     Orison went with her cupped hands to the nearest tank and sprinkled themineral fishfood around inside it. The Microfabridae leaped from theliquid like miniature porpoises, seizing the grains of sand in mid-air.They're so very strange, Orison said. At the bottom of the tank shethought she saw Ben Franklin again, winking at her through the bubblinglife. Nonsense, she thought, brushing her hands.  ","The Microfabridae are tiny, flesh-pink-colored creatures that resemble shellfish. They are stone and metal eaters. These creatures are completely harmless and have six microscopic legs. Orison notices that they feel like a legged grain of sand, crisp and hard. She finds that it is similar to a baby crawdad, to which Dink agrees that the Microfabridae are similar to a sort of crustacean. The creatures also take a liking to gold. When all of the Microfabridae sing together, it is a chorus of around twenty million voices. Orison notes that their singing sounds like the sighing of the wind in winter trees. When she listens to them sing again, it sounds like wilderness, storm, and danger. However, there also exists sounds of promises of peace and harbor that act as a counterpoint. She also hears the sound of waves and the crash of breakers against granite throughout this million-year-old song. "
"Who is Dink Gerding, and what are his characteristics? </s>     CINDERELLA STORY     By ALLEN KIM LANG       What a bank! The First Vice-President       was a cool cat—the elevator and the       money operators all wore earmuffs—was       just as phony as a three-dollar bill!       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The First Vice-President of the William Howard Taft National Bank andTrust Company, the gentleman to whom Miss Orison McCall was applyingfor a job, was not at all the public picture of a banker. His suit ofhound's-tooth checks, the scarlet vest peeping above the vee of hisjacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curiousbank indeed. I gotta say, chick, these references of yours reallyswing, said the Vice-President, Mr. Wanji. Your last boss says youcome on real cool in the secretary-bit.     He was a very kind employer, Orison said. She tried to keep fromstaring at the most remarkable item of Mr. Wanji's costume, a pair offurry green earmuffs. It was not cold.     Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. What colorbread you got eyes for taking down, baby? he asked.     Beg pardon?     What kinda salary you bucking for? he translated, bouncing up anddown on the toes of his rough-leather desert boots.     I was making one-twenty a week in my last position, Miss McCall said.     You're worth more'n that, just to jazz up the decor, Mr. Wanji said.What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. Okay? He caughtOrison's look of bewilderment. One each, a Franklin and a Grant, heexplained further. She still looked blank. Sister, you gonna workin a bank, you gotta know who's picture's on the paper. That's ahunnerd-fifty a week, doll.     That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji, Orison said. It was indeed.     Crazy! Mr. Wanji grabbed Orison's right hand and shook it withathletic vigor. You just now joined up with our herd. I wanna tellyou, chick, it's none too soon we got some decent scenery aroundthis tomb, girlwise. He took her arm and led her toward the bank ofelevators. The uniformed operator nodded to Mr. Wanji, bowed slightlyto Orison. He, too, she observed, wore earmuffs. His were more formalthan Mr. Wanji's, being midnight blue in color. Lift us to five, Mac,Mr. Wanji said. As the elevator door shut he explained to Orison,You can make the Taft Bank scene anywhere between the street floorand floor five. Basement and everything higher'n fifth floor is IronCurtain Country far's you're concerned. Dig, baby?     Yes, sir, Orison said. She was wondering if she'd be issued earmuffs,now that she'd become an employee of this most peculiar bank.     The elevator opened on five to a tiny office, just large enough tohold a single desk and two chairs. On the desk were a telephone anda microphone. Beside them was a double-decked In and Out basket.Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey, Mr. Wanji said.     What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji? Orison asked.     The Vice-President pointed to the newspaper folded in the In basket.Flip on the microphone and read the paper to it, he said. When youget done reading the paper, someone will run you up something new toread. Okay?     It seems a rather peculiar job, Orison said. After all, I'm asecretary. Is reading the newspaper aloud supposed to familiarize mewith the Bank's operation?     Don't bug me, kid, Mr. Wanji said. All you gotta do is read thatthere paper into this here microphone. Can do?     Yes, sir, Orison said. While you're here, Mr. Wanji, I'd like toask you about my withholding tax, social security, credit union,coffee-breaks, union membership, lunch hour and the like. Shall we takecare of these details now? Or would you—     You just take care of that chicken-flickin' kinda stuff any way seemsbest to you, kid, Mr. Wanji said.     Yes, sir, Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank'smight explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department'ssecretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall,girl Government spy. She picked up the newspaper from the In basket,unfolded it to discover the day's      Wall Street Journal     , and began atthe top of column one to read it aloud. Wanji stood before the desk,nodding his head as he listened. You blowing real good, kid, he said.The boss is gonna dig you the most.     Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read theone into the other. Mr. Wanji flicked his fingers in a good-by, thentook off upstairs in the elevator.  By lunchtime Orison had finished the      Wall Street Journal     and hadbegun reading a book an earmuffed page had brought her. The book was afantastic novel of some sort, named      The Hobbit     . Reading this peculiarfare into the microphone before her, Miss McCall was more certain thanever that the Taft Bank was, as her boss in Washington had told her,the front for some highly irregular goings-on. An odd business for aFederal Mata Hari, Orison thought, reading a nonsense story into amicrophone for an invisible audience.     Orison switched off her microphone at noon, marked her place in thebook and took the elevator down to the ground floor. The operator wasa new man, ears concealed behind scarlet earmuffs. In the car, comingdown from the interdicted upper floors, were several gentlemen withbriefcases. As though they were members of a ballet-troupe, thesegentlemen whipped off their hats with a single motion as Orison steppedaboard the elevator. Each of the chivalrous men, hat pressed to hisheart, wore a pair of earmuffs. Orison nodded bemused acknowledgmentof their gesture, and got off in the lobby vowing never to put a pennyinto this curiousest of banks.     Lunch at the stand-up counter down the street was a normal interlude.Girls from the ground-floor offices of Taft Bank chattered together,eyed Orison with the coolness due so attractive a competitor, andfavored her with no gambit to enter their conversations. Orison sighed,finished her tuna salad on whole-wheat, then went back upstairs to herlonely desk and her microphone. By five, Orison had finished the book,reading rapidly and becoming despite herself engrossed in the saga ofBilbo Baggins, Hobbit. She switched off the microphone, put on herlight coat, and rode downstairs in an elevator filled with earmuffed,silent, hat-clasping gentlemen.     What I need, Orison thought, walking rapidly to the busline, is adouble Scotch, followed by a double Scotch. And what the William HowardTaft National Bank and Trust Company needs is a joint raid by forces ofthe U.S. Treasury Department and the American Psychiatric Association.Earmuffs, indeed. Fairy-tales read into a microphone. A Vice-Presidentwith the vocabulary of a racetrack tout. And what goes on in thoseupper floors? Orison stopped in at the restaurant nearest her apartmenthouse—the Windsor Arms—and ordered a meal and a single Martini. Herboss in Washington had told her that this job of hers, spying on TaftBank from within, might prove dangerous. Indeed it was, she thought.She was in danger of becoming a solitary drinker.     Home in her apartment, Orison set the notes of her first day'sobservations in order. Presumably Washington would call tonight forher initial report. Item: some of the men at the Bank wore earmuffs,several didn't. Item: the Vice-President's name was Mr. Wanji:Oriental? Item: the top eight floors of the Taft Bank Building seemedto be off-limits to all personnel not wearing earmuffs. Item: she wasbeing employed at a very respectable salary to read newsprint andnonsense into a microphone. Let Washington make sense of that, shethought.  In a gloomy mood, Orison McCall showered and dressed for bed. Eleveno'clock. Washington should be calling soon, inquiring after the resultsof her first day's spying.     No call. Orison slipped between the sheets at eleven-thirty. The clockwas set; the lights were out. Wasn't Washington going to call her?Perhaps, she thought, the Department had discovered that the Earmuffshad her phone tapped.     Testing, a baritone voice muttered.     Orison sat up, clutching the sheet around her throat. Beg pardon? shesaid.     Testing, the male voice repeated. One, two, three; three, two, one.Do you read me? Over.     Orison reached under the bed for a shoe. Gripping it like a Scout-ax,she reached for the light cord with her free hand and tugged at it.     The room was empty.     Testing, the voice repeated.     What you're testing, Orison said in a firm voice, is my patience.Who are you?     Department of Treasury Monitor J-12, the male voice said. Do youhave anything to report, Miss McCall?     Where are you, Monitor? she demanded.     That's classified information, the voice said. Please speak directlyto your pillow, Miss McCall.     Orison lay down cautiously. All right, she whispered to her pillow.     Over here, the voice instructed her, coming from the unruffled pillowbeside her.     Orison transferred her head to the pillow to her left. A radio? sheasked.     Of a sort, Monitor J-12 agreed. We have to maintain communicationssecurity. Have you anything to report?     I got the job, Orison said. Are you ... in that pillow ... all thetime?     No, Miss McCall, the voice said. Only at report times. Shall weestablish our rendezvous here at eleven-fifteen, Central Standard Time,every day?     You make it sound so improper, Orison said.     I'm far enough away to do you no harm, Miss McCall, the monitor said.Now, tell me what happened at the bank today.     Orison briefed her pillow on the Earmuffs, on her task of reading to amicrophone, and on the generally mimsy tone of the William Howard TaftNational Bank and Trust Company. That's about it, so far, she said.     Good report, J-12 said from the pillow. Sounds like you've droppedinto a real snakepit, beautiful.     How do you know ... why do you think I'm beautiful? Orison asked.     Native optimism, the voice said. Good night. J-12 signed off witha peculiar electronic pop that puzzled Orison for a moment. Then sheplaced the sound: J-12 had kissed his microphone.     Orison flung the shoe and the pillow under her bed, and resolvedto write Washington for permission to make her future reports byregistered mail.      II     At ten o'clock the next morning, reading page four of the current      Wall Street Journal     , Orison was interrupted by the click of a pairof leather heels. The gentleman whose heels had just slammed togetherwas bowing. And she saw with some gratification that he was notwearing earmuffs. My name, the stranger said, is Dink Gerding. I amPresident of this bank, and wish at this time to welcome you to ourlittle family.     I'm Orison McCall, she said. A handsome man, she mused. Twenty-eight?So tall. Could he ever be interested in a girl just five-foot-three?Maybe higher heels?     We're pleased with your work, Miss McCall, Dink Gerding said. He tookthe chair to the right of her desk.     It's nothing, Orison said, switching off the microphone.     On the contrary, Miss McCall. Your duties are most important, he said.     Reading papers and fairy-tales into this microphone is nothing anyreasonably astute sixth-grader couldn't do as well, Orison said.     You'll be reading silently before long, Mr. Gerding said. He smiled,as though this explained everything. By the way, your officialdesignation is Confidential Secretary. It's me whose confidences you'reto keep secret. If I ever need a letter written, may I stop down hereand dictate it?     Please do, Orison said. This bank president, for all his grace andpresence, was obviously as kookie as his bank.     Have you ever worked in a bank before, Miss McCall? Mr. Gerdingasked, as though following her train of thought.     No, sir, she said. Though I've been associated with a rather largefinancial organization.     You may find some of our methods a little strange, but you'll get usedto them, he said. Meanwhile, I'd be most grateful if you'd dispensewith calling me 'sir.' My name is Dink. It is ridiculous, but I'd enjoyyour using it.     Dink? she asked. And I suppose you're to call me Orison?     That's the drill, he said. One more question, Orison. Dinner thisevening?     Direct, she thought. Perhaps that's why he's president of a bank, andstill so young. We've hardly met, she said.     But we're on a first-name basis already, he pointed out. Dance?     I'd love to, Orison said, half expecting an orchestra to march,playing, from the elevator.     Then I'll pick you up at seven. Windsor Arms, if I remember yourpersonnel form correctly. He stood, lean, all bone and muscle,and bowed slightly. West Point? Hardly. His manners were European.Sandhurst, perhaps, or Saint Cyr. Was she supposed to reply with acurtsy? Orison wondered.     Thank you, she said.     He was a soldier, or had been: the way, when he turned, his shouldersstayed square. The crisp clicking of his steps, a military metronome,to the elevator. When the door slicked open Orison, staring after Dink,saw that each of the half-dozen men aboard snapped off their hats (butnot their earmuffs) and bowed, the earmuffed operator bowing with them.Small bows, true; just head-and-neck. But not to her. To Dink Gerding.  Orison finished the      Wall Street Journal     by early afternoon. Apage came up a moment later with fresh reading-matter: a copy ofyesterday's      Congressional Record     . She launched into the      Record     ,thinking as she read of meeting again this evening that handsomemadman, that splendid lunatic, that unlikely bank-president. You readso      well     , darling, someone said across the desk.     Orison looked up. Oh, hello, she said. I didn't hear you come up.     I walk ever so lightly, the woman said, standing hip-shot in frontof the desk, and pounce ever so hard. She smiled. Opulent, Orisonthought. Built like a burlesque queen. No, she thought, I don't likeher. Can't. Wouldn't if I could. Never cared for cats.     I'm Orison McCall, she said, and tried to smile back without showingteeth.     Delighted, the visitor said, handing over an undelighted palm. I'mAuga Vingt. Auga, to my friends.     Won't you sit down, Miss Vingt?     So kind of you, darling, Auga Vingt said, but I shan't have time tovisit. I just wanted to stop and welcome you as a Taft Bank co-worker.One for all, all for one. Yea, Team. You know.     Thanks, Orison said.     Common courtesy, Miss Vingt explained. Also, darling, I'd like todraw your attention to one little point. Dink Gerding—you know, theshoulders and muscles and crewcut? Well, he's posted property. Shouldyou throw your starveling charms at my Dink, you'd only get your littleeyes scratched out. Word to the wise,      n'est-ce pas     ?     Sorry you have to leave so suddenly, Orison said, rolling her      WallStreet Journal     into a club and standing. Darling.     So remember, Tiny, Dink Gerding is mine. You're all alone up here.You could get broken nails, fall down the elevator shaft, all sorts ofannoyance. Understand me, darling?     You make it very clear, Orison said. Now you'd best hurry back toyour stanchion, Bossy, before the hay's all gone.     Isn't it lovely, the way you and I reached an understanding rightoff? Auga asked. Well, ta-ta. She turned and walked to the elevator,displaying, Orison thought, a disgraceful amount of ungirdled rhumbamotion.     The elevator stopped to pick up the odious Auga. A passenger, male,stepped off. Good morning, Mr. Gerding, Miss Vingt said, bowing.     Carry on, Colonel, the stranger replied. As the elevator door closed,he stepped up to Orison's desk. Good morning. Miss McCall, he said.     What is this? Orison demanded. Visiting-day at the zoo? She pausedand shook her head. Excuse me, sir, she said. It's just that ...Vingt thing....     Auga is rather intense, the new Mr. Gerding said.     Yeah, intense, Orison said. Like a kidney-stone.     I stopped by to welcome you to the William Howard Taft National Bankand Trust Company family, Miss McCall, he said. I'm Kraft Gerding,Dink's elder brother. I understand you've met Dink already.     Yes, sir, Orison said. The hair of this new Mr. Gerding was croppedeven closer than Dink's. His mustache was gray-tipped, like a patchof frosted furze; and his eyes, like Dink's, were cobalt blue. Thehead, Orison mused, would look quite at home in one of Kaiser Bill'sspike-topped      Pickelhauben     ; but the ears were in evidence, and seemednormal. Mr. Kraft Gerding bowed—what continental manners these bankershad!—and Orison half expected him to free her hand from the rolled-uppaper she still clutched and plant a kiss on it.  Instead, Kraft Gerding smiled a smile as frosty as his mustache andsaid, I understand that my younger brother has been talking with you,Miss McCall. Quite proper, I know. But I must warn you against mixingbusiness with pleasure.     Orison jumped up, tossing the paper into her wastebasket. I quit! sheshouted. You can take this crazy bank ... into bankruptcy, for all Icare. I'm not going to perch up here, target for every uncaged idiot infinance, and listen to another word.     Dearest lady, my humblest pardon, Kraft Gerding said, bowing again,a bit lower. Your work is splendid; your presence is Taft Bank's mostcharming asset; my only wish is to serve and protect you. To this end,dear lady, I feel it my duty to warn you against my brother. A word tothe wise....           N'est-ce pas?      Orison said. Well, Buster, here's a word to thefoolish. Get lost.     Kraft Gerding bowed and flashed his gelid smile. Until we meet again?     I'll hold my breath, Orison promised. The elevator is just behindyou. Push a button, will you? And      bon voyage     .     Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison witha cold, quick bow, then disappeared into the mysterious heights abovefifth floor.     First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding.Surely, Orison thought, recovering the      Wall Street Journal     from herwastebasket and smoothing it, no one would convert a major Midwesternbank into a lunatic asylum. How else, though, could the behaviorof the Earmuffs be explained? Could madmen run a bank? Why not, shethought. History is rich in examples of madmen running nations, banksand all. She began again to read the paper into the microphone. If shefinished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limitsupper floors.     Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by thesudden buzz of her telephone. She picked it up.       Wanji e-Kal, Datto.Dink ger-Dink d'summa.          Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg beforereplying, I'm a local girl. Try me in English.     Oh. Hi, Miss McCall, the voice said. Guess I goofed. I'm in kindaclutch. This is Wanji. I got a kite for Mr. Dink Gerding. If you seehim, tell him the escudo green is pale. Got that, doll?     Yes, Mr. Wanji. I'll tell Mr. Gerding. Orison clicked the phone down.What now, Mata Hari? she asked herself. What was the curious languageMr. Wanji had used? She'd have to report the message to Washington bytonight's pillow, and let the polyglots of Treasury Intelligence puzzleit out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk,she had a vague excuse to prowl the upper floors. The Earmuffs couldonly fire her.     Orison folded the paper and put it in the Out basket. Someone wouldbe here in a moment with something new to read. She'd best get going.The elevator? No. The operators had surely been instructed to keep heroff the upstairs floors.     But the building had a stairway.      III     The door on the sixth floor was locked. Orison went on up the stairs toseven. The glass of the door there was painted black on the inside, andthe landing was cellar-dark. Orison closed her eyes for a moment. Therewas a curious sound. The buzzing of a million bees, barely within thefringes of her hearing. Somehow, a very pleasant sound.     She opened her eyes and tried the knob. The door opened.     Orison was blinded by the lights, brilliant as noonday sun. The roomextended through the entire seventh floor, its windows boarded shut,its ceiling a mass of fluorescent lamps. Set about the floor weregalvanized steel tanks, rectangular and a little bigger than bathtubs.Orison counted the rows of tanks. Twelve rows, nine tiers. One hundredand eight tanks. She walked closer. The tubs were laced together bystrands of angel-hair, delicate white lattices scintillating withpink. She walked to the nearest of the tubs and looked in. It was halffull of a greenish fluid, seething with tiny pink bubbles. For a momentOrison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from theliquid. Then she screamed.       The pink bubbles, the tiny flesh-colored flecks glinting light fromthe spun-sugar bridges between the tanks, were spiders. Millionsupon millions of spiders, each the size of a mustard-seed; crawling,leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orisonput her hands over her ears and screamed again, backing toward thestairway door.     Into a pair of arms.     I had hoped you'd be happy here, Miss McCall, Kraft Gerding said.Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to haveher wrists seized by two Earmuffs that had appeared with the elderGerding. It seems that our Pandora doesn't care for spiders, hesaid. Really, Miss McCall, our little pets are quite harmless. Werewe to toss you into one of these tanks.... Orison struggled againsther two      sumo     -sized captors, whose combined weights exceeded hers bysome quarter-ton, without doing more than lifting her feet from thefloor. ... your flesh would be unharmed, though they spun and dartedall around you. Our Microfabridae are petrovorous, Miss McCall. Ofcourse, once they discovered your teeth, and through them a skeleton ofcalcium, a delicacy they find most toothsome, you'd be filleted withinminutes.     Elder Compassion wouldn't like your harming the girl, Sire, one ofthe earmuffed      sumo     -wrestlers protested.     Elder Compassion has no rank, Kraft Gerding said. Miss McCall, youmust tell me what you were doing here, or I'll toss you to the spiders.     Dink ... Dink! Orison shouted.     My beloved younger brother is otherwise engaged than in the rescue ofdamsels in distress, Kraft said. Someone, after all, has to mind thebank.     I came to bring a message to Dink, Orison said. Let me go, youacromegalic apes!     The message? Kraft Gerding demanded.     Something about escudo green. Put me down!  Suddenly she was dropped. Her mountainous keepers were on the floor asthough struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, theirfaces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly loweringhimself to one knee. Dink had entered the spider-room. Withoutquestions, he strode between the shiko-ing Earmuffs and put his armsaround Orison.     They can't harm you, he said. She turned to press her face againsthis chest. You're all right, child. Breathe deep, swallow, and turnyour brain back on. All right, now?     All right, she said, still trembling. They were going to throw me tothe spiders.     Kraft told you that? Dink Gerding released her and turned to thekneeling man. Stand up, Elder Brother.     I....     Dink brought his right fist up from hip-level, crashing it into Kraft'sjaw. Kraft Gerding joined the Earmuffs on the floor.     If you'd care to stand again, Elder Brother, you may attempt torecover your dignity without regard for the difference in our rank.Kraft struggled to one knee and remained kneeling, gazing up at Dinkthrough half-closed eyes. No? Then get out of here, all of you.      Samma!          Kraft Gerding arose, stared for a moment at Dink and Orison, then, withthe merest hint of a bow, led his two giant Earmuffs to the elevator.     I wish you hadn't come up here, Orison, Dink said. Why did you doit?     Have you read the story of Bluebeard? Orison asked. She stood closeto Dink, keeping her eyes on the nearest spidertank. I had to seewhat it was you kept up here so secretly, what it was that I wasforbidden to see. My excuse was to have been that I was looking foryou, to deliver a message from Mr. Wanji. He said I was to tell youthat the escudo green is pale.     You're too curious, and Wanji is too careless, Dink said. Now, whatis this thing you have about spiders?     I've always been terrified of them, Orison said. When I was a littlegirl, I had to stay upstairs all day one Sunday because there was aspider hanging from his thread in the stairway. I waited until Dad camehome and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetitefor supper.     Strange, Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and pluckedone of the tiny pink creatures from a web-bridge. This is no spider,Orison, he said.     She backed away from Dink Gerding and the minuscule creature he cuppedin the palm of his hand. These are Microfabridae, more nearly relatedto shellfish than to spiders, he said. They're stone-and-metaleaters. They literally couldn't harm a fly. Look at it, Orison. Heextended his palm. Orison forced herself to look. The little creature,flesh-colored against his flesh, was nearly invisible, scuttling aroundthe bowl of his hand. Pretty little fellow, isn't he? Dink asked.Here. You hold him.     I'd rather not, she protested.     I'd be happier if you did, Dink said.  Orison extended her hand as into a furnace. Dink brushed theMicrofabridus from his palm to hers. It felt crisp and hard, likea legged grain of sand. Dink took a magnifier from his pocket andunfolded it, to hold it over Orison's palm.     He's like a baby crawdad, Orison said.     A sort of crustacean, Dink agreed. We use them in a commercialprocess we're developing. That's why we keep this floor closed off andsecret. We don't have a patent on the use of Microfabridae, you see.     What do they do? Orison asked.     That's still a secret, Dink said, smiling. I can't tell even youthat, not yet, even though you're my most confidential secretary.     What's he doing now? Orison asked, watching the Microfabridus,perched up on the rear four of his six microscopic legs, scratchingagainst her high-school class-ring with his tiny chelae.     They like gold, Dink explained, peering across her shoulder,comfortably close. They're attracted to it by a chemical tropism, aschildren are attracted to candy. Toss him back into his tank, Orison.We'd better get you down where you belong.     Orison brushed the midget crustacean off her finger into the nearesttank, where he joined the busy boil of his fellows. She felt her ring.It was pitted where the Microfabridus had been nibbling. Strange,using crawdads in a bank, she said. She stood silent for a moment. Ithought I heard music, she said. I heard it when I came in. Somethinglike the sighing of wind in winter trees.     That's the hymn of the Microfabridae, Dink said. They all singtogether while they work, a chorus of some twenty million voices. Hetook her arm. If you listen very carefully, you'll find the song theselittle workers sing the most beautiful music in the world.     Orison closed her eyes, leaning back into Dink's arms, listening tothe music that seemed on the outermost edge of her hearing. Wildness,storm and danger were its theme, counterpointed by promises of peaceand harbor. She heard the wash of giant waves in the song, the crashof breakers against granite, cold and insatiable. And behind this, thequiet of sheltered tide-pools, the soft lub of sea-arms landlocked.It's an ancient song, Dink said. The Microfabridae have beensinging it for a million years. He released her, and opened awood-covered wooden box. He scooped up a cupful of the sand inside.Hold out your hands, he told Orison. He filled them with the sand.Throw our singers some supper for their song, he said.     Orison went with her cupped hands to the nearest tank and sprinkled themineral fishfood around inside it. The Microfabridae leaped from theliquid like miniature porpoises, seizing the grains of sand in mid-air.They're so very strange, Orison said. At the bottom of the tank shethought she saw Ben Franklin again, winking at her through the bubblinglife. Nonsense, she thought, brushing her hands.  ","Dink Gerding is the eccentric president of the bank. He is a tall, handsome man, and Orison assumes that he is around twenty-eight the first time she meets him. He has an older brother named Kraft, but he is higher in power than his brother. When Dink first meets Orison, he is courteous and personally welcomes her to the office. However, he is also rather confident. Dink casually asks her out for dinner despite never meeting her before, and he even offers to dance. However, it is noted that Dink has some form of military experience as a soldier. His shoulders are square, and the crisp clicking of his steps is similar to a military metronome. Nevertheless, Dink is protective of Orison; this is especially shown during the confrontation with his brother. He is also gentle to her around the Microfabridae and is extremely happy when she takes an interest in holding one. "
"Who is Mr. Wanji, and what are his characteristics? </s>     CINDERELLA STORY     By ALLEN KIM LANG       What a bank! The First Vice-President       was a cool cat—the elevator and the       money operators all wore earmuffs—was       just as phony as a three-dollar bill!       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The First Vice-President of the William Howard Taft National Bank andTrust Company, the gentleman to whom Miss Orison McCall was applyingfor a job, was not at all the public picture of a banker. His suit ofhound's-tooth checks, the scarlet vest peeping above the vee of hisjacket, were enough to assure Orison that the Taft Bank was a curiousbank indeed. I gotta say, chick, these references of yours reallyswing, said the Vice-President, Mr. Wanji. Your last boss says youcome on real cool in the secretary-bit.     He was a very kind employer, Orison said. She tried to keep fromstaring at the most remarkable item of Mr. Wanji's costume, a pair offurry green earmuffs. It was not cold.     Mr. Wanji returned to Orison her letters of reference. What colorbread you got eyes for taking down, baby? he asked.     Beg pardon?     What kinda salary you bucking for? he translated, bouncing up anddown on the toes of his rough-leather desert boots.     I was making one-twenty a week in my last position, Miss McCall said.     You're worth more'n that, just to jazz up the decor, Mr. Wanji said.What you say we pass you a cee-and-a-half a week. Okay? He caughtOrison's look of bewilderment. One each, a Franklin and a Grant, heexplained further. She still looked blank. Sister, you gonna workin a bank, you gotta know who's picture's on the paper. That's ahunnerd-fifty a week, doll.     That will be most satisfactory, Mr. Wanji, Orison said. It was indeed.     Crazy! Mr. Wanji grabbed Orison's right hand and shook it withathletic vigor. You just now joined up with our herd. I wanna tellyou, chick, it's none too soon we got some decent scenery aroundthis tomb, girlwise. He took her arm and led her toward the bank ofelevators. The uniformed operator nodded to Mr. Wanji, bowed slightlyto Orison. He, too, she observed, wore earmuffs. His were more formalthan Mr. Wanji's, being midnight blue in color. Lift us to five, Mac,Mr. Wanji said. As the elevator door shut he explained to Orison,You can make the Taft Bank scene anywhere between the street floorand floor five. Basement and everything higher'n fifth floor is IronCurtain Country far's you're concerned. Dig, baby?     Yes, sir, Orison said. She was wondering if she'd be issued earmuffs,now that she'd become an employee of this most peculiar bank.     The elevator opened on five to a tiny office, just large enough tohold a single desk and two chairs. On the desk were a telephone anda microphone. Beside them was a double-decked In and Out basket.Here's where you'll do your nine-to-five, honey, Mr. Wanji said.     What will I be doing, Mr. Wanji? Orison asked.     The Vice-President pointed to the newspaper folded in the In basket.Flip on the microphone and read the paper to it, he said. When youget done reading the paper, someone will run you up something new toread. Okay?     It seems a rather peculiar job, Orison said. After all, I'm asecretary. Is reading the newspaper aloud supposed to familiarize mewith the Bank's operation?     Don't bug me, kid, Mr. Wanji said. All you gotta do is read thatthere paper into this here microphone. Can do?     Yes, sir, Orison said. While you're here, Mr. Wanji, I'd like toask you about my withholding tax, social security, credit union,coffee-breaks, union membership, lunch hour and the like. Shall we takecare of these details now? Or would you—     You just take care of that chicken-flickin' kinda stuff any way seemsbest to you, kid, Mr. Wanji said.     Yes, sir, Orison said. This laissez-faire policy of Taft Bank'smight explain why she'd been selected from the Treasury Department'ssecretarial pool to apply for work here, she thought. Orison McCall,girl Government spy. She picked up the newspaper from the In basket,unfolded it to discover the day's      Wall Street Journal     , and began atthe top of column one to read it aloud. Wanji stood before the desk,nodding his head as he listened. You blowing real good, kid, he said.The boss is gonna dig you the most.     Orison nodded. Holding her newspaper and her microphone, she read theone into the other. Mr. Wanji flicked his fingers in a good-by, thentook off upstairs in the elevator.  By lunchtime Orison had finished the      Wall Street Journal     and hadbegun reading a book an earmuffed page had brought her. The book was afantastic novel of some sort, named      The Hobbit     . Reading this peculiarfare into the microphone before her, Miss McCall was more certain thanever that the Taft Bank was, as her boss in Washington had told her,the front for some highly irregular goings-on. An odd business for aFederal Mata Hari, Orison thought, reading a nonsense story into amicrophone for an invisible audience.     Orison switched off her microphone at noon, marked her place in thebook and took the elevator down to the ground floor. The operator wasa new man, ears concealed behind scarlet earmuffs. In the car, comingdown from the interdicted upper floors, were several gentlemen withbriefcases. As though they were members of a ballet-troupe, thesegentlemen whipped off their hats with a single motion as Orison steppedaboard the elevator. Each of the chivalrous men, hat pressed to hisheart, wore a pair of earmuffs. Orison nodded bemused acknowledgmentof their gesture, and got off in the lobby vowing never to put a pennyinto this curiousest of banks.     Lunch at the stand-up counter down the street was a normal interlude.Girls from the ground-floor offices of Taft Bank chattered together,eyed Orison with the coolness due so attractive a competitor, andfavored her with no gambit to enter their conversations. Orison sighed,finished her tuna salad on whole-wheat, then went back upstairs to herlonely desk and her microphone. By five, Orison had finished the book,reading rapidly and becoming despite herself engrossed in the saga ofBilbo Baggins, Hobbit. She switched off the microphone, put on herlight coat, and rode downstairs in an elevator filled with earmuffed,silent, hat-clasping gentlemen.     What I need, Orison thought, walking rapidly to the busline, is adouble Scotch, followed by a double Scotch. And what the William HowardTaft National Bank and Trust Company needs is a joint raid by forces ofthe U.S. Treasury Department and the American Psychiatric Association.Earmuffs, indeed. Fairy-tales read into a microphone. A Vice-Presidentwith the vocabulary of a racetrack tout. And what goes on in thoseupper floors? Orison stopped in at the restaurant nearest her apartmenthouse—the Windsor Arms—and ordered a meal and a single Martini. Herboss in Washington had told her that this job of hers, spying on TaftBank from within, might prove dangerous. Indeed it was, she thought.She was in danger of becoming a solitary drinker.     Home in her apartment, Orison set the notes of her first day'sobservations in order. Presumably Washington would call tonight forher initial report. Item: some of the men at the Bank wore earmuffs,several didn't. Item: the Vice-President's name was Mr. Wanji:Oriental? Item: the top eight floors of the Taft Bank Building seemedto be off-limits to all personnel not wearing earmuffs. Item: she wasbeing employed at a very respectable salary to read newsprint andnonsense into a microphone. Let Washington make sense of that, shethought.  In a gloomy mood, Orison McCall showered and dressed for bed. Eleveno'clock. Washington should be calling soon, inquiring after the resultsof her first day's spying.     No call. Orison slipped between the sheets at eleven-thirty. The clockwas set; the lights were out. Wasn't Washington going to call her?Perhaps, she thought, the Department had discovered that the Earmuffshad her phone tapped.     Testing, a baritone voice muttered.     Orison sat up, clutching the sheet around her throat. Beg pardon? shesaid.     Testing, the male voice repeated. One, two, three; three, two, one.Do you read me? Over.     Orison reached under the bed for a shoe. Gripping it like a Scout-ax,she reached for the light cord with her free hand and tugged at it.     The room was empty.     Testing, the voice repeated.     What you're testing, Orison said in a firm voice, is my patience.Who are you?     Department of Treasury Monitor J-12, the male voice said. Do youhave anything to report, Miss McCall?     Where are you, Monitor? she demanded.     That's classified information, the voice said. Please speak directlyto your pillow, Miss McCall.     Orison lay down cautiously. All right, she whispered to her pillow.     Over here, the voice instructed her, coming from the unruffled pillowbeside her.     Orison transferred her head to the pillow to her left. A radio? sheasked.     Of a sort, Monitor J-12 agreed. We have to maintain communicationssecurity. Have you anything to report?     I got the job, Orison said. Are you ... in that pillow ... all thetime?     No, Miss McCall, the voice said. Only at report times. Shall weestablish our rendezvous here at eleven-fifteen, Central Standard Time,every day?     You make it sound so improper, Orison said.     I'm far enough away to do you no harm, Miss McCall, the monitor said.Now, tell me what happened at the bank today.     Orison briefed her pillow on the Earmuffs, on her task of reading to amicrophone, and on the generally mimsy tone of the William Howard TaftNational Bank and Trust Company. That's about it, so far, she said.     Good report, J-12 said from the pillow. Sounds like you've droppedinto a real snakepit, beautiful.     How do you know ... why do you think I'm beautiful? Orison asked.     Native optimism, the voice said. Good night. J-12 signed off witha peculiar electronic pop that puzzled Orison for a moment. Then sheplaced the sound: J-12 had kissed his microphone.     Orison flung the shoe and the pillow under her bed, and resolvedto write Washington for permission to make her future reports byregistered mail.      II     At ten o'clock the next morning, reading page four of the current      Wall Street Journal     , Orison was interrupted by the click of a pairof leather heels. The gentleman whose heels had just slammed togetherwas bowing. And she saw with some gratification that he was notwearing earmuffs. My name, the stranger said, is Dink Gerding. I amPresident of this bank, and wish at this time to welcome you to ourlittle family.     I'm Orison McCall, she said. A handsome man, she mused. Twenty-eight?So tall. Could he ever be interested in a girl just five-foot-three?Maybe higher heels?     We're pleased with your work, Miss McCall, Dink Gerding said. He tookthe chair to the right of her desk.     It's nothing, Orison said, switching off the microphone.     On the contrary, Miss McCall. Your duties are most important, he said.     Reading papers and fairy-tales into this microphone is nothing anyreasonably astute sixth-grader couldn't do as well, Orison said.     You'll be reading silently before long, Mr. Gerding said. He smiled,as though this explained everything. By the way, your officialdesignation is Confidential Secretary. It's me whose confidences you'reto keep secret. If I ever need a letter written, may I stop down hereand dictate it?     Please do, Orison said. This bank president, for all his grace andpresence, was obviously as kookie as his bank.     Have you ever worked in a bank before, Miss McCall? Mr. Gerdingasked, as though following her train of thought.     No, sir, she said. Though I've been associated with a rather largefinancial organization.     You may find some of our methods a little strange, but you'll get usedto them, he said. Meanwhile, I'd be most grateful if you'd dispensewith calling me 'sir.' My name is Dink. It is ridiculous, but I'd enjoyyour using it.     Dink? she asked. And I suppose you're to call me Orison?     That's the drill, he said. One more question, Orison. Dinner thisevening?     Direct, she thought. Perhaps that's why he's president of a bank, andstill so young. We've hardly met, she said.     But we're on a first-name basis already, he pointed out. Dance?     I'd love to, Orison said, half expecting an orchestra to march,playing, from the elevator.     Then I'll pick you up at seven. Windsor Arms, if I remember yourpersonnel form correctly. He stood, lean, all bone and muscle,and bowed slightly. West Point? Hardly. His manners were European.Sandhurst, perhaps, or Saint Cyr. Was she supposed to reply with acurtsy? Orison wondered.     Thank you, she said.     He was a soldier, or had been: the way, when he turned, his shouldersstayed square. The crisp clicking of his steps, a military metronome,to the elevator. When the door slicked open Orison, staring after Dink,saw that each of the half-dozen men aboard snapped off their hats (butnot their earmuffs) and bowed, the earmuffed operator bowing with them.Small bows, true; just head-and-neck. But not to her. To Dink Gerding.  Orison finished the      Wall Street Journal     by early afternoon. Apage came up a moment later with fresh reading-matter: a copy ofyesterday's      Congressional Record     . She launched into the      Record     ,thinking as she read of meeting again this evening that handsomemadman, that splendid lunatic, that unlikely bank-president. You readso      well     , darling, someone said across the desk.     Orison looked up. Oh, hello, she said. I didn't hear you come up.     I walk ever so lightly, the woman said, standing hip-shot in frontof the desk, and pounce ever so hard. She smiled. Opulent, Orisonthought. Built like a burlesque queen. No, she thought, I don't likeher. Can't. Wouldn't if I could. Never cared for cats.     I'm Orison McCall, she said, and tried to smile back without showingteeth.     Delighted, the visitor said, handing over an undelighted palm. I'mAuga Vingt. Auga, to my friends.     Won't you sit down, Miss Vingt?     So kind of you, darling, Auga Vingt said, but I shan't have time tovisit. I just wanted to stop and welcome you as a Taft Bank co-worker.One for all, all for one. Yea, Team. You know.     Thanks, Orison said.     Common courtesy, Miss Vingt explained. Also, darling, I'd like todraw your attention to one little point. Dink Gerding—you know, theshoulders and muscles and crewcut? Well, he's posted property. Shouldyou throw your starveling charms at my Dink, you'd only get your littleeyes scratched out. Word to the wise,      n'est-ce pas     ?     Sorry you have to leave so suddenly, Orison said, rolling her      WallStreet Journal     into a club and standing. Darling.     So remember, Tiny, Dink Gerding is mine. You're all alone up here.You could get broken nails, fall down the elevator shaft, all sorts ofannoyance. Understand me, darling?     You make it very clear, Orison said. Now you'd best hurry back toyour stanchion, Bossy, before the hay's all gone.     Isn't it lovely, the way you and I reached an understanding rightoff? Auga asked. Well, ta-ta. She turned and walked to the elevator,displaying, Orison thought, a disgraceful amount of ungirdled rhumbamotion.     The elevator stopped to pick up the odious Auga. A passenger, male,stepped off. Good morning, Mr. Gerding, Miss Vingt said, bowing.     Carry on, Colonel, the stranger replied. As the elevator door closed,he stepped up to Orison's desk. Good morning. Miss McCall, he said.     What is this? Orison demanded. Visiting-day at the zoo? She pausedand shook her head. Excuse me, sir, she said. It's just that ...Vingt thing....     Auga is rather intense, the new Mr. Gerding said.     Yeah, intense, Orison said. Like a kidney-stone.     I stopped by to welcome you to the William Howard Taft National Bankand Trust Company family, Miss McCall, he said. I'm Kraft Gerding,Dink's elder brother. I understand you've met Dink already.     Yes, sir, Orison said. The hair of this new Mr. Gerding was croppedeven closer than Dink's. His mustache was gray-tipped, like a patchof frosted furze; and his eyes, like Dink's, were cobalt blue. Thehead, Orison mused, would look quite at home in one of Kaiser Bill'sspike-topped      Pickelhauben     ; but the ears were in evidence, and seemednormal. Mr. Kraft Gerding bowed—what continental manners these bankershad!—and Orison half expected him to free her hand from the rolled-uppaper she still clutched and plant a kiss on it.  Instead, Kraft Gerding smiled a smile as frosty as his mustache andsaid, I understand that my younger brother has been talking with you,Miss McCall. Quite proper, I know. But I must warn you against mixingbusiness with pleasure.     Orison jumped up, tossing the paper into her wastebasket. I quit! sheshouted. You can take this crazy bank ... into bankruptcy, for all Icare. I'm not going to perch up here, target for every uncaged idiot infinance, and listen to another word.     Dearest lady, my humblest pardon, Kraft Gerding said, bowing again,a bit lower. Your work is splendid; your presence is Taft Bank's mostcharming asset; my only wish is to serve and protect you. To this end,dear lady, I feel it my duty to warn you against my brother. A word tothe wise....           N'est-ce pas?      Orison said. Well, Buster, here's a word to thefoolish. Get lost.     Kraft Gerding bowed and flashed his gelid smile. Until we meet again?     I'll hold my breath, Orison promised. The elevator is just behindyou. Push a button, will you? And      bon voyage     .     Kraft Gerding called the elevator, marched aboard, favored Orison witha cold, quick bow, then disappeared into the mysterious heights abovefifth floor.     First the unspeakable Auga Vingt, then the obnoxious Kraft Gerding.Surely, Orison thought, recovering the      Wall Street Journal     from herwastebasket and smoothing it, no one would convert a major Midwesternbank into a lunatic asylum. How else, though, could the behaviorof the Earmuffs be explained? Could madmen run a bank? Why not, shethought. History is rich in examples of madmen running nations, banksand all. She began again to read the paper into the microphone. If shefinished early enough, she might get a chance to prowl those Off-Limitsupper floors.     Half an hour further into the paper, Orison jumped, startled by thesudden buzz of her telephone. She picked it up.       Wanji e-Kal, Datto.Dink ger-Dink d'summa.          Orison scribbled down this intelligence in bemused Gregg beforereplying, I'm a local girl. Try me in English.     Oh. Hi, Miss McCall, the voice said. Guess I goofed. I'm in kindaclutch. This is Wanji. I got a kite for Mr. Dink Gerding. If you seehim, tell him the escudo green is pale. Got that, doll?     Yes, Mr. Wanji. I'll tell Mr. Gerding. Orison clicked the phone down.What now, Mata Hari? she asked herself. What was the curious languageMr. Wanji had used? She'd have to report the message to Washington bytonight's pillow, and let the polyglots of Treasury Intelligence puzzleit out. Meanwhile, she thought, scooting her chair back from her desk,she had a vague excuse to prowl the upper floors. The Earmuffs couldonly fire her.     Orison folded the paper and put it in the Out basket. Someone wouldbe here in a moment with something new to read. She'd best get going.The elevator? No. The operators had surely been instructed to keep heroff the upstairs floors.     But the building had a stairway.      III     The door on the sixth floor was locked. Orison went on up the stairs toseven. The glass of the door there was painted black on the inside, andthe landing was cellar-dark. Orison closed her eyes for a moment. Therewas a curious sound. The buzzing of a million bees, barely within thefringes of her hearing. Somehow, a very pleasant sound.     She opened her eyes and tried the knob. The door opened.     Orison was blinded by the lights, brilliant as noonday sun. The roomextended through the entire seventh floor, its windows boarded shut,its ceiling a mass of fluorescent lamps. Set about the floor weregalvanized steel tanks, rectangular and a little bigger than bathtubs.Orison counted the rows of tanks. Twelve rows, nine tiers. One hundredand eight tanks. She walked closer. The tubs were laced together bystrands of angel-hair, delicate white lattices scintillating withpink. She walked to the nearest of the tubs and looked in. It was halffull of a greenish fluid, seething with tiny pink bubbles. For a momentOrison thought she saw Benjamin Franklin winking up at her from theliquid. Then she screamed.       The pink bubbles, the tiny flesh-colored flecks glinting light fromthe spun-sugar bridges between the tanks, were spiders. Millionsupon millions of spiders, each the size of a mustard-seed; crawling,leaping, swinging, spinning webs, seething in the hundred tanks. Orisonput her hands over her ears and screamed again, backing toward thestairway door.     Into a pair of arms.     I had hoped you'd be happy here, Miss McCall, Kraft Gerding said.Orison struggled to release herself. She broke free only to haveher wrists seized by two Earmuffs that had appeared with the elderGerding. It seems that our Pandora doesn't care for spiders, hesaid. Really, Miss McCall, our little pets are quite harmless. Werewe to toss you into one of these tanks.... Orison struggled againsther two      sumo     -sized captors, whose combined weights exceeded hers bysome quarter-ton, without doing more than lifting her feet from thefloor. ... your flesh would be unharmed, though they spun and dartedall around you. Our Microfabridae are petrovorous, Miss McCall. Ofcourse, once they discovered your teeth, and through them a skeleton ofcalcium, a delicacy they find most toothsome, you'd be filleted withinminutes.     Elder Compassion wouldn't like your harming the girl, Sire, one ofthe earmuffed      sumo     -wrestlers protested.     Elder Compassion has no rank, Kraft Gerding said. Miss McCall, youmust tell me what you were doing here, or I'll toss you to the spiders.     Dink ... Dink! Orison shouted.     My beloved younger brother is otherwise engaged than in the rescue ofdamsels in distress, Kraft said. Someone, after all, has to mind thebank.     I came to bring a message to Dink, Orison said. Let me go, youacromegalic apes!     The message? Kraft Gerding demanded.     Something about escudo green. Put me down!  Suddenly she was dropped. Her mountainous keepers were on the floor asthough struck by lightning, their arms thrown out before them, theirfaces abject against the floor. Kraft Gerding was slowly loweringhimself to one knee. Dink had entered the spider-room. Withoutquestions, he strode between the shiko-ing Earmuffs and put his armsaround Orison.     They can't harm you, he said. She turned to press her face againsthis chest. You're all right, child. Breathe deep, swallow, and turnyour brain back on. All right, now?     All right, she said, still trembling. They were going to throw me tothe spiders.     Kraft told you that? Dink Gerding released her and turned to thekneeling man. Stand up, Elder Brother.     I....     Dink brought his right fist up from hip-level, crashing it into Kraft'sjaw. Kraft Gerding joined the Earmuffs on the floor.     If you'd care to stand again, Elder Brother, you may attempt torecover your dignity without regard for the difference in our rank.Kraft struggled to one knee and remained kneeling, gazing up at Dinkthrough half-closed eyes. No? Then get out of here, all of you.      Samma!          Kraft Gerding arose, stared for a moment at Dink and Orison, then, withthe merest hint of a bow, led his two giant Earmuffs to the elevator.     I wish you hadn't come up here, Orison, Dink said. Why did you doit?     Have you read the story of Bluebeard? Orison asked. She stood closeto Dink, keeping her eyes on the nearest spidertank. I had to seewhat it was you kept up here so secretly, what it was that I wasforbidden to see. My excuse was to have been that I was looking foryou, to deliver a message from Mr. Wanji. He said I was to tell youthat the escudo green is pale.     You're too curious, and Wanji is too careless, Dink said. Now, whatis this thing you have about spiders?     I've always been terrified of them, Orison said. When I was a littlegirl, I had to stay upstairs all day one Sunday because there was aspider hanging from his thread in the stairway. I waited until Dad camehome and took it down with a broom. Even then, I didn't have appetitefor supper.     Strange, Dink said. He walked over to the nearest tank and pluckedone of the tiny pink creatures from a web-bridge. This is no spider,Orison, he said.     She backed away from Dink Gerding and the minuscule creature he cuppedin the palm of his hand. These are Microfabridae, more nearly relatedto shellfish than to spiders, he said. They're stone-and-metaleaters. They literally couldn't harm a fly. Look at it, Orison. Heextended his palm. Orison forced herself to look. The little creature,flesh-colored against his flesh, was nearly invisible, scuttling aroundthe bowl of his hand. Pretty little fellow, isn't he? Dink asked.Here. You hold him.     I'd rather not, she protested.     I'd be happier if you did, Dink said.  Orison extended her hand as into a furnace. Dink brushed theMicrofabridus from his palm to hers. It felt crisp and hard, likea legged grain of sand. Dink took a magnifier from his pocket andunfolded it, to hold it over Orison's palm.     He's like a baby crawdad, Orison said.     A sort of crustacean, Dink agreed. We use them in a commercialprocess we're developing. That's why we keep this floor closed off andsecret. We don't have a patent on the use of Microfabridae, you see.     What do they do? Orison asked.     That's still a secret, Dink said, smiling. I can't tell even youthat, not yet, even though you're my most confidential secretary.     What's he doing now? Orison asked, watching the Microfabridus,perched up on the rear four of his six microscopic legs, scratchingagainst her high-school class-ring with his tiny chelae.     They like gold, Dink explained, peering across her shoulder,comfortably close. They're attracted to it by a chemical tropism, aschildren are attracted to candy. Toss him back into his tank, Orison.We'd better get you down where you belong.     Orison brushed the midget crustacean off her finger into the nearesttank, where he joined the busy boil of his fellows. She felt her ring.It was pitted where the Microfabridus had been nibbling. Strange,using crawdads in a bank, she said. She stood silent for a moment. Ithought I heard music, she said. I heard it when I came in. Somethinglike the sighing of wind in winter trees.     That's the hymn of the Microfabridae, Dink said. They all singtogether while they work, a chorus of some twenty million voices. Hetook her arm. If you listen very carefully, you'll find the song theselittle workers sing the most beautiful music in the world.     Orison closed her eyes, leaning back into Dink's arms, listening tothe music that seemed on the outermost edge of her hearing. Wildness,storm and danger were its theme, counterpointed by promises of peaceand harbor. She heard the wash of giant waves in the song, the crashof breakers against granite, cold and insatiable. And behind this, thequiet of sheltered tide-pools, the soft lub of sea-arms landlocked.It's an ancient song, Dink said. The Microfabridae have beensinging it for a million years. He released her, and opened awood-covered wooden box. He scooped up a cupful of the sand inside.Hold out your hands, he told Orison. He filled them with the sand.Throw our singers some supper for their song, he said.     Orison went with her cupped hands to the nearest tank and sprinkled themineral fishfood around inside it. The Microfabridae leaped from theliquid like miniature porpoises, seizing the grains of sand in mid-air.They're so very strange, Orison said. At the bottom of the tank shethought she saw Ben Franklin again, winking at her through the bubblinglife. Nonsense, she thought, brushing her hands.  ","Mr. Wanji is the Vice-President of the bank and the first person Orison meets. His fashion choice is not the same as a public picture banker. When she first applies for her job, he wears a hound’s-tooth check suit and a scarlet vest. He also wears a pair of furry green earmuffs even though it is not cold. To top off his outfit, he matches it with a pair of rough-leather desert boots. Orison does not know his ethnicity, but she guesses if he is Oriental based on his name. He speaks strangely too, and Orison finds herself unable to understand him unless he says in plain English. It is a very casual form of speech with lots of slang mixed in. Later, when he calls Orison, he speaks in a completely different language. Mr. Wanji is loud and carefree, as he did not hesitate to give Orison more money than supposedly her last job paid. When she asks him about tax numbers and social security information, he waves it off as if it is nothing. He is very carefree, too, sending Orison to deliver a message to Dink when she is supposed not ever be allowed to the upper floors. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER     BY KEITH LAUMER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He was as ancient as time—and as strange as     his own frightful battle against incredible odds!      I     In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggageand took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottomcover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distanceWashington number and waited half a minute for the connection.     Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on. A thin hum sounded on thewire as the scrambler went into operation.     Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boysare supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in thisdamned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the restof the afternoon.     I want to see results, the thin voice came back over the filteredhum of the jamming device. You spent a week with Grammond—I can'twait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressingme.     Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've gotsome answers to go with the questions?     I'm an appointive official, Fred said sharply. But never mindthat. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave. Project Officer for thehyperwave program—he's been on my neck day and night. I can't say Iblame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secretproject, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau—     Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all.Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man: now letme do it my way.     I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigatorcould be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your homearea—     You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. Isometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this—     You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'mwarning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang!  Tremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Streetand turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBYMUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, aheavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behindan ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to theopposite corner of his mouth.     Don't I know you, mister? he said. His soft voice carried a note ofauthority.     Tremaine took off his hat. Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while,though.     The policeman got to his feet. Jimmy, he said, Jimmy Tremaine. Hecame to the counter and put out his hand. How are you, Jimmy? Whatbrings you back to the boondocks?     Let's go somewhere and sit down, Jess.     In a back room Tremaine said, To everybody but you this is just avisit to the old home town. Between us, there's more.     Jess nodded. I heard you were with the guv'ment.     It won't take long to tell; we don't know much yet. Tremaine coveredthe discovery of the powerful unidentified interference on thehigh-security hyperwave band, the discovery that each transmissionproduced not one but a pattern of fixes on the point of origin. Hepassed a sheet of paper across the table. It showed a set of concentriccircles, overlapped by a similar group of rings.     I think what we're getting is an echo effect from each of thesepoints of intersection. The rings themselves represent the diffractionpattern—     Hold it, Jimmy. To me it just looks like a beer ad. I'll take yourword for it.     The point is this, Jess: we think we've got it narrowed down to thissection. I'm not sure of a damn thing, but I think that transmitter'snear here. Now, have you got any ideas?     That's a tough one, Jimmy. This is where I should come up with thenews that Old Man Whatchamacallit's got an attic full of gear he saysis a time machine. Trouble is, folks around here haven't even takento TV. They figure we should be content with radio, like the Lordintended.     I didn't expect any easy answers, Jess. But I was hoping maybe you hadsomething ...     Course, said Jess, there's always Mr. Bram ...     Mr. Bram, repeated Tremaine. Is he still around? I remember him as ahundred years old when I was kid.     Still just the same, Jimmy. Comes in town maybe once a week, buys hisgroceries and hikes back out to his place by the river.     Well, what about him?     Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A littletouched in the head.     There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember, Tremainesaid. I always liked him. One time he tried to teach me somethingI've forgotten. Wanted me to come out to his place and he'd teach me.I never did go. We kids used to play in the caves near his place, andsometimes he gave us apples.  I've never seen any harm in Bram, said Jess. But you know how thistown is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bramhas blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and hetalks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like anordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right.But we never did know where he came from.     How long's he lived here in Elsby?     Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all aboutancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. Shewas kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that sameold place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she diedfive years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town everyWednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway.     Oh? Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. What happenedthen?     You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup allover again.     I remember Soup, Tremaine said. He and his bunch used to come inthe drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid aroundwith me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of theprescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise cain in theother drug store....     Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Himand a bunch of his pals went out to Bram's place one night and set iton fire.     What was the idea of that?     Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car waspassing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up herefor six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tykeroutine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are backin the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the daythey'll make jail age.     Why Bram? Tremaine persisted. As far as I know, he never had anydealings to speak of with anybody here in town.     Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy, Jess chuckled. You never knewabout Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll.     Tremaine shook his head.     Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retiredby the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and inher day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. Iremember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper.Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used tothink she was some kind of princess....     What about her and Bram? A romance?  Jess rocked his chair back on two legs, looked at the ceiling,frowning. This would ha' been about nineteen-oh-one. I was no more'neight years old. Miss Linda was maybe in her twenties—and that madeher an old maid, in those times. The word got out she was settingher cap for Bram. He was a good-looking young feller then, over sixfoot, of course, broad backed, curly yellow hair—and a stranger toboot. Like I said, Linda Carroll wanted nothin to do with the localbucks. There was a big shindy planned. Now, you know Bram was funnyabout any kind of socializing; never would go any place at night. Butthis was a Sunday afternoon and someways or other they got Bram downthere; and Miss Linda made her play, right there in front of the town,practically. Just before sundown they went off together in that fancyshay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished offher reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It wasten years 'fore she even landed the teaching job. By that time, she wasalready old. And nobody was ever fool enough to mention the name Bramin front of her.     Tremaine got to his feet. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your earsand eyes open for anything that might build into a lead on this, Jess.Meantime, I'm just a tourist, seeing the sights.     What about that gear of yours? Didn't you say you had some kind ofdetector you were going to set up?     I've got an oversized suitcase, Tremaine said. I'll be setting it upin my room over at the hotel.     When's this bootleg station supposed to broadcast again?     After dark. I'm working on a few ideas. It might be an infinitelyrepeating logarithmic sequence, based on—     Hold it, Jimmy. You're over my head. Jess got to his feet. Let meknow if you want anything. And by the way— he winked broadly—Ialways did know who busted Soup Gaskin's nose and took out his frontteeth.      II     Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby TownHall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellowautumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up thesteps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor,a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door saidMUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD. Tremaine opened the door and went in.     A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder atTremaine.     We're closed, he said.     I won't be a minute, Tremaine said. Just want to check on when theBram property changed hands last.     The man turned to Tremaine, pushing a drawer shut with his hip. Bram?He dead?     Nothing like that. I just want to know when he bought the place.     The man came over to the counter, eyeing Tremaine. He ain't going tosell, mister, if that's what you want to know.     I want to know when he bought.     The man hesitated, closed his jaw hard. Come back tomorrow, he said.     Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. I was hopingto save a trip. He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw.A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man's eyes darted towardit. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly.     See what I can do, he said.     It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table wherea two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated aline written in faded ink:     May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid. NW QuarterSection 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.)     Translated, what does that mean? said Tremaine.     That's the ledger for 1901; means Bram bought a quarter section on thenineteenth of May. You want me to look up the deed?     No, thanks, Tremaine said. That's all I needed. He turned back tothe door.     What's up, mister? the clerk called after him. Bram in some kind oftrouble?     No. No trouble.     The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. Nineteen-oh-one,he said. I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must bedern near to ninety years old. Spry for that age.     I guess you're right.     The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. Lots of funny stories aboutold Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises andlights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place.     I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say?     Maybe so. The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look.There's one story that's not superstition....     Tremaine waited.     You—uh—paying anything for information?     Now why would I do that? Tremaine reached for the door knob.     The clerk shrugged. Thought I'd ask. Anyway—I can swear to this.Nobody in this town's ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup.  Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stuccofacade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed apaper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint.     You'll find back to nineteen-forty here, the librarian said. Theolder are there in the shelves.     I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far.     The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. You have to handlethese old papers carefully.     I'll be extremely careful. The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafedthrough it, muttering.     What date was it you wanted?     Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth.     The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. That's it, shesaid. These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in thedark. But they're still flimsy, mind you.     I'll remember. The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the frontpage. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-AmericanExposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly.     On page four, under a column headed      County Notes     he saw the name Bram:     Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey ofElsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze afew head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, hasbeen a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the pastmonths.     May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year?     The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read theheads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back toher desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caughthis eye:     A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were muchalarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning andthunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pinewoods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount oftimber and threatened the house before burning itself out alongthe river.     The librarian was at Tremaine's side. I have to close the library now.You'll have to come back tomorrow.     Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on inwindows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against acold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel.     A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faintsqueal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forwardof the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stoppedshort, stared after the car.     Damn! he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yankedopen the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headednorth after the police car.  Two miles into the dark hills north of the Elsby city limits, Tremainerounded a curve. The police car was parked on the shoulder beside thehighway just ahead. He pulled off the road ahead of it and walked back.The door opened. A tall figure stepped out.     What's your problem, mister? a harsh voice drawled.     What's the matter? Run out of signal?     What's it to you, mister?     Are you boys in touch with Grammond on the car set?     We could be.     Mind if I have a word with him? My name's Tremaine.     Oh, said the cop, you're the big shot from Washington. He shiftedchewing tobacco to the other side of his jaw. Sure, you can talk tohim. He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mikebefore handing it to Tremaine.     The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. What's your beef,Tremaine?     I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gavethe word, Grammond.     That was before I knew your Washington stuffed shirts were holding outon me.     It's nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you weredoing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle.     Grammond cursed. I could have put my men in the town and taken itapart brick by brick in the time—     That's just what I don't want. If our bird sees cops cruising, he'llgo underground.     You've got it all figured, I see. I'm just the dumb hick you boys usefor the spade work, that it?     Pull your lip back in. You've given me the confirmation I needed.     Confirmation, hell! All I know is that somebody somewhere is punchingout a signal. For all I know, it's forty midgets on bicycles, pedallingall over the damned state. I've got fixes in every county—     The smallest hyperwave transmitter Uncle Sam knows how to build weighsthree tons, said Tremaine. Bicycles are out.     Grammond snorted. Okay, Tremaine, he said. You're the boy with allthe answers. But if you get in trouble, don't call me; call Washington.  Back in his room, Tremaine put through a call.     It looks like Grammond's not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred.Tell him if he queers this—     I don't know but what he might have something, the voice came backover the filtered hum. Suppose he smokes them out—     Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginiamoonshiners.     Don't tell me my job, Tremaine! the voice snapped. And don't try outyour famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation.     Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket. Tremainehung up the telephone, went to the dresser and poured two fingers ofScotch into a water glass. He tossed it down, then pulled on his coatand left the hotel.     He walked south two blocks, turned left down a twilit side street. Hewalked slowly, looking at the weathered frame houses. Number 89 was aonce-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, itswindows squares of sad yellow light. He pushed through the gate in theancient picket fence, mounted the porch steps and pushed the buttonbeside the door, a dark panel of cracked varnish. It was a long minutebefore the door opened. A tall woman with white hair and a fine-bonedface looked at him coolly.     Miss Carroll, Tremaine said. You won't remember me, but I—     There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James, MissCarroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto.Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremainethought, startled.     I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll, he said.     Come in. She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with thefurnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took astraight chair across the room from him.     You look very well, James, she said, nodding. I'm pleased to seethat you've amounted to something.     Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid.     You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man.     I often wondered why you didn't leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, evenas a boy, that you were a woman of great ability.     Why did you come today, James? asked Miss Carroll.     I.... Tremaine started. He looked at the old lady. I want someinformation. This is an important matter. May I rely on yourdiscretion?     Of course.     How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby?  Miss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. Will what I tell you beused against him?     There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needsto be in the national interest.     I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,James. I distrust these glib phrases.     I always liked Mr. Bram, said Tremaine. I'm not out to hurt him.     Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of theyear.     What does he do for a living?     I have no idea.     Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolatedpiece of country? What's his story?     I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story.     You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or hislast?     That is his only name. Just ... Bram.     You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything—     A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it awayimpatiently.     I'm an unfulfilled old maid, James, she said. You must forgive me.     Tremaine stood up. I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grillyou. Miss Carroll. You've been very kind. I had no right....     Miss Carroll shook her head. I knew you as a boy, James. I havecomplete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram willbe helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.She paused. Tremaine waited.     Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go withhim to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale.He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, ina cave beneath his house.     Miss Carroll drew a deep breath and went on. I was torn between pityand horror. I begged him to take me back. He refused. Miss Carrolltwisted her fingers together, her eyes fixed on the long past. Whenwe reached the house, he ran to the kitchen. He lit a lamp and threwopen a concealed panel. There were stairs. He went down ... and left methere alone.     I waited all that night in the carriage. At dawn he emerged. He triedto speak to me but I would not listen.     He took a locket from his neck and put it into my hand. He told me tokeep it and, if ever I should need him, to press it between my fingersin a secret way ... and he would come. I told him that until he wouldconsent to see a doctor, I did not wish him to call. He drove me home.He never called again.     This locket, said Tremaine, do you still have it?     Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted asilver disc on a fine golden chain. You see what a foolish old woman Iam, James.     May I see it?     She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. I'd like toexamine this more closely, he said. May I take it with me?     Miss Carroll nodded.     There is one other thing, she said, perhaps quite meaningless....     I'd be grateful for any lead.     Bram fears the thunder.      III     As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a carpulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine andasked:     Any luck, Jimmy?     Tremaine shook his head. I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's adud, I'm afraid.     Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm gettinga little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around?     Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark.     As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, Jimmy, what's this aboutState Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone handfrom what you were saying to me.     I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead ofme. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out.     Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'mwondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ringworking—     We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind thisand neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ...and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enoughmistakes in the last few years; I don't want to see this botched.     The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west asJess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old treesbefore the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men gotout, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on thedoor. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, andthe paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set upa strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up anempty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. This don't look good, hesaid. You suppose those fool boys...?     He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned toTremaine. Maybe this is more than kid stuff, he said. You carry agun?     In the car.     Better get it.     Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchenJess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty platelay on the oilcloth-covered table.     This place is empty, he said. Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week.     Not a very cozy— Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in thedistance.     I'm getting jumpy, said Jess. Dern hounddog, I guess.     A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. What the devil's that?Tremaine said.     Jess shone the light on the floor. Look here, he said. The ring oflight showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor.     That's blood, Jess.... Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broadslabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains.     Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen.     It's a trail. Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.It ended suddenly near the wall.     What do you make of it. Jimmy?     A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jessstared at Tremaine. I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,he said. You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playingtricks?     I think. Tremaine said, that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a fewquestions.  At the station Jess led Tremaine to a cell where a lanky teen-age boylounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mopof greased hair.     Hull, this is Mr. Tremaine, said Jess. He took out a heavy key, swungthe cell door open. He wants to talk to you.     I ain't done nothin, Hull said sullenly. There ain't nothin wrongwith burnin out a Commie, is there?     Bram's a Commie, is he? Tremaine said softly. How'd you find thatout, Hull?     He's a foreigner, ain't he? the youth shot back. Besides, weheard....     What did you hear?     They're lookin for the spies.     Who's looking for spies?     Cops.     Who says so?     The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes tothe corner of the cell. Cops was talkin about 'em, he said.     Spill it, Hull, the policeman said. Mr. Tremaine hasn't got allnight.     They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They calledme over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em getthem spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people aroundhers.     And you mentioned Bram?     The boy darted another look at Tremaine. They said they figured thespies was out north of town. Well, Bram's a foreigner, and he's outthat way, ain't he?     Anything else?     The boy looked at his feet.  ","With pressure coming from Fred, who elected him into this investigation, Tremaine first goes to the police station to meet his friend who works here so that he can get familiar with the town and learn about unusual activities and strange events if there are any. Jess, the police officer, is surprised to see Tremaine coming back to this town. Tremaine asks Jess if he has any idea of a transmitter in this area, however, Jess does not seem really interested in the transmitters as he think drawing is a beer advertisement. Afterwards, Jess tells Tremaine about the old man Bram who seems to have lived in this town forever. He is the mystery man of the town. As a foreigner who no one knows much about, he seems strange. Knowing that Bram has lived on the same property since as long as anyone could remember, he goes to the Municipal Office of Records to check the last time that there was a change of hands on Bram’s property.  Then Tremaine goes to the Elsby Public Library, checking for the newspapers around the time when Bram bought the property. On his way back to the hotel that he is staying at, he notices Grammond’s men. But Tremaine has told Grammond to keep his men away from this town for now. Apparently, Grammond didn’t listen, Tremaine is afraid that with the police searching around the town, the person they are looking for will sense that something is off, and will hide before they are able to find him/her.Desiring to learn more about this old man, Jess has also mentioned to Tremaine that Linda Carroll had been with Bram for a while when Carroll was in her twenties, which is a few decades ago. So then Tremaine goes to Carroll’s house hoping to learn more about the mysterious man Bram. Then after he left Carroll’s house, he goes to Bram’s house together with Jess. Shots were fired, the house is empty, but Bram is not there. They go straight to Hull Gaskin to ask questions since he did set fire on Bram’s place before. "
"What information has Tremaine gathered about Bram? </s>     THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER     BY KEITH LAUMER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He was as ancient as time—and as strange as     his own frightful battle against incredible odds!      I     In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggageand took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottomcover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distanceWashington number and waited half a minute for the connection.     Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on. A thin hum sounded on thewire as the scrambler went into operation.     Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boysare supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in thisdamned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the restof the afternoon.     I want to see results, the thin voice came back over the filteredhum of the jamming device. You spent a week with Grammond—I can'twait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressingme.     Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've gotsome answers to go with the questions?     I'm an appointive official, Fred said sharply. But never mindthat. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave. Project Officer for thehyperwave program—he's been on my neck day and night. I can't say Iblame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secretproject, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau—     Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all.Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man: now letme do it my way.     I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigatorcould be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your homearea—     You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. Isometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this—     You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'mwarning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang!  Tremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Streetand turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBYMUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, aheavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behindan ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to theopposite corner of his mouth.     Don't I know you, mister? he said. His soft voice carried a note ofauthority.     Tremaine took off his hat. Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while,though.     The policeman got to his feet. Jimmy, he said, Jimmy Tremaine. Hecame to the counter and put out his hand. How are you, Jimmy? Whatbrings you back to the boondocks?     Let's go somewhere and sit down, Jess.     In a back room Tremaine said, To everybody but you this is just avisit to the old home town. Between us, there's more.     Jess nodded. I heard you were with the guv'ment.     It won't take long to tell; we don't know much yet. Tremaine coveredthe discovery of the powerful unidentified interference on thehigh-security hyperwave band, the discovery that each transmissionproduced not one but a pattern of fixes on the point of origin. Hepassed a sheet of paper across the table. It showed a set of concentriccircles, overlapped by a similar group of rings.     I think what we're getting is an echo effect from each of thesepoints of intersection. The rings themselves represent the diffractionpattern—     Hold it, Jimmy. To me it just looks like a beer ad. I'll take yourword for it.     The point is this, Jess: we think we've got it narrowed down to thissection. I'm not sure of a damn thing, but I think that transmitter'snear here. Now, have you got any ideas?     That's a tough one, Jimmy. This is where I should come up with thenews that Old Man Whatchamacallit's got an attic full of gear he saysis a time machine. Trouble is, folks around here haven't even takento TV. They figure we should be content with radio, like the Lordintended.     I didn't expect any easy answers, Jess. But I was hoping maybe you hadsomething ...     Course, said Jess, there's always Mr. Bram ...     Mr. Bram, repeated Tremaine. Is he still around? I remember him as ahundred years old when I was kid.     Still just the same, Jimmy. Comes in town maybe once a week, buys hisgroceries and hikes back out to his place by the river.     Well, what about him?     Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A littletouched in the head.     There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember, Tremainesaid. I always liked him. One time he tried to teach me somethingI've forgotten. Wanted me to come out to his place and he'd teach me.I never did go. We kids used to play in the caves near his place, andsometimes he gave us apples.  I've never seen any harm in Bram, said Jess. But you know how thistown is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bramhas blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and hetalks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like anordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right.But we never did know where he came from.     How long's he lived here in Elsby?     Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all aboutancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. Shewas kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that sameold place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she diedfive years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town everyWednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway.     Oh? Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. What happenedthen?     You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup allover again.     I remember Soup, Tremaine said. He and his bunch used to come inthe drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid aroundwith me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of theprescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise cain in theother drug store....     Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Himand a bunch of his pals went out to Bram's place one night and set iton fire.     What was the idea of that?     Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car waspassing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up herefor six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tykeroutine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are backin the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the daythey'll make jail age.     Why Bram? Tremaine persisted. As far as I know, he never had anydealings to speak of with anybody here in town.     Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy, Jess chuckled. You never knewabout Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll.     Tremaine shook his head.     Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retiredby the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and inher day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. Iremember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper.Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used tothink she was some kind of princess....     What about her and Bram? A romance?  Jess rocked his chair back on two legs, looked at the ceiling,frowning. This would ha' been about nineteen-oh-one. I was no more'neight years old. Miss Linda was maybe in her twenties—and that madeher an old maid, in those times. The word got out she was settingher cap for Bram. He was a good-looking young feller then, over sixfoot, of course, broad backed, curly yellow hair—and a stranger toboot. Like I said, Linda Carroll wanted nothin to do with the localbucks. There was a big shindy planned. Now, you know Bram was funnyabout any kind of socializing; never would go any place at night. Butthis was a Sunday afternoon and someways or other they got Bram downthere; and Miss Linda made her play, right there in front of the town,practically. Just before sundown they went off together in that fancyshay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished offher reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It wasten years 'fore she even landed the teaching job. By that time, she wasalready old. And nobody was ever fool enough to mention the name Bramin front of her.     Tremaine got to his feet. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your earsand eyes open for anything that might build into a lead on this, Jess.Meantime, I'm just a tourist, seeing the sights.     What about that gear of yours? Didn't you say you had some kind ofdetector you were going to set up?     I've got an oversized suitcase, Tremaine said. I'll be setting it upin my room over at the hotel.     When's this bootleg station supposed to broadcast again?     After dark. I'm working on a few ideas. It might be an infinitelyrepeating logarithmic sequence, based on—     Hold it, Jimmy. You're over my head. Jess got to his feet. Let meknow if you want anything. And by the way— he winked broadly—Ialways did know who busted Soup Gaskin's nose and took out his frontteeth.      II     Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby TownHall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellowautumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up thesteps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor,a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door saidMUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD. Tremaine opened the door and went in.     A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder atTremaine.     We're closed, he said.     I won't be a minute, Tremaine said. Just want to check on when theBram property changed hands last.     The man turned to Tremaine, pushing a drawer shut with his hip. Bram?He dead?     Nothing like that. I just want to know when he bought the place.     The man came over to the counter, eyeing Tremaine. He ain't going tosell, mister, if that's what you want to know.     I want to know when he bought.     The man hesitated, closed his jaw hard. Come back tomorrow, he said.     Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. I was hopingto save a trip. He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw.A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man's eyes darted towardit. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly.     See what I can do, he said.     It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table wherea two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated aline written in faded ink:     May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid. NW QuarterSection 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.)     Translated, what does that mean? said Tremaine.     That's the ledger for 1901; means Bram bought a quarter section on thenineteenth of May. You want me to look up the deed?     No, thanks, Tremaine said. That's all I needed. He turned back tothe door.     What's up, mister? the clerk called after him. Bram in some kind oftrouble?     No. No trouble.     The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. Nineteen-oh-one,he said. I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must bedern near to ninety years old. Spry for that age.     I guess you're right.     The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. Lots of funny stories aboutold Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises andlights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place.     I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say?     Maybe so. The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look.There's one story that's not superstition....     Tremaine waited.     You—uh—paying anything for information?     Now why would I do that? Tremaine reached for the door knob.     The clerk shrugged. Thought I'd ask. Anyway—I can swear to this.Nobody in this town's ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup.  Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stuccofacade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed apaper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint.     You'll find back to nineteen-forty here, the librarian said. Theolder are there in the shelves.     I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far.     The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. You have to handlethese old papers carefully.     I'll be extremely careful. The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafedthrough it, muttering.     What date was it you wanted?     Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth.     The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. That's it, shesaid. These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in thedark. But they're still flimsy, mind you.     I'll remember. The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the frontpage. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-AmericanExposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly.     On page four, under a column headed      County Notes     he saw the name Bram:     Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey ofElsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze afew head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, hasbeen a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the pastmonths.     May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year?     The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read theheads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back toher desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caughthis eye:     A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were muchalarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning andthunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pinewoods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount oftimber and threatened the house before burning itself out alongthe river.     The librarian was at Tremaine's side. I have to close the library now.You'll have to come back tomorrow.     Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on inwindows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against acold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel.     A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faintsqueal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forwardof the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stoppedshort, stared after the car.     Damn! he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yankedopen the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headednorth after the police car.  Two miles into the dark hills north of the Elsby city limits, Tremainerounded a curve. The police car was parked on the shoulder beside thehighway just ahead. He pulled off the road ahead of it and walked back.The door opened. A tall figure stepped out.     What's your problem, mister? a harsh voice drawled.     What's the matter? Run out of signal?     What's it to you, mister?     Are you boys in touch with Grammond on the car set?     We could be.     Mind if I have a word with him? My name's Tremaine.     Oh, said the cop, you're the big shot from Washington. He shiftedchewing tobacco to the other side of his jaw. Sure, you can talk tohim. He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mikebefore handing it to Tremaine.     The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. What's your beef,Tremaine?     I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gavethe word, Grammond.     That was before I knew your Washington stuffed shirts were holding outon me.     It's nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you weredoing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle.     Grammond cursed. I could have put my men in the town and taken itapart brick by brick in the time—     That's just what I don't want. If our bird sees cops cruising, he'llgo underground.     You've got it all figured, I see. I'm just the dumb hick you boys usefor the spade work, that it?     Pull your lip back in. You've given me the confirmation I needed.     Confirmation, hell! All I know is that somebody somewhere is punchingout a signal. For all I know, it's forty midgets on bicycles, pedallingall over the damned state. I've got fixes in every county—     The smallest hyperwave transmitter Uncle Sam knows how to build weighsthree tons, said Tremaine. Bicycles are out.     Grammond snorted. Okay, Tremaine, he said. You're the boy with allthe answers. But if you get in trouble, don't call me; call Washington.  Back in his room, Tremaine put through a call.     It looks like Grammond's not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred.Tell him if he queers this—     I don't know but what he might have something, the voice came backover the filtered hum. Suppose he smokes them out—     Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginiamoonshiners.     Don't tell me my job, Tremaine! the voice snapped. And don't try outyour famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation.     Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket. Tremainehung up the telephone, went to the dresser and poured two fingers ofScotch into a water glass. He tossed it down, then pulled on his coatand left the hotel.     He walked south two blocks, turned left down a twilit side street. Hewalked slowly, looking at the weathered frame houses. Number 89 was aonce-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, itswindows squares of sad yellow light. He pushed through the gate in theancient picket fence, mounted the porch steps and pushed the buttonbeside the door, a dark panel of cracked varnish. It was a long minutebefore the door opened. A tall woman with white hair and a fine-bonedface looked at him coolly.     Miss Carroll, Tremaine said. You won't remember me, but I—     There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James, MissCarroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto.Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremainethought, startled.     I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll, he said.     Come in. She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with thefurnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took astraight chair across the room from him.     You look very well, James, she said, nodding. I'm pleased to seethat you've amounted to something.     Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid.     You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man.     I often wondered why you didn't leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, evenas a boy, that you were a woman of great ability.     Why did you come today, James? asked Miss Carroll.     I.... Tremaine started. He looked at the old lady. I want someinformation. This is an important matter. May I rely on yourdiscretion?     Of course.     How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby?  Miss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. Will what I tell you beused against him?     There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needsto be in the national interest.     I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,James. I distrust these glib phrases.     I always liked Mr. Bram, said Tremaine. I'm not out to hurt him.     Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of theyear.     What does he do for a living?     I have no idea.     Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolatedpiece of country? What's his story?     I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story.     You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or hislast?     That is his only name. Just ... Bram.     You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything—     A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it awayimpatiently.     I'm an unfulfilled old maid, James, she said. You must forgive me.     Tremaine stood up. I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grillyou. Miss Carroll. You've been very kind. I had no right....     Miss Carroll shook her head. I knew you as a boy, James. I havecomplete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram willbe helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.She paused. Tremaine waited.     Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go withhim to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale.He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, ina cave beneath his house.     Miss Carroll drew a deep breath and went on. I was torn between pityand horror. I begged him to take me back. He refused. Miss Carrolltwisted her fingers together, her eyes fixed on the long past. Whenwe reached the house, he ran to the kitchen. He lit a lamp and threwopen a concealed panel. There were stairs. He went down ... and left methere alone.     I waited all that night in the carriage. At dawn he emerged. He triedto speak to me but I would not listen.     He took a locket from his neck and put it into my hand. He told me tokeep it and, if ever I should need him, to press it between my fingersin a secret way ... and he would come. I told him that until he wouldconsent to see a doctor, I did not wish him to call. He drove me home.He never called again.     This locket, said Tremaine, do you still have it?     Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted asilver disc on a fine golden chain. You see what a foolish old woman Iam, James.     May I see it?     She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. I'd like toexamine this more closely, he said. May I take it with me?     Miss Carroll nodded.     There is one other thing, she said, perhaps quite meaningless....     I'd be grateful for any lead.     Bram fears the thunder.      III     As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a carpulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine andasked:     Any luck, Jimmy?     Tremaine shook his head. I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's adud, I'm afraid.     Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm gettinga little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around?     Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark.     As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, Jimmy, what's this aboutState Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone handfrom what you were saying to me.     I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead ofme. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out.     Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'mwondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ringworking—     We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind thisand neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ...and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enoughmistakes in the last few years; I don't want to see this botched.     The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west asJess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old treesbefore the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men gotout, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on thedoor. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, andthe paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set upa strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up anempty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. This don't look good, hesaid. You suppose those fool boys...?     He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned toTremaine. Maybe this is more than kid stuff, he said. You carry agun?     In the car.     Better get it.     Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchenJess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty platelay on the oilcloth-covered table.     This place is empty, he said. Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week.     Not a very cozy— Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in thedistance.     I'm getting jumpy, said Jess. Dern hounddog, I guess.     A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. What the devil's that?Tremaine said.     Jess shone the light on the floor. Look here, he said. The ring oflight showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor.     That's blood, Jess.... Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broadslabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains.     Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen.     It's a trail. Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.It ended suddenly near the wall.     What do you make of it. Jimmy?     A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jessstared at Tremaine. I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,he said. You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playingtricks?     I think. Tremaine said, that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a fewquestions.  At the station Jess led Tremaine to a cell where a lanky teen-age boylounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mopof greased hair.     Hull, this is Mr. Tremaine, said Jess. He took out a heavy key, swungthe cell door open. He wants to talk to you.     I ain't done nothin, Hull said sullenly. There ain't nothin wrongwith burnin out a Commie, is there?     Bram's a Commie, is he? Tremaine said softly. How'd you find thatout, Hull?     He's a foreigner, ain't he? the youth shot back. Besides, weheard....     What did you hear?     They're lookin for the spies.     Who's looking for spies?     Cops.     Who says so?     The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes tothe corner of the cell. Cops was talkin about 'em, he said.     Spill it, Hull, the policeman said. Mr. Tremaine hasn't got allnight.     They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They calledme over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em getthem spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people aroundhers.     And you mentioned Bram?     The boy darted another look at Tremaine. They said they figured thespies was out north of town. Well, Bram's a foreigner, and he's outthat way, ain't he?     Anything else?     The boy looked at his feet.  ","Tremaine learns from Jess that Bram is the mystery man of the Elsby town. He is a foreigner to the town despite the fact that he has similar appearances as the rest of the town. People do not know where he is from, when he started living in the town, and not even his full name, but there are still many conspiracies about him. The clerk at the Municipal Office of Record is confident that Bram has never been seen between sundown and sunup. He also tells Tremaine that the property that Bram currently lives on was purchased by him in 1901. Tremaine learns from the newspapers that the same property was accidentally caught on fire from a thunderstorm about a year before the transaction was made between Bram and J. P. Spivey. Interestingly, from Jess, Tremaine also learns that Hull and his friends started a fire on Bram’s place some time ago. Tremaine acknowledged the relationship between the young Bram and young Linda Carroll. Carroll explains to Tremaine how he told her that there is a cave beneath his house. And every night he has to fight evil beings that are right below his house. He went downstairs for the night and by the time he came up, it was dawn. Later, he handed her a locket which allows her to ask him to come simply by pressing it in a certain way. Moreover, Carroll tells Tremaine that he is afraid of thunder. Furthermore, after Bram has gone missing, Tremaine learns from Hull that Bram is a Commie. "
"What is the relationship between Bram and Carroll? </s>     THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER     BY KEITH LAUMER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He was as ancient as time—and as strange as     his own frightful battle against incredible odds!      I     In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggageand took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottomcover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distanceWashington number and waited half a minute for the connection.     Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on. A thin hum sounded on thewire as the scrambler went into operation.     Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boysare supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in thisdamned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the restof the afternoon.     I want to see results, the thin voice came back over the filteredhum of the jamming device. You spent a week with Grammond—I can'twait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressingme.     Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've gotsome answers to go with the questions?     I'm an appointive official, Fred said sharply. But never mindthat. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave. Project Officer for thehyperwave program—he's been on my neck day and night. I can't say Iblame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secretproject, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau—     Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all.Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man: now letme do it my way.     I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigatorcould be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your homearea—     You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. Isometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this—     You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'mwarning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang!  Tremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Streetand turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBYMUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, aheavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behindan ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to theopposite corner of his mouth.     Don't I know you, mister? he said. His soft voice carried a note ofauthority.     Tremaine took off his hat. Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while,though.     The policeman got to his feet. Jimmy, he said, Jimmy Tremaine. Hecame to the counter and put out his hand. How are you, Jimmy? Whatbrings you back to the boondocks?     Let's go somewhere and sit down, Jess.     In a back room Tremaine said, To everybody but you this is just avisit to the old home town. Between us, there's more.     Jess nodded. I heard you were with the guv'ment.     It won't take long to tell; we don't know much yet. Tremaine coveredthe discovery of the powerful unidentified interference on thehigh-security hyperwave band, the discovery that each transmissionproduced not one but a pattern of fixes on the point of origin. Hepassed a sheet of paper across the table. It showed a set of concentriccircles, overlapped by a similar group of rings.     I think what we're getting is an echo effect from each of thesepoints of intersection. The rings themselves represent the diffractionpattern—     Hold it, Jimmy. To me it just looks like a beer ad. I'll take yourword for it.     The point is this, Jess: we think we've got it narrowed down to thissection. I'm not sure of a damn thing, but I think that transmitter'snear here. Now, have you got any ideas?     That's a tough one, Jimmy. This is where I should come up with thenews that Old Man Whatchamacallit's got an attic full of gear he saysis a time machine. Trouble is, folks around here haven't even takento TV. They figure we should be content with radio, like the Lordintended.     I didn't expect any easy answers, Jess. But I was hoping maybe you hadsomething ...     Course, said Jess, there's always Mr. Bram ...     Mr. Bram, repeated Tremaine. Is he still around? I remember him as ahundred years old when I was kid.     Still just the same, Jimmy. Comes in town maybe once a week, buys hisgroceries and hikes back out to his place by the river.     Well, what about him?     Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A littletouched in the head.     There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember, Tremainesaid. I always liked him. One time he tried to teach me somethingI've forgotten. Wanted me to come out to his place and he'd teach me.I never did go. We kids used to play in the caves near his place, andsometimes he gave us apples.  I've never seen any harm in Bram, said Jess. But you know how thistown is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bramhas blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and hetalks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like anordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right.But we never did know where he came from.     How long's he lived here in Elsby?     Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all aboutancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. Shewas kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that sameold place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she diedfive years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town everyWednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway.     Oh? Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. What happenedthen?     You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup allover again.     I remember Soup, Tremaine said. He and his bunch used to come inthe drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid aroundwith me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of theprescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise cain in theother drug store....     Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Himand a bunch of his pals went out to Bram's place one night and set iton fire.     What was the idea of that?     Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car waspassing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up herefor six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tykeroutine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are backin the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the daythey'll make jail age.     Why Bram? Tremaine persisted. As far as I know, he never had anydealings to speak of with anybody here in town.     Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy, Jess chuckled. You never knewabout Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll.     Tremaine shook his head.     Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retiredby the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and inher day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. Iremember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper.Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used tothink she was some kind of princess....     What about her and Bram? A romance?  Jess rocked his chair back on two legs, looked at the ceiling,frowning. This would ha' been about nineteen-oh-one. I was no more'neight years old. Miss Linda was maybe in her twenties—and that madeher an old maid, in those times. The word got out she was settingher cap for Bram. He was a good-looking young feller then, over sixfoot, of course, broad backed, curly yellow hair—and a stranger toboot. Like I said, Linda Carroll wanted nothin to do with the localbucks. There was a big shindy planned. Now, you know Bram was funnyabout any kind of socializing; never would go any place at night. Butthis was a Sunday afternoon and someways or other they got Bram downthere; and Miss Linda made her play, right there in front of the town,practically. Just before sundown they went off together in that fancyshay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished offher reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It wasten years 'fore she even landed the teaching job. By that time, she wasalready old. And nobody was ever fool enough to mention the name Bramin front of her.     Tremaine got to his feet. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your earsand eyes open for anything that might build into a lead on this, Jess.Meantime, I'm just a tourist, seeing the sights.     What about that gear of yours? Didn't you say you had some kind ofdetector you were going to set up?     I've got an oversized suitcase, Tremaine said. I'll be setting it upin my room over at the hotel.     When's this bootleg station supposed to broadcast again?     After dark. I'm working on a few ideas. It might be an infinitelyrepeating logarithmic sequence, based on—     Hold it, Jimmy. You're over my head. Jess got to his feet. Let meknow if you want anything. And by the way— he winked broadly—Ialways did know who busted Soup Gaskin's nose and took out his frontteeth.      II     Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby TownHall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellowautumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up thesteps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor,a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door saidMUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD. Tremaine opened the door and went in.     A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder atTremaine.     We're closed, he said.     I won't be a minute, Tremaine said. Just want to check on when theBram property changed hands last.     The man turned to Tremaine, pushing a drawer shut with his hip. Bram?He dead?     Nothing like that. I just want to know when he bought the place.     The man came over to the counter, eyeing Tremaine. He ain't going tosell, mister, if that's what you want to know.     I want to know when he bought.     The man hesitated, closed his jaw hard. Come back tomorrow, he said.     Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. I was hopingto save a trip. He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw.A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man's eyes darted towardit. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly.     See what I can do, he said.     It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table wherea two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated aline written in faded ink:     May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid. NW QuarterSection 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.)     Translated, what does that mean? said Tremaine.     That's the ledger for 1901; means Bram bought a quarter section on thenineteenth of May. You want me to look up the deed?     No, thanks, Tremaine said. That's all I needed. He turned back tothe door.     What's up, mister? the clerk called after him. Bram in some kind oftrouble?     No. No trouble.     The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. Nineteen-oh-one,he said. I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must bedern near to ninety years old. Spry for that age.     I guess you're right.     The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. Lots of funny stories aboutold Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises andlights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place.     I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say?     Maybe so. The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look.There's one story that's not superstition....     Tremaine waited.     You—uh—paying anything for information?     Now why would I do that? Tremaine reached for the door knob.     The clerk shrugged. Thought I'd ask. Anyway—I can swear to this.Nobody in this town's ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup.  Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stuccofacade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed apaper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint.     You'll find back to nineteen-forty here, the librarian said. Theolder are there in the shelves.     I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far.     The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. You have to handlethese old papers carefully.     I'll be extremely careful. The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafedthrough it, muttering.     What date was it you wanted?     Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth.     The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. That's it, shesaid. These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in thedark. But they're still flimsy, mind you.     I'll remember. The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the frontpage. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-AmericanExposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly.     On page four, under a column headed      County Notes     he saw the name Bram:     Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey ofElsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze afew head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, hasbeen a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the pastmonths.     May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year?     The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read theheads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back toher desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caughthis eye:     A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were muchalarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning andthunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pinewoods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount oftimber and threatened the house before burning itself out alongthe river.     The librarian was at Tremaine's side. I have to close the library now.You'll have to come back tomorrow.     Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on inwindows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against acold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel.     A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faintsqueal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forwardof the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stoppedshort, stared after the car.     Damn! he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yankedopen the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headednorth after the police car.  Two miles into the dark hills north of the Elsby city limits, Tremainerounded a curve. The police car was parked on the shoulder beside thehighway just ahead. He pulled off the road ahead of it and walked back.The door opened. A tall figure stepped out.     What's your problem, mister? a harsh voice drawled.     What's the matter? Run out of signal?     What's it to you, mister?     Are you boys in touch with Grammond on the car set?     We could be.     Mind if I have a word with him? My name's Tremaine.     Oh, said the cop, you're the big shot from Washington. He shiftedchewing tobacco to the other side of his jaw. Sure, you can talk tohim. He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mikebefore handing it to Tremaine.     The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. What's your beef,Tremaine?     I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gavethe word, Grammond.     That was before I knew your Washington stuffed shirts were holding outon me.     It's nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you weredoing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle.     Grammond cursed. I could have put my men in the town and taken itapart brick by brick in the time—     That's just what I don't want. If our bird sees cops cruising, he'llgo underground.     You've got it all figured, I see. I'm just the dumb hick you boys usefor the spade work, that it?     Pull your lip back in. You've given me the confirmation I needed.     Confirmation, hell! All I know is that somebody somewhere is punchingout a signal. For all I know, it's forty midgets on bicycles, pedallingall over the damned state. I've got fixes in every county—     The smallest hyperwave transmitter Uncle Sam knows how to build weighsthree tons, said Tremaine. Bicycles are out.     Grammond snorted. Okay, Tremaine, he said. You're the boy with allthe answers. But if you get in trouble, don't call me; call Washington.  Back in his room, Tremaine put through a call.     It looks like Grammond's not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred.Tell him if he queers this—     I don't know but what he might have something, the voice came backover the filtered hum. Suppose he smokes them out—     Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginiamoonshiners.     Don't tell me my job, Tremaine! the voice snapped. And don't try outyour famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation.     Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket. Tremainehung up the telephone, went to the dresser and poured two fingers ofScotch into a water glass. He tossed it down, then pulled on his coatand left the hotel.     He walked south two blocks, turned left down a twilit side street. Hewalked slowly, looking at the weathered frame houses. Number 89 was aonce-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, itswindows squares of sad yellow light. He pushed through the gate in theancient picket fence, mounted the porch steps and pushed the buttonbeside the door, a dark panel of cracked varnish. It was a long minutebefore the door opened. A tall woman with white hair and a fine-bonedface looked at him coolly.     Miss Carroll, Tremaine said. You won't remember me, but I—     There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James, MissCarroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto.Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremainethought, startled.     I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll, he said.     Come in. She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with thefurnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took astraight chair across the room from him.     You look very well, James, she said, nodding. I'm pleased to seethat you've amounted to something.     Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid.     You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man.     I often wondered why you didn't leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, evenas a boy, that you were a woman of great ability.     Why did you come today, James? asked Miss Carroll.     I.... Tremaine started. He looked at the old lady. I want someinformation. This is an important matter. May I rely on yourdiscretion?     Of course.     How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby?  Miss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. Will what I tell you beused against him?     There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needsto be in the national interest.     I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,James. I distrust these glib phrases.     I always liked Mr. Bram, said Tremaine. I'm not out to hurt him.     Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of theyear.     What does he do for a living?     I have no idea.     Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolatedpiece of country? What's his story?     I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story.     You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or hislast?     That is his only name. Just ... Bram.     You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything—     A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it awayimpatiently.     I'm an unfulfilled old maid, James, she said. You must forgive me.     Tremaine stood up. I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grillyou. Miss Carroll. You've been very kind. I had no right....     Miss Carroll shook her head. I knew you as a boy, James. I havecomplete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram willbe helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.She paused. Tremaine waited.     Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go withhim to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale.He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, ina cave beneath his house.     Miss Carroll drew a deep breath and went on. I was torn between pityand horror. I begged him to take me back. He refused. Miss Carrolltwisted her fingers together, her eyes fixed on the long past. Whenwe reached the house, he ran to the kitchen. He lit a lamp and threwopen a concealed panel. There were stairs. He went down ... and left methere alone.     I waited all that night in the carriage. At dawn he emerged. He triedto speak to me but I would not listen.     He took a locket from his neck and put it into my hand. He told me tokeep it and, if ever I should need him, to press it between my fingersin a secret way ... and he would come. I told him that until he wouldconsent to see a doctor, I did not wish him to call. He drove me home.He never called again.     This locket, said Tremaine, do you still have it?     Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted asilver disc on a fine golden chain. You see what a foolish old woman Iam, James.     May I see it?     She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. I'd like toexamine this more closely, he said. May I take it with me?     Miss Carroll nodded.     There is one other thing, she said, perhaps quite meaningless....     I'd be grateful for any lead.     Bram fears the thunder.      III     As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a carpulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine andasked:     Any luck, Jimmy?     Tremaine shook his head. I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's adud, I'm afraid.     Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm gettinga little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around?     Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark.     As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, Jimmy, what's this aboutState Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone handfrom what you were saying to me.     I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead ofme. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out.     Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'mwondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ringworking—     We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind thisand neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ...and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enoughmistakes in the last few years; I don't want to see this botched.     The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west asJess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old treesbefore the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men gotout, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on thedoor. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, andthe paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set upa strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up anempty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. This don't look good, hesaid. You suppose those fool boys...?     He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned toTremaine. Maybe this is more than kid stuff, he said. You carry agun?     In the car.     Better get it.     Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchenJess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty platelay on the oilcloth-covered table.     This place is empty, he said. Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week.     Not a very cozy— Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in thedistance.     I'm getting jumpy, said Jess. Dern hounddog, I guess.     A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. What the devil's that?Tremaine said.     Jess shone the light on the floor. Look here, he said. The ring oflight showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor.     That's blood, Jess.... Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broadslabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains.     Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen.     It's a trail. Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.It ended suddenly near the wall.     What do you make of it. Jimmy?     A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jessstared at Tremaine. I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,he said. You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playingtricks?     I think. Tremaine said, that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a fewquestions.  At the station Jess led Tremaine to a cell where a lanky teen-age boylounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mopof greased hair.     Hull, this is Mr. Tremaine, said Jess. He took out a heavy key, swungthe cell door open. He wants to talk to you.     I ain't done nothin, Hull said sullenly. There ain't nothin wrongwith burnin out a Commie, is there?     Bram's a Commie, is he? Tremaine said softly. How'd you find thatout, Hull?     He's a foreigner, ain't he? the youth shot back. Besides, weheard....     What did you hear?     They're lookin for the spies.     Who's looking for spies?     Cops.     Who says so?     The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes tothe corner of the cell. Cops was talkin about 'em, he said.     Spill it, Hull, the policeman said. Mr. Tremaine hasn't got allnight.     They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They calledme over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em getthem spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people aroundhers.     And you mentioned Bram?     The boy darted another look at Tremaine. They said they figured thespies was out north of town. Well, Bram's a foreigner, and he's outthat way, ain't he?     Anything else?     The boy looked at his feet.  ","From Jess, Tremaine learns that the school teacher, Linda Carroll had a relationship with Bram while they were young. Carroll’s family is quite wealthy and she was very beautiful. People in the town was not really up to her standards. Bram is a foreigner and does not really like social events. However, apparently, Carroll went off together with Bram one day afternoon with almost the whole town there. Then the next day Bram was not by her side, she came back by herself. This made her reputation really bad and she could not even be hired as a teacher for 10 years afterwards. From Carroll, Tremaine learns another story. She seems to not know Bram well. She confirms that she and Bram was in a relationship. And after Bram invited her to his place one day, he explains that he has to fight evil beings below his house every night. After they arrived at his house, she was left in the carriage for the whole night while he was below the house until dawn. Thus she decided to not talk to him when him came to see her in the carriage again. He gave her a locket where a pattern of tapping would allow him to get to her if she ever needs him. Interestingly, she also tells Tremaine that Bram is afraid of the thunder."
"What is the relationship between Tremaine and Jess? </s>     THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER     BY KEITH LAUMER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He was as ancient as time—and as strange as     his own frightful battle against incredible odds!      I     In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggageand took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottomcover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distanceWashington number and waited half a minute for the connection.     Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on. A thin hum sounded on thewire as the scrambler went into operation.     Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boysare supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in thisdamned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the restof the afternoon.     I want to see results, the thin voice came back over the filteredhum of the jamming device. You spent a week with Grammond—I can'twait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressingme.     Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've gotsome answers to go with the questions?     I'm an appointive official, Fred said sharply. But never mindthat. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave. Project Officer for thehyperwave program—he's been on my neck day and night. I can't say Iblame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secretproject, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau—     Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all.Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man: now letme do it my way.     I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigatorcould be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your homearea—     You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. Isometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this—     You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'mwarning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang!  Tremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Streetand turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBYMUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, aheavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behindan ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to theopposite corner of his mouth.     Don't I know you, mister? he said. His soft voice carried a note ofauthority.     Tremaine took off his hat. Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while,though.     The policeman got to his feet. Jimmy, he said, Jimmy Tremaine. Hecame to the counter and put out his hand. How are you, Jimmy? Whatbrings you back to the boondocks?     Let's go somewhere and sit down, Jess.     In a back room Tremaine said, To everybody but you this is just avisit to the old home town. Between us, there's more.     Jess nodded. I heard you were with the guv'ment.     It won't take long to tell; we don't know much yet. Tremaine coveredthe discovery of the powerful unidentified interference on thehigh-security hyperwave band, the discovery that each transmissionproduced not one but a pattern of fixes on the point of origin. Hepassed a sheet of paper across the table. It showed a set of concentriccircles, overlapped by a similar group of rings.     I think what we're getting is an echo effect from each of thesepoints of intersection. The rings themselves represent the diffractionpattern—     Hold it, Jimmy. To me it just looks like a beer ad. I'll take yourword for it.     The point is this, Jess: we think we've got it narrowed down to thissection. I'm not sure of a damn thing, but I think that transmitter'snear here. Now, have you got any ideas?     That's a tough one, Jimmy. This is where I should come up with thenews that Old Man Whatchamacallit's got an attic full of gear he saysis a time machine. Trouble is, folks around here haven't even takento TV. They figure we should be content with radio, like the Lordintended.     I didn't expect any easy answers, Jess. But I was hoping maybe you hadsomething ...     Course, said Jess, there's always Mr. Bram ...     Mr. Bram, repeated Tremaine. Is he still around? I remember him as ahundred years old when I was kid.     Still just the same, Jimmy. Comes in town maybe once a week, buys hisgroceries and hikes back out to his place by the river.     Well, what about him?     Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A littletouched in the head.     There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember, Tremainesaid. I always liked him. One time he tried to teach me somethingI've forgotten. Wanted me to come out to his place and he'd teach me.I never did go. We kids used to play in the caves near his place, andsometimes he gave us apples.  I've never seen any harm in Bram, said Jess. But you know how thistown is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bramhas blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and hetalks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like anordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right.But we never did know where he came from.     How long's he lived here in Elsby?     Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all aboutancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. Shewas kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that sameold place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she diedfive years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town everyWednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway.     Oh? Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. What happenedthen?     You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup allover again.     I remember Soup, Tremaine said. He and his bunch used to come inthe drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid aroundwith me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of theprescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise cain in theother drug store....     Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Himand a bunch of his pals went out to Bram's place one night and set iton fire.     What was the idea of that?     Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car waspassing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up herefor six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tykeroutine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are backin the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the daythey'll make jail age.     Why Bram? Tremaine persisted. As far as I know, he never had anydealings to speak of with anybody here in town.     Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy, Jess chuckled. You never knewabout Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll.     Tremaine shook his head.     Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retiredby the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and inher day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. Iremember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper.Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used tothink she was some kind of princess....     What about her and Bram? A romance?  Jess rocked his chair back on two legs, looked at the ceiling,frowning. This would ha' been about nineteen-oh-one. I was no more'neight years old. Miss Linda was maybe in her twenties—and that madeher an old maid, in those times. The word got out she was settingher cap for Bram. He was a good-looking young feller then, over sixfoot, of course, broad backed, curly yellow hair—and a stranger toboot. Like I said, Linda Carroll wanted nothin to do with the localbucks. There was a big shindy planned. Now, you know Bram was funnyabout any kind of socializing; never would go any place at night. Butthis was a Sunday afternoon and someways or other they got Bram downthere; and Miss Linda made her play, right there in front of the town,practically. Just before sundown they went off together in that fancyshay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished offher reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It wasten years 'fore she even landed the teaching job. By that time, she wasalready old. And nobody was ever fool enough to mention the name Bramin front of her.     Tremaine got to his feet. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your earsand eyes open for anything that might build into a lead on this, Jess.Meantime, I'm just a tourist, seeing the sights.     What about that gear of yours? Didn't you say you had some kind ofdetector you were going to set up?     I've got an oversized suitcase, Tremaine said. I'll be setting it upin my room over at the hotel.     When's this bootleg station supposed to broadcast again?     After dark. I'm working on a few ideas. It might be an infinitelyrepeating logarithmic sequence, based on—     Hold it, Jimmy. You're over my head. Jess got to his feet. Let meknow if you want anything. And by the way— he winked broadly—Ialways did know who busted Soup Gaskin's nose and took out his frontteeth.      II     Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby TownHall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellowautumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up thesteps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor,a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door saidMUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD. Tremaine opened the door and went in.     A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder atTremaine.     We're closed, he said.     I won't be a minute, Tremaine said. Just want to check on when theBram property changed hands last.     The man turned to Tremaine, pushing a drawer shut with his hip. Bram?He dead?     Nothing like that. I just want to know when he bought the place.     The man came over to the counter, eyeing Tremaine. He ain't going tosell, mister, if that's what you want to know.     I want to know when he bought.     The man hesitated, closed his jaw hard. Come back tomorrow, he said.     Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. I was hopingto save a trip. He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw.A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man's eyes darted towardit. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly.     See what I can do, he said.     It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table wherea two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated aline written in faded ink:     May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid. NW QuarterSection 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.)     Translated, what does that mean? said Tremaine.     That's the ledger for 1901; means Bram bought a quarter section on thenineteenth of May. You want me to look up the deed?     No, thanks, Tremaine said. That's all I needed. He turned back tothe door.     What's up, mister? the clerk called after him. Bram in some kind oftrouble?     No. No trouble.     The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. Nineteen-oh-one,he said. I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must bedern near to ninety years old. Spry for that age.     I guess you're right.     The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. Lots of funny stories aboutold Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises andlights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place.     I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say?     Maybe so. The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look.There's one story that's not superstition....     Tremaine waited.     You—uh—paying anything for information?     Now why would I do that? Tremaine reached for the door knob.     The clerk shrugged. Thought I'd ask. Anyway—I can swear to this.Nobody in this town's ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup.  Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stuccofacade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed apaper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint.     You'll find back to nineteen-forty here, the librarian said. Theolder are there in the shelves.     I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far.     The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. You have to handlethese old papers carefully.     I'll be extremely careful. The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafedthrough it, muttering.     What date was it you wanted?     Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth.     The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. That's it, shesaid. These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in thedark. But they're still flimsy, mind you.     I'll remember. The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the frontpage. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-AmericanExposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly.     On page four, under a column headed      County Notes     he saw the name Bram:     Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey ofElsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze afew head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, hasbeen a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the pastmonths.     May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year?     The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read theheads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back toher desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caughthis eye:     A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were muchalarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning andthunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pinewoods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount oftimber and threatened the house before burning itself out alongthe river.     The librarian was at Tremaine's side. I have to close the library now.You'll have to come back tomorrow.     Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on inwindows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against acold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel.     A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faintsqueal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forwardof the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stoppedshort, stared after the car.     Damn! he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yankedopen the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headednorth after the police car.  Two miles into the dark hills north of the Elsby city limits, Tremainerounded a curve. The police car was parked on the shoulder beside thehighway just ahead. He pulled off the road ahead of it and walked back.The door opened. A tall figure stepped out.     What's your problem, mister? a harsh voice drawled.     What's the matter? Run out of signal?     What's it to you, mister?     Are you boys in touch with Grammond on the car set?     We could be.     Mind if I have a word with him? My name's Tremaine.     Oh, said the cop, you're the big shot from Washington. He shiftedchewing tobacco to the other side of his jaw. Sure, you can talk tohim. He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mikebefore handing it to Tremaine.     The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. What's your beef,Tremaine?     I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gavethe word, Grammond.     That was before I knew your Washington stuffed shirts were holding outon me.     It's nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you weredoing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle.     Grammond cursed. I could have put my men in the town and taken itapart brick by brick in the time—     That's just what I don't want. If our bird sees cops cruising, he'llgo underground.     You've got it all figured, I see. I'm just the dumb hick you boys usefor the spade work, that it?     Pull your lip back in. You've given me the confirmation I needed.     Confirmation, hell! All I know is that somebody somewhere is punchingout a signal. For all I know, it's forty midgets on bicycles, pedallingall over the damned state. I've got fixes in every county—     The smallest hyperwave transmitter Uncle Sam knows how to build weighsthree tons, said Tremaine. Bicycles are out.     Grammond snorted. Okay, Tremaine, he said. You're the boy with allthe answers. But if you get in trouble, don't call me; call Washington.  Back in his room, Tremaine put through a call.     It looks like Grammond's not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred.Tell him if he queers this—     I don't know but what he might have something, the voice came backover the filtered hum. Suppose he smokes them out—     Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginiamoonshiners.     Don't tell me my job, Tremaine! the voice snapped. And don't try outyour famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation.     Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket. Tremainehung up the telephone, went to the dresser and poured two fingers ofScotch into a water glass. He tossed it down, then pulled on his coatand left the hotel.     He walked south two blocks, turned left down a twilit side street. Hewalked slowly, looking at the weathered frame houses. Number 89 was aonce-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, itswindows squares of sad yellow light. He pushed through the gate in theancient picket fence, mounted the porch steps and pushed the buttonbeside the door, a dark panel of cracked varnish. It was a long minutebefore the door opened. A tall woman with white hair and a fine-bonedface looked at him coolly.     Miss Carroll, Tremaine said. You won't remember me, but I—     There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James, MissCarroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto.Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremainethought, startled.     I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll, he said.     Come in. She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with thefurnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took astraight chair across the room from him.     You look very well, James, she said, nodding. I'm pleased to seethat you've amounted to something.     Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid.     You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man.     I often wondered why you didn't leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, evenas a boy, that you were a woman of great ability.     Why did you come today, James? asked Miss Carroll.     I.... Tremaine started. He looked at the old lady. I want someinformation. This is an important matter. May I rely on yourdiscretion?     Of course.     How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby?  Miss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. Will what I tell you beused against him?     There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needsto be in the national interest.     I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,James. I distrust these glib phrases.     I always liked Mr. Bram, said Tremaine. I'm not out to hurt him.     Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of theyear.     What does he do for a living?     I have no idea.     Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolatedpiece of country? What's his story?     I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story.     You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or hislast?     That is his only name. Just ... Bram.     You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything—     A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it awayimpatiently.     I'm an unfulfilled old maid, James, she said. You must forgive me.     Tremaine stood up. I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grillyou. Miss Carroll. You've been very kind. I had no right....     Miss Carroll shook her head. I knew you as a boy, James. I havecomplete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram willbe helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.She paused. Tremaine waited.     Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go withhim to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale.He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, ina cave beneath his house.     Miss Carroll drew a deep breath and went on. I was torn between pityand horror. I begged him to take me back. He refused. Miss Carrolltwisted her fingers together, her eyes fixed on the long past. Whenwe reached the house, he ran to the kitchen. He lit a lamp and threwopen a concealed panel. There were stairs. He went down ... and left methere alone.     I waited all that night in the carriage. At dawn he emerged. He triedto speak to me but I would not listen.     He took a locket from his neck and put it into my hand. He told me tokeep it and, if ever I should need him, to press it between my fingersin a secret way ... and he would come. I told him that until he wouldconsent to see a doctor, I did not wish him to call. He drove me home.He never called again.     This locket, said Tremaine, do you still have it?     Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted asilver disc on a fine golden chain. You see what a foolish old woman Iam, James.     May I see it?     She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. I'd like toexamine this more closely, he said. May I take it with me?     Miss Carroll nodded.     There is one other thing, she said, perhaps quite meaningless....     I'd be grateful for any lead.     Bram fears the thunder.      III     As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a carpulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine andasked:     Any luck, Jimmy?     Tremaine shook his head. I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's adud, I'm afraid.     Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm gettinga little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around?     Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark.     As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, Jimmy, what's this aboutState Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone handfrom what you were saying to me.     I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead ofme. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out.     Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'mwondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ringworking—     We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind thisand neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ...and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enoughmistakes in the last few years; I don't want to see this botched.     The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west asJess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old treesbefore the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men gotout, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on thedoor. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, andthe paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set upa strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up anempty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. This don't look good, hesaid. You suppose those fool boys...?     He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned toTremaine. Maybe this is more than kid stuff, he said. You carry agun?     In the car.     Better get it.     Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchenJess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty platelay on the oilcloth-covered table.     This place is empty, he said. Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week.     Not a very cozy— Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in thedistance.     I'm getting jumpy, said Jess. Dern hounddog, I guess.     A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. What the devil's that?Tremaine said.     Jess shone the light on the floor. Look here, he said. The ring oflight showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor.     That's blood, Jess.... Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broadslabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains.     Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen.     It's a trail. Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.It ended suddenly near the wall.     What do you make of it. Jimmy?     A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jessstared at Tremaine. I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,he said. You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playingtricks?     I think. Tremaine said, that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a fewquestions.  At the station Jess led Tremaine to a cell where a lanky teen-age boylounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mopof greased hair.     Hull, this is Mr. Tremaine, said Jess. He took out a heavy key, swungthe cell door open. He wants to talk to you.     I ain't done nothin, Hull said sullenly. There ain't nothin wrongwith burnin out a Commie, is there?     Bram's a Commie, is he? Tremaine said softly. How'd you find thatout, Hull?     He's a foreigner, ain't he? the youth shot back. Besides, weheard....     What did you hear?     They're lookin for the spies.     Who's looking for spies?     Cops.     Who says so?     The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes tothe corner of the cell. Cops was talkin about 'em, he said.     Spill it, Hull, the policeman said. Mr. Tremaine hasn't got allnight.     They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They calledme over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em getthem spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people aroundhers.     And you mentioned Bram?     The boy darted another look at Tremaine. They said they figured thespies was out north of town. Well, Bram's a foreigner, and he's outthat way, ain't he?     Anything else?     The boy looked at his feet.  ","Jess is a police officer at the Elsby town where both Jess and Tremaine grew up. They have not seen each other in a very long time. Jess is surprised to see Tremaine showing up at Elsby again after being away for such a long time. Tremaine has explained to Jess that he is here to figure out the location of a transmitter. While Jess does not seem to be interested in the transmitters, he tells Tremaine about Bram. He explains to him that Bram is quite mysterious, which lead Tremaine to investigate on Bram’s properties. He informs Tremaine about Bram’s relationship with Linda Carroll, and then Tremaine pays her a visit and asks about Bram. Tremaine asks Jess to not tell anyone what they’ve discussed, but pretend that he is a tourist. Later, Jess asks Tremaine to find Bram together after pulling a car next to him on the street. Realizing that Bram is not home and the house seemed suspicious with blood and shotgun shell, they go to question Hull who is being held at the police station. Since Jess works at the police station, he can easily have Tremaine ask Hull questions. "
"Describe the setting of the story? </s>     THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER     BY KEITH LAUMER     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of Tomorrow April 1963     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      He was as ancient as time—and as strange as     his own frightful battle against incredible odds!      I     In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggageand took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottomcover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder,crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distanceWashington number and waited half a minute for the connection.     Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on. A thin hum sounded on thewire as the scrambler went into operation.     Okay, can you read me all right? I'm set up in Elsby. Grammond's boysare supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I'm not sitting in thisdamned room crouched over a dial. I'll be out and around for the restof the afternoon.     I want to see results, the thin voice came back over the filteredhum of the jamming device. You spent a week with Grammond—I can'twait another. I don't mind telling you certain quarters are pressingme.     Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you've gotsome answers to go with the questions?     I'm an appointive official, Fred said sharply. But never mindthat. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave. Project Officer for thehyperwave program—he's been on my neck day and night. I can't say Iblame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secretproject, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau—     Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all.Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man: now letme do it my way.     I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigatorcould be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your homearea—     You don't have to justify yourself. Just don't hold out on me. Isometimes wonder if I've seen the complete files on this—     You've seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I'mwarning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang!  Tremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Streetand turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBYMUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, aheavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behindan ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to theopposite corner of his mouth.     Don't I know you, mister? he said. His soft voice carried a note ofauthority.     Tremaine took off his hat. Sure you do, Jess. It's been a while,though.     The policeman got to his feet. Jimmy, he said, Jimmy Tremaine. Hecame to the counter and put out his hand. How are you, Jimmy? Whatbrings you back to the boondocks?     Let's go somewhere and sit down, Jess.     In a back room Tremaine said, To everybody but you this is just avisit to the old home town. Between us, there's more.     Jess nodded. I heard you were with the guv'ment.     It won't take long to tell; we don't know much yet. Tremaine coveredthe discovery of the powerful unidentified interference on thehigh-security hyperwave band, the discovery that each transmissionproduced not one but a pattern of fixes on the point of origin. Hepassed a sheet of paper across the table. It showed a set of concentriccircles, overlapped by a similar group of rings.     I think what we're getting is an echo effect from each of thesepoints of intersection. The rings themselves represent the diffractionpattern—     Hold it, Jimmy. To me it just looks like a beer ad. I'll take yourword for it.     The point is this, Jess: we think we've got it narrowed down to thissection. I'm not sure of a damn thing, but I think that transmitter'snear here. Now, have you got any ideas?     That's a tough one, Jimmy. This is where I should come up with thenews that Old Man Whatchamacallit's got an attic full of gear he saysis a time machine. Trouble is, folks around here haven't even takento TV. They figure we should be content with radio, like the Lordintended.     I didn't expect any easy answers, Jess. But I was hoping maybe you hadsomething ...     Course, said Jess, there's always Mr. Bram ...     Mr. Bram, repeated Tremaine. Is he still around? I remember him as ahundred years old when I was kid.     Still just the same, Jimmy. Comes in town maybe once a week, buys hisgroceries and hikes back out to his place by the river.     Well, what about him?     Nothing. But he's the town's mystery man. You know that. A littletouched in the head.     There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember, Tremainesaid. I always liked him. One time he tried to teach me somethingI've forgotten. Wanted me to come out to his place and he'd teach me.I never did go. We kids used to play in the caves near his place, andsometimes he gave us apples.  I've never seen any harm in Bram, said Jess. But you know how thistown is about foreigners, especially when they're a mite addled. Bramhas blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and hetalks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like anordinary American. But up close, you feel it. He's foreign, all right.But we never did know where he came from.     How long's he lived here in Elsby?     Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all aboutancestors and such as that? She couldn't remember about Mr. Bram. Shewas kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he'd lived in that sameold place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she diedfive years ago ... in her seventies. He still walks in town everyWednesday ... or he did up till yesterday anyway.     Oh? Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. What happenedthen?     You remember Soup Gaskin? He's got a boy, name of Hull. He's Soup allover again.     I remember Soup, Tremaine said. He and his bunch used to come inthe drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid aroundwith me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of theprescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise cain in theother drug store....     Soup's been in the pen since then. His boy Hull's the same kind. Himand a bunch of his pals went out to Bram's place one night and set iton fire.     What was the idea of that?     Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car waspassing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up herefor six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tykeroutine, high spirits, you know the line. All of 'em but Hull are backin the streets playin' with matches by now. I'm waiting for the daythey'll make jail age.     Why Bram? Tremaine persisted. As far as I know, he never had anydealings to speak of with anybody here in town.     Oh hoh, you're a little young, Jimmy, Jess chuckled. You never knewabout Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll.     Tremaine shook his head.     Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retiredby the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and inher day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. Iremember her ridin by in a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper.Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used tothink she was some kind of princess....     What about her and Bram? A romance?  Jess rocked his chair back on two legs, looked at the ceiling,frowning. This would ha' been about nineteen-oh-one. I was no more'neight years old. Miss Linda was maybe in her twenties—and that madeher an old maid, in those times. The word got out she was settingher cap for Bram. He was a good-looking young feller then, over sixfoot, of course, broad backed, curly yellow hair—and a stranger toboot. Like I said, Linda Carroll wanted nothin to do with the localbucks. There was a big shindy planned. Now, you know Bram was funnyabout any kind of socializing; never would go any place at night. Butthis was a Sunday afternoon and someways or other they got Bram downthere; and Miss Linda made her play, right there in front of the town,practically. Just before sundown they went off together in that fancyshay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished offher reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It wasten years 'fore she even landed the teaching job. By that time, she wasalready old. And nobody was ever fool enough to mention the name Bramin front of her.     Tremaine got to his feet. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your earsand eyes open for anything that might build into a lead on this, Jess.Meantime, I'm just a tourist, seeing the sights.     What about that gear of yours? Didn't you say you had some kind ofdetector you were going to set up?     I've got an oversized suitcase, Tremaine said. I'll be setting it upin my room over at the hotel.     When's this bootleg station supposed to broadcast again?     After dark. I'm working on a few ideas. It might be an infinitelyrepeating logarithmic sequence, based on—     Hold it, Jimmy. You're over my head. Jess got to his feet. Let meknow if you want anything. And by the way— he winked broadly—Ialways did know who busted Soup Gaskin's nose and took out his frontteeth.      II     Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby TownHall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellowautumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up thesteps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor,a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door saidMUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD. Tremaine opened the door and went in.     A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder atTremaine.     We're closed, he said.     I won't be a minute, Tremaine said. Just want to check on when theBram property changed hands last.     The man turned to Tremaine, pushing a drawer shut with his hip. Bram?He dead?     Nothing like that. I just want to know when he bought the place.     The man came over to the counter, eyeing Tremaine. He ain't going tosell, mister, if that's what you want to know.     I want to know when he bought.     The man hesitated, closed his jaw hard. Come back tomorrow, he said.     Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. I was hopingto save a trip. He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw.A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man's eyes darted towardit. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly.     See what I can do, he said.     It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table wherea two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated aline written in faded ink:     May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid. NW QuarterSection 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.)     Translated, what does that mean? said Tremaine.     That's the ledger for 1901; means Bram bought a quarter section on thenineteenth of May. You want me to look up the deed?     No, thanks, Tremaine said. That's all I needed. He turned back tothe door.     What's up, mister? the clerk called after him. Bram in some kind oftrouble?     No. No trouble.     The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. Nineteen-oh-one,he said. I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must bedern near to ninety years old. Spry for that age.     I guess you're right.     The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. Lots of funny stories aboutold Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises andlights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place.     I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say?     Maybe so. The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look.There's one story that's not superstition....     Tremaine waited.     You—uh—paying anything for information?     Now why would I do that? Tremaine reached for the door knob.     The clerk shrugged. Thought I'd ask. Anyway—I can swear to this.Nobody in this town's ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup.  Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stuccofacade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed apaper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint.     You'll find back to nineteen-forty here, the librarian said. Theolder are there in the shelves.     I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far.     The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. You have to handlethese old papers carefully.     I'll be extremely careful. The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafedthrough it, muttering.     What date was it you wanted?     Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth.     The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table,adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. That's it, shesaid. These papers keep pretty well, provided they're stored in thedark. But they're still flimsy, mind you.     I'll remember. The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the frontpage. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-AmericanExposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech.Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly.     On page four, under a column headed      County Notes     he saw the name Bram:     Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land,north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey ofElsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze afew head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, hasbeen a resident of Mrs. Stoate's Guest Home in Elsby for the pastmonths.     May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year?     The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read theheads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back toher desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caughthis eye:     A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were muchalarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning andthunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pinewoods north of Spivey's farm destroyed a considerable amount oftimber and threatened the house before burning itself out alongthe river.     The librarian was at Tremaine's side. I have to close the library now.You'll have to come back tomorrow.     Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on inwindows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against acold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel.     A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faintsqueal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forwardof the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stoppedshort, stared after the car.     Damn! he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply.Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yankedopen the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headednorth after the police car.  Two miles into the dark hills north of the Elsby city limits, Tremainerounded a curve. The police car was parked on the shoulder beside thehighway just ahead. He pulled off the road ahead of it and walked back.The door opened. A tall figure stepped out.     What's your problem, mister? a harsh voice drawled.     What's the matter? Run out of signal?     What's it to you, mister?     Are you boys in touch with Grammond on the car set?     We could be.     Mind if I have a word with him? My name's Tremaine.     Oh, said the cop, you're the big shot from Washington. He shiftedchewing tobacco to the other side of his jaw. Sure, you can talk tohim. He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mikebefore handing it to Tremaine.     The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. What's your beef,Tremaine?     I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gavethe word, Grammond.     That was before I knew your Washington stuffed shirts were holding outon me.     It's nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you weredoing might have been influenced if I'd told you about the Elsby angle.     Grammond cursed. I could have put my men in the town and taken itapart brick by brick in the time—     That's just what I don't want. If our bird sees cops cruising, he'llgo underground.     You've got it all figured, I see. I'm just the dumb hick you boys usefor the spade work, that it?     Pull your lip back in. You've given me the confirmation I needed.     Confirmation, hell! All I know is that somebody somewhere is punchingout a signal. For all I know, it's forty midgets on bicycles, pedallingall over the damned state. I've got fixes in every county—     The smallest hyperwave transmitter Uncle Sam knows how to build weighsthree tons, said Tremaine. Bicycles are out.     Grammond snorted. Okay, Tremaine, he said. You're the boy with allthe answers. But if you get in trouble, don't call me; call Washington.  Back in his room, Tremaine put through a call.     It looks like Grammond's not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred.Tell him if he queers this—     I don't know but what he might have something, the voice came backover the filtered hum. Suppose he smokes them out—     Don't go dumb on me, Fred. We're not dealing with West Virginiamoonshiners.     Don't tell me my job, Tremaine! the voice snapped. And don't try outyour famous temper on me. I'm still in charge of this investigation.     Sure. Just don't get stuck in some senator's hip pocket. Tremainehung up the telephone, went to the dresser and poured two fingers ofScotch into a water glass. He tossed it down, then pulled on his coatand left the hotel.     He walked south two blocks, turned left down a twilit side street. Hewalked slowly, looking at the weathered frame houses. Number 89 was aonce-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, itswindows squares of sad yellow light. He pushed through the gate in theancient picket fence, mounted the porch steps and pushed the buttonbeside the door, a dark panel of cracked varnish. It was a long minutebefore the door opened. A tall woman with white hair and a fine-bonedface looked at him coolly.     Miss Carroll, Tremaine said. You won't remember me, but I—     There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James, MissCarroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto.Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremainethought, startled.     I'm flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll, he said.     Come in. She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with thefurnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took astraight chair across the room from him.     You look very well, James, she said, nodding. I'm pleased to seethat you've amounted to something.     Just another bureaucrat, I'm afraid.     You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man.     I often wondered why you didn't leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, evenas a boy, that you were a woman of great ability.     Why did you come today, James? asked Miss Carroll.     I.... Tremaine started. He looked at the old lady. I want someinformation. This is an important matter. May I rely on yourdiscretion?     Of course.     How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby?  Miss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. Will what I tell you beused against him?     There'll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll ... unless it needsto be in the national interest.     I'm not at all sure I know what the term 'national interest' means,James. I distrust these glib phrases.     I always liked Mr. Bram, said Tremaine. I'm not out to hurt him.     Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I'm not certain of theyear.     What does he do for a living?     I have no idea.     Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolatedpiece of country? What's his story?     I'm ... not sure that anyone truly knows Bram's story.     You called him 'Bram', Miss Carroll. Is that his first name ... or hislast?     That is his only name. Just ... Bram.     You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything—     A tear rolled down Miss Carroll's faded cheek. She wiped it awayimpatiently.     I'm an unfulfilled old maid, James, she said. You must forgive me.     Tremaine stood up. I'm sorry. Really sorry. I didn't mean to grillyou. Miss Carroll. You've been very kind. I had no right....     Miss Carroll shook her head. I knew you as a boy, James. I havecomplete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram willbe helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.She paused. Tremaine waited.     Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go withhim to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale.He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, ina cave beneath his house.     Miss Carroll drew a deep breath and went on. I was torn between pityand horror. I begged him to take me back. He refused. Miss Carrolltwisted her fingers together, her eyes fixed on the long past. Whenwe reached the house, he ran to the kitchen. He lit a lamp and threwopen a concealed panel. There were stairs. He went down ... and left methere alone.     I waited all that night in the carriage. At dawn he emerged. He triedto speak to me but I would not listen.     He took a locket from his neck and put it into my hand. He told me tokeep it and, if ever I should need him, to press it between my fingersin a secret way ... and he would come. I told him that until he wouldconsent to see a doctor, I did not wish him to call. He drove me home.He never called again.     This locket, said Tremaine, do you still have it?     Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted asilver disc on a fine golden chain. You see what a foolish old woman Iam, James.     May I see it?     She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. I'd like toexamine this more closely, he said. May I take it with me?     Miss Carroll nodded.     There is one other thing, she said, perhaps quite meaningless....     I'd be grateful for any lead.     Bram fears the thunder.      III     As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a carpulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine andasked:     Any luck, Jimmy?     Tremaine shook his head. I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's adud, I'm afraid.     Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm gettinga little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around?     Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark.     As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, Jimmy, what's this aboutState Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone handfrom what you were saying to me.     I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead ofme. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out.     Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'mwondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ringworking—     We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind thisand neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ...and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enoughmistakes in the last few years; I don't want to see this botched.     The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west asJess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old treesbefore the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men gotout, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on thedoor. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, andthe paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set upa strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up anempty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. This don't look good, hesaid. You suppose those fool boys...?     He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned toTremaine. Maybe this is more than kid stuff, he said. You carry agun?     In the car.     Better get it.     Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchenJess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty platelay on the oilcloth-covered table.     This place is empty, he said. Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week.     Not a very cozy— Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in thedistance.     I'm getting jumpy, said Jess. Dern hounddog, I guess.     A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. What the devil's that?Tremaine said.     Jess shone the light on the floor. Look here, he said. The ring oflight showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor.     That's blood, Jess.... Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broadslabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains.     Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen.     It's a trail. Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.It ended suddenly near the wall.     What do you make of it. Jimmy?     A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jessstared at Tremaine. I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,he said. You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playingtricks?     I think. Tremaine said, that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a fewquestions.  At the station Jess led Tremaine to a cell where a lanky teen-age boylounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mopof greased hair.     Hull, this is Mr. Tremaine, said Jess. He took out a heavy key, swungthe cell door open. He wants to talk to you.     I ain't done nothin, Hull said sullenly. There ain't nothin wrongwith burnin out a Commie, is there?     Bram's a Commie, is he? Tremaine said softly. How'd you find thatout, Hull?     He's a foreigner, ain't he? the youth shot back. Besides, weheard....     What did you hear?     They're lookin for the spies.     Who's looking for spies?     Cops.     Who says so?     The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes tothe corner of the cell. Cops was talkin about 'em, he said.     Spill it, Hull, the policeman said. Mr. Tremaine hasn't got allnight.     They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They calledme over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em getthem spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people aroundhers.     And you mentioned Bram?     The boy darted another look at Tremaine. They said they figured thespies was out north of town. Well, Bram's a foreigner, and he's outthat way, ain't he?     Anything else?     The boy looked at his feet.  ","The story takes place in the late twentieth century in a town in America named Elsby. It starts out in Tremaine’s hotel room, after he is pressured, he goes to Elsby Municipal Police to find Jess. We follow Tremaine to the Municipal Office of Record and the Elsby Public Library to find out more information regarding the property that Bram owns currently, the mystery man in the town. Then he visits Linda Carroll’s house to learn more about Bram, but she does not seem to know much either. Later we follow Jess and Tremaine to Bram’s house since Jess is concerned that he still have not seen Bram. At Bram’s house, they do not find him, but there is blood and other suspicious objects. They believe that they have to find Hull in the police station. The story ends with Hull, Jess and Tremaine inside the police station at where Hull is being held. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    A PLANET NAMED JOE     By S. A. LOMBINO       There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake       a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel       Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major       Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories     November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the     U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor.     For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me.     I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy.     It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral.     Yes, sir, I said.     It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native.     I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers.     The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is.     I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point.     I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars.     He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut.     Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars.     I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar.     He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can.     If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt.     And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place.     Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus.     At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me.     And the man's name, sir?     Joe. A tight smile played on his face.     Joe what? I asked.     Just Joe.     Just Joe?     Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean.     I don't know, sir.     A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said.     Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything?     Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though.     What's that?     He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on.     You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it.  The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking onthat trip. I thought about Mars and the revolt there. And I thoughtabout Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling thatrevolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd startedpushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as ifthe whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he tookover. Swell guy, Walsh.     Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunicI was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Likea mixture of old shoe and after-shave. There were plants everywhereI looked. Big plants and small ones, some blooming with flowers I'dnever seen before, and some as bare as cactus.     I recognized a blue figure as one of the natives the pilot had told meabout. He was tall, looking almost human except that everything abouthim was elongated. His features, his muscles, everything seemed to havebeen stretched like a rubber band. I kept expecting him to pop back tonormal. Instead, he flashed a double row of brilliant teeth at me.     I wondered if he spoke English. Hey, boy, I called.     He ambled over with long-legged strides that closed the distancebetween us in seconds.     Call me Joe, he said.     I dropped my bags and stared at him. Maybe this      was     going to be asimple assignment after all. I sure am glad to see you, Joe, I said.     Same here, Toots, he answered.     The guys back in Space II are searching high and low for you, I toldhim.     You've got the wrong number, he said, and I was a little surprised athis use of Terran idiom.     You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader?     I'm Joe, all right, he said. Only thing I ever traded, though, was apocketknife. Got a set of keys for it.     Oh, I said, my voice conveying my disappointment. I sighed and beganwondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was lookingfor. My orders said I was to report to Captain Bransten immediatelyupon arrival. I figured the hell with Captain Bransten. I outranked himanyway, and there wasn't much he could do if I decided to stop for adrink first.     Where's the Officer's Club? I asked the Venusian.     Are you buying information or are you just curious?     Can you take me there? I asked.     Sure thing, Toots. He picked up my bags and started walking up aheavily overgrown path. We'd probably walked for about ten minutes whenhe dropped my bags and said, There it is.     The Officer's Club was a plasteel hut with window shields thatprotected it from the heat of the sun. It didn't look too comfortablebut I really wanted that drink. I reached into my tunic and slippedthe native thirty solars.     He stared at the credits curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. Ohwell, you're new here. We'll let it go.     He took off then, while I stared after him, wondering just what he'dmeant. Had I tipped him too little?     I shrugged and looked over at the Officer's Club. From the outside itlooked as hot as hell.     On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began tocurse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II.     There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart gameand a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged.     I walked over and asked, What are you serving, pal?     Call me Joe, he answered.     He caught me off balance. What?     Joe, he said again.     A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull.You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all aboutMars, would you?     I never left home, he said simply. What are you drinking?     That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled....       But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like     Joe.      Among the natives, I mean.       Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, mostcontemptible....     What are you drinking, pal? the Venusian asked again.     Skip it, I said. How do I get to the captain's shack?     Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it.     I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved atthe bartender.     Hello, Joe, he said. How's it going?     Not so hot, Joe, the bartender replied.     I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of agreat gag. Very funny. Very....     You Major Polk, sweetheart? the Venusian who'd just come in asked.     Yes, I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh.     You better get your butt over to the captain's shack, he said. He'sabout ready to post you as overdue.     Sure, I said wearily. Will you take my bags, please?     Roger, he answered. He picked up the bags and nodded at the bar.     So long, Joe, he said to the bartender.     See you, Joe, the bartender called back.  Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer.     Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room.     Sir? the Venusian asked.     We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please?     Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him.       Another Joe     , I thought.      Another damned Joe.       They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly.     Steal what? I asked.     Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture.     So Walsh had taken care of that angle too.      He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars.     All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning.     Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked.     What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding.     Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation.     I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said.     Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked.     No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars.     I can see that, I said bitingly.     And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know.     I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly.     It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying.     I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth.     Get to the point, Captain! I barked.     Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow?     I follow, all right, I said bitterly.     Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes.     He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace.     Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all.     Just a case of extended      idiot     , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home.     I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters?     Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered.     I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic.     I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose.     Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat.     What is it, Major? he asked.     This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him?     Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you?     None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if....     Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all.     I thought....     I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise.     Hell, I was through kidding around. Look....     He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said.     I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway.     He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim.     Polk! he shouted, can you hear me?     I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too.       He's somewhere in the jungle, you know.       I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters.     As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow.     One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth.     It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether.     Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe.     I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though.     I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed.     A tall Venusian stepped into the room.     Joe? I asked, just to be sure.     Who else, boss? he answered.     I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one?     It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said.     How much?     Two cartons of cigarettes at least.     Who's the guide? I asked.     How's the price sound?     Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people!     His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to....     Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need.     The Venusian started to leave.     And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal.     His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said.     When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me.  I began wondering why Walsh had gone to so much trouble to get rid ofme. The job, as I saw it, would take a hell of a long time. It seemedlike a silly thing to do, just to get even with a guy for somethingthat had happened years ago. He surely must have realized that I'd beback again, sooner or later. Maybe he had another little junket all setfor me.     Or maybe he didn't expect me to come back.     The thought hadn't occurred to me before this, and I began to considerit seriously. Walsh was no good, rotten clear through. He was failingat the job of keeping Mars in hand, and he probably realized that afew more mistakes on his part would mean the end of his career withSpace II. I chuckled as I thought of him isolated in some God-forsakenplace like Space V or Space VII. This probably bothered him a lot, too.But what probably bothered him more was the fact that I was next incommand. If he were transferred, I'd be in charge of Space II, and Icould understand how much that would appeal to Walsh.     I tried to figure the thing out sensibly, tried to weigh his goodpoints against his bad. But it all came back to the same thing. Aguy who would deliberately go to sleep on Boiler Watch with a ton ofuranium ready to blast a barracks to smithereens if it wasn't watched,would deliberately do just about anything.     Sending me off on a wild goose chase after a character named Joe mayhave been a gag. But it may have been something a little grimmer than agag, and I made up my mind to be extremely careful from here on in.     The guide arrived at fifteen hundred on the dot. He was tall,elongated, looked almost like all the other Venusians I'd seen so far.     I understand you need a Grade A guide, sir, he said.     Are you familiar with the jungle? I asked him.     Born and raised there, sir. Know it like the back of my hand.     Has Joe told you what the payment will be?     Yes, sir. A carton and a half of cigarettes.     I thought about Joe deducting his commission and smiled.     When can we leave?     Right away, sir. We won't need much really. I've made a list ofsupplies and I can get them in less than an hour. I suggest you wearlight clothing, boots, and a hat.     Will I need a weapon?     He looked at me, his eyes faintly amused. Why, what for, sir?     Never mind, I said. What's your name, by the way?     He lifted his eyebrows, and his eyes widened in his narrow face. He wasdefinitely surprised.     Joe, he said. Didn't you know?  When we'd been out for a while I discovered why Joe had suggested theboots and the hat. The undergrowth was often sharp and jagged and itwould have sliced my legs to ribbons were they not protected by thehigh boots. The hat kept the strong sun off my head.     Joe was an excellent guide and a pleasant companion. He seemed to beenjoying a great romp, seemed to love the jungle and take a secretpleasure in the work he was doing. There were times when I couldn'tsee three feet ahead of me. He'd stand stock still for a few minutes,his head barely moving, his eyes darting from one plant to another.Then he'd say, This way, and take off into what looked like moreimpenetrable jungle invariably to find a little path leading directlyto another village.     Each village was the same. The natives would come running out of theirhuts, tall and blue, shouting, Cigarettes, Joe? Cigarettes? It tookme a while to realize they were addressing me and not my guide.     Everybody was Joe. It was one beautiful, happy, joyous round ofstinking, hot jungle. And I wasn't getting any nearer my man. Nor hadI any idea how I was supposed to find him. I began to feel pretty lowabout the whole affair.     Joe, on the other hand, enjoyed every moment of the trip. In eachvillage he greeted the natives cheerfully, told them stories, swappedgossip and jokes. And when it was time to leave, he would say goodbyeto all his friends and we would plunge into the twisted foliage again.     His spirits were always high and he never failed to say the right thingthat would give a momentary lift to my own depressed state of mind. Hewould talk for hours on end as we hacked our way through the jungle.     I like Venus, he said once. I would never leave it.     Have you ever been to Earth? I asked.     No, Joe replied. I like Terrans too, you understand. They are goodfor Venus. And they are fun.     Fun? I asked, thinking of a particular species of Terran: speciesLeonard Walsh.     Yes, yes, he said wholeheartedly. They joke and they laugh and ...well, you know.     I suppose so, I admitted.     Joe smiled secretly, and we pushed on. I began to find, more and more,that I had started to talk freely to Joe. In the beginning he had beenjust my guide. There had been the strained relationship of employer andemployee. But as the days lengthened into weeks, the formal atmospherebegan to crumble. I found myself telling him all about Earth, aboutthe people there, about my decision to attend the Academy, the rigidtests, the grind, even the Moon run. Joe was a good listener, noddingsympathetically, finding experiences in his own life to parallel my own.     And as our relationship progressed from a casual one to a definitelyfriendly one, Joe seemed more enthusiastic than ever to keep up ourgrinding pace to find what we were looking for.     Once we stopped in a clearing to rest. Joe lounged on the mattedgreenery, his long body stretched out in front of him, the knifegleaming in his belt. I'd seen him slash his way through thick, tangledvines with that knife, his long, muscular arms powerfully slicingthrough them like strips of silk.     How far are we from the Station? I asked.     Three or four Earth weeks, he replied.     I sighed wearily. Where do we go from here?     There are more villages, he said.     We'll never find him.     Possibly, Joe mused, the smile creeping over his face again.     A wild goose chase. A fool's errand.     We'd better get started, Joe said simply.     I got to my feet and we started the march again. Joe was still fresh, abrilliant contrast to me, weary and dejected. Somehow, I had the samefeeling I'd had a long time ago on my sixteenth birthday. One of myfriends had taken me all over the city, finally dropping me off at myown house where the whole gang was gathered for a surprise party. Joereminded me of that friend.     There's a village ahead, he said, and the grin on his face was largenow, his eyes shining.  Something was missing here. Natives. There were no natives rushing outto greet us. No cries of Cigarettes? Cigarettes? I caught up with Joe.     What's the story? I whispered.     He shrugged knowingly and continued walking.     And then I saw the ship, nose pointing into space, catching the rays ofthe sun like a great silver bullet.     What...? I started.     It's all right, Joe said, smiling.     The ship looked vaguely familiar. I noticed the crest of Space II nearthe nose, and a lot of things became clear then. I also saw Walshstanding near one of the huts, a stun gun in his hand.     Hello, Major, he called, almost cheerfully. The gun didn't lookcheerful, though. It was pointed at my head.     Fancy meeting you here, Colonel, I said, trying to match hisjoviality. Somehow it didn't quite come off.     Joe was walking beside me, waving at the colonel, beaming all over withhappiness.     I see you found your man, Walsh said.     I turned rapidly. Joe nodded and kept grinning, a grin that told me hewas getting a big kick out of all this. Like a kid playing a game.     I faced Walsh again. Okay, what's it all about, pal?     Colonel, Walsh corrected me. You mustn't forget to say Colonel,      Major     . He emphasized my rank, and he said it with a sort of ruthlessfinality.     I waited. I could see he was just busting to tell me how clever he'dbeen. Besides, there wasn't much I could do but wait. Not with Walshpointing the stun gun at my middle.     We've come a long way since the Academy, haven't we, Major?     If you mean in miles, I said, looking around at the plants, we surehave.     Walsh grinned a little. Always the wit, he said drily. And then thesmile faded from his lips and his eyes took on a hard lustre. I'mgoing to kill you, you know. He said it as if he were saying, I thinkit'll rain tomorrow.     Joe almost clapped his hands together with glee. He was really enjoyingthis. Another of those funny Terran games.     You gave me a powerful handicap to overcome, Walsh said. I suppose Ishould thank you, really.     You're welcome, I said.     It wasn't easy living down the disgrace you caused me.     It was your own damn fault, I said. You knew what you were doingwhen you decided to cork off.     Beside me, Joe chuckled a little, enjoying the game immensely.     You didn't have to report me, Walsh said.     No? Maybe I should have forgotten all about it? Maybe I should havenudged you and served you orange juice? So you could do it againsometime and maybe blow up the whole damn Academy!     Walsh was silent for a long time. When he spoke his voice was barelyaudible. The heat was oppressive, as if it were concentrated on thislittle spot in the jungle, focusing all its penetration on a small,unimportant drama.     I could hear Joe breathing beside me.     I'm on my way out, Walsh rasped. Finished, do you understand?     Good, I said. And I meant it.     This Mars thing. A terrible fix. Terrible.     Beside me, a slight frown crossed Joe's face. Apparently he couldn'tunderstand the seriousness of our voices. What had happened to thegame, the fun?     You brought the Mars business on yourself, I told Walsh. There wasnever any trouble before you took command.     The natives, he practically shouted. They ... they....     Joe caught his breath sharply, and I wondered what Walsh was going tosay about the natives. Apparently he'd realized that Joe was a native.Or maybe Joe's knife had something to do with it.     What about the natives? I asked.     Nothing, Walsh said. Nothing. He was silent for a while.     A man of my calibre, he said then, his face grim. Dealing withsavages. He caught himself again and threw a hasty glance at Joe.The perplexed frown had grown heavier on Joe's face. He looked at thecolonel in puzzlement.  ","Major Polk is given orders by his Boss, Colonel Walsh, to go to Venus in search of a man named Joe. Mars is in open revolt against the Colonel and the system that he runs, and Walsh tells Polk that there is a man on Venus who will be able to solve the problem of the revolt, as he spent time on Mars, and knows the natives. The Major and the Colonel hate each other, and it's clear from the get-go that the Colonel is setting the Major up for a trap. He tells Polk that the man's name is Joe, and that he has an affinity for Terran cigarettes. The Major travels to Venus to find this man, and complete the mission. When he arrives though, it becomes clear to him soon that every native Venusian is named Joe, and they all love cigarettes. Polk calls the Major from the office on Venus, asking for extra information, but the Colonel gives none. He has screwed him. The Major decides to look for this man regardless, as returning to Earth without having completed the mission could mean a demotion or a loss of job. He hires a guide to take him through the jungle terrain of Venus, obviously named Joe. As they spend weeks traveling through the jungle together they quickly become friends. They stop at various villages together, where they meet the locals, they chat on their walks and the Major tells Joe all about his past. After a few weeks, they arrive at a village, where a starship and the Colonel are waiting for them. He has a gun pointer and Polk, informing him he plans on killing him, because Polk ratted on Walsh when they were in the academy together about dozing off while he was on watch over a tank filled with uranium. Just before he goes to shoot the Major, he starts insulting the locals of Mars, and then natives in general. Joe becomes visibly upset. The story ends, and it's presumed that Joe will save the Major. "
"Why do the Colonel and the Major hate each other? </s>    A PLANET NAMED JOE     By S. A. LOMBINO       There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake       a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel       Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major       Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories     November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the     U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor.     For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me.     I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy.     It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral.     Yes, sir, I said.     It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native.     I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers.     The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is.     I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point.     I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars.     He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut.     Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars.     I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar.     He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can.     If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt.     And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place.     Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus.     At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me.     And the man's name, sir?     Joe. A tight smile played on his face.     Joe what? I asked.     Just Joe.     Just Joe?     Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean.     I don't know, sir.     A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said.     Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything?     Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though.     What's that?     He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on.     You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it.  The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking onthat trip. I thought about Mars and the revolt there. And I thoughtabout Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling thatrevolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd startedpushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as ifthe whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he tookover. Swell guy, Walsh.     Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunicI was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Likea mixture of old shoe and after-shave. There were plants everywhereI looked. Big plants and small ones, some blooming with flowers I'dnever seen before, and some as bare as cactus.     I recognized a blue figure as one of the natives the pilot had told meabout. He was tall, looking almost human except that everything abouthim was elongated. His features, his muscles, everything seemed to havebeen stretched like a rubber band. I kept expecting him to pop back tonormal. Instead, he flashed a double row of brilliant teeth at me.     I wondered if he spoke English. Hey, boy, I called.     He ambled over with long-legged strides that closed the distancebetween us in seconds.     Call me Joe, he said.     I dropped my bags and stared at him. Maybe this      was     going to be asimple assignment after all. I sure am glad to see you, Joe, I said.     Same here, Toots, he answered.     The guys back in Space II are searching high and low for you, I toldhim.     You've got the wrong number, he said, and I was a little surprised athis use of Terran idiom.     You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader?     I'm Joe, all right, he said. Only thing I ever traded, though, was apocketknife. Got a set of keys for it.     Oh, I said, my voice conveying my disappointment. I sighed and beganwondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was lookingfor. My orders said I was to report to Captain Bransten immediatelyupon arrival. I figured the hell with Captain Bransten. I outranked himanyway, and there wasn't much he could do if I decided to stop for adrink first.     Where's the Officer's Club? I asked the Venusian.     Are you buying information or are you just curious?     Can you take me there? I asked.     Sure thing, Toots. He picked up my bags and started walking up aheavily overgrown path. We'd probably walked for about ten minutes whenhe dropped my bags and said, There it is.     The Officer's Club was a plasteel hut with window shields thatprotected it from the heat of the sun. It didn't look too comfortablebut I really wanted that drink. I reached into my tunic and slippedthe native thirty solars.     He stared at the credits curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. Ohwell, you're new here. We'll let it go.     He took off then, while I stared after him, wondering just what he'dmeant. Had I tipped him too little?     I shrugged and looked over at the Officer's Club. From the outside itlooked as hot as hell.     On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began tocurse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II.     There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart gameand a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged.     I walked over and asked, What are you serving, pal?     Call me Joe, he answered.     He caught me off balance. What?     Joe, he said again.     A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull.You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all aboutMars, would you?     I never left home, he said simply. What are you drinking?     That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled....       But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like     Joe.      Among the natives, I mean.       Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, mostcontemptible....     What are you drinking, pal? the Venusian asked again.     Skip it, I said. How do I get to the captain's shack?     Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it.     I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved atthe bartender.     Hello, Joe, he said. How's it going?     Not so hot, Joe, the bartender replied.     I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of agreat gag. Very funny. Very....     You Major Polk, sweetheart? the Venusian who'd just come in asked.     Yes, I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh.     You better get your butt over to the captain's shack, he said. He'sabout ready to post you as overdue.     Sure, I said wearily. Will you take my bags, please?     Roger, he answered. He picked up the bags and nodded at the bar.     So long, Joe, he said to the bartender.     See you, Joe, the bartender called back.  Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer.     Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room.     Sir? the Venusian asked.     We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please?     Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him.       Another Joe     , I thought.      Another damned Joe.       They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly.     Steal what? I asked.     Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture.     So Walsh had taken care of that angle too.      He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars.     All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning.     Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked.     What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding.     Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation.     I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said.     Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked.     No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars.     I can see that, I said bitingly.     And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know.     I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly.     It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying.     I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth.     Get to the point, Captain! I barked.     Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow?     I follow, all right, I said bitterly.     Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes.     He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace.     Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all.     Just a case of extended      idiot     , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home.     I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters?     Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered.     I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic.     I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose.     Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat.     What is it, Major? he asked.     This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him?     Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you?     None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if....     Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all.     I thought....     I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise.     Hell, I was through kidding around. Look....     He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said.     I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway.     He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim.     Polk! he shouted, can you hear me?     I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too.       He's somewhere in the jungle, you know.       I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters.     As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow.     One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth.     It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether.     Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe.     I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though.     I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed.     A tall Venusian stepped into the room.     Joe? I asked, just to be sure.     Who else, boss? he answered.     I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one?     It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said.     How much?     Two cartons of cigarettes at least.     Who's the guide? I asked.     How's the price sound?     Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people!     His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to....     Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need.     The Venusian started to leave.     And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal.     His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said.     When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me.  I began wondering why Walsh had gone to so much trouble to get rid ofme. The job, as I saw it, would take a hell of a long time. It seemedlike a silly thing to do, just to get even with a guy for somethingthat had happened years ago. He surely must have realized that I'd beback again, sooner or later. Maybe he had another little junket all setfor me.     Or maybe he didn't expect me to come back.     The thought hadn't occurred to me before this, and I began to considerit seriously. Walsh was no good, rotten clear through. He was failingat the job of keeping Mars in hand, and he probably realized that afew more mistakes on his part would mean the end of his career withSpace II. I chuckled as I thought of him isolated in some God-forsakenplace like Space V or Space VII. This probably bothered him a lot, too.But what probably bothered him more was the fact that I was next incommand. If he were transferred, I'd be in charge of Space II, and Icould understand how much that would appeal to Walsh.     I tried to figure the thing out sensibly, tried to weigh his goodpoints against his bad. But it all came back to the same thing. Aguy who would deliberately go to sleep on Boiler Watch with a ton ofuranium ready to blast a barracks to smithereens if it wasn't watched,would deliberately do just about anything.     Sending me off on a wild goose chase after a character named Joe mayhave been a gag. But it may have been something a little grimmer than agag, and I made up my mind to be extremely careful from here on in.     The guide arrived at fifteen hundred on the dot. He was tall,elongated, looked almost like all the other Venusians I'd seen so far.     I understand you need a Grade A guide, sir, he said.     Are you familiar with the jungle? I asked him.     Born and raised there, sir. Know it like the back of my hand.     Has Joe told you what the payment will be?     Yes, sir. A carton and a half of cigarettes.     I thought about Joe deducting his commission and smiled.     When can we leave?     Right away, sir. We won't need much really. I've made a list ofsupplies and I can get them in less than an hour. I suggest you wearlight clothing, boots, and a hat.     Will I need a weapon?     He looked at me, his eyes faintly amused. Why, what for, sir?     Never mind, I said. What's your name, by the way?     He lifted his eyebrows, and his eyes widened in his narrow face. He wasdefinitely surprised.     Joe, he said. Didn't you know?  When we'd been out for a while I discovered why Joe had suggested theboots and the hat. The undergrowth was often sharp and jagged and itwould have sliced my legs to ribbons were they not protected by thehigh boots. The hat kept the strong sun off my head.     Joe was an excellent guide and a pleasant companion. He seemed to beenjoying a great romp, seemed to love the jungle and take a secretpleasure in the work he was doing. There were times when I couldn'tsee three feet ahead of me. He'd stand stock still for a few minutes,his head barely moving, his eyes darting from one plant to another.Then he'd say, This way, and take off into what looked like moreimpenetrable jungle invariably to find a little path leading directlyto another village.     Each village was the same. The natives would come running out of theirhuts, tall and blue, shouting, Cigarettes, Joe? Cigarettes? It tookme a while to realize they were addressing me and not my guide.     Everybody was Joe. It was one beautiful, happy, joyous round ofstinking, hot jungle. And I wasn't getting any nearer my man. Nor hadI any idea how I was supposed to find him. I began to feel pretty lowabout the whole affair.     Joe, on the other hand, enjoyed every moment of the trip. In eachvillage he greeted the natives cheerfully, told them stories, swappedgossip and jokes. And when it was time to leave, he would say goodbyeto all his friends and we would plunge into the twisted foliage again.     His spirits were always high and he never failed to say the right thingthat would give a momentary lift to my own depressed state of mind. Hewould talk for hours on end as we hacked our way through the jungle.     I like Venus, he said once. I would never leave it.     Have you ever been to Earth? I asked.     No, Joe replied. I like Terrans too, you understand. They are goodfor Venus. And they are fun.     Fun? I asked, thinking of a particular species of Terran: speciesLeonard Walsh.     Yes, yes, he said wholeheartedly. They joke and they laugh and ...well, you know.     I suppose so, I admitted.     Joe smiled secretly, and we pushed on. I began to find, more and more,that I had started to talk freely to Joe. In the beginning he had beenjust my guide. There had been the strained relationship of employer andemployee. But as the days lengthened into weeks, the formal atmospherebegan to crumble. I found myself telling him all about Earth, aboutthe people there, about my decision to attend the Academy, the rigidtests, the grind, even the Moon run. Joe was a good listener, noddingsympathetically, finding experiences in his own life to parallel my own.     And as our relationship progressed from a casual one to a definitelyfriendly one, Joe seemed more enthusiastic than ever to keep up ourgrinding pace to find what we were looking for.     Once we stopped in a clearing to rest. Joe lounged on the mattedgreenery, his long body stretched out in front of him, the knifegleaming in his belt. I'd seen him slash his way through thick, tangledvines with that knife, his long, muscular arms powerfully slicingthrough them like strips of silk.     How far are we from the Station? I asked.     Three or four Earth weeks, he replied.     I sighed wearily. Where do we go from here?     There are more villages, he said.     We'll never find him.     Possibly, Joe mused, the smile creeping over his face again.     A wild goose chase. A fool's errand.     We'd better get started, Joe said simply.     I got to my feet and we started the march again. Joe was still fresh, abrilliant contrast to me, weary and dejected. Somehow, I had the samefeeling I'd had a long time ago on my sixteenth birthday. One of myfriends had taken me all over the city, finally dropping me off at myown house where the whole gang was gathered for a surprise party. Joereminded me of that friend.     There's a village ahead, he said, and the grin on his face was largenow, his eyes shining.  Something was missing here. Natives. There were no natives rushing outto greet us. No cries of Cigarettes? Cigarettes? I caught up with Joe.     What's the story? I whispered.     He shrugged knowingly and continued walking.     And then I saw the ship, nose pointing into space, catching the rays ofthe sun like a great silver bullet.     What...? I started.     It's all right, Joe said, smiling.     The ship looked vaguely familiar. I noticed the crest of Space II nearthe nose, and a lot of things became clear then. I also saw Walshstanding near one of the huts, a stun gun in his hand.     Hello, Major, he called, almost cheerfully. The gun didn't lookcheerful, though. It was pointed at my head.     Fancy meeting you here, Colonel, I said, trying to match hisjoviality. Somehow it didn't quite come off.     Joe was walking beside me, waving at the colonel, beaming all over withhappiness.     I see you found your man, Walsh said.     I turned rapidly. Joe nodded and kept grinning, a grin that told me hewas getting a big kick out of all this. Like a kid playing a game.     I faced Walsh again. Okay, what's it all about, pal?     Colonel, Walsh corrected me. You mustn't forget to say Colonel,      Major     . He emphasized my rank, and he said it with a sort of ruthlessfinality.     I waited. I could see he was just busting to tell me how clever he'dbeen. Besides, there wasn't much I could do but wait. Not with Walshpointing the stun gun at my middle.     We've come a long way since the Academy, haven't we, Major?     If you mean in miles, I said, looking around at the plants, we surehave.     Walsh grinned a little. Always the wit, he said drily. And then thesmile faded from his lips and his eyes took on a hard lustre. I'mgoing to kill you, you know. He said it as if he were saying, I thinkit'll rain tomorrow.     Joe almost clapped his hands together with glee. He was really enjoyingthis. Another of those funny Terran games.     You gave me a powerful handicap to overcome, Walsh said. I suppose Ishould thank you, really.     You're welcome, I said.     It wasn't easy living down the disgrace you caused me.     It was your own damn fault, I said. You knew what you were doingwhen you decided to cork off.     Beside me, Joe chuckled a little, enjoying the game immensely.     You didn't have to report me, Walsh said.     No? Maybe I should have forgotten all about it? Maybe I should havenudged you and served you orange juice? So you could do it againsometime and maybe blow up the whole damn Academy!     Walsh was silent for a long time. When he spoke his voice was barelyaudible. The heat was oppressive, as if it were concentrated on thislittle spot in the jungle, focusing all its penetration on a small,unimportant drama.     I could hear Joe breathing beside me.     I'm on my way out, Walsh rasped. Finished, do you understand?     Good, I said. And I meant it.     This Mars thing. A terrible fix. Terrible.     Beside me, a slight frown crossed Joe's face. Apparently he couldn'tunderstand the seriousness of our voices. What had happened to thegame, the fun?     You brought the Mars business on yourself, I told Walsh. There wasnever any trouble before you took command.     The natives, he practically shouted. They ... they....     Joe caught his breath sharply, and I wondered what Walsh was going tosay about the natives. Apparently he'd realized that Joe was a native.Or maybe Joe's knife had something to do with it.     What about the natives? I asked.     Nothing, Walsh said. Nothing. He was silent for a while.     A man of my calibre, he said then, his face grim. Dealing withsavages. He caught himself again and threw a hasty glance at Joe.The perplexed frown had grown heavier on Joe's face. He looked at thecolonel in puzzlement.  ","The Colonel and the Major seemed as if they were acquaintances before they first fell out. The Colonel had called the Major, by his first name, Fred. Now, he only calls him Major, as a mark of disrespect, since the colonel somehow outranks him. The Colonel also demands that Polk use his proper title, as a way of putting him down. They initially fell out because one night, while the Colonel was supposed to be on boiled watch, guarding the uranium in a tank beneath the barracks, he fell asleep on duty. The entire barracks could've been blown up. The Major had to report him to their superiors. This meant that the colonel's career took a big hit, and he had to fight his way back into the ranks. He felt as if the Major betrayed him, and ratted him out. Now, the Colonel is in charge of Mars, where he has caused a revolt based on his shocking treatment of the natives. His prejudice towards the native people of Venus and Mars is another reason the Major hates him. "
"What is the main setting of the story? </s>    A PLANET NAMED JOE     By S. A. LOMBINO       There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake       a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel       Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major       Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories     November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the     U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor.     For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me.     I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy.     It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral.     Yes, sir, I said.     It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native.     I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers.     The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is.     I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point.     I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars.     He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut.     Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars.     I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar.     He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can.     If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt.     And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place.     Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus.     At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me.     And the man's name, sir?     Joe. A tight smile played on his face.     Joe what? I asked.     Just Joe.     Just Joe?     Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean.     I don't know, sir.     A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said.     Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything?     Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though.     What's that?     He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on.     You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it.  The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking onthat trip. I thought about Mars and the revolt there. And I thoughtabout Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling thatrevolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd startedpushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as ifthe whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he tookover. Swell guy, Walsh.     Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunicI was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Likea mixture of old shoe and after-shave. There were plants everywhereI looked. Big plants and small ones, some blooming with flowers I'dnever seen before, and some as bare as cactus.     I recognized a blue figure as one of the natives the pilot had told meabout. He was tall, looking almost human except that everything abouthim was elongated. His features, his muscles, everything seemed to havebeen stretched like a rubber band. I kept expecting him to pop back tonormal. Instead, he flashed a double row of brilliant teeth at me.     I wondered if he spoke English. Hey, boy, I called.     He ambled over with long-legged strides that closed the distancebetween us in seconds.     Call me Joe, he said.     I dropped my bags and stared at him. Maybe this      was     going to be asimple assignment after all. I sure am glad to see you, Joe, I said.     Same here, Toots, he answered.     The guys back in Space II are searching high and low for you, I toldhim.     You've got the wrong number, he said, and I was a little surprised athis use of Terran idiom.     You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader?     I'm Joe, all right, he said. Only thing I ever traded, though, was apocketknife. Got a set of keys for it.     Oh, I said, my voice conveying my disappointment. I sighed and beganwondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was lookingfor. My orders said I was to report to Captain Bransten immediatelyupon arrival. I figured the hell with Captain Bransten. I outranked himanyway, and there wasn't much he could do if I decided to stop for adrink first.     Where's the Officer's Club? I asked the Venusian.     Are you buying information or are you just curious?     Can you take me there? I asked.     Sure thing, Toots. He picked up my bags and started walking up aheavily overgrown path. We'd probably walked for about ten minutes whenhe dropped my bags and said, There it is.     The Officer's Club was a plasteel hut with window shields thatprotected it from the heat of the sun. It didn't look too comfortablebut I really wanted that drink. I reached into my tunic and slippedthe native thirty solars.     He stared at the credits curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. Ohwell, you're new here. We'll let it go.     He took off then, while I stared after him, wondering just what he'dmeant. Had I tipped him too little?     I shrugged and looked over at the Officer's Club. From the outside itlooked as hot as hell.     On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began tocurse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II.     There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart gameand a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged.     I walked over and asked, What are you serving, pal?     Call me Joe, he answered.     He caught me off balance. What?     Joe, he said again.     A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull.You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all aboutMars, would you?     I never left home, he said simply. What are you drinking?     That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled....       But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like     Joe.      Among the natives, I mean.       Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, mostcontemptible....     What are you drinking, pal? the Venusian asked again.     Skip it, I said. How do I get to the captain's shack?     Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it.     I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved atthe bartender.     Hello, Joe, he said. How's it going?     Not so hot, Joe, the bartender replied.     I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of agreat gag. Very funny. Very....     You Major Polk, sweetheart? the Venusian who'd just come in asked.     Yes, I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh.     You better get your butt over to the captain's shack, he said. He'sabout ready to post you as overdue.     Sure, I said wearily. Will you take my bags, please?     Roger, he answered. He picked up the bags and nodded at the bar.     So long, Joe, he said to the bartender.     See you, Joe, the bartender called back.  Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer.     Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room.     Sir? the Venusian asked.     We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please?     Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him.       Another Joe     , I thought.      Another damned Joe.       They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly.     Steal what? I asked.     Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture.     So Walsh had taken care of that angle too.      He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars.     All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning.     Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked.     What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding.     Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation.     I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said.     Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked.     No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars.     I can see that, I said bitingly.     And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know.     I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly.     It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying.     I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth.     Get to the point, Captain! I barked.     Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow?     I follow, all right, I said bitterly.     Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes.     He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace.     Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all.     Just a case of extended      idiot     , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home.     I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters?     Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered.     I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic.     I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose.     Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat.     What is it, Major? he asked.     This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him?     Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you?     None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if....     Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all.     I thought....     I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise.     Hell, I was through kidding around. Look....     He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said.     I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway.     He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim.     Polk! he shouted, can you hear me?     I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too.       He's somewhere in the jungle, you know.       I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters.     As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow.     One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth.     It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether.     Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe.     I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though.     I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed.     A tall Venusian stepped into the room.     Joe? I asked, just to be sure.     Who else, boss? he answered.     I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one?     It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said.     How much?     Two cartons of cigarettes at least.     Who's the guide? I asked.     How's the price sound?     Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people!     His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to....     Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need.     The Venusian started to leave.     And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal.     His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said.     When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me.  I began wondering why Walsh had gone to so much trouble to get rid ofme. The job, as I saw it, would take a hell of a long time. It seemedlike a silly thing to do, just to get even with a guy for somethingthat had happened years ago. He surely must have realized that I'd beback again, sooner or later. Maybe he had another little junket all setfor me.     Or maybe he didn't expect me to come back.     The thought hadn't occurred to me before this, and I began to considerit seriously. Walsh was no good, rotten clear through. He was failingat the job of keeping Mars in hand, and he probably realized that afew more mistakes on his part would mean the end of his career withSpace II. I chuckled as I thought of him isolated in some God-forsakenplace like Space V or Space VII. This probably bothered him a lot, too.But what probably bothered him more was the fact that I was next incommand. If he were transferred, I'd be in charge of Space II, and Icould understand how much that would appeal to Walsh.     I tried to figure the thing out sensibly, tried to weigh his goodpoints against his bad. But it all came back to the same thing. Aguy who would deliberately go to sleep on Boiler Watch with a ton ofuranium ready to blast a barracks to smithereens if it wasn't watched,would deliberately do just about anything.     Sending me off on a wild goose chase after a character named Joe mayhave been a gag. But it may have been something a little grimmer than agag, and I made up my mind to be extremely careful from here on in.     The guide arrived at fifteen hundred on the dot. He was tall,elongated, looked almost like all the other Venusians I'd seen so far.     I understand you need a Grade A guide, sir, he said.     Are you familiar with the jungle? I asked him.     Born and raised there, sir. Know it like the back of my hand.     Has Joe told you what the payment will be?     Yes, sir. A carton and a half of cigarettes.     I thought about Joe deducting his commission and smiled.     When can we leave?     Right away, sir. We won't need much really. I've made a list ofsupplies and I can get them in less than an hour. I suggest you wearlight clothing, boots, and a hat.     Will I need a weapon?     He looked at me, his eyes faintly amused. Why, what for, sir?     Never mind, I said. What's your name, by the way?     He lifted his eyebrows, and his eyes widened in his narrow face. He wasdefinitely surprised.     Joe, he said. Didn't you know?  When we'd been out for a while I discovered why Joe had suggested theboots and the hat. The undergrowth was often sharp and jagged and itwould have sliced my legs to ribbons were they not protected by thehigh boots. The hat kept the strong sun off my head.     Joe was an excellent guide and a pleasant companion. He seemed to beenjoying a great romp, seemed to love the jungle and take a secretpleasure in the work he was doing. There were times when I couldn'tsee three feet ahead of me. He'd stand stock still for a few minutes,his head barely moving, his eyes darting from one plant to another.Then he'd say, This way, and take off into what looked like moreimpenetrable jungle invariably to find a little path leading directlyto another village.     Each village was the same. The natives would come running out of theirhuts, tall and blue, shouting, Cigarettes, Joe? Cigarettes? It tookme a while to realize they were addressing me and not my guide.     Everybody was Joe. It was one beautiful, happy, joyous round ofstinking, hot jungle. And I wasn't getting any nearer my man. Nor hadI any idea how I was supposed to find him. I began to feel pretty lowabout the whole affair.     Joe, on the other hand, enjoyed every moment of the trip. In eachvillage he greeted the natives cheerfully, told them stories, swappedgossip and jokes. And when it was time to leave, he would say goodbyeto all his friends and we would plunge into the twisted foliage again.     His spirits were always high and he never failed to say the right thingthat would give a momentary lift to my own depressed state of mind. Hewould talk for hours on end as we hacked our way through the jungle.     I like Venus, he said once. I would never leave it.     Have you ever been to Earth? I asked.     No, Joe replied. I like Terrans too, you understand. They are goodfor Venus. And they are fun.     Fun? I asked, thinking of a particular species of Terran: speciesLeonard Walsh.     Yes, yes, he said wholeheartedly. They joke and they laugh and ...well, you know.     I suppose so, I admitted.     Joe smiled secretly, and we pushed on. I began to find, more and more,that I had started to talk freely to Joe. In the beginning he had beenjust my guide. There had been the strained relationship of employer andemployee. But as the days lengthened into weeks, the formal atmospherebegan to crumble. I found myself telling him all about Earth, aboutthe people there, about my decision to attend the Academy, the rigidtests, the grind, even the Moon run. Joe was a good listener, noddingsympathetically, finding experiences in his own life to parallel my own.     And as our relationship progressed from a casual one to a definitelyfriendly one, Joe seemed more enthusiastic than ever to keep up ourgrinding pace to find what we were looking for.     Once we stopped in a clearing to rest. Joe lounged on the mattedgreenery, his long body stretched out in front of him, the knifegleaming in his belt. I'd seen him slash his way through thick, tangledvines with that knife, his long, muscular arms powerfully slicingthrough them like strips of silk.     How far are we from the Station? I asked.     Three or four Earth weeks, he replied.     I sighed wearily. Where do we go from here?     There are more villages, he said.     We'll never find him.     Possibly, Joe mused, the smile creeping over his face again.     A wild goose chase. A fool's errand.     We'd better get started, Joe said simply.     I got to my feet and we started the march again. Joe was still fresh, abrilliant contrast to me, weary and dejected. Somehow, I had the samefeeling I'd had a long time ago on my sixteenth birthday. One of myfriends had taken me all over the city, finally dropping me off at myown house where the whole gang was gathered for a surprise party. Joereminded me of that friend.     There's a village ahead, he said, and the grin on his face was largenow, his eyes shining.  Something was missing here. Natives. There were no natives rushing outto greet us. No cries of Cigarettes? Cigarettes? I caught up with Joe.     What's the story? I whispered.     He shrugged knowingly and continued walking.     And then I saw the ship, nose pointing into space, catching the rays ofthe sun like a great silver bullet.     What...? I started.     It's all right, Joe said, smiling.     The ship looked vaguely familiar. I noticed the crest of Space II nearthe nose, and a lot of things became clear then. I also saw Walshstanding near one of the huts, a stun gun in his hand.     Hello, Major, he called, almost cheerfully. The gun didn't lookcheerful, though. It was pointed at my head.     Fancy meeting you here, Colonel, I said, trying to match hisjoviality. Somehow it didn't quite come off.     Joe was walking beside me, waving at the colonel, beaming all over withhappiness.     I see you found your man, Walsh said.     I turned rapidly. Joe nodded and kept grinning, a grin that told me hewas getting a big kick out of all this. Like a kid playing a game.     I faced Walsh again. Okay, what's it all about, pal?     Colonel, Walsh corrected me. You mustn't forget to say Colonel,      Major     . He emphasized my rank, and he said it with a sort of ruthlessfinality.     I waited. I could see he was just busting to tell me how clever he'dbeen. Besides, there wasn't much I could do but wait. Not with Walshpointing the stun gun at my middle.     We've come a long way since the Academy, haven't we, Major?     If you mean in miles, I said, looking around at the plants, we surehave.     Walsh grinned a little. Always the wit, he said drily. And then thesmile faded from his lips and his eyes took on a hard lustre. I'mgoing to kill you, you know. He said it as if he were saying, I thinkit'll rain tomorrow.     Joe almost clapped his hands together with glee. He was really enjoyingthis. Another of those funny Terran games.     You gave me a powerful handicap to overcome, Walsh said. I suppose Ishould thank you, really.     You're welcome, I said.     It wasn't easy living down the disgrace you caused me.     It was your own damn fault, I said. You knew what you were doingwhen you decided to cork off.     Beside me, Joe chuckled a little, enjoying the game immensely.     You didn't have to report me, Walsh said.     No? Maybe I should have forgotten all about it? Maybe I should havenudged you and served you orange juice? So you could do it againsometime and maybe blow up the whole damn Academy!     Walsh was silent for a long time. When he spoke his voice was barelyaudible. The heat was oppressive, as if it were concentrated on thislittle spot in the jungle, focusing all its penetration on a small,unimportant drama.     I could hear Joe breathing beside me.     I'm on my way out, Walsh rasped. Finished, do you understand?     Good, I said. And I meant it.     This Mars thing. A terrible fix. Terrible.     Beside me, a slight frown crossed Joe's face. Apparently he couldn'tunderstand the seriousness of our voices. What had happened to thegame, the fun?     You brought the Mars business on yourself, I told Walsh. There wasnever any trouble before you took command.     The natives, he practically shouted. They ... they....     Joe caught his breath sharply, and I wondered what Walsh was going tosay about the natives. Apparently he'd realized that Joe was a native.Or maybe Joe's knife had something to do with it.     What about the natives? I asked.     Nothing, Walsh said. Nothing. He was silent for a while.     A man of my calibre, he said then, his face grim. Dealing withsavages. He caught himself again and threw a hasty glance at Joe.The perplexed frown had grown heavier on Joe's face. He looked at thecolonel in puzzlement.  ","The main setting of the story is the planet Venus. The planet is described as being extremely hot, and having the scent of an old shoe and after shave. There are plants everywhere, of all sizes and varieties, some with strange and wonderful flowers. There is a station for Space II, which includes The Officers Club: a small shack which functions as a bar, and The Captain's Shack. The world is covered in thick jungle, which is impossible to orient unless you're a local. The floor of the jungle is filled with sharp undergrowth that would shred your feet. In the jungle are little hidden pathways that lead to small villages, where native Venusians live. "
"What is the relationship between Major Polk and his guide, Joe? </s>    A PLANET NAMED JOE     By S. A. LOMBINO       There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake       a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel       Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major       Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories     November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the     U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor.     For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me.     I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy.     It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral.     Yes, sir, I said.     It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native.     I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers.     The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is.     I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point.     I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars.     He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut.     Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars.     I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar.     He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can.     If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt.     And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place.     Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus.     At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me.     And the man's name, sir?     Joe. A tight smile played on his face.     Joe what? I asked.     Just Joe.     Just Joe?     Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean.     I don't know, sir.     A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said.     Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything?     Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though.     What's that?     He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on.     You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it.  The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking onthat trip. I thought about Mars and the revolt there. And I thoughtabout Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling thatrevolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd startedpushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as ifthe whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he tookover. Swell guy, Walsh.     Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunicI was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Likea mixture of old shoe and after-shave. There were plants everywhereI looked. Big plants and small ones, some blooming with flowers I'dnever seen before, and some as bare as cactus.     I recognized a blue figure as one of the natives the pilot had told meabout. He was tall, looking almost human except that everything abouthim was elongated. His features, his muscles, everything seemed to havebeen stretched like a rubber band. I kept expecting him to pop back tonormal. Instead, he flashed a double row of brilliant teeth at me.     I wondered if he spoke English. Hey, boy, I called.     He ambled over with long-legged strides that closed the distancebetween us in seconds.     Call me Joe, he said.     I dropped my bags and stared at him. Maybe this      was     going to be asimple assignment after all. I sure am glad to see you, Joe, I said.     Same here, Toots, he answered.     The guys back in Space II are searching high and low for you, I toldhim.     You've got the wrong number, he said, and I was a little surprised athis use of Terran idiom.     You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader?     I'm Joe, all right, he said. Only thing I ever traded, though, was apocketknife. Got a set of keys for it.     Oh, I said, my voice conveying my disappointment. I sighed and beganwondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was lookingfor. My orders said I was to report to Captain Bransten immediatelyupon arrival. I figured the hell with Captain Bransten. I outranked himanyway, and there wasn't much he could do if I decided to stop for adrink first.     Where's the Officer's Club? I asked the Venusian.     Are you buying information or are you just curious?     Can you take me there? I asked.     Sure thing, Toots. He picked up my bags and started walking up aheavily overgrown path. We'd probably walked for about ten minutes whenhe dropped my bags and said, There it is.     The Officer's Club was a plasteel hut with window shields thatprotected it from the heat of the sun. It didn't look too comfortablebut I really wanted that drink. I reached into my tunic and slippedthe native thirty solars.     He stared at the credits curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. Ohwell, you're new here. We'll let it go.     He took off then, while I stared after him, wondering just what he'dmeant. Had I tipped him too little?     I shrugged and looked over at the Officer's Club. From the outside itlooked as hot as hell.     On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began tocurse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II.     There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart gameand a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged.     I walked over and asked, What are you serving, pal?     Call me Joe, he answered.     He caught me off balance. What?     Joe, he said again.     A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull.You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all aboutMars, would you?     I never left home, he said simply. What are you drinking?     That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled....       But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like     Joe.      Among the natives, I mean.       Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, mostcontemptible....     What are you drinking, pal? the Venusian asked again.     Skip it, I said. How do I get to the captain's shack?     Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it.     I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved atthe bartender.     Hello, Joe, he said. How's it going?     Not so hot, Joe, the bartender replied.     I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of agreat gag. Very funny. Very....     You Major Polk, sweetheart? the Venusian who'd just come in asked.     Yes, I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh.     You better get your butt over to the captain's shack, he said. He'sabout ready to post you as overdue.     Sure, I said wearily. Will you take my bags, please?     Roger, he answered. He picked up the bags and nodded at the bar.     So long, Joe, he said to the bartender.     See you, Joe, the bartender called back.  Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer.     Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room.     Sir? the Venusian asked.     We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please?     Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him.       Another Joe     , I thought.      Another damned Joe.       They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly.     Steal what? I asked.     Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture.     So Walsh had taken care of that angle too.      He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars.     All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning.     Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked.     What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding.     Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation.     I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said.     Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked.     No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars.     I can see that, I said bitingly.     And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know.     I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly.     It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying.     I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth.     Get to the point, Captain! I barked.     Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow?     I follow, all right, I said bitterly.     Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes.     He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace.     Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all.     Just a case of extended      idiot     , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home.     I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters?     Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered.     I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic.     I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose.     Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat.     What is it, Major? he asked.     This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him?     Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you?     None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if....     Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all.     I thought....     I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise.     Hell, I was through kidding around. Look....     He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said.     I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway.     He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim.     Polk! he shouted, can you hear me?     I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too.       He's somewhere in the jungle, you know.       I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters.     As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow.     One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth.     It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether.     Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe.     I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though.     I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed.     A tall Venusian stepped into the room.     Joe? I asked, just to be sure.     Who else, boss? he answered.     I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one?     It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said.     How much?     Two cartons of cigarettes at least.     Who's the guide? I asked.     How's the price sound?     Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people!     His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to....     Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need.     The Venusian started to leave.     And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal.     His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said.     When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me.  I began wondering why Walsh had gone to so much trouble to get rid ofme. The job, as I saw it, would take a hell of a long time. It seemedlike a silly thing to do, just to get even with a guy for somethingthat had happened years ago. He surely must have realized that I'd beback again, sooner or later. Maybe he had another little junket all setfor me.     Or maybe he didn't expect me to come back.     The thought hadn't occurred to me before this, and I began to considerit seriously. Walsh was no good, rotten clear through. He was failingat the job of keeping Mars in hand, and he probably realized that afew more mistakes on his part would mean the end of his career withSpace II. I chuckled as I thought of him isolated in some God-forsakenplace like Space V or Space VII. This probably bothered him a lot, too.But what probably bothered him more was the fact that I was next incommand. If he were transferred, I'd be in charge of Space II, and Icould understand how much that would appeal to Walsh.     I tried to figure the thing out sensibly, tried to weigh his goodpoints against his bad. But it all came back to the same thing. Aguy who would deliberately go to sleep on Boiler Watch with a ton ofuranium ready to blast a barracks to smithereens if it wasn't watched,would deliberately do just about anything.     Sending me off on a wild goose chase after a character named Joe mayhave been a gag. But it may have been something a little grimmer than agag, and I made up my mind to be extremely careful from here on in.     The guide arrived at fifteen hundred on the dot. He was tall,elongated, looked almost like all the other Venusians I'd seen so far.     I understand you need a Grade A guide, sir, he said.     Are you familiar with the jungle? I asked him.     Born and raised there, sir. Know it like the back of my hand.     Has Joe told you what the payment will be?     Yes, sir. A carton and a half of cigarettes.     I thought about Joe deducting his commission and smiled.     When can we leave?     Right away, sir. We won't need much really. I've made a list ofsupplies and I can get them in less than an hour. I suggest you wearlight clothing, boots, and a hat.     Will I need a weapon?     He looked at me, his eyes faintly amused. Why, what for, sir?     Never mind, I said. What's your name, by the way?     He lifted his eyebrows, and his eyes widened in his narrow face. He wasdefinitely surprised.     Joe, he said. Didn't you know?  When we'd been out for a while I discovered why Joe had suggested theboots and the hat. The undergrowth was often sharp and jagged and itwould have sliced my legs to ribbons were they not protected by thehigh boots. The hat kept the strong sun off my head.     Joe was an excellent guide and a pleasant companion. He seemed to beenjoying a great romp, seemed to love the jungle and take a secretpleasure in the work he was doing. There were times when I couldn'tsee three feet ahead of me. He'd stand stock still for a few minutes,his head barely moving, his eyes darting from one plant to another.Then he'd say, This way, and take off into what looked like moreimpenetrable jungle invariably to find a little path leading directlyto another village.     Each village was the same. The natives would come running out of theirhuts, tall and blue, shouting, Cigarettes, Joe? Cigarettes? It tookme a while to realize they were addressing me and not my guide.     Everybody was Joe. It was one beautiful, happy, joyous round ofstinking, hot jungle. And I wasn't getting any nearer my man. Nor hadI any idea how I was supposed to find him. I began to feel pretty lowabout the whole affair.     Joe, on the other hand, enjoyed every moment of the trip. In eachvillage he greeted the natives cheerfully, told them stories, swappedgossip and jokes. And when it was time to leave, he would say goodbyeto all his friends and we would plunge into the twisted foliage again.     His spirits were always high and he never failed to say the right thingthat would give a momentary lift to my own depressed state of mind. Hewould talk for hours on end as we hacked our way through the jungle.     I like Venus, he said once. I would never leave it.     Have you ever been to Earth? I asked.     No, Joe replied. I like Terrans too, you understand. They are goodfor Venus. And they are fun.     Fun? I asked, thinking of a particular species of Terran: speciesLeonard Walsh.     Yes, yes, he said wholeheartedly. They joke and they laugh and ...well, you know.     I suppose so, I admitted.     Joe smiled secretly, and we pushed on. I began to find, more and more,that I had started to talk freely to Joe. In the beginning he had beenjust my guide. There had been the strained relationship of employer andemployee. But as the days lengthened into weeks, the formal atmospherebegan to crumble. I found myself telling him all about Earth, aboutthe people there, about my decision to attend the Academy, the rigidtests, the grind, even the Moon run. Joe was a good listener, noddingsympathetically, finding experiences in his own life to parallel my own.     And as our relationship progressed from a casual one to a definitelyfriendly one, Joe seemed more enthusiastic than ever to keep up ourgrinding pace to find what we were looking for.     Once we stopped in a clearing to rest. Joe lounged on the mattedgreenery, his long body stretched out in front of him, the knifegleaming in his belt. I'd seen him slash his way through thick, tangledvines with that knife, his long, muscular arms powerfully slicingthrough them like strips of silk.     How far are we from the Station? I asked.     Three or four Earth weeks, he replied.     I sighed wearily. Where do we go from here?     There are more villages, he said.     We'll never find him.     Possibly, Joe mused, the smile creeping over his face again.     A wild goose chase. A fool's errand.     We'd better get started, Joe said simply.     I got to my feet and we started the march again. Joe was still fresh, abrilliant contrast to me, weary and dejected. Somehow, I had the samefeeling I'd had a long time ago on my sixteenth birthday. One of myfriends had taken me all over the city, finally dropping me off at myown house where the whole gang was gathered for a surprise party. Joereminded me of that friend.     There's a village ahead, he said, and the grin on his face was largenow, his eyes shining.  Something was missing here. Natives. There were no natives rushing outto greet us. No cries of Cigarettes? Cigarettes? I caught up with Joe.     What's the story? I whispered.     He shrugged knowingly and continued walking.     And then I saw the ship, nose pointing into space, catching the rays ofthe sun like a great silver bullet.     What...? I started.     It's all right, Joe said, smiling.     The ship looked vaguely familiar. I noticed the crest of Space II nearthe nose, and a lot of things became clear then. I also saw Walshstanding near one of the huts, a stun gun in his hand.     Hello, Major, he called, almost cheerfully. The gun didn't lookcheerful, though. It was pointed at my head.     Fancy meeting you here, Colonel, I said, trying to match hisjoviality. Somehow it didn't quite come off.     Joe was walking beside me, waving at the colonel, beaming all over withhappiness.     I see you found your man, Walsh said.     I turned rapidly. Joe nodded and kept grinning, a grin that told me hewas getting a big kick out of all this. Like a kid playing a game.     I faced Walsh again. Okay, what's it all about, pal?     Colonel, Walsh corrected me. You mustn't forget to say Colonel,      Major     . He emphasized my rank, and he said it with a sort of ruthlessfinality.     I waited. I could see he was just busting to tell me how clever he'dbeen. Besides, there wasn't much I could do but wait. Not with Walshpointing the stun gun at my middle.     We've come a long way since the Academy, haven't we, Major?     If you mean in miles, I said, looking around at the plants, we surehave.     Walsh grinned a little. Always the wit, he said drily. And then thesmile faded from his lips and his eyes took on a hard lustre. I'mgoing to kill you, you know. He said it as if he were saying, I thinkit'll rain tomorrow.     Joe almost clapped his hands together with glee. He was really enjoyingthis. Another of those funny Terran games.     You gave me a powerful handicap to overcome, Walsh said. I suppose Ishould thank you, really.     You're welcome, I said.     It wasn't easy living down the disgrace you caused me.     It was your own damn fault, I said. You knew what you were doingwhen you decided to cork off.     Beside me, Joe chuckled a little, enjoying the game immensely.     You didn't have to report me, Walsh said.     No? Maybe I should have forgotten all about it? Maybe I should havenudged you and served you orange juice? So you could do it againsometime and maybe blow up the whole damn Academy!     Walsh was silent for a long time. When he spoke his voice was barelyaudible. The heat was oppressive, as if it were concentrated on thislittle spot in the jungle, focusing all its penetration on a small,unimportant drama.     I could hear Joe breathing beside me.     I'm on my way out, Walsh rasped. Finished, do you understand?     Good, I said. And I meant it.     This Mars thing. A terrible fix. Terrible.     Beside me, a slight frown crossed Joe's face. Apparently he couldn'tunderstand the seriousness of our voices. What had happened to thegame, the fun?     You brought the Mars business on yourself, I told Walsh. There wasnever any trouble before you took command.     The natives, he practically shouted. They ... they....     Joe caught his breath sharply, and I wondered what Walsh was going tosay about the natives. Apparently he'd realized that Joe was a native.Or maybe Joe's knife had something to do with it.     What about the natives? I asked.     Nothing, Walsh said. Nothing. He was silent for a while.     A man of my calibre, he said then, his face grim. Dealing withsavages. He caught himself again and threw a hasty glance at Joe.The perplexed frown had grown heavier on Joe's face. He looked at thecolonel in puzzlement.  ","The relationship between the two characters starts off as one of business. Polk hires Joe to show him through the jungle. Joe is described as the best that there is, as he has lived there all his life. The two set off immediately for the jungle. As they journey through the forest, they begin to talk. Polk finds that he really enjoys the company of the Venusian. He likes that Joe always seems to be happy, and knows just what to say to cheer Polk up. He admires that he's so friendly to the locals, and immediately chats and laughs with them. Polk soon begins speaking freely to Joe, telling him about his past, as Joe would listen with the sympathetic ear. They found that they hsa a lot in common. This is why it was shocking to discover that Joe was in fact working for the Colonel the whole time, leading Polk right to him, and right to his death. "
"How does the Major find out that all the natives are called Joe, and why do they like cigarettes? </s>    A PLANET NAMED JOE     By S. A. LOMBINO       There were more Joes on Venus than you could shake       a ray-gun at. Perhaps there was method in Colonel       Walsh's madness—murder-madness—when he ordered Major       Polk to scan the planet for a guy named Joe.       [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories     November 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the     U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Colonel Walsh had a great sense of humor. I hated his guts ever sincewe went through the Academy together, but he had a great sense of humor.     For example, he could have chosen a Second Looie for the job on Venus.He might even have picked a Captain. But he liked me about as much asI liked him, and so he decided the job was just right for a Major. Atleast, that's what he told me.     I stood at attention before his desk in the Patrol Station. We weresomewhere in Area Two on Earth, takeoff point for any operations inSpace II. The duty was fine, and I liked it a lot. Come to think ofit, the most I ever did was inspect a few defective tubes every now andthen. The rest was gravy, and Colonel Walsh wasn't going to let me getby with gravy.     It will be a simple assignment, Major, he said to me, peering overhis fingers. He held them up in front of him like a cathedral.     Yes, sir, I said.     It will involve finding one man, a Venusian native.     I wanted to say, Then why the hell don't you send a green kid onthe job? Why me? Instead, I nodded and watched him playing with hisfingers.     The man is a trader of sorts. Rather intelligent. He paused, thenadded, For a native, that is.     I had never liked Walsh's attitude toward natives. I hadn't liked theway he'd treated the natives on Mars ever since he'd taken over there.Which brought to mind an important point.     I always figured Venus was under the jurisdiction of Space III, sir. Ithought our activities were confined to Mars.     He folded his fingers like a deck of cards and dropped them on his deskas if he were waiting for me to cut.     Mmmm, he said, yes, that's true. But this is a special job. It sohappens this Venusian is the one man who can help us understand justwhat's happening on Mars.     I tried to picture a Venusian understanding Mars and I didn't get veryfar.     He's had many dealings with the natives there, Walsh explained. Ifanyone can tell us the reasons for the revolt, he can.     If Walsh really wanted to know the reasons for the revolt, I could givethem to him in one word: Walsh. I had to laugh at the way he calledit revolt. It had been going on for six months now and we'd lost atleast a thousand men from Space II. Revolt.     And this man is on Venus now? I asked for confirmation. I'd neverbeen to Venus, being in Space II ever since I'd left the Moon run. Itwas just like Walsh to ship me off to a strange place.     Yes, Major, he said. This man is on Venus.     At the Academy he had called me Fred. That was before I'd reportedhim for sleeping on Boiler Watch. He'd goofed off on a pile of uraniumthat could've, and almost did, blow the barracks sky-high that night.He still thought it was my fault, as if I'd done the wrong thing byreporting him. And now, through the fouled-up machinery that exists inany military organization, he outranked me.     And the man's name, sir?     Joe. A tight smile played on his face.     Joe what? I asked.     Just Joe.     Just Joe?     Yes, Walsh said. A native, you know. They rarely go in for more thanfirst names. But then, it should be simple to find a man with a namelike Joe. Among the natives, I mean.     I don't know, sir.     A relatively simple assignment, Walsh said.     Can you tell me anything else about this man? Physical appearance?Personal habits? Anything?     Walsh seemed to consider this for a moment. Well, physically he's likeany of the other Venusians, so I can't give you much help there. Hedoes have a peculiar habit, though.     What's that?     He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     I sighed. Well, it's not very much to go on.     You'll find him, Walsh said, grinning. I'm sure of it.  The trip to Venus came off without a hitch. I did a lot of thinking onthat trip. I thought about Mars and the revolt there. And I thoughtabout Colonel Leonard Walsh and how he was supposed to be quelling thatrevolt. Ever since Walsh had taken command, ever since he'd startedpushing the natives around, there'd been trouble. It was almost as ifthe whole damned planet had blown up in our faces the moment he tookover. Swell guy, Walsh.     Venus was hotter than I'd expected it to be. Much too hot for the tunicI was wearing. It smelled, too. A funny smell I couldn't place. Likea mixture of old shoe and after-shave. There were plants everywhereI looked. Big plants and small ones, some blooming with flowers I'dnever seen before, and some as bare as cactus.     I recognized a blue figure as one of the natives the pilot had told meabout. He was tall, looking almost human except that everything abouthim was elongated. His features, his muscles, everything seemed to havebeen stretched like a rubber band. I kept expecting him to pop back tonormal. Instead, he flashed a double row of brilliant teeth at me.     I wondered if he spoke English. Hey, boy, I called.     He ambled over with long-legged strides that closed the distancebetween us in seconds.     Call me Joe, he said.     I dropped my bags and stared at him. Maybe this      was     going to be asimple assignment after all. I sure am glad to see you, Joe, I said.     Same here, Toots, he answered.     The guys back in Space II are searching high and low for you, I toldhim.     You've got the wrong number, he said, and I was a little surprised athis use of Terran idiom.     You are Joe, aren't you? Joe the trader?     I'm Joe, all right, he said. Only thing I ever traded, though, was apocketknife. Got a set of keys for it.     Oh, I said, my voice conveying my disappointment. I sighed and beganwondering just how I should go about contacting the Joe I was lookingfor. My orders said I was to report to Captain Bransten immediatelyupon arrival. I figured the hell with Captain Bransten. I outranked himanyway, and there wasn't much he could do if I decided to stop for adrink first.     Where's the Officer's Club? I asked the Venusian.     Are you buying information or are you just curious?     Can you take me there? I asked.     Sure thing, Toots. He picked up my bags and started walking up aheavily overgrown path. We'd probably walked for about ten minutes whenhe dropped my bags and said, There it is.     The Officer's Club was a plasteel hut with window shields thatprotected it from the heat of the sun. It didn't look too comfortablebut I really wanted that drink. I reached into my tunic and slippedthe native thirty solars.     He stared at the credits curiously and then shrugged his shoulders. Ohwell, you're new here. We'll let it go.     He took off then, while I stared after him, wondering just what he'dmeant. Had I tipped him too little?     I shrugged and looked over at the Officer's Club. From the outside itlooked as hot as hell.     On the inside it was about two degrees short of that mark. I began tocurse Walsh for taking me away from my nice soft job in Space II.     There wasn't much inside the club. A few tables and chairs, a dart gameand a bar. Behind the bar a tall Venusian lounged.     I walked over and asked, What are you serving, pal?     Call me Joe, he answered.     He caught me off balance. What?     Joe, he said again.     A faint glimmer of understanding began to penetrate my thick skull.You wouldn't happen to be Joe the trader? The guy who knows all aboutMars, would you?     I never left home, he said simply. What are you drinking?     That rat! That dirty, filthy, stinking, unprincipled....       But then, it should be simple to find a man with a name like     Joe.      Among the natives, I mean.       Sure. Oh sure. Real simple. Walsh was about the lowest, mostcontemptible....     What are you drinking, pal? the Venusian asked again.     Skip it, I said. How do I get to the captain's shack?     Follow your nose, pal. Can't miss it.     I started to pick up my bag as another Venusian entered. He waved atthe bartender.     Hello, Joe, he said. How's it going?     Not so hot, Joe, the bartender replied.     I listened in fascination. Joe, Joe, Joe. So this was Walsh's idea of agreat gag. Very funny. Very....     You Major Polk, sweetheart? the Venusian who'd just come in asked.     Yes, I said, still thinking of Colonel Walsh.     You better get your butt over to the captain's shack, he said. He'sabout ready to post you as overdue.     Sure, I said wearily. Will you take my bags, please?     Roger, he answered. He picked up the bags and nodded at the bar.     So long, Joe, he said to the bartender.     See you, Joe, the bartender called back.  Captain Bransten was a mousey, unimpressive sort of man. He was wearinga tropical tunic, but he still resembled a wilted lily more than he didan officer.     Have a seat, Major, he offered. He reached for a cigarette box on thedesk and extended it to me. He coughed in embarrassment when he saw itwas empty. Quickly, he pressed a button on his desk and the door poppedopen. A tall, blue Venusian stepped lithely into the room.     Sir? the Venusian asked.     We're out of cigarettes, Joe, the Captain said. Will you get ussome, please?     Sure thing, the Venusian answered. He smiled broadly and closed thedoor behind him.       Another Joe     , I thought.      Another damned Joe.       They steal them, Captain Bransten said abruptly.     Steal what? I asked.     Cigarettes. I sometimes think the cigarette is one of the few thingsthey like about Terran culture.     So Walsh had taken care of that angle too.      He does have a peculiarhabit, though. He has an affinity for Terran cigarettes.     Cigaretteswas the tip I should have given; not solars.     All right, I said, suppose we start at the beginning.     Captain Bransten opened his eyes wide. Sir? he asked.     What's with all this Joe business? It may be a very original name butI think its popularity here is a little outstanding.     Captain Bransten began to chuckle softly. I personally didn't think itwas so funny. I tossed him my withering Superior Officer's gaze andwaited for his explanation.     I hadn't realized this was your first time on Venus, he said.     Is there a local hero named Joe? I asked.     No, no, nothing like that, he assured me. It's a simple culture, youknow. Not nearly as developed as Mars.     I can see that, I said bitingly.     And the natives are only now becoming acquainted with Terran culture.Lots of enlisted men, you know.     I began to get the idea. And I began to appreciate Walsh's doubtfulancestry more keenly.     It's impossible to tell exactly where it all started, of course,Bransten was saying.     I was beginning to get angry. Very angry. I was thinking of Walshsitting back in a nice cozy foam chair back on Earth.     Get to the point, Captain! I barked.     Easy, sir, Bransten said, turning pale. I could see that the Captainwasn't used to entertaining Majors. The enlisted men. You know howthey are. They'll ask a native to do something and they'll call himJoe. 'Hey, Joe, give me a hand with this.' Or 'Listen, Joe, how'd youlike to earn some cigarettes?' Do you follow?     I follow, all right, I said bitterly.     Well, Bransten went on, that sort of thing mushrooms. The nativesare a simple, almost childish people. It appealed to them—the Joebusiness, I mean. Now they're all Joe. They like it. That and thecigarettes.     He cleared his throat and looked at me apologetically as if he werepersonally responsible for Venusian culture. In fact, he looked as ifhe were responsible for having put Venus in the heavens in the firstplace.     Do you understand, Major? Just a case of extended idiom, that's all.     Just a case of extended      idiot     , I thought. An idiot on a wild goosechase a hell of a long way from home.     I understand perfectly, I snapped. Where are my quarters?     Bransten asked a Venusian named Joe to show me my quarters, remindingme that chow was at thirteen hundred. As I was leaving, the firstVenusian came back with the cigarettes Bransten had ordered.     I could tell by the look on his face that he probably had half a cartonstuffed into his pockets. I shrugged and went to change into a tropicaltunic.     I called Earth right after chow. The Captain assured me that this sortof thing was definitely against regulations, but he submitted when Itwinkled my little gold leaf under his nose.     Walsh's face appeared on the screen. He was smiling, looking like a fatpussy cat.     What is it, Major? he asked.     This man Joe, I said. Can you give me any more on him?     Walsh's grin grew wider. Why, Major, he said, you're not having anydifficulties, are you?     None at all, I snapped back. I just thought I'd be able to find hima lot sooner if....     Take your time, Major, Walsh beamed. There's no rush at all.     I thought....     I'm sure you can do the job, Walsh cut in. I wouldn't have sent youotherwise.     Hell, I was through kidding around. Look....     He's somewhere in the jungle, you know, Walsh said.     I wanted to ram my fist into the screen, right smack up against thosebig white teeth. Instead, I cut off the transmission and watched thesurprised look on his face as his screen went blank millions of milesaway.     He blinked at the screen, trying to realize I'd deliberately hung up onhim.     Polk! he shouted, can you hear me?     I smiled, saw the twisted hatred on his features, and then the screenon my end went blank, too.       He's somewhere in the jungle, you know.       I thanked Captain Bransten for his hospitality and went back to myquarters.     As I saw it, there were two courses for me to follow.     One: I could say the hell with Walsh and Venus. That would mean hoppingthe next ship back to Earth.     It would also mean disobeying the direct order of a superior officer.It might mean demotion, and it might mean getting bounced out of theService altogether.     Two: I could assume there really was a guy name Joe somewhere in thatjungle, a Joe separate and apart from the other Joes on this planet, atrader Joe who knew the Martians well. I could always admit failure, ofcourse, and return empty handed. Mission not accomplished. Or, I mightreally find a guy who was trader Joe.     I made my decision quickly. I wanted to stay in the Service, andbesides Walsh may have been on the level for the first time in hislife. Maybe there was a Joe here who could help us on Mars. If therewas I'd try to find him. It was still a hell of a trick though.     I cursed Walsh again and pushed the buzzer near my bed.     A tall Venusian stepped into the room.     Joe? I asked, just to be sure.     Who else, boss? he answered.     I'm trying to locate someone, I said. I'll need a guide to take meinto the jungle. Can you get me one?     It'll cost you, boss, the Venusian said.     How much?     Two cartons of cigarettes at least.     Who's the guide? I asked.     How's the price sound?     Fine, fine, I said impatiently. And the Captain had said they werealmost a childish people!     His name is Joe, the Venusian told me. Best damn guide on theplanet. Take you anywhere you want to go, do anything you want to do.Courageous. Doesn't know the meaning of fear. I've known him to....     Skip it, I said, cutting the promotion short. Tell him to show uparound fifteen hundred with a complete list of what we'll need.     The Venusian started to leave.     And Joe, I said, stopping him at the door, I hope you're notoverlooking your commission on the deal.     His face broke into a wide grin. No danger of that, boss, he said.     When he was gone I began figuring out a plan of action. Obviously, I'djust have to traipse through the jungle looking for a guy named Joe ona planet where everyone was named Joe. Everybody, at least, but theCaptain, the small garrison attached to the Station, and me.  I began wondering why Walsh had gone to so much trouble to get rid ofme. The job, as I saw it, would take a hell of a long time. It seemedlike a silly thing to do, just to get even with a guy for somethingthat had happened years ago. He surely must have realized that I'd beback again, sooner or later. Maybe he had another little junket all setfor me.     Or maybe he didn't expect me to come back.     The thought hadn't occurred to me before this, and I began to considerit seriously. Walsh was no good, rotten clear through. He was failingat the job of keeping Mars in hand, and he probably realized that afew more mistakes on his part would mean the end of his career withSpace II. I chuckled as I thought of him isolated in some God-forsakenplace like Space V or Space VII. This probably bothered him a lot, too.But what probably bothered him more was the fact that I was next incommand. If he were transferred, I'd be in charge of Space II, and Icould understand how much that would appeal to Walsh.     I tried to figure the thing out sensibly, tried to weigh his goodpoints against his bad. But it all came back to the same thing. Aguy who would deliberately go to sleep on Boiler Watch with a ton ofuranium ready to blast a barracks to smithereens if it wasn't watched,would deliberately do just about anything.     Sending me off on a wild goose chase after a character named Joe mayhave been a gag. But it may have been something a little grimmer than agag, and I made up my mind to be extremely careful from here on in.     The guide arrived at fifteen hundred on the dot. He was tall,elongated, looked almost like all the other Venusians I'd seen so far.     I understand you need a Grade A guide, sir, he said.     Are you familiar with the jungle? I asked him.     Born and raised there, sir. Know it like the back of my hand.     Has Joe told you what the payment will be?     Yes, sir. A carton and a half of cigarettes.     I thought about Joe deducting his commission and smiled.     When can we leave?     Right away, sir. We won't need much really. I've made a list ofsupplies and I can get them in less than an hour. I suggest you wearlight clothing, boots, and a hat.     Will I need a weapon?     He looked at me, his eyes faintly amused. Why, what for, sir?     Never mind, I said. What's your name, by the way?     He lifted his eyebrows, and his eyes widened in his narrow face. He wasdefinitely surprised.     Joe, he said. Didn't you know?  When we'd been out for a while I discovered why Joe had suggested theboots and the hat. The undergrowth was often sharp and jagged and itwould have sliced my legs to ribbons were they not protected by thehigh boots. The hat kept the strong sun off my head.     Joe was an excellent guide and a pleasant companion. He seemed to beenjoying a great romp, seemed to love the jungle and take a secretpleasure in the work he was doing. There were times when I couldn'tsee three feet ahead of me. He'd stand stock still for a few minutes,his head barely moving, his eyes darting from one plant to another.Then he'd say, This way, and take off into what looked like moreimpenetrable jungle invariably to find a little path leading directlyto another village.     Each village was the same. The natives would come running out of theirhuts, tall and blue, shouting, Cigarettes, Joe? Cigarettes? It tookme a while to realize they were addressing me and not my guide.     Everybody was Joe. It was one beautiful, happy, joyous round ofstinking, hot jungle. And I wasn't getting any nearer my man. Nor hadI any idea how I was supposed to find him. I began to feel pretty lowabout the whole affair.     Joe, on the other hand, enjoyed every moment of the trip. In eachvillage he greeted the natives cheerfully, told them stories, swappedgossip and jokes. And when it was time to leave, he would say goodbyeto all his friends and we would plunge into the twisted foliage again.     His spirits were always high and he never failed to say the right thingthat would give a momentary lift to my own depressed state of mind. Hewould talk for hours on end as we hacked our way through the jungle.     I like Venus, he said once. I would never leave it.     Have you ever been to Earth? I asked.     No, Joe replied. I like Terrans too, you understand. They are goodfor Venus. And they are fun.     Fun? I asked, thinking of a particular species of Terran: speciesLeonard Walsh.     Yes, yes, he said wholeheartedly. They joke and they laugh and ...well, you know.     I suppose so, I admitted.     Joe smiled secretly, and we pushed on. I began to find, more and more,that I had started to talk freely to Joe. In the beginning he had beenjust my guide. There had been the strained relationship of employer andemployee. But as the days lengthened into weeks, the formal atmospherebegan to crumble. I found myself telling him all about Earth, aboutthe people there, about my decision to attend the Academy, the rigidtests, the grind, even the Moon run. Joe was a good listener, noddingsympathetically, finding experiences in his own life to parallel my own.     And as our relationship progressed from a casual one to a definitelyfriendly one, Joe seemed more enthusiastic than ever to keep up ourgrinding pace to find what we were looking for.     Once we stopped in a clearing to rest. Joe lounged on the mattedgreenery, his long body stretched out in front of him, the knifegleaming in his belt. I'd seen him slash his way through thick, tangledvines with that knife, his long, muscular arms powerfully slicingthrough them like strips of silk.     How far are we from the Station? I asked.     Three or four Earth weeks, he replied.     I sighed wearily. Where do we go from here?     There are more villages, he said.     We'll never find him.     Possibly, Joe mused, the smile creeping over his face again.     A wild goose chase. A fool's errand.     We'd better get started, Joe said simply.     I got to my feet and we started the march again. Joe was still fresh, abrilliant contrast to me, weary and dejected. Somehow, I had the samefeeling I'd had a long time ago on my sixteenth birthday. One of myfriends had taken me all over the city, finally dropping me off at myown house where the whole gang was gathered for a surprise party. Joereminded me of that friend.     There's a village ahead, he said, and the grin on his face was largenow, his eyes shining.  Something was missing here. Natives. There were no natives rushing outto greet us. No cries of Cigarettes? Cigarettes? I caught up with Joe.     What's the story? I whispered.     He shrugged knowingly and continued walking.     And then I saw the ship, nose pointing into space, catching the rays ofthe sun like a great silver bullet.     What...? I started.     It's all right, Joe said, smiling.     The ship looked vaguely familiar. I noticed the crest of Space II nearthe nose, and a lot of things became clear then. I also saw Walshstanding near one of the huts, a stun gun in his hand.     Hello, Major, he called, almost cheerfully. The gun didn't lookcheerful, though. It was pointed at my head.     Fancy meeting you here, Colonel, I said, trying to match hisjoviality. Somehow it didn't quite come off.     Joe was walking beside me, waving at the colonel, beaming all over withhappiness.     I see you found your man, Walsh said.     I turned rapidly. Joe nodded and kept grinning, a grin that told me hewas getting a big kick out of all this. Like a kid playing a game.     I faced Walsh again. Okay, what's it all about, pal?     Colonel, Walsh corrected me. You mustn't forget to say Colonel,      Major     . He emphasized my rank, and he said it with a sort of ruthlessfinality.     I waited. I could see he was just busting to tell me how clever he'dbeen. Besides, there wasn't much I could do but wait. Not with Walshpointing the stun gun at my middle.     We've come a long way since the Academy, haven't we, Major?     If you mean in miles, I said, looking around at the plants, we surehave.     Walsh grinned a little. Always the wit, he said drily. And then thesmile faded from his lips and his eyes took on a hard lustre. I'mgoing to kill you, you know. He said it as if he were saying, I thinkit'll rain tomorrow.     Joe almost clapped his hands together with glee. He was really enjoyingthis. Another of those funny Terran games.     You gave me a powerful handicap to overcome, Walsh said. I suppose Ishould thank you, really.     You're welcome, I said.     It wasn't easy living down the disgrace you caused me.     It was your own damn fault, I said. You knew what you were doingwhen you decided to cork off.     Beside me, Joe chuckled a little, enjoying the game immensely.     You didn't have to report me, Walsh said.     No? Maybe I should have forgotten all about it? Maybe I should havenudged you and served you orange juice? So you could do it againsometime and maybe blow up the whole damn Academy!     Walsh was silent for a long time. When he spoke his voice was barelyaudible. The heat was oppressive, as if it were concentrated on thislittle spot in the jungle, focusing all its penetration on a small,unimportant drama.     I could hear Joe breathing beside me.     I'm on my way out, Walsh rasped. Finished, do you understand?     Good, I said. And I meant it.     This Mars thing. A terrible fix. Terrible.     Beside me, a slight frown crossed Joe's face. Apparently he couldn'tunderstand the seriousness of our voices. What had happened to thegame, the fun?     You brought the Mars business on yourself, I told Walsh. There wasnever any trouble before you took command.     The natives, he practically shouted. They ... they....     Joe caught his breath sharply, and I wondered what Walsh was going tosay about the natives. Apparently he'd realized that Joe was a native.Or maybe Joe's knife had something to do with it.     What about the natives? I asked.     Nothing, Walsh said. Nothing. He was silent for a while.     A man of my calibre, he said then, his face grim. Dealing withsavages. He caught himself again and threw a hasty glance at Joe.The perplexed frown had grown heavier on Joe's face. He looked at thecolonel in puzzlement.  ","When the Major first arrives, he meets a man named Joe. He is a native. The Major thinks that he may have found his man already, but when he asks him if he's a trader, which would match the description that the colonel gave him, the native tells him that he's never traded anything in his life. He then keeps meeting natives, all of whom are named Joe. He asks the Captain why all the Venusians are named Joe. The captain explains that it's because when the men of the Terran space program arrived they used their slang with the locals, all calling them Joe. The men would tell them that if they did a job for them, they would get a pack of cigarettes. Because the Venusians had no names of their own before this, eventually the name ""Joe"" stuck, and everyone on the planet answered to it. They also kept an affinity for cigarettes. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     COSMIC YO-YO     By ROSS ROCKLYNNE     Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply     cheap. Trouble also handled without charge.     Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.)     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shapedasteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings hadhe thought they would actually find what they were looking for.     Cut the drive! he yelled at Queazy. I've got it, right on the nose.Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,we're rich! Come here!     Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes insuch a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rateas the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging backexcitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big bodyshook with joyful ejaculations.     She checks down to the last dimension, Bob chortled, working withslide-rule and logarithm tables. Now all we have to do is find out ifshe's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But therecouldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, sothis has to be it!     He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,and thumbed his nose at the signature.     Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fiftythousand dollars!     Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.Better take it easy, he advised, until I land the ship and we usethe atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of theasteroid.     Have it your way, Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergramto the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—socalled because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the shipstraight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped ittight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, broughtout two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, withstar-powdered infinity spread to all sides.     In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. Itwas addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. Theethergram read:       Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to statethat yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet followingspecifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topsidesmooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Willpay $5.00 per ton.    Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks.     The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous.     Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold—     Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point—     Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said,     May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid?     Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below.     Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something?     Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands.     I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye.  Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore eveninside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. Heknew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, thegirl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face wasvisible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brownhair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her comparednicely.     Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way hewas looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, Now you two boysgo and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commissionknow you've infringed the law. G'bye!     She turned and disappeared.     Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, Hey! Wait!      You!          He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid theyhadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigidqualifications Burnside had set down.     Wait a minute, Bob Parker begged nervously. I want to make someconversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions—     The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,and it was three times as big as her gloved hand.     I understand conditions better than you do, she said. You wantto move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. Idon't expect to be here then.     A month! Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then hisface became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinkedand lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. Abouttwenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny andunscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curvedsurface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month wouldbe too late!     He said grimly, Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay onan asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. Butto us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an orderfor this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyardwedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back toSatterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.Don't we, Queazy?     Queazy said simply, That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure youwe didn't expect to find someone living here.     The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitableexpression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of herspace-suit. Okay, she said. Now I understand the conditions. Now weboth understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and— shesmiled sweetly —it may interest you to know that if I let you havethe asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse thandeath! So that's that.     Bob recognized finality when he saw it. Come on, Queazy, he saidfuming. Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across herwithout a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,right where it'll do the most good!     He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.He pointed off into space, beyond the girl.     What's that? he whispered.     What's wha—      Oh!          Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floatinggently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle biggerthan their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In anothersecond, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to hisheadset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers.     Listen to me, miss, he snapped earnestly, when she tried to drawaway. Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've beendouble-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won'thesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?We got to back each other up.     The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where itis, she said huskily. What—what will they do?  Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little bluesparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magneticclamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, andfive men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stoodsurveying the three who faced them.     The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; theirdarkish, twin faces were grinning broadly.     A pleasure, drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. What do youthink of this situation Billy?     It's obvious, drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on hisheels, that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll haveto take steps.     The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chucklinglaughter.     Bob Parker's gorge rose. Scram, he said coldly. We've got anethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid.     So have we, Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back cameabreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gaveback a step, as he saw their intentions.     We got here first, he snapped harshly. Try any funny stuff and we'llreport you to the Interplanetary Commission!     It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each ofthese men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking ofthe girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brainedchance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled atQueazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. Hehurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroidand threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph.     At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of hishand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knockedthe smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then somethingcrushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solarplexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to completedarkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain.     What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,he didn't care. Then—lights out.  Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit.     Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air!     There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry!     I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first!     He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this—     He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it.     And this time the headset spoke back!     Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears.     He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway.     Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily.     Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face.     Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died.     Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her.     The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter!  Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger.     Say that again? he snapped. This is some kind of dirty trick you andyour grandfather cooked up?     No! she exclaimed. No. My grandfather didn't even know there was anasteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—orfrom the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about thestubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, andwhen people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's beenbadgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac—     Who's Mac? Queazy demanded.     My fiancé, I guess, she said helplessly. He's one of my granddad'sprotégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and givinghim a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurianwater-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely      impossible     itis to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass ofnerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid beltand picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could takeplace on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I toldmy grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on topof an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make surethat if somebody      did     find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be ableto get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except, she addedbitterly, the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make surethe asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies.     Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and wasgratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floatingonly a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy.     How long were we floating around out there?     Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us astiff shot.           Ouch!      Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal withdetermination. Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and yourgranddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'mgoing to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylorbrothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship andours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid hasplenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by along, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with thema few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have afling at getting the asteroid back!     Her eyes sparkled. You mean— she cried. Then her attractive facefell. Oh, she said.       Oh!     And when you get it back, you'll land it.     That's right, Bob said grimly. We're in business. For us, it's amatter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid isyour marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we threecan work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem outlater. Okay?     She smiled tremulously. Okay, I guess.     Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfullyat Bob. You're plain nuts, he complained. How do you propose to goabout convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have theasteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carrylong-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—notwithout damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that.     Bob looked at Queazy dismally. The old balance-wheel, he groaned atStarre. He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. AllI know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In themeantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...?     Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward thegalley.  Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after fivedays out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn'tattach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailedastern, attached by a long cable.     Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifthday Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and shegently lifted his hand from a finger-switch.     Even      I     know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right?     Right, he said unsteadily. Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, thisship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Hollowayand Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused thecontraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affectsevery atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We couldgo from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second justlike that!     He snapped his fingers. No acceleration effects. This type of ship,necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move inany direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motionat—Oh, hell! Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making himshake. He took her hand. Starre, he said desperately, I've got totell you something—     She jerked her hand away. No, she exclaimed in an almost frightenedvoice. You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac, she finished,faltering. The asteroid—     You      have     to marry him?     Her eyes filled with tears. I have to live up to the bargain.     And ruin your whole life, he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back tothe control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely tothe lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell shiptrailing astern.     There's your ship, Starre. He jabbed his finger at it. I've got afeeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehowthe whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back liesthere. But how?      How?          Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it wasattached around her ship's narrow midsection.     She shook her head helplessly. It just looks like a big yo-yo to me.     A yo-yo?     Yes, a yo-yo. That's all. She was belligerent.     A      yo-yo     ! Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, hegot out of the chair so fast. Can you imagine it! A yo-yo!     He disappeared from the room. Queazy! he shouted.       Queazy, I've gotit!       It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced.     The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers.     It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated!     They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth!     We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth.     Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob!     Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo.     There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving!     It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball.     It's going to hit!     The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left.  Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain.     All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out.     And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half.     Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky!     The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication.     Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath.     What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us!     Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea.     I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor.           If     you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid.     I'll see you in Hades first!     Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come!     He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie.     For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell.     The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets.     The battle was won!  ","Bob Parker, the President of Interplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., sells asteroids to wealthy people on earth. Clients ask for asteroids with size parameters and specifications, and Bob finds them in space and hauls them to earth. His company is almost bankrupt because a rival company, Saylor & Saylor, stole his idea and now offers the same services. Bob receives mail from Mr. Andrew S. Burnside with a request for an asteroid that he would like to use in an upcoming wedding.Bob and his partner Queazy set out to find the perfect asteroid for Mr. Burnside, although they know it’s a longshot. Fairly quickly, they find one that looks perfect. The men land on the asteroid, and Bob deploys his atomic-whirl spectroscope to test it. Suddenly, a beautiful woman interrupts him and demands that they leave the asteroid. She pulls out her spasticizer gun before telling them that they can have it in a month after she’s gone. Bob explains that they are desperate, but the girl retorts that her fate is worse than death if she leaves.Suddenly, the Saylor brothers’ ship appears, and Bob tells the girl that they have to fight this enemy together. Wally and Billy Saylor, along with three other men, jump out of the ship. Bob tells them that Mr. Burnside has ordered this asteroid, and the Saylor brothers say that they received the same order. Bob quickly grabs the girl’s spasticizer while Queazy throws his body at Billy. However, Wally manages to shoot the gun out of Bob’s hand and attack him. Bob is knocked unconscious in the scuffle. When Bob wakes up, he is completely alone, floating in space. He panics because he has very little oxygen left. Finally, he hears Queazy’s voice explaining that the girl used her ship’s technology to find them both. The mystery girl introduces herself as Starre Lowenthal, the granddaughter of Mr. Burnside. She concedes that this entire mission was fake. She told her grandfather that she would only marry her fiance Mac if he could get this particular asteroid, and then she made plans to conquer and protect the asteroid so it could not be supplied for the wedding. Bob is confident that they can reach the Saylor brothers before they bring the asteroid back to earth, but his plan does nothing to protect Starre from marrying a man she doesn’t love. She agrees to help Bob and Queazy. Within five days, Bob realizes he is in love with Starre. Starre compares her small ship to a yo-yo, and Bob gets an idea - they will use Starre’s ship like a yo-yo to retrieve the asteroid from the Saylor brothers. Once the team catches up to the Saylor brothers, Bob flings Starre’s ship at the asteroid several times, and Wally calls them to tell them that they might die as a result of the damage their ship has sustained. Bob makes it clear that they have no intention of stopping, and the Saylor brothers release the asteroid. "
"What role do the Saylor brothers play in the story? </s>     COSMIC YO-YO     By ROSS ROCKLYNNE     Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply     cheap. Trouble also handled without charge.     Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.)     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shapedasteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings hadhe thought they would actually find what they were looking for.     Cut the drive! he yelled at Queazy. I've got it, right on the nose.Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,we're rich! Come here!     Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes insuch a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rateas the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging backexcitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big bodyshook with joyful ejaculations.     She checks down to the last dimension, Bob chortled, working withslide-rule and logarithm tables. Now all we have to do is find out ifshe's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But therecouldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, sothis has to be it!     He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,and thumbed his nose at the signature.     Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fiftythousand dollars!     Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.Better take it easy, he advised, until I land the ship and we usethe atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of theasteroid.     Have it your way, Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergramto the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—socalled because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the shipstraight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped ittight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, broughtout two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, withstar-powdered infinity spread to all sides.     In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. Itwas addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. Theethergram read:       Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to statethat yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet followingspecifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topsidesmooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Willpay $5.00 per ton.    Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks.     The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous.     Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold—     Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point—     Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said,     May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid?     Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below.     Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something?     Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands.     I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye.  Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore eveninside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. Heknew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, thegirl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face wasvisible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brownhair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her comparednicely.     Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way hewas looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, Now you two boysgo and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commissionknow you've infringed the law. G'bye!     She turned and disappeared.     Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, Hey! Wait!      You!          He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid theyhadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigidqualifications Burnside had set down.     Wait a minute, Bob Parker begged nervously. I want to make someconversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions—     The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,and it was three times as big as her gloved hand.     I understand conditions better than you do, she said. You wantto move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. Idon't expect to be here then.     A month! Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then hisface became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinkedand lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. Abouttwenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny andunscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curvedsurface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month wouldbe too late!     He said grimly, Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay onan asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. Butto us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an orderfor this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyardwedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back toSatterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.Don't we, Queazy?     Queazy said simply, That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure youwe didn't expect to find someone living here.     The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitableexpression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of herspace-suit. Okay, she said. Now I understand the conditions. Now weboth understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and— shesmiled sweetly —it may interest you to know that if I let you havethe asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse thandeath! So that's that.     Bob recognized finality when he saw it. Come on, Queazy, he saidfuming. Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across herwithout a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,right where it'll do the most good!     He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.He pointed off into space, beyond the girl.     What's that? he whispered.     What's wha—      Oh!          Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floatinggently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle biggerthan their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In anothersecond, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to hisheadset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers.     Listen to me, miss, he snapped earnestly, when she tried to drawaway. Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've beendouble-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won'thesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?We got to back each other up.     The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where itis, she said huskily. What—what will they do?  Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little bluesparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magneticclamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, andfive men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stoodsurveying the three who faced them.     The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; theirdarkish, twin faces were grinning broadly.     A pleasure, drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. What do youthink of this situation Billy?     It's obvious, drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on hisheels, that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll haveto take steps.     The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chucklinglaughter.     Bob Parker's gorge rose. Scram, he said coldly. We've got anethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid.     So have we, Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back cameabreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gaveback a step, as he saw their intentions.     We got here first, he snapped harshly. Try any funny stuff and we'llreport you to the Interplanetary Commission!     It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each ofthese men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking ofthe girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brainedchance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled atQueazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. Hehurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroidand threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph.     At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of hishand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knockedthe smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then somethingcrushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solarplexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to completedarkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain.     What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,he didn't care. Then—lights out.  Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit.     Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air!     There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry!     I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first!     He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this—     He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it.     And this time the headset spoke back!     Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears.     He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway.     Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily.     Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face.     Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died.     Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her.     The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter!  Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger.     Say that again? he snapped. This is some kind of dirty trick you andyour grandfather cooked up?     No! she exclaimed. No. My grandfather didn't even know there was anasteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—orfrom the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about thestubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, andwhen people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's beenbadgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac—     Who's Mac? Queazy demanded.     My fiancé, I guess, she said helplessly. He's one of my granddad'sprotégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and givinghim a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurianwater-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely      impossible     itis to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass ofnerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid beltand picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could takeplace on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I toldmy grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on topof an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make surethat if somebody      did     find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be ableto get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except, she addedbitterly, the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make surethe asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies.     Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and wasgratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floatingonly a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy.     How long were we floating around out there?     Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us astiff shot.           Ouch!      Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal withdetermination. Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and yourgranddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'mgoing to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylorbrothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship andours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid hasplenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by along, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with thema few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have afling at getting the asteroid back!     Her eyes sparkled. You mean— she cried. Then her attractive facefell. Oh, she said.       Oh!     And when you get it back, you'll land it.     That's right, Bob said grimly. We're in business. For us, it's amatter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid isyour marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we threecan work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem outlater. Okay?     She smiled tremulously. Okay, I guess.     Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfullyat Bob. You're plain nuts, he complained. How do you propose to goabout convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have theasteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carrylong-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—notwithout damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that.     Bob looked at Queazy dismally. The old balance-wheel, he groaned atStarre. He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. AllI know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In themeantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...?     Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward thegalley.  Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after fivedays out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn'tattach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailedastern, attached by a long cable.     Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifthday Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and shegently lifted his hand from a finger-switch.     Even      I     know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right?     Right, he said unsteadily. Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, thisship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Hollowayand Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused thecontraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affectsevery atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We couldgo from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second justlike that!     He snapped his fingers. No acceleration effects. This type of ship,necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move inany direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motionat—Oh, hell! Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making himshake. He took her hand. Starre, he said desperately, I've got totell you something—     She jerked her hand away. No, she exclaimed in an almost frightenedvoice. You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac, she finished,faltering. The asteroid—     You      have     to marry him?     Her eyes filled with tears. I have to live up to the bargain.     And ruin your whole life, he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back tothe control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely tothe lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell shiptrailing astern.     There's your ship, Starre. He jabbed his finger at it. I've got afeeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehowthe whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back liesthere. But how?      How?          Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it wasattached around her ship's narrow midsection.     She shook her head helplessly. It just looks like a big yo-yo to me.     A yo-yo?     Yes, a yo-yo. That's all. She was belligerent.     A      yo-yo     ! Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, hegot out of the chair so fast. Can you imagine it! A yo-yo!     He disappeared from the room. Queazy! he shouted.       Queazy, I've gotit!       It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced.     The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers.     It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated!     They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth!     We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth.     Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob!     Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo.     There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving!     It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball.     It's going to hit!     The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left.  Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain.     All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out.     And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half.     Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky!     The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication.     Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath.     What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us!     Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea.     I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor.           If     you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid.     I'll see you in Hades first!     Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come!     He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie.     For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell.     The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets.     The battle was won!  ","The Saylor brothers, Wally and Billy, are Bob Parker’s enemies. Bob was the first person with the unique idea to sell asteroids to wealthy people on earth, and his business would have been very successful if the Saylor brothers did not poach his idea and begin stealing his clients. Bob worries about the Saylor brothers from the beginning of the story, and he acknowledges that they do not always play by the rules. If Wally and Billy can make a buck by inconveniencing or cheating someone else, they will do it. The brothers are not only intimidating in terms of their business prowess; they are also described as giant when compared to Bob. Queasy and Bob have a legitimate order from Mr. Burnside for the asteroid, and they have no idea that the Saylor brothers have received the same order. Yet, they still worry that somehow, someway, their enemies will hear about the potential to make half a million dollars and try to steal their opportunity out from under them. Within moments of setting eyes on their spaceship, Bob tells Starre that they have to fight the Saylor brothers together. He doesn’t know her at all, and she actually just pulled a gun on him, but he so deeply mistrusts Wally and Billy that it’s worth it to take a chance on Starre.Of course, Bob turns out to be right. The second the Saylor brothers get a chance to potentially kill Bob, Queazy, and Starre, they take it. Bob floats in space, unconscious, for several weeks before Starre eventually finds Queazy and Bob, and they give him oxygen and food. Bob is truly close to death before his friends save him in the knick of time, and the Saylor brothers would be perfectly fine with that outcome. Wally and Billy give Bob all the motivation in the world to try and steal the asteroid back, and Bob is determined to catch up with his rivals and make it work somehow. When he comes up with his yo-yo idea using Starre’s ship, he shows zero empathy for the Saylor brothers. During his attempts to retrieve the rock, he seriously damages the brothers’ ship, and they have the gall to call him and attempt to make him feel guilty about their desperate state. Bob, however, cannot be swayed. He knows that he found the asteroid first and that the brothers purposefully cast him out into space to die. His determination saves the day when the Saylor brothers are forced to dispatch Mr. Burnside’s asteroid. "
"Describe Bob's relationship with Starre. </s>     COSMIC YO-YO     By ROSS ROCKLYNNE     Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply     cheap. Trouble also handled without charge.     Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.)     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shapedasteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings hadhe thought they would actually find what they were looking for.     Cut the drive! he yelled at Queazy. I've got it, right on the nose.Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,we're rich! Come here!     Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes insuch a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rateas the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging backexcitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big bodyshook with joyful ejaculations.     She checks down to the last dimension, Bob chortled, working withslide-rule and logarithm tables. Now all we have to do is find out ifshe's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But therecouldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, sothis has to be it!     He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,and thumbed his nose at the signature.     Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fiftythousand dollars!     Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.Better take it easy, he advised, until I land the ship and we usethe atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of theasteroid.     Have it your way, Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergramto the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—socalled because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the shipstraight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped ittight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, broughtout two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, withstar-powdered infinity spread to all sides.     In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. Itwas addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. Theethergram read:       Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to statethat yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet followingspecifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topsidesmooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Willpay $5.00 per ton.    Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks.     The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous.     Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold—     Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point—     Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said,     May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid?     Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below.     Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something?     Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands.     I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye.  Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore eveninside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. Heknew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, thegirl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face wasvisible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brownhair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her comparednicely.     Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way hewas looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, Now you two boysgo and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commissionknow you've infringed the law. G'bye!     She turned and disappeared.     Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, Hey! Wait!      You!          He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid theyhadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigidqualifications Burnside had set down.     Wait a minute, Bob Parker begged nervously. I want to make someconversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions—     The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,and it was three times as big as her gloved hand.     I understand conditions better than you do, she said. You wantto move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. Idon't expect to be here then.     A month! Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then hisface became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinkedand lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. Abouttwenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny andunscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curvedsurface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month wouldbe too late!     He said grimly, Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay onan asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. Butto us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an orderfor this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyardwedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back toSatterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.Don't we, Queazy?     Queazy said simply, That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure youwe didn't expect to find someone living here.     The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitableexpression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of herspace-suit. Okay, she said. Now I understand the conditions. Now weboth understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and— shesmiled sweetly —it may interest you to know that if I let you havethe asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse thandeath! So that's that.     Bob recognized finality when he saw it. Come on, Queazy, he saidfuming. Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across herwithout a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,right where it'll do the most good!     He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.He pointed off into space, beyond the girl.     What's that? he whispered.     What's wha—      Oh!          Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floatinggently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle biggerthan their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In anothersecond, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to hisheadset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers.     Listen to me, miss, he snapped earnestly, when she tried to drawaway. Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've beendouble-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won'thesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?We got to back each other up.     The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where itis, she said huskily. What—what will they do?  Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little bluesparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magneticclamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, andfive men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stoodsurveying the three who faced them.     The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; theirdarkish, twin faces were grinning broadly.     A pleasure, drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. What do youthink of this situation Billy?     It's obvious, drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on hisheels, that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll haveto take steps.     The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chucklinglaughter.     Bob Parker's gorge rose. Scram, he said coldly. We've got anethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid.     So have we, Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back cameabreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gaveback a step, as he saw their intentions.     We got here first, he snapped harshly. Try any funny stuff and we'llreport you to the Interplanetary Commission!     It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each ofthese men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking ofthe girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brainedchance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled atQueazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. Hehurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroidand threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph.     At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of hishand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knockedthe smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then somethingcrushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solarplexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to completedarkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain.     What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,he didn't care. Then—lights out.  Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit.     Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air!     There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry!     I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first!     He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this—     He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it.     And this time the headset spoke back!     Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears.     He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway.     Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily.     Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face.     Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died.     Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her.     The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter!  Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger.     Say that again? he snapped. This is some kind of dirty trick you andyour grandfather cooked up?     No! she exclaimed. No. My grandfather didn't even know there was anasteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—orfrom the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about thestubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, andwhen people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's beenbadgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac—     Who's Mac? Queazy demanded.     My fiancé, I guess, she said helplessly. He's one of my granddad'sprotégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and givinghim a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurianwater-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely      impossible     itis to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass ofnerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid beltand picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could takeplace on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I toldmy grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on topof an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make surethat if somebody      did     find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be ableto get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except, she addedbitterly, the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make surethe asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies.     Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and wasgratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floatingonly a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy.     How long were we floating around out there?     Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us astiff shot.           Ouch!      Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal withdetermination. Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and yourgranddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'mgoing to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylorbrothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship andours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid hasplenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by along, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with thema few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have afling at getting the asteroid back!     Her eyes sparkled. You mean— she cried. Then her attractive facefell. Oh, she said.       Oh!     And when you get it back, you'll land it.     That's right, Bob said grimly. We're in business. For us, it's amatter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid isyour marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we threecan work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem outlater. Okay?     She smiled tremulously. Okay, I guess.     Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfullyat Bob. You're plain nuts, he complained. How do you propose to goabout convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have theasteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carrylong-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—notwithout damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that.     Bob looked at Queazy dismally. The old balance-wheel, he groaned atStarre. He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. AllI know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In themeantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...?     Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward thegalley.  Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after fivedays out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn'tattach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailedastern, attached by a long cable.     Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifthday Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and shegently lifted his hand from a finger-switch.     Even      I     know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right?     Right, he said unsteadily. Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, thisship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Hollowayand Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused thecontraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affectsevery atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We couldgo from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second justlike that!     He snapped his fingers. No acceleration effects. This type of ship,necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move inany direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motionat—Oh, hell! Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making himshake. He took her hand. Starre, he said desperately, I've got totell you something—     She jerked her hand away. No, she exclaimed in an almost frightenedvoice. You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac, she finished,faltering. The asteroid—     You      have     to marry him?     Her eyes filled with tears. I have to live up to the bargain.     And ruin your whole life, he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back tothe control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely tothe lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell shiptrailing astern.     There's your ship, Starre. He jabbed his finger at it. I've got afeeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehowthe whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back liesthere. But how?      How?          Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it wasattached around her ship's narrow midsection.     She shook her head helplessly. It just looks like a big yo-yo to me.     A yo-yo?     Yes, a yo-yo. That's all. She was belligerent.     A      yo-yo     ! Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, hegot out of the chair so fast. Can you imagine it! A yo-yo!     He disappeared from the room. Queazy! he shouted.       Queazy, I've gotit!       It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced.     The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers.     It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated!     They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth!     We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth.     Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob!     Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo.     There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving!     It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball.     It's going to hit!     The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left.  Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain.     All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out.     And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half.     Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky!     The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication.     Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath.     What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us!     Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea.     I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor.           If     you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid.     I'll see you in Hades first!     Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come!     He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie.     For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell.     The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets.     The battle was won!  ","Bob Parker is taken with Starre Lowenthal from the moment she appears in front of him. Starre wears a spacesuit when Bob and Queazy land on her asteroid and begin conducting tests to see if it’s a good fit for Mr. Burnside, and although Bob can’t get a look at her entire appearance, he is immediately attracted to her blue eyes, beautiful brown hair, and full lips. The fact that Starre is curt and demanding does not change his innate attraction to her. Bob does not get offended by Starre’s refusal to hold a real conversation with him; he just keeps trying. Even Starre’s decision to pull out her spasticizer and aim it at the men doesn’t truly deter Bob. He continues to try and convince her that his economic well-being depends on the asteroid. The only time he becomes annoyed with the beautiful girl is when he sets eyes on her perfect ship and assumes that she is already plenty wealthy. Still, he chooses not to attack nor namecall, he simply uses reason to convince her that the asteroid is more useful to him.Moments later, when the Saylor brothers show up at Starre’s asteroid, Starre already has a good feeling about Bob and Queazy. That’s why, when Wally and Billy attack the trio, it is Starre that uses her dumbbell-shaped ship to locate the men and save their lives. Bob and Queazy end up owing everything to the beautiful brunette. Without her, their corpses would be floating through space. The first time that Bob sees Starre after she saves his life, he notices the paper flower in her hair and the pretty blue outfit she’s wearing. He can’t take his eyes off of her, and his feelings towards her do not change when she admits that she essentially set them up. She is Mr. Burnside’s granddaughter, and she never intended to let anyone find the perfect asteroid and haul it back to earth. She set up a deal with her grandfather that she knew he couldn’t follow through with. Starre does not want to marry Mac, the man that she’s engaged to, and that’s why she was living on the perfect asteroid that Mr. Burnside ordered from Bob and the Saylor brothers. Although Bob has every right to be angry with Starre, he completely falls in love with her on their mission to recollect the asteroid that the Saylor brothers stole from them. He tries to convince her not to marry Mac, but she acknowledges that she must hold up her end of the bargain with her grandfather. Unfortunately, Bob can’t have it both ways. If he wants to save his company from going under, he needs the asteroid, and if he fulfills Mr. Burnside’s order, Starre must marry Mac. "
"Why is the mission to secure Mr. Burnside’s asteroid so important to Bob and Queazy? </s>     COSMIC YO-YO     By ROSS ROCKLYNNE     Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply     cheap. Trouble also handled without charge.     Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.)     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shapedasteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings hadhe thought they would actually find what they were looking for.     Cut the drive! he yelled at Queazy. I've got it, right on the nose.Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,we're rich! Come here!     Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes insuch a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rateas the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging backexcitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big bodyshook with joyful ejaculations.     She checks down to the last dimension, Bob chortled, working withslide-rule and logarithm tables. Now all we have to do is find out ifshe's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But therecouldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, sothis has to be it!     He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,and thumbed his nose at the signature.     Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fiftythousand dollars!     Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.Better take it easy, he advised, until I land the ship and we usethe atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of theasteroid.     Have it your way, Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergramto the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—socalled because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the shipstraight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped ittight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, broughtout two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, withstar-powdered infinity spread to all sides.     In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. Itwas addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. Theethergram read:       Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to statethat yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet followingspecifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topsidesmooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Willpay $5.00 per ton.    Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks.     The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous.     Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold—     Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point—     Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said,     May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid?     Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below.     Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something?     Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands.     I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye.  Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore eveninside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. Heknew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, thegirl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face wasvisible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brownhair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her comparednicely.     Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way hewas looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, Now you two boysgo and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commissionknow you've infringed the law. G'bye!     She turned and disappeared.     Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, Hey! Wait!      You!          He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid theyhadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigidqualifications Burnside had set down.     Wait a minute, Bob Parker begged nervously. I want to make someconversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions—     The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,and it was three times as big as her gloved hand.     I understand conditions better than you do, she said. You wantto move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. Idon't expect to be here then.     A month! Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then hisface became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinkedand lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. Abouttwenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny andunscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curvedsurface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month wouldbe too late!     He said grimly, Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay onan asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. Butto us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an orderfor this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyardwedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back toSatterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.Don't we, Queazy?     Queazy said simply, That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure youwe didn't expect to find someone living here.     The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitableexpression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of herspace-suit. Okay, she said. Now I understand the conditions. Now weboth understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and— shesmiled sweetly —it may interest you to know that if I let you havethe asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse thandeath! So that's that.     Bob recognized finality when he saw it. Come on, Queazy, he saidfuming. Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across herwithout a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,right where it'll do the most good!     He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.He pointed off into space, beyond the girl.     What's that? he whispered.     What's wha—      Oh!          Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floatinggently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle biggerthan their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In anothersecond, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to hisheadset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers.     Listen to me, miss, he snapped earnestly, when she tried to drawaway. Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've beendouble-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won'thesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?We got to back each other up.     The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where itis, she said huskily. What—what will they do?  Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little bluesparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magneticclamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, andfive men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stoodsurveying the three who faced them.     The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; theirdarkish, twin faces were grinning broadly.     A pleasure, drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. What do youthink of this situation Billy?     It's obvious, drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on hisheels, that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll haveto take steps.     The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chucklinglaughter.     Bob Parker's gorge rose. Scram, he said coldly. We've got anethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid.     So have we, Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back cameabreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gaveback a step, as he saw their intentions.     We got here first, he snapped harshly. Try any funny stuff and we'llreport you to the Interplanetary Commission!     It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each ofthese men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking ofthe girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brainedchance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled atQueazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. Hehurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroidand threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph.     At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of hishand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knockedthe smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then somethingcrushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solarplexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to completedarkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain.     What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,he didn't care. Then—lights out.  Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit.     Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air!     There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry!     I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first!     He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this—     He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it.     And this time the headset spoke back!     Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears.     He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway.     Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily.     Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face.     Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died.     Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her.     The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter!  Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger.     Say that again? he snapped. This is some kind of dirty trick you andyour grandfather cooked up?     No! she exclaimed. No. My grandfather didn't even know there was anasteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—orfrom the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about thestubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, andwhen people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's beenbadgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac—     Who's Mac? Queazy demanded.     My fiancé, I guess, she said helplessly. He's one of my granddad'sprotégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and givinghim a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurianwater-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely      impossible     itis to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass ofnerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid beltand picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could takeplace on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I toldmy grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on topof an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make surethat if somebody      did     find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be ableto get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except, she addedbitterly, the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make surethe asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies.     Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and wasgratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floatingonly a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy.     How long were we floating around out there?     Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us astiff shot.           Ouch!      Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal withdetermination. Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and yourgranddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'mgoing to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylorbrothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship andours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid hasplenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by along, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with thema few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have afling at getting the asteroid back!     Her eyes sparkled. You mean— she cried. Then her attractive facefell. Oh, she said.       Oh!     And when you get it back, you'll land it.     That's right, Bob said grimly. We're in business. For us, it's amatter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid isyour marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we threecan work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem outlater. Okay?     She smiled tremulously. Okay, I guess.     Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfullyat Bob. You're plain nuts, he complained. How do you propose to goabout convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have theasteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carrylong-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—notwithout damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that.     Bob looked at Queazy dismally. The old balance-wheel, he groaned atStarre. He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. AllI know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In themeantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...?     Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward thegalley.  Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after fivedays out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn'tattach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailedastern, attached by a long cable.     Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifthday Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and shegently lifted his hand from a finger-switch.     Even      I     know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right?     Right, he said unsteadily. Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, thisship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Hollowayand Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused thecontraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affectsevery atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We couldgo from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second justlike that!     He snapped his fingers. No acceleration effects. This type of ship,necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move inany direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motionat—Oh, hell! Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making himshake. He took her hand. Starre, he said desperately, I've got totell you something—     She jerked her hand away. No, she exclaimed in an almost frightenedvoice. You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac, she finished,faltering. The asteroid—     You      have     to marry him?     Her eyes filled with tears. I have to live up to the bargain.     And ruin your whole life, he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back tothe control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely tothe lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell shiptrailing astern.     There's your ship, Starre. He jabbed his finger at it. I've got afeeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehowthe whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back liesthere. But how?      How?          Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it wasattached around her ship's narrow midsection.     She shook her head helplessly. It just looks like a big yo-yo to me.     A yo-yo?     Yes, a yo-yo. That's all. She was belligerent.     A      yo-yo     ! Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, hegot out of the chair so fast. Can you imagine it! A yo-yo!     He disappeared from the room. Queazy! he shouted.       Queazy, I've gotit!       It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced.     The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers.     It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated!     They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth!     We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth.     Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob!     Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo.     There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving!     It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball.     It's going to hit!     The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left.  Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain.     All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out.     And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half.     Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky!     The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication.     Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath.     What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us!     Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea.     I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor.           If     you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid.     I'll see you in Hades first!     Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come!     He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie.     For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell.     The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets.     The battle was won!  ","Bob and Queazy are willing to risk their lives to try and get the asteroid back from Wally and Billy Saylor because their economic survival depends on it. Bob is the president of Interplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., and his rivals, the Saylor brothers, have put his business in serious jeopardy. Although his novel idea to sell asteroids to wealthy earthmen originally made him some cash, it wasn’t long before other companies got wind of his genius idea and started offering the same service. If the Saylor brothers keep beating Bob and Queazy to the punch, the men will no longer be in business.When Starre demands that Bob and Queazy leave her asteroid since she is the common law owner, both men try to explain to her why they desperately need the rock. The potential to make $550,000 means everything to Bob because his failure to secure that capital means that he and Queazy will lose their business and slave away for the rest of their lives as glass factory workers. "
"How does Bob Parker almost die? </s>     COSMIC YO-YO     By ROSS ROCKLYNNE     Want an asteroid in your backyard? We supply     cheap. Trouble also handled without charge.     Interplanetary Hauling Company. (ADVT.)     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Summer 1945.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Bob Parker, looking through the photo-amplifiers at the wedge-shapedasteroid, was plainly flabbergasted. Not in his wildest imaginings hadhe thought they would actually find what they were looking for.     Cut the drive! he yelled at Queazy. I've got it, right on the nose.Queazy, my boy, can you imagine it? We're in the dough. Not only that,we're rich! Come here!     Queazy discharged their tremendous inertia into the motive-tubes insuch a manner that the big, powerful ship was moving at the same rateas the asteroid below—47.05 miles per second. He came slogging backexcitedly, put his eyes to the eyepiece. He gasped, and his big bodyshook with joyful ejaculations.     She checks down to the last dimension, Bob chortled, working withslide-rule and logarithm tables. Now all we have to do is find out ifshe's made of tungsten, iron, quartz crystals, and cinnabar! But therecouldn't be two asteroids of that shape anywhere else in the Belt, sothis has to be it!     He jerked a badly crumpled ethergram from his pocket, smoothed it out,and thumbed his nose at the signature.     Whee! Mr. Andrew S. Burnside, you owe us five hundred and fiftythousand dollars!     Queazy straightened. A slow, likeable smile wreathed his tanned face.Better take it easy, he advised, until I land the ship and we usethe atomic whirl spectroscope to determine the composition of theasteroid.     Have it your way, Bob Parker sang, happily. He threw the ethergramto the winds and it fell gently to the deck-plates. While Queazy—socalled because his full name was Quentin Zuyler—dropped the shipstraight down to the smooth surface of the asteroid, and clamped ittight with magnetic grapples, Bob flung open the lazarette, broughtout two space-suits. Moments later, they were outside the ship, withstar-powdered infinity spread to all sides.     In the ship, the ethergram from Andrew S. Burnside, of Philadelphia,one of the richest men in the world, still lay on the deck-plates. Itwas addressed to: Mr. Robert Parker, President Interplanetary Hauling &Moving Co., 777 Main Street, Satterfield City, Fontanaland, Mars. Theethergram read:       Received your advertising literature a week ago. Would like to statethat yes I would like an asteroid in my back yard. Must meet followingspecifications: 506 feet length, long enough for wedding procession;98 feet at base, tapering to 10 feet at apex; 9-12 feet thick; topsidesmooth-plane, underside rough-plane; composed of iron ore, tungsten,quartz crystals, and cinnabar. Must be in my back yard before 11:30A.M. my time, for important wedding June 2, else order is void. Willpay $5.00 per ton.    Bob Parker had received that ethergram three weeks ago. And if TheInterplanetary Hauling & Moving Co., hadn't been about to go on therocks (chiefly due to the activities of Saylor & Saylor, a rival firm)neither Bob nor Queazy would have thought of sending an answeringethergram to Burnside stating that they would fill the order. Itwas, plainly, a hair-brained request. And yet, if by some chancethere was such a rigidly specified asteroid, their financial worrieswould be over. That they had actually discovered the asteroid, usingtheir mass-detectors in a weight-elimination process, seemed likean incredible stroke of luck. For there are literally millions ofasteroids in the asteroid belt, and they had been out in space onlythree weeks.     The asteroid in your back yard idea had been Bob Parker's originally.Now it was a fad that was sweeping Earth, and Burnside wasn't the firstrich man who had decided to hold a wedding on top of an asteroid.Unfortunately, other interplanetary moving companies had cashed in onthat brainstorm, chiefly the firm of the Saylor brothers—which personsBob Parker intended to punch in the nose some day. And would havebefore this if he hadn't been lanky and tall while they were giants.Now that he and Queazy had found the asteroid, they were desperate toget it to its destination, for fear that the Saylor brothers might getwind of what was going on, and try to beat them out of their profits.Which was not so far-fetched, because the firm of Saylor & Saylor madeno pretense of being scrupulous.     Now they scuffed along the smooth-plane topside of the asteroid, themagnets in their shoes keeping them from stepping off into space. Theycame to the broad base of the asteroid-wedge, walked over the edge anddown the twelve-foot thickness. Here they squatted, and Bob Parkerhappily clamped the atomic-whirl spectroscope to the rough surface.By the naked eye, they could see iron ore, quartz crystals, cinnabar,but he had the spectroscope and there was no reason why he shouldn'tuse it. He satisfied himself as to the exterior of the asteroid, andthen sent the twin beams deep into its heart. The beams crossed, toreatoms from molecules, revolved them like an infinitely fine powder. Theradiations from the sundered molecules traveled back up the beams tothe atomic-whirl spectroscope. Bob watched a pointer which moved slowlyup and up—past tungsten, past iridium, past gold—     Bob Parker said, in astonishment, Hell! There's something screwy aboutthis business. Look at that point—     Neither he nor Queazy had the opportunity to observe the pointer anyfurther. A cold, completely disagreeable feminine voice said,     May I ask what you interlopers are doing on my asteroid?     Bob started so badly that the spectroscope's settings were jarred andthe lights in its interior died. Bob twisted his head around as far ashe could inside the aquarium—the glass helmet, and found himselflooking at a space-suited girl who was standing on the edge of theasteroid below.     Ma'am, said Bob, blinking, did you say something?     Queazy made a gulping sound and slowly straightened. He automaticallyreached up as if he would take off his hat and twist it in his hands.     I said, remarked the girl, that you should scram off of my asteroid.And quit poking around at it with that spectroscope. I've already takena reading. Cinnabar, iron ore, quartz crystals, tungsten. Goodbye.  Bob's nose twitched as he adjusted his glasses, which he wore eveninside his suit. He couldn't think of anything pertinent to say. Heknew that he was slowly working up a blush. Mildly speaking, thegirl was beautiful, and though only her carefully made-up face wasvisible—cool blue eyes, masterfully coiffed, upswept, glinting brownhair, wilful lips and chin—Bob suspected the rest of her comparednicely.     Her expression darkened as she saw the completely instinctive way hewas looking at her and her radioed-voice rapped out, Now you two boysgo and play somewhere else! Else I'll let the Interplanetary Commissionknow you've infringed the law. G'bye!     She turned and disappeared.     Bob awoke from his trance, shouted desperately, Hey! Wait!      You!          He and Queazy caught up with her on the side of the asteroid theyhadn't yet examined. It was a rough plane, completing the rigidqualifications Burnside had set down.     Wait a minute, Bob Parker begged nervously. I want to make someconversation, lady. I'm sure you don't understand the conditions—     The girl turned and drew a gun from a holster. It was a spasticizer,and it was three times as big as her gloved hand.     I understand conditions better than you do, she said. You wantto move this asteroid from its orbit and haul it back to Earth.Unfortunately, this is my home, by common law. Come back in a month. Idon't expect to be here then.     A month! Parker burst the word out. He started to sweat, then hisface became grim. He took two slow steps toward the girl. She blinkedand lost her composure and unconsciously backed up two steps. Abouttwenty steps away was her small dumbbell-shaped ship, so shiny andunscarred that it reflected starlight in highlights from its curvedsurface. A rich girl's ship, Bob Parker thought angrily. A month wouldbe too late!     He said grimly, Don't worry. I don't intend to pull any rough stuff.I just want you to listen to reason. You've taken a whim to stay onan asteroid that doesn't mean anything to you one way or another. Butto us—to me and Queazy here—it means our business. We got an orderfor this asteroid. Some screwball millionaire wants it for a backyardwedding see? We get five hundred and fifty thousand dollars for it!If we don't take this asteroid to Earth before June 2, we go back toSatterfield City and work the rest of our lives in the glass factories.Don't we, Queazy?     Queazy said simply, That's right, miss. We're in a spot. I assure youwe didn't expect to find someone living here.     The girl holstered her spasticizer, but her completely inhospitableexpression did not change. She put her hands on the bulging hips of herspace-suit. Okay, she said. Now I understand the conditions. Now weboth understand each other. G'bye again. I'm staying here and— shesmiled sweetly —it may interest you to know that if I let you havethe asteroid you'll save your business, but I'll meet a fate worse thandeath! So that's that.     Bob recognized finality when he saw it. Come on, Queazy, he saidfuming. Let this brat have her way. But if I ever run across herwithout a space-suit on I'm going to give her the licking of her life,right where it'll do the most good!     He turned angrily, but Queazy grabbed his arm, his mouth falling open.He pointed off into space, beyond the girl.     What's that? he whispered.     What's wha—      Oh!          Bob Parker's stomach caved in. A few hundred feet away, floatinggently toward the asteroid, came another ship—a ship a trifle biggerthan their own. The girl turned, too. They heard her gasp. In anothersecond, Bob was standing next to her. He turned the audio-switch to hisheadset off, and spoke to the girl by putting his helmet against hers.     Listen to me, miss, he snapped earnestly, when she tried to drawaway. Don't talk by radio. That ship belongs to the Saylor brothers!Oh, Lord, that this should happen! Somewhere along the line, we've beendouble-crossed. Those boys are after this asteroid too, and they won'thesitate to pull any rough stuff. We're in this together, understand?We got to back each other up.     The girl nodded dumbly. Suddenly she seemed to be frightened.It's—it's very important that this—this asteroid stay right where itis, she said huskily. What—what will they do?  Bob Parker didn't answer. The big ship had landed, and little bluesparks crackled between the hull and the asteroid as the magneticclamps took hold. A few seconds later, the airlocks swung down, andfive men let themselves down to the asteroid's surface and stoodsurveying the three who faced them.     The two men in the lead stood with their hands on their hips; theirdarkish, twin faces were grinning broadly.     A pleasure, drawled Wally Saylor, looking at the girl. What do youthink of this situation Billy?     It's obvious, drawled Billy Saylor, rocking back and forth on hisheels, that Bob Parker and company have double-crossed us. We'll haveto take steps.     The three men behind the Saylor twins broke into rough, chucklinglaughter.     Bob Parker's gorge rose. Scram, he said coldly. We've got anethergram direct from Andrew S. Burnside ordering this asteroid.     So have we, Wally Saylor smiled—and his smile remained fixed,dangerous. He started moving forward, and the three men in back cameabreast, forming a semi-circle which slowly closed in. Bob Parker gaveback a step, as he saw their intentions.     We got here first, he snapped harshly. Try any funny stuff and we'llreport you to the Interplanetary Commission!     It was Bob Parker's misfortune that he didn't carry a weapon. Each ofthese men carried one or more, plainly visible. But he was thinking ofthe girl's spasticizer—a paralyzing weapon. He took a hair-brainedchance, jerked the spasticizer from the girl's holster and yelled atQueazy. Queazy got the idea, urged his immense body into motion. Hehurled straight at Billy Saylor, lifted him straight off the asteroidand threw him away, into space. He yelled with triumph.     At the same time, the spasticizer Bob held was shot cleanly out of hishand by Wally Saylor. Bob roared, started toward Wally Saylor, knockedthe smoking gun from his hand with a sweeping arm. Then somethingcrushing seemed to hit him in the stomach, grabbing at his solarplexus. He doubled up, gurgling with agony. He fell over on his back,and his boots were wrenched loose from their magnetic grip. Vaguely,before the flickering points of light in his brain subsided to completedarkness, he heard the girl's scream of rage—then a scream of pain.     What had happened to Queazy he didn't know. He felt so horribly sick,he didn't care. Then—lights out.  Bob Parker came to, the emptiness of remote starlight in his face. Heopened his eyes. He was slowly revolving on an axis. Sometimes the Sunswept across his line of vision. A cold hammering began at the base ofhis skull, a sensation similar to that of being buried alive. There wasno asteroid, no girl, no Queazy. He was alone in the vastness of space.Alone in a space-suit.     Queazy! he whispered. Queazy! I'm running out of air!     There was no answer from Queazy. With sick eyes, Bob studied theoxygen indicator. There was only five pounds pressure. Five pounds!That meant he had been floating around out here—how long? Days atleast—maybe weeks! It was evident that somebody had given him a doseof spastic rays, enough to screw up every muscle in his body to thesnapping point, putting him in such a condition of suspended animationthat his oxygen needs were small. He closed his eyes, trying to fightagainst panic. He was glad he couldn't see any part of his body. He wasprobably scrawny. And he was hungry!     I'll starve, he thought. Or suffocate to death first!     He couldn't keep himself from taking in great gulps of air. Minutes,then hours passed. He was breathing abnormally, and there wasn't enoughair in the first place. He pleaded continually for Queazy, hopingthat somehow Queazy could help, when probably Queazy was in the samecondition. He ripped out wild curses directed at the Saylor brothers.Murderers, both of them! Up until this time, he had merely thought ofthem as business rivals. If he ever got out of this—     He groaned. He never would get out of it! After another hour, he wasgasping weakly, and yellow spots danced in his eyes. He called Queazy'sname once more, knowing that was the last time he would have strengthto call it.     And this time the headset spoke back!     Bob Parker made a gurgling sound. A voice came again, washed withstatic, far away, burbling, but excited. Bob made a rattling sound inhis throat. Then his eyes started to close, but he imagined that he sawa ship, shiny and small, driving toward him, growing in size againstthe backdrop of the Milky Way. He relapsed, a terrific buzzing in hisears.     He did not lose consciousness. He heard voices, Queazy's and thegirl's, whoever she was. Somebody grabbed hold of his foot. Hisaquarium was unbuckled and good air washed over his streaming face.The sudden rush of oxygen to his brain dizzied him. Then he was lyingon a bunk, and gradually the world beyond his sick body focussed in hisclearing eyes and he knew he was alive—and going to stay that way, forawhile anyway.     Thanks, Queazy, he said huskily.     Queazy was bending over him, his anxiety clearing away from hissuddenly brightening face.     Don't thank me, he whispered. We'd have both been goners if ithadn't been for her. The Saylor brothers left her paralyzed likeus, and when she woke up she was on a slow orbit around her ship.She unstrapped her holster and threw it away from her and it gaveher enough reaction to reach the ship. She got inside and used thedirection-finder on the telaudio and located me first. The Saylorsscattered us far and wide. Queazy's broad, normally good-humored facetwisted blackly. The so and so's didn't care if we lived or died.     Bob saw the girl now, standing a little behind Queazy, looking down athim curiously, but unhappily. Her space-suit was off. She was wearinglightly striped blue slacks and blue silk blouse and she had a paperflower in her hair. Something in Bob's stomach caved in as his eyeswidened on her.     The girl said glumly, I guess you men won't much care for me when youfind out who I am and what I've done. I'm Starre Lowenthal—Andrew S.Burnside's granddaughter!  Bob came slowly to his feet, and matched Queazy's slowly growing anger.     Say that again? he snapped. This is some kind of dirty trick you andyour grandfather cooked up?     No! she exclaimed. No. My grandfather didn't even know there was anasteroid like this. But I did, long before he ordered it from you—orfrom the Saylor brothers. You see—well, my granddad's about thestubbornest old hoot-owl in this universe! He's always had his way, andwhen people stand in his way, that's just a challenge to him. He's beenbadgering me for years to marry Mac, and so has Mac—     Who's Mac? Queazy demanded.     My fiancé, I guess, she said helplessly. He's one of my granddad'sprotégés. Granddad's always financing some likely young man and givinghim a start in life. Mac has become pretty famous for his Mercurianwater-colors—he's an artist. Well, I couldn't hold out any longer.If you knew my grandfather, you'd know how absolutely      impossible     itis to go against him when he's got his mind set! I was just a mass ofnerves. So I decided to trick him and I came out to the asteroid beltand picked out an asteroid that was shaped so a wedding could takeplace on it. I took the measurements and the composition, then I toldmy grandfather I'd marry Mac if the wedding was in the back yard on topof an asteroid with those measurements and made of iron ore, tungsten,and so forth. He agreed so fast he scared me, and just to make surethat if somebody      did     find the asteroid in time they wouldn't be ableto get it back to Earth, I came out here and decided to live here.Asteroids up to a certain size belong to whoever happens to be on them,by common law.... So I had everything figured out—except, she addedbitterly, the Saylor brothers! I guess Granddad wanted to make surethe asteroid was delivered, so he gave the order to several companies.     Bob swore under his breath. He went reeling across to a port, and wasgratified to see his and Queazy's big interplanetary hauler floatingonly a few hundred feet away. He swung around, looked at Queazy.     How long were we floating around out there?     Three weeks, according to the chronometer. The Saylor boys gave us astiff shot.           Ouch!      Bob groaned. Then he looked at Starre Lowenthal withdetermination. Miss, pardon me if I say that this deal you and yourgranddad cooked up is plain screwy! With us on the butt end. But I'mgoing to put this to you plainly. We can catch up with the Saylorbrothers even if they are three weeks ahead of us. The Saylor ship andours both travel on the HH drive—inertia-less. But the asteroid hasplenty of inertia, and so they'll have to haul it down to Earth by along, spiraling orbit. We can go direct and probably catch up with thema few hundred thousand miles this side of Earth. And we can have afling at getting the asteroid back!     Her eyes sparkled. You mean— she cried. Then her attractive facefell. Oh, she said.       Oh!     And when you get it back, you'll land it.     That's right, Bob said grimly. We're in business. For us, it's amatter of survival. If the by-product of delivering the asteroid isyour marriage—sorry! But until we do get the asteroid back, we threecan work as a team if you're willing. We'll fight the other problem outlater. Okay?     She smiled tremulously. Okay, I guess.     Queazy looked from one to another of them. He waved his hand scornfullyat Bob. You're plain nuts, he complained. How do you propose to goabout convincing the Saylor brothers they ought to let us have theasteroid back? Remember, commercial ships aren't allowed to carrylong-range weapons. And we couldn't ram the Saylor brothers' ship—notwithout damaging our own ship just as much. Go ahead and answer that.     Bob looked at Queazy dismally. The old balance-wheel, he groaned atStarre. He's always pulling me up short when I go off half-cocked. AllI know is, that maybe we'll get a good idea as we go along. In themeantime, Starre—ahem—none of us has eaten in three weeks...?     Starre got the idea. She smiled dazzlingly and vanished toward thegalley.  Bob Parker was in love with Starre Lowenthal. He knew that after fivedays out, as the ship hurled itself at breakneck speed toward Earth;probably that distracting emotion was the real reason he couldn'tattach any significance to Starre's dumbbell-shaped ship, which trailedastern, attached by a long cable.     Starre apparently knew he was in love with her, too, for on the fifthday Bob was teaching her the mechanics of operating the hauler, and shegently lifted his hand from a finger-switch.     Even      I     know that isn't the control to the Holloway vacuum-feeder,Bob. That switch is for the—ah—the anathern tube, you told me. Right?     Right, he said unsteadily. Anyway, Starre, as I was saying, thisship operates according to the reverse Fitzgerald Contraction Formula.All moving bodies contract in the line of motion. What Hollowayand Hammond did was to reverse that universal law. They caused thecontraction first—motion had to follow! The gravitonic field affectsevery atom in the ship with the same speed at the same time. We couldgo from zero speed to our top speed of two thousand miles a second justlike that!     He snapped his fingers. No acceleration effects. This type of ship,necessary in our business, can stop flat, back up, ease up, move inany direction, and the passengers wouldn't have any feeling of motionat—Oh, hell! Bob groaned, the serious glory of her eyes making himshake. He took her hand. Starre, he said desperately, I've got totell you something—     She jerked her hand away. No, she exclaimed in an almost frightenedvoice. You can't tell me. There's—there's Mac, she finished,faltering. The asteroid—     You      have     to marry him?     Her eyes filled with tears. I have to live up to the bargain.     And ruin your whole life, he ground out. Suddenly, he turned back tothe control board, quartered the vision plate. He pointed savagely tothe lower left quarter, which gave a rearward view of the dumbbell shiptrailing astern.     There's your ship, Starre. He jabbed his finger at it. I've got afeeling—and I can't put the thought into concrete words—that somehowthe whole solution of the problem of grabbing the asteroid back liesthere. But how?      How?          Starre's blue eyes followed the long cable back to where it wasattached around her ship's narrow midsection.     She shook her head helplessly. It just looks like a big yo-yo to me.     A yo-yo?     Yes, a yo-yo. That's all. She was belligerent.     A      yo-yo     ! Bob Parker yelled the word and almost hit the ceiling, hegot out of the chair so fast. Can you imagine it! A yo-yo!     He disappeared from the room. Queazy! he shouted.       Queazy, I've gotit!       It was Queazy who got into his space-suit and did the welding job,fastening two huge supra-steel eyes onto the dumbbell-shaped ship'snarrow midsection. Into these eyes cables which trailed back totwo winches in the big ship's nose were inserted, welded fast, andreinforced.     The nose of the hauler was blunt, perfectly fitted for the job. BobParker practiced and experimented for three hours with this yo-yo ofcosmic dimensions, while Starre and Queazy stood over him bursting intostrange, delighted squeals of laughter whenever the yo-yo reached theend of its double cable and started rolling back up to the ship. Queazysnapped his fingers.     It'll work! His gray eyes showed satisfaction. Now, if only theSaylor brothers are where we calculated!     They weren't where Bob and Queazy had calculated, as they haddiscovered the next day. They had expected to pick up the asteroidon their mass-detectors a few hundred thousand miles outside of theMoon's orbit. But now they saw the giant ship attached like a leech tothe still bigger asteroid—inside the Moon's orbit! A mere two hundredthousand miles from Earth!     We have to work fast, Bob stammered, sweating. He got withinnaked-eye distance of the Saylor brothers' ship. Below, Earth wasspread out, a huge crescent shape, part of the Eastern hemispherevaguely visible through impeding clouds and atmosphere. The enemy shipwas two miles distant, a black shadow occulting part of the brilliantsky. It was moving along a down-spiraling path toward Earth.     Queazy's big hand gripped his shoulder. Go to it, Bob!     Bob nodded grimly. He backed the hauler up about thirty miles, thensent it forward again, directly toward the Saylor brothers' ship at tenmiles per second. And resting on the blunt nose of the ship was theyo-yo.     There was little doubt the Saylors' saw their approach. But,scornfully, they made no attempt to evade. There was no possible harmthe oncoming ship could wreak. Or at least that was what they thought,for Bob brought the hauler's speed down to zero—and Starre Lowenthal'slittle ship, possessing its own inertia, kept on moving!     It spun away from the hauler's blunt nose, paying out two rigidlengths of cable behind it as it unwound, hurled itself forward like afantastic spinning cannon ball.     It's going to hit!     The excited cry came from Starre. But Bob swore. The dumbbell shipreached the end of its cables, falling a bare twenty feet short ofcompleting its mission. It didn't stop spinning, but came winding backup the cable, at the same terrific speed with which it had left.  Bob sweated, having only fractions of seconds in which to maneuverfor the yo-yo could strike a fatal blow at the hauler too. It wasticklish work completely to nullify the yo-yo's speed. Bob usedexactly the same method of catching the yo-yo on the blunt nose ofthe ship as a baseball player uses to catch a hard-driven ball inhis glove—namely, by matching the ball's speed and direction almostexactly at the moment of impact. And now Bob's hours of practice paiddividends, for the yo-yo came to rest snugly, ready to be releasedagain.     All this had happened in such a short space of time that the Saylorbrothers must have had only a bare realization of what was going on.But by the time the yo-yo was flung at them again, this time withbetter calculations, they managed to put the firmly held asteroidbetween them and the deadly missile. But it was clumsy evasion, forthe asteroid was several times as massive as the ship which was towingit, and its inertia was great. And as soon as the little ship camespinning back to rest, Bob flung the hauler to a new vantage point andagain the yo-yo snapped out.     And this time—collision! Bob yelled as he saw the stern section of theSaylor brothers' ship crumple like tissue paper crushed between thehand. The dumbbell-shaped ship, smaller, and therefore stauncher due tothe principle of the arch, wound up again, wobbling a little. It hadreceived a mere dent in its starboard half.     Starre was chortling with glee. Queazy whispered, Attaboy, Bob! Thistime we'll knock 'em out of the sky!     The yo-yo came to rest and at the same moment a gong rang excitedly.Bob knew what that meant. The Saylor brothers were trying to establishcommunication.     Queazy was across the room in two running strides. He threw in thetelaudio and almost immediately, Wally Saylor's big body built up inthe plate. Wally Saylor's face was quivering with wrath.     What do you damned fools think you're trying to do? he roared.You've crushed in our stern section. You've sliced away half of ourstern jets. Air is rushing out! You'll kill us!     Now, Bob drawled, you're getting the idea.     I'll inform the Interplanetary Commission! screamed Saylor.           If     you're alive, Bob snarled wrathfully. And you won't be unlessyou release the asteroid.     I'll see you in Hades first!     Hades, remarked Bob coldly, here you come!     He snapped the hauler into its mile-a-second speed again, stopped it atzero. And the yo-yo went on its lone, destructive sortie.     For a fraction of a second Wally Saylor exhibited the countenance of adoomed man. In the telaudio plate, he whirled, and diminished in sizewith a strangled yell.     The yo-yo struck again, but Bob Parker maneuvered its speed insuch a manner that it struck in the same place as before, but not asheavily, then rebounded and came spinning back with perfect, sparklingprecision. And even before it snugged itself into its berth, it wasapparent that the Saylor brothers had given up. Like a wounded terrier,their ship shook itself free of the asteroid, hung in black space fora second, then vanished with a flaming puff of released gravitons fromits still-intact jets.     The battle was won!  ","Bob Parker almost dies after the Saylor brothers find Starre’s asteroid and decide that although Bob and Queazy landed on it first, they want to be the ones to fulfill Mr. Burnside’s order. Bob tries to defend his turf with Starre’s spasticizer, but Wally is able to shoot the gun out of his hands. Bob is unable to defend himself from the ginormous Saylor brothers after he loses Starre’s weapon, and he is beaten in the stomach and thrown into space to float with little oxygen and zero sustenance. He remains isolated, drifting through space, for three weeks before his friend Queazy and Starre are able to locate him. He describes the sensation as “being buried alive.” At the time that he is found, he has only a few short days of oxygen left until he will choke to death. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     Spacemen Die at Home     By EDWARD W. LUDWIG     Illustrated by THORNE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction October 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        One man's retreat is another's prison ... and       it takes a heap of flying to make a hulk a home!        Forty days of heaven and forty nights of hell. That's the way it'sbeen, Laura. But how can I make you understand? How can I tell youwhat it's like to be young and a man and to dream of reaching thestars? And yet, at the same time, to be filled with a terrible, gnawingfear—a fear locked in my mind during the day and bursting out like anevil jack-in-the-box at night. I must tell you, Laura.     Perhaps if I start at the beginning, the very beginning....     It was the Big Day. All the examinations, the physicals and psychos,were over. The Academy, with its great halls and classrooms andlaboratories, lay hollow and silent, an exhausted thing at sleep afterspawning its first-born.     For it was June in this year of 1995, and we were the graduating classof the U. S. Academy of Interplanetary Flight.     The      first     graduating class, Laura. That's why it was so important,because we were the      first     .     We sat on a little platform, twenty-five of us. Below us was a beachof faces, most of them strange, shining like pebbles in the warm NewMexican sunlight. They were the faces of mothers and fathers andgrandparents and kid brothers and sisters—the people who a short timeago had been only scrawled names on letters from home or words spokenwistfully at Christmas. They were the memory-people who, to me, hadnever really existed.     But today they had become real, and they were here and looking at uswith pride in their eyes.     A voice was speaking, deep, sure, resonant. ... these boys have workedhard for six years, and now they're going to do a lot of big things.They're going to bring us the metals and minerals that we desperatelyneed. They're going to find new land for our colonists, good rich landthat will bear food and be a home for our children. And perhaps mostimportant of all, they'll make other men think of the stars and look upat them and feel humility—for mankind needs humility.     The speaker was Robert Chandler, who'd brought the first rocket down onMars just five years ago, who'd established the first colony there, andwho had just returned from his second hop to Venus.     Instead of listening to his words, I was staring at his broad shouldersand his dark, crew-cut hair and his white uniform which was silk-smoothand skin-tight. I was worshiping him and hating him at the same time,for I was thinking:       He's already reached Mars and Venus. Let him leave Jupiter and theothers alone! Let us be the first to land somewhere! Let us be thefirst!    Mickey Cameron, sitting next to me, dug an elbow into my ribs. I don'tsee 'em, Ben, he whispered. Where do you suppose they are?     I blinked. Who?     My folks.     That was something I didn't have to worry about. My parents had died ina strato-jet crash when I was four, so I hadn't needed many of thoseYou are cordially invited cards. Just one, which I'd sent to CharlieTaggart.     Stardust Charlie, we called him, although I never knew why. He was aveteran of Everson's first trip to the Moon nearly twenty-five yearsago, and he was still at it. He was Chief Jetman now on the      LunarLady     , a commercial ore ship on a shuttle between Luna City and WhiteSands.     I remembered how, as a kid, I'd pestered him in the Long IslandSpaceport, tagging after him like a puppy, and how he'd grown to likeme until he became father, mother, and buddy all in one to me. And Iremembered, too, how his recommendation had finally made me a cadet.     My gaze wandered over the faces, but I couldn't find Charlie's. Itwasn't surprising. The      Lunar Lady     was in White Sands now, butliberties, as Charlie said, were as scarce as water on Mars.       It doesn't matter     , I told myself.     Then Mickey stiffened. I see 'em, Ben! There in the fifth row!     Usually Mickey was the same whether in a furnace-hot engine room or agarden party, smiling, accepting whatever the world offered. But now atenseness and an excitement had gripped even him. I was grateful thathe was beside me; we'd been a good team during those final months atthe Academy and I knew we'd be a good team in space. The Universe wasmighty big, but with two of us to face it together, it would be onlyhalf as big.     And then it seemed that all the proud faces were looking at us as if wewere gods. A shiver went through my body. Though it was daytime, I sawthe stars in my mind's vision, the great shining balls of silver, eachlike a voice crying out and pleading to be explored, to be touched bythe sons of Earth.       They expect a lot from us. They expect us to make a new kind ofcivilization and a better place out of Earth. They expect all this anda hell of a lot more. They think there's nothing we can't do.       I felt very small and very humble. I was scared. Damned scared.  At last it was over, and the proud faces descended upon us in a huge,babbling wave.     Then I saw him. Good old Stardust Charlie.     His wizened little body was shuffling down an aisle, his eyes shininglike a child's. He'd been sandwiched, evidently, in one of the rearrows.     But he wasn't the Charlie I'd seen a year ago. He'd become gaunt andold, and he walked with an unnatural stiffness. He looked so old thatit was hard to believe he'd once been young.     He scratched his mop of steel-gray hair and grinned.     You made it, boy, he chortled, and by Jupiter, we'll celebratetonight. Yes, siree, I got twenty-four hours, and we'll celebrate asgood spacemen should!     Then Mickey strode up to us. He was his normal, boyish self again,walking lightly, his blond, curly-haired skull swaying as if in rhythmwith some silent melody.     And you, Laura, were with him.     Meet the Brat, he said. My sister Laura.     I stared almost rudely. You were like a doll lost in the immensityof your fluffy pink dress. Your hair was long and transformed into agolden froth where sunlight touched it. But your eyes were the eyesof a woman, glowing like dark stars and reflecting a softness, agentleness that I'd never seen in eyes before.     I'm happy to meet you, Ben, you said. I've heard of no one else forthe past year.     A tide of heat crept up from my collar. I stuttered through anintroduction of Charlie.     You and Mickey looked strangely at Charlie, and I realized that oldStardust was not a cadet's notion of the ideal spaceman. Charliescorned the skin-tight uniforms of the government service and wore ashiny black suit that was a relic of Everson's early-day Moon Patrol.His tie was clumsily knotted, and a button on his coat was missing.     And the left side of his face was streaked with dark scar tissue, theresult of an atomic blowup on one of the old Moon ships. I was soaccustomed to the scars, I was seldom aware of them; but others, Iknew, would find them ugly.     You were kind. You shook hands and said, softly: It's a privilege tomeet you, Charlie. Just think—one of Everson's men, one of the firstto reach the Moon!     Charlie gulped helplessly, and Mickey said: Still going to spend theweekend with us, aren't you, Ben?     I shook my head. Charlie has only twenty-four hours liberty. We'replanning to see the town tonight.     Why don't you both come with us? you asked. Our folks have theirown plane, so it would be no problem. And we've got a big guest room.Charlie, wouldn't you like a home-cooked meal before going back to theMoon?     Charlie's answer was obscured by a sudden burst of coughing. I knewthat he'd infinitely prefer to spend his liberty sampling Martianfizzes and Plutonian zombies.     But this night seemed too sacred for Charlie's kind of celebration.     We'd really like to come, I said.  On our way to the 'copter parking field, Dean Dawson passed us. He wasa tall, willowy man, spectacled, looking the way an academy professorshould look.     Ben, he called, don't forget that offer. Remember you've got twomonths to decide.     No, thanks, I answered. Better not count on me.     A moment later Mickey said, frowning, What was he talking about, Ben?Did he make you an offer?     I laughed. He offered me a job here at the Academy teachingastrogation. What a life      that     would be! Imagine standing in aclassroom for forty years when I've got the chance to—     I hesitated, and you supplied the right words: When you've got thechance to be the first to reach a new planet. That's what most of youwant, isn't it? That's what Mickey used to want.     I looked at you as if you were Everson himself, because you seemed tounderstand the hunger that could lie in a man's heart.     Then your last words came back and jabbed me: That's what Mickey usedto want.           Used     to want? I asked. What do you mean?     You bit your lip, not answering.     What did she mean, Mickey?     Mickey looked down at his feet. I didn't want to tell you yet, Ben.We've been together a long time, planning to be on a rocket. But—     Yes?     Well, what does it add up to? You become a spaceman and wear a prettyuniform. You wade through the sands of Mars and the dust of Venus. Ifyou're lucky, you're good for five, maybe ten years. Then one thing oranother gets you. They don't insure rocketmen, you know.     My stomach was full of churning, biting ice. What are you trying tosay, Mickey?     I've thought about it a long time. They want me for Cargo Supervisorof White Sands Port. He raised his hand to stop me. I know. It's notso exciting. I'll just live a lot longer. I'm sorry, Ben.     I couldn't answer. It was as if someone had whacked the back of myknees with the blast of a jet.     It doesn't change anything, Ben—right now, I mean. We can still havea good weekend.     Charlie was muttering under his breath, smoldering like a bomb about toreach critical mass. I shook my head dazedly at him as we got to the'copter.     Sure, I said to Mickey, we can still have a good weekend.  I liked your folks, Laura. There was no star-hunger in them, of course.They were simple and solid and settled, like green growing things,deep-rooted, belonging to Earth. They were content with a home that wascool on this warm summer night, with a 'copter and a tri-dimensionalvideo, and a handsome automatic home that needed no servants orhousework.     Stardust Charlie was as comfortable as a Martian sand-monkey in ashower, but he tried courageously to be himself.     At the dinner table he stared glassily at nothing and grated, Only hitMars once, but I'll never forget the kid who called himself a medic.Skipper started coughing, kept it up for three days. Whoopin' cough,the medic says, not knowin' the air had chemicals that turned to acidin your lungs. I'd never been to Mars before, but I knew better'n that.Hell, I says, that ain't whoopin' cough, that's lung-rot.     That was when your father said he wasn't so hungry after all.     Afterward, you and I walked onto the terrace, into the moonlit night,to watch for crimson-tailed continental rockets that occasionallystreaked up from White Sands.     We gazed for a few seconds up into the dark sky, and then you said:Charlie is funny, isn't he? He's nice and I'm glad he's here, but he'ssort of funny.     He's an old-time spaceman. You didn't need much education in thosedays, just a lot of brawn and a quick mind. It took guts to be aspaceman then.     But he wasn't always a spaceman. Didn't he ever have a family?     I smiled and shook my head. If he had, he never mentioned it. Charliedoesn't like to be sentimental, at least not on the outside. As far asI know, his life began when he took off for the Moon with Everson.     You stared at me strangely, almost in a sacred kind of way. I knewsuddenly that you liked me, and my heart began to beat faster.     There was silence.     You were lovely, your soft hair like strands of gold, and there wereflecks of silver in your dark eyes. Somehow I was afraid. I had thefeeling that I shouldn't have come here.     You kept looking at me until I had to ask: What are you thinking,Laura?     You laughed, but it was a sad, fearful laugh. No, I shouldn't bethinking it. You'd hate me if I told you, and I wouldn't want that.     I could never hate you.     It—it's about the stars, you said very softly. I understand why youwant to go to them. Mickey and I used to dream about them when we werekids. Of course I was a girl, so it was just a game to me. But once Idreamed of going to England. Oh, it was going to be so wonderful. Ilived for months, just thinking about it.     One summer we went. I had fun. I saw the old buildings and castles,and the spaceports and the Channel Tube. But after it was over, Irealized England wasn't so different from America. Places seem excitingbefore you get to them, and afterward they're not really.     I frowned. And you mean it might be the same with the stars? You thinkmaybe I haven't grown up yet?     Anxiety darkened your features. No, it'd be good to be a spaceman,to see the strange places and make history. But is it worth it? Is itworth the things you'd have to give up?     I didn't understand at first, and I wanted to ask, Give up      what     ?     Then I looked at you and the promise in your eyes, and I knew.     All through the years I'd been walking down a single, narrow path.     Government boarding school, the Academy, my eyes always upward and onthe stars.     Now I'd stumbled into a cross-roads, beholding a strange new path thatI'd never noticed before.       You can go into space     , I thought,      and try to do as much living inten years as normal men do in fifty. You can be like Everson, who diedin a Moon crash at the age of 36, or like a thousand others who lieburied in Martian sand and Venusian dust. Or, if you're lucky, likeCharlie—a kind of human meteor streaking through space, eternallyalone, never finding a home.         Or there's the other path. To stay on this little prison of an Earthin cool, comfortable houses. To be one of the solid, rooted people witha wife and kids. To be one of the people who live long enough to growold, who awake to the song of birds instead of rocket grumblings, whofill their lungs with the clean rich air of Earth instead of poisonousdust.       I'm sorry, you said. I didn't mean to make you sad, Ben.     It's all right, I said, clenching my fists. You made sense—a lot ofsense.  The next morning Charlie said good-bye in our room. He rubbed hisscarred face nervously as he cleared his throat with a series of thin,tight coughs.     Then he pointed to a brown, faded tin box lying on the bed. I'mleavin' that for you. It's full of old stuff, souvenirs mostly. Thoughtmaybe you'd like to have 'em.     I scowled, not understanding. Why, Charlie? What for?     He shrugged as if afraid he might be accused of sentimentality. Oh,it's just that I've been dodgin' meteors now for twenty-five years.That's a long time, boy. Ain't one spaceman in a thousand that lucky.Some of these days, I won't be so lucky.     I tried to laugh. You're good for another twenty-five years, Charlie.     He shook his head stiffly, staring at nothing. Maybe. Anyway, I'mgonna get off the Shuttle this time, make one more trip to Mars. Tellyou what. There's a little stone cafe on Mars, the      Space Rat     , justoff Chandler Field on the Grand Canal. When you get to Mars, take alook inside. I'll probably be there.     He coughed again, a deep, rasping cough that filled his eyes with tears.     Not used to this Earth air, he muttered. What I need's some Martianclimate.     Suddenly that cough frightened me. It didn't seem normal. I wondered,too, about his stiff movements and glassy stare. It was as if he weredrugged.     I shook the thought away. If Charlie was sick, he wouldn't talk aboutgoing to Mars. The medics wouldn't let him go even as far as Luna.     We watched him leave, you and Mickey and I.     When will you be back? you asked.     Charlie's hard face contorted itself into a gargoylish grin. Maybe acouple of months, maybe a couple of years. You know spacemen.     Then he waved and strode away, a strange, gray, withered gnome of a man.     I wanted him to say something, to tell me the secret that would killthe doubt worming through my brain.     But he rounded a corner, still grinning and waving, and then he wasgone.  That afternoon Mickey showed me his room. It was more like a boy'sroom than a spaceman's. In it were all the little things that kidstreasure—pennants, models of Everson's two ships, a tennis trophy,books, a home-made video.     I began to realize how important a room like this could be to a boy.I could imagine, too, the happiness that parents felt as they watchedtheir children grow to adulthood.     I'd missed something. My folks were shadow-people, my impressions ofthem drawn half from ancient photos, half from imagination. For me, ithad been a cold, automatic kind of life, the life of dormitories androutines and rules. I'd been so blinded by the brilliancy of my dreams,I hadn't realized I was different.       My folks were killed in a rocket crash. If it weren't for rockets, I'dhave lived the kind of life a kid should live.       Mickey noticed my frown.     What's the matter, Ben? Still sore? I feel like a heel, but I'm justnot like you and Charlie, I guess. I—     No, I understand, Mickey. I'm not sore, really.     Listen, then. You haven't accepted any offer yet, have you?     No. I got a couple of possibilities. Could get a berth on the      Odyssey     , the new ship being finished at Los Angeles. They want me,too, for the Moon Patrol, but that's old stuff, not much better thanteaching. I want to be in deep space.     Well, how about staying with us till you decide? Might as well enjoyEarth life while you can. Okay?     I felt like running from the house, to forget that it existed. I wantedsomeone to tell me one of the old stories about space, a tale ofcourage that would put fuel on dying dreams.     But I wanted, also, to be with you, Laura, to see your smile and theflecks of silver in your eyes and the way your nose turned upward everso slightly when you laughed. You see, I loved you already, almost asmuch as I loved the stars.     And I said, slowly, my voice sounding unfamiliar and far away, Sure,I'll stay, Mickey. Sure.  Forty days of joy, forty nights of fear and indecision. We did all thelittle things, like watching the rockets land at White Sands and flyingdown to the Gulf to swim in cool waters. You tried, unsuccessfully, toteach me to dance, and we talked about Everson and Charlie and the Moonand the stars. You felt you had to give the stars all the beauty andpromise of a child's dream, because you knew that was what I wanted.     One morning I thought,      Why must I make a choice? Why can't I have bothyou and the stars? Would that be asking too much?       All day the thought lay in my mind like fire.     That evening I asked you to marry me. I said it very simply: Laura, Iwant you to be my wife.     You looked up at Venus, and you were silent for a long while, your faceflushed.     Then you murmured, I—I want to marry you, Ben, but are you asking meto marry a spaceman or a teacher?     Can't a spaceman marry, too?     Yes, a spaceman can marry, but what would it be like? Don't you see,Ben? You'd be like Charlie. Gone for      maybe     two months,      maybe     twoyears. Then you'd have a twenty-four hour liberty—and I'd have what?     Somehow I'd expected words like these, but still they hurt. I wouldn'thave to be a spaceman forever. I could try it for a couple of years,then teach.     Would you, Ben? Would you be satisfied with just seeing Mars? Wouldn'tyou want to go on to Jupiter and Saturn and Uranus and on and on?     Your voice was choked, and even in the semi-darkness I saw tearsglittering in your eyes.     Do you think I'd dare have children, Ben? Mickey told me what happenedon the      Cyclops     . There was a leak in the atomic engines. The ship wasflooded with radiation—just for a second. It didn't seem serious. Themen had no burns. But a year later the captain had a child. And itwas—     I know, Laura. Don't say it.     You had to finish. It was a monster.     That night I lay awake, the fears and doubts too frantic to let mesleep.       You've got to decide now     , I told myself.      You can't stay here. You'vegot to make a choice.       The teaching job was still open. The spot on the      Odyssey     was stillopen—and the big ship, it was rumored, was equipped to make it all theway to Pluto.       You can take Dean Dawson's job and stay with Laura and have kids and ahome and live to see what happens in this world sixty years from now.         Or you can see what's on the other side of the mountain. You can be aline in a history book.       I cursed. I knew what Charlie would say. He'd say, Get the hell outof there, boy. Don't let a fool woman make a sucker out of you. Getout there on the      Odyssey     where you belong. We got a date on Mars,remember? At the      Space Rat     , just off Chandler Field on the GrandCanal.     That's what he'd say.     And yet I wanted you, Laura. I wanted to be with you, always.     Oh God, I moaned, what shall I do?  Next morning the door chimes pealed, and you went to the door andbrought back the audiogram. It was addressed to me; I wondered whocould be sending me a message.     I pressed the stud on the little gray cylinder, and a rasping,automatic voice droned: Luna City, Luna, July 27, 1995. Regret toinform you of death of Charles Taggart, Chief Jetman....     Then there was a Latin name which was more polite than the wordlung-rot and the metallic phrase, This message brought to you bycourtesy of United Nations Earth-Luna Communication Corps.     I stood staring at the cylinder.     Charles Taggart was dead.     Charles Taggart was Charlie. Stardust Charlie.     My heart thudded crazily against my chest. It couldn't be! Not Charlie!The audiogram had lied!     I pressed the stud again. ... regret to inform you of death ofCharles ...     I hurled the cylinder at the wall. It thudded, fell, rolled. The brokenvoice droned on.     You ran to it, shut it off. I'm sorry, Ben, so terribly—     Without answering, I walked into my room. I knew it was true now. Iremembered Charlie's coughing, his gaunt features, his drugged gaze.The metallic words had told the truth.     I sat for a long time on my bed, crying inside, but staring dry-eyed atCharlie's faded tin box.     Then, finally, I fingered his meager possessions—a few wrinkledphotos, some letters, a small black statue of a forgotten Martian god,a gold service medal from the Moon Patrol.       This was what remained of Charlie after twenty-five years in space.It was a bitter bargain. A statue instead of a wife, yellowed lettersinstead of children, a medal instead of a home.       It'd be a great future     , I thought.      You'd dream of sitting in a dingystone dive on the Grand Canal with sand-wasps buzzing around smoky,stinking candles. A bottle of luchu juice and a couple of Martian girlswith dirty feet for company. And a sudden cough that would be the firstsign of lung-rot.       To hell with it!     I walked into your living room and called Dean Dawson on the visiphone.     I accepted that job teaching.  And now, Laura, it's nearly midnight. You're in your room, sleeping,and the house is silent.     It's hard to tell you, to make you understand, and that is why I amwriting this.     I looked through Charlie's box again, more carefully this time, readingthe old letters and studying the photographs. I believe now thatCharlie sensed my indecision, that he left these things so that theycould tell me what he could not express in words.     And among the things, Laura, I found a ring.     A wedding ring.     In that past he never talked about, there was a woman—his wife.Charlie was young once, his eyes full of dreams, and he faced the samedecision that I am facing. Two paths were before him, but he tried totravel both. He later learned what we already know—that there can beno compromise. And you know, too, which path he finally chose.     Do you know why he had to drug himself to watch me graduate? So hecould look at me, knowing that I would see the worlds he could neverlive to see. Charlie didn't leave just a few trinkets behind him. Heleft himself, Laura, for he showed me that a boy's dream can also be aman's dream.     He made his last trip to Luna when he knew he was going to die. Heavenknows how he escaped a checkup. Maybe the captain understood and waskind—but that doesn't matter now.     Do you know      why     he wanted to reach Mars? Do you know why he didn'twant to die in the clean, cool air of Earth?     It was because he wanted to die nearer home. His home, Laura, was theUniverse, where the ship was his house, the crew his father, mother,brothers, the planets his children.     You say that the beauty of the other side of the mountain vanishesafter you reach it. But how can one ever be      sure     until the journey ismade? Could I or Charlie or the thousand before us bear to look upon astar and think,      I might have gone there; I could have been the first     ?     We said, too, that the life of a spaceman is lonely. Yet how could onebe lonely when men like Charlie roam the spaceways?     Charlie wanted me to himself that night after graduation. He wanted usto celebrate as spacemen should, for he knew that this would be hislast night on Earth. It might have seemed an ugly kind of celebrationto you, but he wanted it with all his heart, and we robbed him of it.     Because of these things, Laura, I will be gone in the morning. Explainthe best you can to Mickey and to your parents and Dean Dawson.     Right now I've got a date that I'm going to keep—at a dingy stone cafeon Mars, the      Space Rat     , just off Chandler Field on the Grand Canal.     Stardust Charlie will be there; he'll go with me in memory to whateverpart of the Galaxy I may live to reach. And so will you, Laura.     I have two wedding rings with me—his wife's ring and yours.   ","After studying for six years, Ben sits at his U.S. Academy of Interplanetary Flight graduation. Next to Ben is Mickey, his best friend who also plans to go into deep space. Ben is an orphan, and he wonders if the only person he invited, Charlie Taggart, is there. Ben met Charlie, an accomplished spaceman, when he was a boy, and Charlie took him under his wing. When Ben connects with Charlie after the ceremony, he worries about his gaunt face and terrible cough. Ben then meets Laura, Mickey’s sister. There is an undeniable and instant connection between them. Charlie only has 24 hours to spend with Ben before he has to report back for duty, and although he wants to have some drinks with Ben alone, Laura invites them both over, and Ben can’t help but say yes.Moments later, Dean Dawson reminds Ben about an offer to teach at the Academy. Mickey takes this opportunity to admit to Ben that he will be working as a Supervisor at White Sands Port. Ben is disappointed to hear that Mickey has chosen to live a boring life, but Mickey insists that he does not want to die in his 30s. After dinner at Mickey’s house, Laura and Ben take a walk together. Laura asks about Charlie’s life before he was a spaceman, but Ben doesn’t have answers for her. He doesn’t know anything about Charlie’s past. Ben looks at Laura and realizes that she has feelings for him, too. When she suggests that a career in deep space may not be worth what Ben would be leaving behind, Ben finds himself at a crossroads. Should he live his dream  or should he settle down with the woman he loves and live an ordinary life?The next morning, Charlie gives Ben an old tin with souvenirs inside, and then tells him to meet him at the Space Rat, a little cafe on Mars, when he gets there. Ben still hasn’t chosen a career path and decides to stay with Mickey and Laura and their family until he does. He experiences forty days of happiness with his love, Laura, and forty nights of indecision about which career to choose. Ben asks Laura to marry him, but she says she can’t unless he decides to stay on earth. The next day, Ben receives a message informing him that Charlie has died from lung-rot, a disease he got in space. When Ben looks in Charlie’s tin and finds useless trinkets, he decides  to take the teaching job so that he does not live a similarly meaningless life. However, hours later, he looks in the tin again and finds a wedding ring. Ben surmises that Charlie wanted to tell him to take the chance on space, and he believes it’s the right decision to make. He can’t live his life without knowing what the stars look like, even if that means he can’t have Laura too. "
"What is peoples' perception of spacemen? </s>     Spacemen Die at Home     By EDWARD W. LUDWIG     Illustrated by THORNE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction October 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        One man's retreat is another's prison ... and       it takes a heap of flying to make a hulk a home!        Forty days of heaven and forty nights of hell. That's the way it'sbeen, Laura. But how can I make you understand? How can I tell youwhat it's like to be young and a man and to dream of reaching thestars? And yet, at the same time, to be filled with a terrible, gnawingfear—a fear locked in my mind during the day and bursting out like anevil jack-in-the-box at night. I must tell you, Laura.     Perhaps if I start at the beginning, the very beginning....     It was the Big Day. All the examinations, the physicals and psychos,were over. The Academy, with its great halls and classrooms andlaboratories, lay hollow and silent, an exhausted thing at sleep afterspawning its first-born.     For it was June in this year of 1995, and we were the graduating classof the U. S. Academy of Interplanetary Flight.     The      first     graduating class, Laura. That's why it was so important,because we were the      first     .     We sat on a little platform, twenty-five of us. Below us was a beachof faces, most of them strange, shining like pebbles in the warm NewMexican sunlight. They were the faces of mothers and fathers andgrandparents and kid brothers and sisters—the people who a short timeago had been only scrawled names on letters from home or words spokenwistfully at Christmas. They were the memory-people who, to me, hadnever really existed.     But today they had become real, and they were here and looking at uswith pride in their eyes.     A voice was speaking, deep, sure, resonant. ... these boys have workedhard for six years, and now they're going to do a lot of big things.They're going to bring us the metals and minerals that we desperatelyneed. They're going to find new land for our colonists, good rich landthat will bear food and be a home for our children. And perhaps mostimportant of all, they'll make other men think of the stars and look upat them and feel humility—for mankind needs humility.     The speaker was Robert Chandler, who'd brought the first rocket down onMars just five years ago, who'd established the first colony there, andwho had just returned from his second hop to Venus.     Instead of listening to his words, I was staring at his broad shouldersand his dark, crew-cut hair and his white uniform which was silk-smoothand skin-tight. I was worshiping him and hating him at the same time,for I was thinking:       He's already reached Mars and Venus. Let him leave Jupiter and theothers alone! Let us be the first to land somewhere! Let us be thefirst!    Mickey Cameron, sitting next to me, dug an elbow into my ribs. I don'tsee 'em, Ben, he whispered. Where do you suppose they are?     I blinked. Who?     My folks.     That was something I didn't have to worry about. My parents had died ina strato-jet crash when I was four, so I hadn't needed many of thoseYou are cordially invited cards. Just one, which I'd sent to CharlieTaggart.     Stardust Charlie, we called him, although I never knew why. He was aveteran of Everson's first trip to the Moon nearly twenty-five yearsago, and he was still at it. He was Chief Jetman now on the      LunarLady     , a commercial ore ship on a shuttle between Luna City and WhiteSands.     I remembered how, as a kid, I'd pestered him in the Long IslandSpaceport, tagging after him like a puppy, and how he'd grown to likeme until he became father, mother, and buddy all in one to me. And Iremembered, too, how his recommendation had finally made me a cadet.     My gaze wandered over the faces, but I couldn't find Charlie's. Itwasn't surprising. The      Lunar Lady     was in White Sands now, butliberties, as Charlie said, were as scarce as water on Mars.       It doesn't matter     , I told myself.     Then Mickey stiffened. I see 'em, Ben! There in the fifth row!     Usually Mickey was the same whether in a furnace-hot engine room or agarden party, smiling, accepting whatever the world offered. But now atenseness and an excitement had gripped even him. I was grateful thathe was beside me; we'd been a good team during those final months atthe Academy and I knew we'd be a good team in space. The Universe wasmighty big, but with two of us to face it together, it would be onlyhalf as big.     And then it seemed that all the proud faces were looking at us as if wewere gods. A shiver went through my body. Though it was daytime, I sawthe stars in my mind's vision, the great shining balls of silver, eachlike a voice crying out and pleading to be explored, to be touched bythe sons of Earth.       They expect a lot from us. They expect us to make a new kind ofcivilization and a better place out of Earth. They expect all this anda hell of a lot more. They think there's nothing we can't do.       I felt very small and very humble. I was scared. Damned scared.  At last it was over, and the proud faces descended upon us in a huge,babbling wave.     Then I saw him. Good old Stardust Charlie.     His wizened little body was shuffling down an aisle, his eyes shininglike a child's. He'd been sandwiched, evidently, in one of the rearrows.     But he wasn't the Charlie I'd seen a year ago. He'd become gaunt andold, and he walked with an unnatural stiffness. He looked so old thatit was hard to believe he'd once been young.     He scratched his mop of steel-gray hair and grinned.     You made it, boy, he chortled, and by Jupiter, we'll celebratetonight. Yes, siree, I got twenty-four hours, and we'll celebrate asgood spacemen should!     Then Mickey strode up to us. He was his normal, boyish self again,walking lightly, his blond, curly-haired skull swaying as if in rhythmwith some silent melody.     And you, Laura, were with him.     Meet the Brat, he said. My sister Laura.     I stared almost rudely. You were like a doll lost in the immensityof your fluffy pink dress. Your hair was long and transformed into agolden froth where sunlight touched it. But your eyes were the eyesof a woman, glowing like dark stars and reflecting a softness, agentleness that I'd never seen in eyes before.     I'm happy to meet you, Ben, you said. I've heard of no one else forthe past year.     A tide of heat crept up from my collar. I stuttered through anintroduction of Charlie.     You and Mickey looked strangely at Charlie, and I realized that oldStardust was not a cadet's notion of the ideal spaceman. Charliescorned the skin-tight uniforms of the government service and wore ashiny black suit that was a relic of Everson's early-day Moon Patrol.His tie was clumsily knotted, and a button on his coat was missing.     And the left side of his face was streaked with dark scar tissue, theresult of an atomic blowup on one of the old Moon ships. I was soaccustomed to the scars, I was seldom aware of them; but others, Iknew, would find them ugly.     You were kind. You shook hands and said, softly: It's a privilege tomeet you, Charlie. Just think—one of Everson's men, one of the firstto reach the Moon!     Charlie gulped helplessly, and Mickey said: Still going to spend theweekend with us, aren't you, Ben?     I shook my head. Charlie has only twenty-four hours liberty. We'replanning to see the town tonight.     Why don't you both come with us? you asked. Our folks have theirown plane, so it would be no problem. And we've got a big guest room.Charlie, wouldn't you like a home-cooked meal before going back to theMoon?     Charlie's answer was obscured by a sudden burst of coughing. I knewthat he'd infinitely prefer to spend his liberty sampling Martianfizzes and Plutonian zombies.     But this night seemed too sacred for Charlie's kind of celebration.     We'd really like to come, I said.  On our way to the 'copter parking field, Dean Dawson passed us. He wasa tall, willowy man, spectacled, looking the way an academy professorshould look.     Ben, he called, don't forget that offer. Remember you've got twomonths to decide.     No, thanks, I answered. Better not count on me.     A moment later Mickey said, frowning, What was he talking about, Ben?Did he make you an offer?     I laughed. He offered me a job here at the Academy teachingastrogation. What a life      that     would be! Imagine standing in aclassroom for forty years when I've got the chance to—     I hesitated, and you supplied the right words: When you've got thechance to be the first to reach a new planet. That's what most of youwant, isn't it? That's what Mickey used to want.     I looked at you as if you were Everson himself, because you seemed tounderstand the hunger that could lie in a man's heart.     Then your last words came back and jabbed me: That's what Mickey usedto want.           Used     to want? I asked. What do you mean?     You bit your lip, not answering.     What did she mean, Mickey?     Mickey looked down at his feet. I didn't want to tell you yet, Ben.We've been together a long time, planning to be on a rocket. But—     Yes?     Well, what does it add up to? You become a spaceman and wear a prettyuniform. You wade through the sands of Mars and the dust of Venus. Ifyou're lucky, you're good for five, maybe ten years. Then one thing oranother gets you. They don't insure rocketmen, you know.     My stomach was full of churning, biting ice. What are you trying tosay, Mickey?     I've thought about it a long time. They want me for Cargo Supervisorof White Sands Port. He raised his hand to stop me. I know. It's notso exciting. I'll just live a lot longer. I'm sorry, Ben.     I couldn't answer. It was as if someone had whacked the back of myknees with the blast of a jet.     It doesn't change anything, Ben—right now, I mean. We can still havea good weekend.     Charlie was muttering under his breath, smoldering like a bomb about toreach critical mass. I shook my head dazedly at him as we got to the'copter.     Sure, I said to Mickey, we can still have a good weekend.  I liked your folks, Laura. There was no star-hunger in them, of course.They were simple and solid and settled, like green growing things,deep-rooted, belonging to Earth. They were content with a home that wascool on this warm summer night, with a 'copter and a tri-dimensionalvideo, and a handsome automatic home that needed no servants orhousework.     Stardust Charlie was as comfortable as a Martian sand-monkey in ashower, but he tried courageously to be himself.     At the dinner table he stared glassily at nothing and grated, Only hitMars once, but I'll never forget the kid who called himself a medic.Skipper started coughing, kept it up for three days. Whoopin' cough,the medic says, not knowin' the air had chemicals that turned to acidin your lungs. I'd never been to Mars before, but I knew better'n that.Hell, I says, that ain't whoopin' cough, that's lung-rot.     That was when your father said he wasn't so hungry after all.     Afterward, you and I walked onto the terrace, into the moonlit night,to watch for crimson-tailed continental rockets that occasionallystreaked up from White Sands.     We gazed for a few seconds up into the dark sky, and then you said:Charlie is funny, isn't he? He's nice and I'm glad he's here, but he'ssort of funny.     He's an old-time spaceman. You didn't need much education in thosedays, just a lot of brawn and a quick mind. It took guts to be aspaceman then.     But he wasn't always a spaceman. Didn't he ever have a family?     I smiled and shook my head. If he had, he never mentioned it. Charliedoesn't like to be sentimental, at least not on the outside. As far asI know, his life began when he took off for the Moon with Everson.     You stared at me strangely, almost in a sacred kind of way. I knewsuddenly that you liked me, and my heart began to beat faster.     There was silence.     You were lovely, your soft hair like strands of gold, and there wereflecks of silver in your dark eyes. Somehow I was afraid. I had thefeeling that I shouldn't have come here.     You kept looking at me until I had to ask: What are you thinking,Laura?     You laughed, but it was a sad, fearful laugh. No, I shouldn't bethinking it. You'd hate me if I told you, and I wouldn't want that.     I could never hate you.     It—it's about the stars, you said very softly. I understand why youwant to go to them. Mickey and I used to dream about them when we werekids. Of course I was a girl, so it was just a game to me. But once Idreamed of going to England. Oh, it was going to be so wonderful. Ilived for months, just thinking about it.     One summer we went. I had fun. I saw the old buildings and castles,and the spaceports and the Channel Tube. But after it was over, Irealized England wasn't so different from America. Places seem excitingbefore you get to them, and afterward they're not really.     I frowned. And you mean it might be the same with the stars? You thinkmaybe I haven't grown up yet?     Anxiety darkened your features. No, it'd be good to be a spaceman,to see the strange places and make history. But is it worth it? Is itworth the things you'd have to give up?     I didn't understand at first, and I wanted to ask, Give up      what     ?     Then I looked at you and the promise in your eyes, and I knew.     All through the years I'd been walking down a single, narrow path.     Government boarding school, the Academy, my eyes always upward and onthe stars.     Now I'd stumbled into a cross-roads, beholding a strange new path thatI'd never noticed before.       You can go into space     , I thought,      and try to do as much living inten years as normal men do in fifty. You can be like Everson, who diedin a Moon crash at the age of 36, or like a thousand others who lieburied in Martian sand and Venusian dust. Or, if you're lucky, likeCharlie—a kind of human meteor streaking through space, eternallyalone, never finding a home.         Or there's the other path. To stay on this little prison of an Earthin cool, comfortable houses. To be one of the solid, rooted people witha wife and kids. To be one of the people who live long enough to growold, who awake to the song of birds instead of rocket grumblings, whofill their lungs with the clean rich air of Earth instead of poisonousdust.       I'm sorry, you said. I didn't mean to make you sad, Ben.     It's all right, I said, clenching my fists. You made sense—a lot ofsense.  The next morning Charlie said good-bye in our room. He rubbed hisscarred face nervously as he cleared his throat with a series of thin,tight coughs.     Then he pointed to a brown, faded tin box lying on the bed. I'mleavin' that for you. It's full of old stuff, souvenirs mostly. Thoughtmaybe you'd like to have 'em.     I scowled, not understanding. Why, Charlie? What for?     He shrugged as if afraid he might be accused of sentimentality. Oh,it's just that I've been dodgin' meteors now for twenty-five years.That's a long time, boy. Ain't one spaceman in a thousand that lucky.Some of these days, I won't be so lucky.     I tried to laugh. You're good for another twenty-five years, Charlie.     He shook his head stiffly, staring at nothing. Maybe. Anyway, I'mgonna get off the Shuttle this time, make one more trip to Mars. Tellyou what. There's a little stone cafe on Mars, the      Space Rat     , justoff Chandler Field on the Grand Canal. When you get to Mars, take alook inside. I'll probably be there.     He coughed again, a deep, rasping cough that filled his eyes with tears.     Not used to this Earth air, he muttered. What I need's some Martianclimate.     Suddenly that cough frightened me. It didn't seem normal. I wondered,too, about his stiff movements and glassy stare. It was as if he weredrugged.     I shook the thought away. If Charlie was sick, he wouldn't talk aboutgoing to Mars. The medics wouldn't let him go even as far as Luna.     We watched him leave, you and Mickey and I.     When will you be back? you asked.     Charlie's hard face contorted itself into a gargoylish grin. Maybe acouple of months, maybe a couple of years. You know spacemen.     Then he waved and strode away, a strange, gray, withered gnome of a man.     I wanted him to say something, to tell me the secret that would killthe doubt worming through my brain.     But he rounded a corner, still grinning and waving, and then he wasgone.  That afternoon Mickey showed me his room. It was more like a boy'sroom than a spaceman's. In it were all the little things that kidstreasure—pennants, models of Everson's two ships, a tennis trophy,books, a home-made video.     I began to realize how important a room like this could be to a boy.I could imagine, too, the happiness that parents felt as they watchedtheir children grow to adulthood.     I'd missed something. My folks were shadow-people, my impressions ofthem drawn half from ancient photos, half from imagination. For me, ithad been a cold, automatic kind of life, the life of dormitories androutines and rules. I'd been so blinded by the brilliancy of my dreams,I hadn't realized I was different.       My folks were killed in a rocket crash. If it weren't for rockets, I'dhave lived the kind of life a kid should live.       Mickey noticed my frown.     What's the matter, Ben? Still sore? I feel like a heel, but I'm justnot like you and Charlie, I guess. I—     No, I understand, Mickey. I'm not sore, really.     Listen, then. You haven't accepted any offer yet, have you?     No. I got a couple of possibilities. Could get a berth on the      Odyssey     , the new ship being finished at Los Angeles. They want me,too, for the Moon Patrol, but that's old stuff, not much better thanteaching. I want to be in deep space.     Well, how about staying with us till you decide? Might as well enjoyEarth life while you can. Okay?     I felt like running from the house, to forget that it existed. I wantedsomeone to tell me one of the old stories about space, a tale ofcourage that would put fuel on dying dreams.     But I wanted, also, to be with you, Laura, to see your smile and theflecks of silver in your eyes and the way your nose turned upward everso slightly when you laughed. You see, I loved you already, almost asmuch as I loved the stars.     And I said, slowly, my voice sounding unfamiliar and far away, Sure,I'll stay, Mickey. Sure.  Forty days of joy, forty nights of fear and indecision. We did all thelittle things, like watching the rockets land at White Sands and flyingdown to the Gulf to swim in cool waters. You tried, unsuccessfully, toteach me to dance, and we talked about Everson and Charlie and the Moonand the stars. You felt you had to give the stars all the beauty andpromise of a child's dream, because you knew that was what I wanted.     One morning I thought,      Why must I make a choice? Why can't I have bothyou and the stars? Would that be asking too much?       All day the thought lay in my mind like fire.     That evening I asked you to marry me. I said it very simply: Laura, Iwant you to be my wife.     You looked up at Venus, and you were silent for a long while, your faceflushed.     Then you murmured, I—I want to marry you, Ben, but are you asking meto marry a spaceman or a teacher?     Can't a spaceman marry, too?     Yes, a spaceman can marry, but what would it be like? Don't you see,Ben? You'd be like Charlie. Gone for      maybe     two months,      maybe     twoyears. Then you'd have a twenty-four hour liberty—and I'd have what?     Somehow I'd expected words like these, but still they hurt. I wouldn'thave to be a spaceman forever. I could try it for a couple of years,then teach.     Would you, Ben? Would you be satisfied with just seeing Mars? Wouldn'tyou want to go on to Jupiter and Saturn and Uranus and on and on?     Your voice was choked, and even in the semi-darkness I saw tearsglittering in your eyes.     Do you think I'd dare have children, Ben? Mickey told me what happenedon the      Cyclops     . There was a leak in the atomic engines. The ship wasflooded with radiation—just for a second. It didn't seem serious. Themen had no burns. But a year later the captain had a child. And itwas—     I know, Laura. Don't say it.     You had to finish. It was a monster.     That night I lay awake, the fears and doubts too frantic to let mesleep.       You've got to decide now     , I told myself.      You can't stay here. You'vegot to make a choice.       The teaching job was still open. The spot on the      Odyssey     was stillopen—and the big ship, it was rumored, was equipped to make it all theway to Pluto.       You can take Dean Dawson's job and stay with Laura and have kids and ahome and live to see what happens in this world sixty years from now.         Or you can see what's on the other side of the mountain. You can be aline in a history book.       I cursed. I knew what Charlie would say. He'd say, Get the hell outof there, boy. Don't let a fool woman make a sucker out of you. Getout there on the      Odyssey     where you belong. We got a date on Mars,remember? At the      Space Rat     , just off Chandler Field on the GrandCanal.     That's what he'd say.     And yet I wanted you, Laura. I wanted to be with you, always.     Oh God, I moaned, what shall I do?  Next morning the door chimes pealed, and you went to the door andbrought back the audiogram. It was addressed to me; I wondered whocould be sending me a message.     I pressed the stud on the little gray cylinder, and a rasping,automatic voice droned: Luna City, Luna, July 27, 1995. Regret toinform you of death of Charles Taggart, Chief Jetman....     Then there was a Latin name which was more polite than the wordlung-rot and the metallic phrase, This message brought to you bycourtesy of United Nations Earth-Luna Communication Corps.     I stood staring at the cylinder.     Charles Taggart was dead.     Charles Taggart was Charlie. Stardust Charlie.     My heart thudded crazily against my chest. It couldn't be! Not Charlie!The audiogram had lied!     I pressed the stud again. ... regret to inform you of death ofCharles ...     I hurled the cylinder at the wall. It thudded, fell, rolled. The brokenvoice droned on.     You ran to it, shut it off. I'm sorry, Ben, so terribly—     Without answering, I walked into my room. I knew it was true now. Iremembered Charlie's coughing, his gaunt features, his drugged gaze.The metallic words had told the truth.     I sat for a long time on my bed, crying inside, but staring dry-eyed atCharlie's faded tin box.     Then, finally, I fingered his meager possessions—a few wrinkledphotos, some letters, a small black statue of a forgotten Martian god,a gold service medal from the Moon Patrol.       This was what remained of Charlie after twenty-five years in space.It was a bitter bargain. A statue instead of a wife, yellowed lettersinstead of children, a medal instead of a home.       It'd be a great future     , I thought.      You'd dream of sitting in a dingystone dive on the Grand Canal with sand-wasps buzzing around smoky,stinking candles. A bottle of luchu juice and a couple of Martian girlswith dirty feet for company. And a sudden cough that would be the firstsign of lung-rot.       To hell with it!     I walked into your living room and called Dean Dawson on the visiphone.     I accepted that job teaching.  And now, Laura, it's nearly midnight. You're in your room, sleeping,and the house is silent.     It's hard to tell you, to make you understand, and that is why I amwriting this.     I looked through Charlie's box again, more carefully this time, readingthe old letters and studying the photographs. I believe now thatCharlie sensed my indecision, that he left these things so that theycould tell me what he could not express in words.     And among the things, Laura, I found a ring.     A wedding ring.     In that past he never talked about, there was a woman—his wife.Charlie was young once, his eyes full of dreams, and he faced the samedecision that I am facing. Two paths were before him, but he tried totravel both. He later learned what we already know—that there can beno compromise. And you know, too, which path he finally chose.     Do you know why he had to drug himself to watch me graduate? So hecould look at me, knowing that I would see the worlds he could neverlive to see. Charlie didn't leave just a few trinkets behind him. Heleft himself, Laura, for he showed me that a boy's dream can also be aman's dream.     He made his last trip to Luna when he knew he was going to die. Heavenknows how he escaped a checkup. Maybe the captain understood and waskind—but that doesn't matter now.     Do you know      why     he wanted to reach Mars? Do you know why he didn'twant to die in the clean, cool air of Earth?     It was because he wanted to die nearer home. His home, Laura, was theUniverse, where the ship was his house, the crew his father, mother,brothers, the planets his children.     You say that the beauty of the other side of the mountain vanishesafter you reach it. But how can one ever be      sure     until the journey ismade? Could I or Charlie or the thousand before us bear to look upon astar and think,      I might have gone there; I could have been the first     ?     We said, too, that the life of a spaceman is lonely. Yet how could onebe lonely when men like Charlie roam the spaceways?     Charlie wanted me to himself that night after graduation. He wanted usto celebrate as spacemen should, for he knew that this would be hislast night on Earth. It might have seemed an ugly kind of celebrationto you, but he wanted it with all his heart, and we robbed him of it.     Because of these things, Laura, I will be gone in the morning. Explainthe best you can to Mickey and to your parents and Dean Dawson.     Right now I've got a date that I'm going to keep—at a dingy stone cafeon Mars, the      Space Rat     , just off Chandler Field on the Grand Canal.     Stardust Charlie will be there; he'll go with me in memory to whateverpart of the Galaxy I may live to reach. And so will you, Laura.     I have two wedding rings with me—his wife's ring and yours.   ","Ben experiences a lot of anxiety at his graduation from the U.S. Academy of Interplanetary Flight because of the high expectations he perceives that the audience has of the 25 men who are graduating. The students have spent the last six years of their lives dedicating themselves to learning about minerals, metals, colonization, and space travel for the sake of helping the people on Earth. The class of 1995 is the first of its kind, and the family members and friends who attend the graduation understandably have very high hopes for the graduates. The graduation speaker is Robert Chandler, a spaceman who landed a rocket on Mars and created the first colony there. He has also traveled to Venus twice. For most laymen, accomplishing something as adventurous as landing on other planets is unthinkable, and the men graduating are the next in line to make such unthinkable journeys. Ben looks out over the crowds of people and thinks to himself that these strangers are looking at him as if he’s some sort of god. He knows that they expect the world from him and his fellow graduates, and he worries that he won’t be able to deliver on such incredible promises. "
"What role does Charlie Taggart play in the story? </s>     Spacemen Die at Home     By EDWARD W. LUDWIG     Illustrated by THORNE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction October 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        One man's retreat is another's prison ... and       it takes a heap of flying to make a hulk a home!        Forty days of heaven and forty nights of hell. That's the way it'sbeen, Laura. But how can I make you understand? How can I tell youwhat it's like to be young and a man and to dream of reaching thestars? And yet, at the same time, to be filled with a terrible, gnawingfear—a fear locked in my mind during the day and bursting out like anevil jack-in-the-box at night. I must tell you, Laura.     Perhaps if I start at the beginning, the very beginning....     It was the Big Day. All the examinations, the physicals and psychos,were over. The Academy, with its great halls and classrooms andlaboratories, lay hollow and silent, an exhausted thing at sleep afterspawning its first-born.     For it was June in this year of 1995, and we were the graduating classof the U. S. Academy of Interplanetary Flight.     The      first     graduating class, Laura. That's why it was so important,because we were the      first     .     We sat on a little platform, twenty-five of us. Below us was a beachof faces, most of them strange, shining like pebbles in the warm NewMexican sunlight. They were the faces of mothers and fathers andgrandparents and kid brothers and sisters—the people who a short timeago had been only scrawled names on letters from home or words spokenwistfully at Christmas. They were the memory-people who, to me, hadnever really existed.     But today they had become real, and they were here and looking at uswith pride in their eyes.     A voice was speaking, deep, sure, resonant. ... these boys have workedhard for six years, and now they're going to do a lot of big things.They're going to bring us the metals and minerals that we desperatelyneed. They're going to find new land for our colonists, good rich landthat will bear food and be a home for our children. And perhaps mostimportant of all, they'll make other men think of the stars and look upat them and feel humility—for mankind needs humility.     The speaker was Robert Chandler, who'd brought the first rocket down onMars just five years ago, who'd established the first colony there, andwho had just returned from his second hop to Venus.     Instead of listening to his words, I was staring at his broad shouldersand his dark, crew-cut hair and his white uniform which was silk-smoothand skin-tight. I was worshiping him and hating him at the same time,for I was thinking:       He's already reached Mars and Venus. Let him leave Jupiter and theothers alone! Let us be the first to land somewhere! Let us be thefirst!    Mickey Cameron, sitting next to me, dug an elbow into my ribs. I don'tsee 'em, Ben, he whispered. Where do you suppose they are?     I blinked. Who?     My folks.     That was something I didn't have to worry about. My parents had died ina strato-jet crash when I was four, so I hadn't needed many of thoseYou are cordially invited cards. Just one, which I'd sent to CharlieTaggart.     Stardust Charlie, we called him, although I never knew why. He was aveteran of Everson's first trip to the Moon nearly twenty-five yearsago, and he was still at it. He was Chief Jetman now on the      LunarLady     , a commercial ore ship on a shuttle between Luna City and WhiteSands.     I remembered how, as a kid, I'd pestered him in the Long IslandSpaceport, tagging after him like a puppy, and how he'd grown to likeme until he became father, mother, and buddy all in one to me. And Iremembered, too, how his recommendation had finally made me a cadet.     My gaze wandered over the faces, but I couldn't find Charlie's. Itwasn't surprising. The      Lunar Lady     was in White Sands now, butliberties, as Charlie said, were as scarce as water on Mars.       It doesn't matter     , I told myself.     Then Mickey stiffened. I see 'em, Ben! There in the fifth row!     Usually Mickey was the same whether in a furnace-hot engine room or agarden party, smiling, accepting whatever the world offered. But now atenseness and an excitement had gripped even him. I was grateful thathe was beside me; we'd been a good team during those final months atthe Academy and I knew we'd be a good team in space. The Universe wasmighty big, but with two of us to face it together, it would be onlyhalf as big.     And then it seemed that all the proud faces were looking at us as if wewere gods. A shiver went through my body. Though it was daytime, I sawthe stars in my mind's vision, the great shining balls of silver, eachlike a voice crying out and pleading to be explored, to be touched bythe sons of Earth.       They expect a lot from us. They expect us to make a new kind ofcivilization and a better place out of Earth. They expect all this anda hell of a lot more. They think there's nothing we can't do.       I felt very small and very humble. I was scared. Damned scared.  At last it was over, and the proud faces descended upon us in a huge,babbling wave.     Then I saw him. Good old Stardust Charlie.     His wizened little body was shuffling down an aisle, his eyes shininglike a child's. He'd been sandwiched, evidently, in one of the rearrows.     But he wasn't the Charlie I'd seen a year ago. He'd become gaunt andold, and he walked with an unnatural stiffness. He looked so old thatit was hard to believe he'd once been young.     He scratched his mop of steel-gray hair and grinned.     You made it, boy, he chortled, and by Jupiter, we'll celebratetonight. Yes, siree, I got twenty-four hours, and we'll celebrate asgood spacemen should!     Then Mickey strode up to us. He was his normal, boyish self again,walking lightly, his blond, curly-haired skull swaying as if in rhythmwith some silent melody.     And you, Laura, were with him.     Meet the Brat, he said. My sister Laura.     I stared almost rudely. You were like a doll lost in the immensityof your fluffy pink dress. Your hair was long and transformed into agolden froth where sunlight touched it. But your eyes were the eyesof a woman, glowing like dark stars and reflecting a softness, agentleness that I'd never seen in eyes before.     I'm happy to meet you, Ben, you said. I've heard of no one else forthe past year.     A tide of heat crept up from my collar. I stuttered through anintroduction of Charlie.     You and Mickey looked strangely at Charlie, and I realized that oldStardust was not a cadet's notion of the ideal spaceman. Charliescorned the skin-tight uniforms of the government service and wore ashiny black suit that was a relic of Everson's early-day Moon Patrol.His tie was clumsily knotted, and a button on his coat was missing.     And the left side of his face was streaked with dark scar tissue, theresult of an atomic blowup on one of the old Moon ships. I was soaccustomed to the scars, I was seldom aware of them; but others, Iknew, would find them ugly.     You were kind. You shook hands and said, softly: It's a privilege tomeet you, Charlie. Just think—one of Everson's men, one of the firstto reach the Moon!     Charlie gulped helplessly, and Mickey said: Still going to spend theweekend with us, aren't you, Ben?     I shook my head. Charlie has only twenty-four hours liberty. We'replanning to see the town tonight.     Why don't you both come with us? you asked. Our folks have theirown plane, so it would be no problem. And we've got a big guest room.Charlie, wouldn't you like a home-cooked meal before going back to theMoon?     Charlie's answer was obscured by a sudden burst of coughing. I knewthat he'd infinitely prefer to spend his liberty sampling Martianfizzes and Plutonian zombies.     But this night seemed too sacred for Charlie's kind of celebration.     We'd really like to come, I said.  On our way to the 'copter parking field, Dean Dawson passed us. He wasa tall, willowy man, spectacled, looking the way an academy professorshould look.     Ben, he called, don't forget that offer. Remember you've got twomonths to decide.     No, thanks, I answered. Better not count on me.     A moment later Mickey said, frowning, What was he talking about, Ben?Did he make you an offer?     I laughed. He offered me a job here at the Academy teachingastrogation. What a life      that     would be! Imagine standing in aclassroom for forty years when I've got the chance to—     I hesitated, and you supplied the right words: When you've got thechance to be the first to reach a new planet. That's what most of youwant, isn't it? That's what Mickey used to want.     I looked at you as if you were Everson himself, because you seemed tounderstand the hunger that could lie in a man's heart.     Then your last words came back and jabbed me: That's what Mickey usedto want.           Used     to want? I asked. What do you mean?     You bit your lip, not answering.     What did she mean, Mickey?     Mickey looked down at his feet. I didn't want to tell you yet, Ben.We've been together a long time, planning to be on a rocket. But—     Yes?     Well, what does it add up to? You become a spaceman and wear a prettyuniform. You wade through the sands of Mars and the dust of Venus. Ifyou're lucky, you're good for five, maybe ten years. Then one thing oranother gets you. They don't insure rocketmen, you know.     My stomach was full of churning, biting ice. What are you trying tosay, Mickey?     I've thought about it a long time. They want me for Cargo Supervisorof White Sands Port. He raised his hand to stop me. I know. It's notso exciting. I'll just live a lot longer. I'm sorry, Ben.     I couldn't answer. It was as if someone had whacked the back of myknees with the blast of a jet.     It doesn't change anything, Ben—right now, I mean. We can still havea good weekend.     Charlie was muttering under his breath, smoldering like a bomb about toreach critical mass. I shook my head dazedly at him as we got to the'copter.     Sure, I said to Mickey, we can still have a good weekend.  I liked your folks, Laura. There was no star-hunger in them, of course.They were simple and solid and settled, like green growing things,deep-rooted, belonging to Earth. They were content with a home that wascool on this warm summer night, with a 'copter and a tri-dimensionalvideo, and a handsome automatic home that needed no servants orhousework.     Stardust Charlie was as comfortable as a Martian sand-monkey in ashower, but he tried courageously to be himself.     At the dinner table he stared glassily at nothing and grated, Only hitMars once, but I'll never forget the kid who called himself a medic.Skipper started coughing, kept it up for three days. Whoopin' cough,the medic says, not knowin' the air had chemicals that turned to acidin your lungs. I'd never been to Mars before, but I knew better'n that.Hell, I says, that ain't whoopin' cough, that's lung-rot.     That was when your father said he wasn't so hungry after all.     Afterward, you and I walked onto the terrace, into the moonlit night,to watch for crimson-tailed continental rockets that occasionallystreaked up from White Sands.     We gazed for a few seconds up into the dark sky, and then you said:Charlie is funny, isn't he? He's nice and I'm glad he's here, but he'ssort of funny.     He's an old-time spaceman. You didn't need much education in thosedays, just a lot of brawn and a quick mind. It took guts to be aspaceman then.     But he wasn't always a spaceman. Didn't he ever have a family?     I smiled and shook my head. If he had, he never mentioned it. Charliedoesn't like to be sentimental, at least not on the outside. As far asI know, his life began when he took off for the Moon with Everson.     You stared at me strangely, almost in a sacred kind of way. I knewsuddenly that you liked me, and my heart began to beat faster.     There was silence.     You were lovely, your soft hair like strands of gold, and there wereflecks of silver in your dark eyes. Somehow I was afraid. I had thefeeling that I shouldn't have come here.     You kept looking at me until I had to ask: What are you thinking,Laura?     You laughed, but it was a sad, fearful laugh. No, I shouldn't bethinking it. You'd hate me if I told you, and I wouldn't want that.     I could never hate you.     It—it's about the stars, you said very softly. I understand why youwant to go to them. Mickey and I used to dream about them when we werekids. Of course I was a girl, so it was just a game to me. But once Idreamed of going to England. Oh, it was going to be so wonderful. Ilived for months, just thinking about it.     One summer we went. I had fun. I saw the old buildings and castles,and the spaceports and the Channel Tube. But after it was over, Irealized England wasn't so different from America. Places seem excitingbefore you get to them, and afterward they're not really.     I frowned. And you mean it might be the same with the stars? You thinkmaybe I haven't grown up yet?     Anxiety darkened your features. No, it'd be good to be a spaceman,to see the strange places and make history. But is it worth it? Is itworth the things you'd have to give up?     I didn't understand at first, and I wanted to ask, Give up      what     ?     Then I looked at you and the promise in your eyes, and I knew.     All through the years I'd been walking down a single, narrow path.     Government boarding school, the Academy, my eyes always upward and onthe stars.     Now I'd stumbled into a cross-roads, beholding a strange new path thatI'd never noticed before.       You can go into space     , I thought,      and try to do as much living inten years as normal men do in fifty. You can be like Everson, who diedin a Moon crash at the age of 36, or like a thousand others who lieburied in Martian sand and Venusian dust. Or, if you're lucky, likeCharlie—a kind of human meteor streaking through space, eternallyalone, never finding a home.         Or there's the other path. To stay on this little prison of an Earthin cool, comfortable houses. To be one of the solid, rooted people witha wife and kids. To be one of the people who live long enough to growold, who awake to the song of birds instead of rocket grumblings, whofill their lungs with the clean rich air of Earth instead of poisonousdust.       I'm sorry, you said. I didn't mean to make you sad, Ben.     It's all right, I said, clenching my fists. You made sense—a lot ofsense.  The next morning Charlie said good-bye in our room. He rubbed hisscarred face nervously as he cleared his throat with a series of thin,tight coughs.     Then he pointed to a brown, faded tin box lying on the bed. I'mleavin' that for you. It's full of old stuff, souvenirs mostly. Thoughtmaybe you'd like to have 'em.     I scowled, not understanding. Why, Charlie? What for?     He shrugged as if afraid he might be accused of sentimentality. Oh,it's just that I've been dodgin' meteors now for twenty-five years.That's a long time, boy. Ain't one spaceman in a thousand that lucky.Some of these days, I won't be so lucky.     I tried to laugh. You're good for another twenty-five years, Charlie.     He shook his head stiffly, staring at nothing. Maybe. Anyway, I'mgonna get off the Shuttle this time, make one more trip to Mars. Tellyou what. There's a little stone cafe on Mars, the      Space Rat     , justoff Chandler Field on the Grand Canal. When you get to Mars, take alook inside. I'll probably be there.     He coughed again, a deep, rasping cough that filled his eyes with tears.     Not used to this Earth air, he muttered. What I need's some Martianclimate.     Suddenly that cough frightened me. It didn't seem normal. I wondered,too, about his stiff movements and glassy stare. It was as if he weredrugged.     I shook the thought away. If Charlie was sick, he wouldn't talk aboutgoing to Mars. The medics wouldn't let him go even as far as Luna.     We watched him leave, you and Mickey and I.     When will you be back? you asked.     Charlie's hard face contorted itself into a gargoylish grin. Maybe acouple of months, maybe a couple of years. You know spacemen.     Then he waved and strode away, a strange, gray, withered gnome of a man.     I wanted him to say something, to tell me the secret that would killthe doubt worming through my brain.     But he rounded a corner, still grinning and waving, and then he wasgone.  That afternoon Mickey showed me his room. It was more like a boy'sroom than a spaceman's. In it were all the little things that kidstreasure—pennants, models of Everson's two ships, a tennis trophy,books, a home-made video.     I began to realize how important a room like this could be to a boy.I could imagine, too, the happiness that parents felt as they watchedtheir children grow to adulthood.     I'd missed something. My folks were shadow-people, my impressions ofthem drawn half from ancient photos, half from imagination. For me, ithad been a cold, automatic kind of life, the life of dormitories androutines and rules. I'd been so blinded by the brilliancy of my dreams,I hadn't realized I was different.       My folks were killed in a rocket crash. If it weren't for rockets, I'dhave lived the kind of life a kid should live.       Mickey noticed my frown.     What's the matter, Ben? Still sore? I feel like a heel, but I'm justnot like you and Charlie, I guess. I—     No, I understand, Mickey. I'm not sore, really.     Listen, then. You haven't accepted any offer yet, have you?     No. I got a couple of possibilities. Could get a berth on the      Odyssey     , the new ship being finished at Los Angeles. They want me,too, for the Moon Patrol, but that's old stuff, not much better thanteaching. I want to be in deep space.     Well, how about staying with us till you decide? Might as well enjoyEarth life while you can. Okay?     I felt like running from the house, to forget that it existed. I wantedsomeone to tell me one of the old stories about space, a tale ofcourage that would put fuel on dying dreams.     But I wanted, also, to be with you, Laura, to see your smile and theflecks of silver in your eyes and the way your nose turned upward everso slightly when you laughed. You see, I loved you already, almost asmuch as I loved the stars.     And I said, slowly, my voice sounding unfamiliar and far away, Sure,I'll stay, Mickey. Sure.  Forty days of joy, forty nights of fear and indecision. We did all thelittle things, like watching the rockets land at White Sands and flyingdown to the Gulf to swim in cool waters. You tried, unsuccessfully, toteach me to dance, and we talked about Everson and Charlie and the Moonand the stars. You felt you had to give the stars all the beauty andpromise of a child's dream, because you knew that was what I wanted.     One morning I thought,      Why must I make a choice? Why can't I have bothyou and the stars? Would that be asking too much?       All day the thought lay in my mind like fire.     That evening I asked you to marry me. I said it very simply: Laura, Iwant you to be my wife.     You looked up at Venus, and you were silent for a long while, your faceflushed.     Then you murmured, I—I want to marry you, Ben, but are you asking meto marry a spaceman or a teacher?     Can't a spaceman marry, too?     Yes, a spaceman can marry, but what would it be like? Don't you see,Ben? You'd be like Charlie. Gone for      maybe     two months,      maybe     twoyears. Then you'd have a twenty-four hour liberty—and I'd have what?     Somehow I'd expected words like these, but still they hurt. I wouldn'thave to be a spaceman forever. I could try it for a couple of years,then teach.     Would you, Ben? Would you be satisfied with just seeing Mars? Wouldn'tyou want to go on to Jupiter and Saturn and Uranus and on and on?     Your voice was choked, and even in the semi-darkness I saw tearsglittering in your eyes.     Do you think I'd dare have children, Ben? Mickey told me what happenedon the      Cyclops     . There was a leak in the atomic engines. The ship wasflooded with radiation—just for a second. It didn't seem serious. Themen had no burns. But a year later the captain had a child. And itwas—     I know, Laura. Don't say it.     You had to finish. It was a monster.     That night I lay awake, the fears and doubts too frantic to let mesleep.       You've got to decide now     , I told myself.      You can't stay here. You'vegot to make a choice.       The teaching job was still open. The spot on the      Odyssey     was stillopen—and the big ship, it was rumored, was equipped to make it all theway to Pluto.       You can take Dean Dawson's job and stay with Laura and have kids and ahome and live to see what happens in this world sixty years from now.         Or you can see what's on the other side of the mountain. You can be aline in a history book.       I cursed. I knew what Charlie would say. He'd say, Get the hell outof there, boy. Don't let a fool woman make a sucker out of you. Getout there on the      Odyssey     where you belong. We got a date on Mars,remember? At the      Space Rat     , just off Chandler Field on the GrandCanal.     That's what he'd say.     And yet I wanted you, Laura. I wanted to be with you, always.     Oh God, I moaned, what shall I do?  Next morning the door chimes pealed, and you went to the door andbrought back the audiogram. It was addressed to me; I wondered whocould be sending me a message.     I pressed the stud on the little gray cylinder, and a rasping,automatic voice droned: Luna City, Luna, July 27, 1995. Regret toinform you of death of Charles Taggart, Chief Jetman....     Then there was a Latin name which was more polite than the wordlung-rot and the metallic phrase, This message brought to you bycourtesy of United Nations Earth-Luna Communication Corps.     I stood staring at the cylinder.     Charles Taggart was dead.     Charles Taggart was Charlie. Stardust Charlie.     My heart thudded crazily against my chest. It couldn't be! Not Charlie!The audiogram had lied!     I pressed the stud again. ... regret to inform you of death ofCharles ...     I hurled the cylinder at the wall. It thudded, fell, rolled. The brokenvoice droned on.     You ran to it, shut it off. I'm sorry, Ben, so terribly—     Without answering, I walked into my room. I knew it was true now. Iremembered Charlie's coughing, his gaunt features, his drugged gaze.The metallic words had told the truth.     I sat for a long time on my bed, crying inside, but staring dry-eyed atCharlie's faded tin box.     Then, finally, I fingered his meager possessions—a few wrinkledphotos, some letters, a small black statue of a forgotten Martian god,a gold service medal from the Moon Patrol.       This was what remained of Charlie after twenty-five years in space.It was a bitter bargain. A statue instead of a wife, yellowed lettersinstead of children, a medal instead of a home.       It'd be a great future     , I thought.      You'd dream of sitting in a dingystone dive on the Grand Canal with sand-wasps buzzing around smoky,stinking candles. A bottle of luchu juice and a couple of Martian girlswith dirty feet for company. And a sudden cough that would be the firstsign of lung-rot.       To hell with it!     I walked into your living room and called Dean Dawson on the visiphone.     I accepted that job teaching.  And now, Laura, it's nearly midnight. You're in your room, sleeping,and the house is silent.     It's hard to tell you, to make you understand, and that is why I amwriting this.     I looked through Charlie's box again, more carefully this time, readingthe old letters and studying the photographs. I believe now thatCharlie sensed my indecision, that he left these things so that theycould tell me what he could not express in words.     And among the things, Laura, I found a ring.     A wedding ring.     In that past he never talked about, there was a woman—his wife.Charlie was young once, his eyes full of dreams, and he faced the samedecision that I am facing. Two paths were before him, but he tried totravel both. He later learned what we already know—that there can beno compromise. And you know, too, which path he finally chose.     Do you know why he had to drug himself to watch me graduate? So hecould look at me, knowing that I would see the worlds he could neverlive to see. Charlie didn't leave just a few trinkets behind him. Heleft himself, Laura, for he showed me that a boy's dream can also be aman's dream.     He made his last trip to Luna when he knew he was going to die. Heavenknows how he escaped a checkup. Maybe the captain understood and waskind—but that doesn't matter now.     Do you know      why     he wanted to reach Mars? Do you know why he didn'twant to die in the clean, cool air of Earth?     It was because he wanted to die nearer home. His home, Laura, was theUniverse, where the ship was his house, the crew his father, mother,brothers, the planets his children.     You say that the beauty of the other side of the mountain vanishesafter you reach it. But how can one ever be      sure     until the journey ismade? Could I or Charlie or the thousand before us bear to look upon astar and think,      I might have gone there; I could have been the first     ?     We said, too, that the life of a spaceman is lonely. Yet how could onebe lonely when men like Charlie roam the spaceways?     Charlie wanted me to himself that night after graduation. He wanted usto celebrate as spacemen should, for he knew that this would be hislast night on Earth. It might have seemed an ugly kind of celebrationto you, but he wanted it with all his heart, and we robbed him of it.     Because of these things, Laura, I will be gone in the morning. Explainthe best you can to Mickey and to your parents and Dean Dawson.     Right now I've got a date that I'm going to keep—at a dingy stone cafeon Mars, the      Space Rat     , just off Chandler Field on the Grand Canal.     Stardust Charlie will be there; he'll go with me in memory to whateverpart of the Galaxy I may live to reach. And so will you, Laura.     I have two wedding rings with me—his wife's ring and yours.   ","Charlie Taggart, also known as Stardust Charlie, is a very important character in the story. Ben is orphaned at the age of four when his parents perished in a strato-jet crash. Within a few years, he meets Charlie, a successful spaceman, at the Long Island Spaceport. He follows him around, eager to learn everything he can about space, and Charlie eventually becomes the closest thing Ben has to a family member. Although Ben doesn’t know if Charlie will show up at his graduation, he is happy to see he has taken 24 hours off of work to come and celebrate with him. He worries, however, that Charlie looks very ill. He becomes even more concerned when Charlie leaves a small tin for Ben to look through after he leaves. Charlie admits that he has cheated death many times, and he knows he won’t be able to escape it forever. Ben remains hopeful that they will see each other again when Charlie tells him to meet him at the Space Rat, a cafe on Mars. After Ben receives word that Charlie died from lung-rot, he takes it as a sign that he should stay on earth and live an ordinary life with Laura as his wife. The trinkets in Charlie’s tin do not impress Ben or symbolize a life well-lived. Yet, hours later, Ben finds Charlie’s wedding ring and changes his mind about his entire life’s path. He knows that Charlie wanted to talk to him alone before he died, and he never gave him the chance to tell him about the same difficult decisions he had to make. Ben realizes that Charlie’s life may not be one that’s suitable for everyone, but it was certainly a life worth living. Charlie returned to space knowing that he was about to die because the planets and moons and stars were his reason for living. To Charlie, the sacrifices he made to be a spaceman were worth it, and Ben sees that he wants that for himself as well. "
"How does Ben's childhood affect him later in life? </s>     Spacemen Die at Home     By EDWARD W. LUDWIG     Illustrated by THORNE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction October 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        One man's retreat is another's prison ... and       it takes a heap of flying to make a hulk a home!        Forty days of heaven and forty nights of hell. That's the way it'sbeen, Laura. But how can I make you understand? How can I tell youwhat it's like to be young and a man and to dream of reaching thestars? And yet, at the same time, to be filled with a terrible, gnawingfear—a fear locked in my mind during the day and bursting out like anevil jack-in-the-box at night. I must tell you, Laura.     Perhaps if I start at the beginning, the very beginning....     It was the Big Day. All the examinations, the physicals and psychos,were over. The Academy, with its great halls and classrooms andlaboratories, lay hollow and silent, an exhausted thing at sleep afterspawning its first-born.     For it was June in this year of 1995, and we were the graduating classof the U. S. Academy of Interplanetary Flight.     The      first     graduating class, Laura. That's why it was so important,because we were the      first     .     We sat on a little platform, twenty-five of us. Below us was a beachof faces, most of them strange, shining like pebbles in the warm NewMexican sunlight. They were the faces of mothers and fathers andgrandparents and kid brothers and sisters—the people who a short timeago had been only scrawled names on letters from home or words spokenwistfully at Christmas. They were the memory-people who, to me, hadnever really existed.     But today they had become real, and they were here and looking at uswith pride in their eyes.     A voice was speaking, deep, sure, resonant. ... these boys have workedhard for six years, and now they're going to do a lot of big things.They're going to bring us the metals and minerals that we desperatelyneed. They're going to find new land for our colonists, good rich landthat will bear food and be a home for our children. And perhaps mostimportant of all, they'll make other men think of the stars and look upat them and feel humility—for mankind needs humility.     The speaker was Robert Chandler, who'd brought the first rocket down onMars just five years ago, who'd established the first colony there, andwho had just returned from his second hop to Venus.     Instead of listening to his words, I was staring at his broad shouldersand his dark, crew-cut hair and his white uniform which was silk-smoothand skin-tight. I was worshiping him and hating him at the same time,for I was thinking:       He's already reached Mars and Venus. Let him leave Jupiter and theothers alone! Let us be the first to land somewhere! Let us be thefirst!    Mickey Cameron, sitting next to me, dug an elbow into my ribs. I don'tsee 'em, Ben, he whispered. Where do you suppose they are?     I blinked. Who?     My folks.     That was something I didn't have to worry about. My parents had died ina strato-jet crash when I was four, so I hadn't needed many of thoseYou are cordially invited cards. Just one, which I'd sent to CharlieTaggart.     Stardust Charlie, we called him, although I never knew why. He was aveteran of Everson's first trip to the Moon nearly twenty-five yearsago, and he was still at it. He was Chief Jetman now on the      LunarLady     , a commercial ore ship on a shuttle between Luna City and WhiteSands.     I remembered how, as a kid, I'd pestered him in the Long IslandSpaceport, tagging after him like a puppy, and how he'd grown to likeme until he became father, mother, and buddy all in one to me. And Iremembered, too, how his recommendation had finally made me a cadet.     My gaze wandered over the faces, but I couldn't find Charlie's. Itwasn't surprising. The      Lunar Lady     was in White Sands now, butliberties, as Charlie said, were as scarce as water on Mars.       It doesn't matter     , I told myself.     Then Mickey stiffened. I see 'em, Ben! There in the fifth row!     Usually Mickey was the same whether in a furnace-hot engine room or agarden party, smiling, accepting whatever the world offered. But now atenseness and an excitement had gripped even him. I was grateful thathe was beside me; we'd been a good team during those final months atthe Academy and I knew we'd be a good team in space. The Universe wasmighty big, but with two of us to face it together, it would be onlyhalf as big.     And then it seemed that all the proud faces were looking at us as if wewere gods. A shiver went through my body. Though it was daytime, I sawthe stars in my mind's vision, the great shining balls of silver, eachlike a voice crying out and pleading to be explored, to be touched bythe sons of Earth.       They expect a lot from us. They expect us to make a new kind ofcivilization and a better place out of Earth. They expect all this anda hell of a lot more. They think there's nothing we can't do.       I felt very small and very humble. I was scared. Damned scared.  At last it was over, and the proud faces descended upon us in a huge,babbling wave.     Then I saw him. Good old Stardust Charlie.     His wizened little body was shuffling down an aisle, his eyes shininglike a child's. He'd been sandwiched, evidently, in one of the rearrows.     But he wasn't the Charlie I'd seen a year ago. He'd become gaunt andold, and he walked with an unnatural stiffness. He looked so old thatit was hard to believe he'd once been young.     He scratched his mop of steel-gray hair and grinned.     You made it, boy, he chortled, and by Jupiter, we'll celebratetonight. Yes, siree, I got twenty-four hours, and we'll celebrate asgood spacemen should!     Then Mickey strode up to us. He was his normal, boyish self again,walking lightly, his blond, curly-haired skull swaying as if in rhythmwith some silent melody.     And you, Laura, were with him.     Meet the Brat, he said. My sister Laura.     I stared almost rudely. You were like a doll lost in the immensityof your fluffy pink dress. Your hair was long and transformed into agolden froth where sunlight touched it. But your eyes were the eyesof a woman, glowing like dark stars and reflecting a softness, agentleness that I'd never seen in eyes before.     I'm happy to meet you, Ben, you said. I've heard of no one else forthe past year.     A tide of heat crept up from my collar. I stuttered through anintroduction of Charlie.     You and Mickey looked strangely at Charlie, and I realized that oldStardust was not a cadet's notion of the ideal spaceman. Charliescorned the skin-tight uniforms of the government service and wore ashiny black suit that was a relic of Everson's early-day Moon Patrol.His tie was clumsily knotted, and a button on his coat was missing.     And the left side of his face was streaked with dark scar tissue, theresult of an atomic blowup on one of the old Moon ships. I was soaccustomed to the scars, I was seldom aware of them; but others, Iknew, would find them ugly.     You were kind. You shook hands and said, softly: It's a privilege tomeet you, Charlie. Just think—one of Everson's men, one of the firstto reach the Moon!     Charlie gulped helplessly, and Mickey said: Still going to spend theweekend with us, aren't you, Ben?     I shook my head. Charlie has only twenty-four hours liberty. We'replanning to see the town tonight.     Why don't you both come with us? you asked. Our folks have theirown plane, so it would be no problem. And we've got a big guest room.Charlie, wouldn't you like a home-cooked meal before going back to theMoon?     Charlie's answer was obscured by a sudden burst of coughing. I knewthat he'd infinitely prefer to spend his liberty sampling Martianfizzes and Plutonian zombies.     But this night seemed too sacred for Charlie's kind of celebration.     We'd really like to come, I said.  On our way to the 'copter parking field, Dean Dawson passed us. He wasa tall, willowy man, spectacled, looking the way an academy professorshould look.     Ben, he called, don't forget that offer. Remember you've got twomonths to decide.     No, thanks, I answered. Better not count on me.     A moment later Mickey said, frowning, What was he talking about, Ben?Did he make you an offer?     I laughed. He offered me a job here at the Academy teachingastrogation. What a life      that     would be! Imagine standing in aclassroom for forty years when I've got the chance to—     I hesitated, and you supplied the right words: When you've got thechance to be the first to reach a new planet. That's what most of youwant, isn't it? That's what Mickey used to want.     I looked at you as if you were Everson himself, because you seemed tounderstand the hunger that could lie in a man's heart.     Then your last words came back and jabbed me: That's what Mickey usedto want.           Used     to want? I asked. What do you mean?     You bit your lip, not answering.     What did she mean, Mickey?     Mickey looked down at his feet. I didn't want to tell you yet, Ben.We've been together a long time, planning to be on a rocket. But—     Yes?     Well, what does it add up to? You become a spaceman and wear a prettyuniform. You wade through the sands of Mars and the dust of Venus. Ifyou're lucky, you're good for five, maybe ten years. Then one thing oranother gets you. They don't insure rocketmen, you know.     My stomach was full of churning, biting ice. What are you trying tosay, Mickey?     I've thought about it a long time. They want me for Cargo Supervisorof White Sands Port. He raised his hand to stop me. I know. It's notso exciting. I'll just live a lot longer. I'm sorry, Ben.     I couldn't answer. It was as if someone had whacked the back of myknees with the blast of a jet.     It doesn't change anything, Ben—right now, I mean. We can still havea good weekend.     Charlie was muttering under his breath, smoldering like a bomb about toreach critical mass. I shook my head dazedly at him as we got to the'copter.     Sure, I said to Mickey, we can still have a good weekend.  I liked your folks, Laura. There was no star-hunger in them, of course.They were simple and solid and settled, like green growing things,deep-rooted, belonging to Earth. They were content with a home that wascool on this warm summer night, with a 'copter and a tri-dimensionalvideo, and a handsome automatic home that needed no servants orhousework.     Stardust Charlie was as comfortable as a Martian sand-monkey in ashower, but he tried courageously to be himself.     At the dinner table he stared glassily at nothing and grated, Only hitMars once, but I'll never forget the kid who called himself a medic.Skipper started coughing, kept it up for three days. Whoopin' cough,the medic says, not knowin' the air had chemicals that turned to acidin your lungs. I'd never been to Mars before, but I knew better'n that.Hell, I says, that ain't whoopin' cough, that's lung-rot.     That was when your father said he wasn't so hungry after all.     Afterward, you and I walked onto the terrace, into the moonlit night,to watch for crimson-tailed continental rockets that occasionallystreaked up from White Sands.     We gazed for a few seconds up into the dark sky, and then you said:Charlie is funny, isn't he? He's nice and I'm glad he's here, but he'ssort of funny.     He's an old-time spaceman. You didn't need much education in thosedays, just a lot of brawn and a quick mind. It took guts to be aspaceman then.     But he wasn't always a spaceman. Didn't he ever have a family?     I smiled and shook my head. If he had, he never mentioned it. Charliedoesn't like to be sentimental, at least not on the outside. As far asI know, his life began when he took off for the Moon with Everson.     You stared at me strangely, almost in a sacred kind of way. I knewsuddenly that you liked me, and my heart began to beat faster.     There was silence.     You were lovely, your soft hair like strands of gold, and there wereflecks of silver in your dark eyes. Somehow I was afraid. I had thefeeling that I shouldn't have come here.     You kept looking at me until I had to ask: What are you thinking,Laura?     You laughed, but it was a sad, fearful laugh. No, I shouldn't bethinking it. You'd hate me if I told you, and I wouldn't want that.     I could never hate you.     It—it's about the stars, you said very softly. I understand why youwant to go to them. Mickey and I used to dream about them when we werekids. Of course I was a girl, so it was just a game to me. But once Idreamed of going to England. Oh, it was going to be so wonderful. Ilived for months, just thinking about it.     One summer we went. I had fun. I saw the old buildings and castles,and the spaceports and the Channel Tube. But after it was over, Irealized England wasn't so different from America. Places seem excitingbefore you get to them, and afterward they're not really.     I frowned. And you mean it might be the same with the stars? You thinkmaybe I haven't grown up yet?     Anxiety darkened your features. No, it'd be good to be a spaceman,to see the strange places and make history. But is it worth it? Is itworth the things you'd have to give up?     I didn't understand at first, and I wanted to ask, Give up      what     ?     Then I looked at you and the promise in your eyes, and I knew.     All through the years I'd been walking down a single, narrow path.     Government boarding school, the Academy, my eyes always upward and onthe stars.     Now I'd stumbled into a cross-roads, beholding a strange new path thatI'd never noticed before.       You can go into space     , I thought,      and try to do as much living inten years as normal men do in fifty. You can be like Everson, who diedin a Moon crash at the age of 36, or like a thousand others who lieburied in Martian sand and Venusian dust. Or, if you're lucky, likeCharlie—a kind of human meteor streaking through space, eternallyalone, never finding a home.         Or there's the other path. To stay on this little prison of an Earthin cool, comfortable houses. To be one of the solid, rooted people witha wife and kids. To be one of the people who live long enough to growold, who awake to the song of birds instead of rocket grumblings, whofill their lungs with the clean rich air of Earth instead of poisonousdust.       I'm sorry, you said. I didn't mean to make you sad, Ben.     It's all right, I said, clenching my fists. You made sense—a lot ofsense.  The next morning Charlie said good-bye in our room. He rubbed hisscarred face nervously as he cleared his throat with a series of thin,tight coughs.     Then he pointed to a brown, faded tin box lying on the bed. I'mleavin' that for you. It's full of old stuff, souvenirs mostly. Thoughtmaybe you'd like to have 'em.     I scowled, not understanding. Why, Charlie? What for?     He shrugged as if afraid he might be accused of sentimentality. Oh,it's just that I've been dodgin' meteors now for twenty-five years.That's a long time, boy. Ain't one spaceman in a thousand that lucky.Some of these days, I won't be so lucky.     I tried to laugh. You're good for another twenty-five years, Charlie.     He shook his head stiffly, staring at nothing. Maybe. Anyway, I'mgonna get off the Shuttle this time, make one more trip to Mars. Tellyou what. There's a little stone cafe on Mars, the      Space Rat     , justoff Chandler Field on the Grand Canal. When you get to Mars, take alook inside. I'll probably be there.     He coughed again, a deep, rasping cough that filled his eyes with tears.     Not used to this Earth air, he muttered. What I need's some Martianclimate.     Suddenly that cough frightened me. It didn't seem normal. I wondered,too, about his stiff movements and glassy stare. It was as if he weredrugged.     I shook the thought away. If Charlie was sick, he wouldn't talk aboutgoing to Mars. The medics wouldn't let him go even as far as Luna.     We watched him leave, you and Mickey and I.     When will you be back? you asked.     Charlie's hard face contorted itself into a gargoylish grin. Maybe acouple of months, maybe a couple of years. You know spacemen.     Then he waved and strode away, a strange, gray, withered gnome of a man.     I wanted him to say something, to tell me the secret that would killthe doubt worming through my brain.     But he rounded a corner, still grinning and waving, and then he wasgone.  That afternoon Mickey showed me his room. It was more like a boy'sroom than a spaceman's. In it were all the little things that kidstreasure—pennants, models of Everson's two ships, a tennis trophy,books, a home-made video.     I began to realize how important a room like this could be to a boy.I could imagine, too, the happiness that parents felt as they watchedtheir children grow to adulthood.     I'd missed something. My folks were shadow-people, my impressions ofthem drawn half from ancient photos, half from imagination. For me, ithad been a cold, automatic kind of life, the life of dormitories androutines and rules. I'd been so blinded by the brilliancy of my dreams,I hadn't realized I was different.       My folks were killed in a rocket crash. If it weren't for rockets, I'dhave lived the kind of life a kid should live.       Mickey noticed my frown.     What's the matter, Ben? Still sore? I feel like a heel, but I'm justnot like you and Charlie, I guess. I—     No, I understand, Mickey. I'm not sore, really.     Listen, then. You haven't accepted any offer yet, have you?     No. I got a couple of possibilities. Could get a berth on the      Odyssey     , the new ship being finished at Los Angeles. They want me,too, for the Moon Patrol, but that's old stuff, not much better thanteaching. I want to be in deep space.     Well, how about staying with us till you decide? Might as well enjoyEarth life while you can. Okay?     I felt like running from the house, to forget that it existed. I wantedsomeone to tell me one of the old stories about space, a tale ofcourage that would put fuel on dying dreams.     But I wanted, also, to be with you, Laura, to see your smile and theflecks of silver in your eyes and the way your nose turned upward everso slightly when you laughed. You see, I loved you already, almost asmuch as I loved the stars.     And I said, slowly, my voice sounding unfamiliar and far away, Sure,I'll stay, Mickey. Sure.  Forty days of joy, forty nights of fear and indecision. We did all thelittle things, like watching the rockets land at White Sands and flyingdown to the Gulf to swim in cool waters. You tried, unsuccessfully, toteach me to dance, and we talked about Everson and Charlie and the Moonand the stars. You felt you had to give the stars all the beauty andpromise of a child's dream, because you knew that was what I wanted.     One morning I thought,      Why must I make a choice? Why can't I have bothyou and the stars? Would that be asking too much?       All day the thought lay in my mind like fire.     That evening I asked you to marry me. I said it very simply: Laura, Iwant you to be my wife.     You looked up at Venus, and you were silent for a long while, your faceflushed.     Then you murmured, I—I want to marry you, Ben, but are you asking meto marry a spaceman or a teacher?     Can't a spaceman marry, too?     Yes, a spaceman can marry, but what would it be like? Don't you see,Ben? You'd be like Charlie. Gone for      maybe     two months,      maybe     twoyears. Then you'd have a twenty-four hour liberty—and I'd have what?     Somehow I'd expected words like these, but still they hurt. I wouldn'thave to be a spaceman forever. I could try it for a couple of years,then teach.     Would you, Ben? Would you be satisfied with just seeing Mars? Wouldn'tyou want to go on to Jupiter and Saturn and Uranus and on and on?     Your voice was choked, and even in the semi-darkness I saw tearsglittering in your eyes.     Do you think I'd dare have children, Ben? Mickey told me what happenedon the      Cyclops     . There was a leak in the atomic engines. The ship wasflooded with radiation—just for a second. It didn't seem serious. Themen had no burns. But a year later the captain had a child. And itwas—     I know, Laura. Don't say it.     You had to finish. It was a monster.     That night I lay awake, the fears and doubts too frantic to let mesleep.       You've got to decide now     , I told myself.      You can't stay here. You'vegot to make a choice.       The teaching job was still open. The spot on the      Odyssey     was stillopen—and the big ship, it was rumored, was equipped to make it all theway to Pluto.       You can take Dean Dawson's job and stay with Laura and have kids and ahome and live to see what happens in this world sixty years from now.         Or you can see what's on the other side of the mountain. You can be aline in a history book.       I cursed. I knew what Charlie would say. He'd say, Get the hell outof there, boy. Don't let a fool woman make a sucker out of you. Getout there on the      Odyssey     where you belong. We got a date on Mars,remember? At the      Space Rat     , just off Chandler Field on the GrandCanal.     That's what he'd say.     And yet I wanted you, Laura. I wanted to be with you, always.     Oh God, I moaned, what shall I do?  Next morning the door chimes pealed, and you went to the door andbrought back the audiogram. It was addressed to me; I wondered whocould be sending me a message.     I pressed the stud on the little gray cylinder, and a rasping,automatic voice droned: Luna City, Luna, July 27, 1995. Regret toinform you of death of Charles Taggart, Chief Jetman....     Then there was a Latin name which was more polite than the wordlung-rot and the metallic phrase, This message brought to you bycourtesy of United Nations Earth-Luna Communication Corps.     I stood staring at the cylinder.     Charles Taggart was dead.     Charles Taggart was Charlie. Stardust Charlie.     My heart thudded crazily against my chest. It couldn't be! Not Charlie!The audiogram had lied!     I pressed the stud again. ... regret to inform you of death ofCharles ...     I hurled the cylinder at the wall. It thudded, fell, rolled. The brokenvoice droned on.     You ran to it, shut it off. I'm sorry, Ben, so terribly—     Without answering, I walked into my room. I knew it was true now. Iremembered Charlie's coughing, his gaunt features, his drugged gaze.The metallic words had told the truth.     I sat for a long time on my bed, crying inside, but staring dry-eyed atCharlie's faded tin box.     Then, finally, I fingered his meager possessions—a few wrinkledphotos, some letters, a small black statue of a forgotten Martian god,a gold service medal from the Moon Patrol.       This was what remained of Charlie after twenty-five years in space.It was a bitter bargain. A statue instead of a wife, yellowed lettersinstead of children, a medal instead of a home.       It'd be a great future     , I thought.      You'd dream of sitting in a dingystone dive on the Grand Canal with sand-wasps buzzing around smoky,stinking candles. A bottle of luchu juice and a couple of Martian girlswith dirty feet for company. And a sudden cough that would be the firstsign of lung-rot.       To hell with it!     I walked into your living room and called Dean Dawson on the visiphone.     I accepted that job teaching.  And now, Laura, it's nearly midnight. You're in your room, sleeping,and the house is silent.     It's hard to tell you, to make you understand, and that is why I amwriting this.     I looked through Charlie's box again, more carefully this time, readingthe old letters and studying the photographs. I believe now thatCharlie sensed my indecision, that he left these things so that theycould tell me what he could not express in words.     And among the things, Laura, I found a ring.     A wedding ring.     In that past he never talked about, there was a woman—his wife.Charlie was young once, his eyes full of dreams, and he faced the samedecision that I am facing. Two paths were before him, but he tried totravel both. He later learned what we already know—that there can beno compromise. And you know, too, which path he finally chose.     Do you know why he had to drug himself to watch me graduate? So hecould look at me, knowing that I would see the worlds he could neverlive to see. Charlie didn't leave just a few trinkets behind him. Heleft himself, Laura, for he showed me that a boy's dream can also be aman's dream.     He made his last trip to Luna when he knew he was going to die. Heavenknows how he escaped a checkup. Maybe the captain understood and waskind—but that doesn't matter now.     Do you know      why     he wanted to reach Mars? Do you know why he didn'twant to die in the clean, cool air of Earth?     It was because he wanted to die nearer home. His home, Laura, was theUniverse, where the ship was his house, the crew his father, mother,brothers, the planets his children.     You say that the beauty of the other side of the mountain vanishesafter you reach it. But how can one ever be      sure     until the journey ismade? Could I or Charlie or the thousand before us bear to look upon astar and think,      I might have gone there; I could have been the first     ?     We said, too, that the life of a spaceman is lonely. Yet how could onebe lonely when men like Charlie roam the spaceways?     Charlie wanted me to himself that night after graduation. He wanted usto celebrate as spacemen should, for he knew that this would be hislast night on Earth. It might have seemed an ugly kind of celebrationto you, but he wanted it with all his heart, and we robbed him of it.     Because of these things, Laura, I will be gone in the morning. Explainthe best you can to Mickey and to your parents and Dean Dawson.     Right now I've got a date that I'm going to keep—at a dingy stone cafeon Mars, the      Space Rat     , just off Chandler Field on the Grand Canal.     Stardust Charlie will be there; he'll go with me in memory to whateverpart of the Galaxy I may live to reach. And so will you, Laura.     I have two wedding rings with me—his wife's ring and yours.   ","Ben becomes an orphan when he is just 4 years old. The first person he finds that he can trust and look up to is Charlie Taggart, who also happens to be a spaceman. From this point forward, Ben’s life revolves around reaching his dream of going to the stars. When he sits in his best friend Mickey’s childhood bedroom, he realizes that he never got to experience a “normal” childhood, and this probably impacted his life’s goals. The bedroom contains trophies, books, videos, and other treasures from typical childhoods. Ben sees that his life, filled with dorms, rules, and routines, completely lacked a warmth that he would have experienced if he had grown up with parents who loved him. All he had to rely on were his dreams for his future. He never got to experience the little moments of pleasure and togetherness that families have. Ben put all of his energy into becoming a spaceman because it would make him special, and it was something supremely important to work towards. He has no idea who he would be if his parents hadn’t died. "
"How does Ben's relationship with Laura change over time? </s>     Spacemen Die at Home     By EDWARD W. LUDWIG     Illustrated by THORNE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction October 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        One man's retreat is another's prison ... and       it takes a heap of flying to make a hulk a home!        Forty days of heaven and forty nights of hell. That's the way it'sbeen, Laura. But how can I make you understand? How can I tell youwhat it's like to be young and a man and to dream of reaching thestars? And yet, at the same time, to be filled with a terrible, gnawingfear—a fear locked in my mind during the day and bursting out like anevil jack-in-the-box at night. I must tell you, Laura.     Perhaps if I start at the beginning, the very beginning....     It was the Big Day. All the examinations, the physicals and psychos,were over. The Academy, with its great halls and classrooms andlaboratories, lay hollow and silent, an exhausted thing at sleep afterspawning its first-born.     For it was June in this year of 1995, and we were the graduating classof the U. S. Academy of Interplanetary Flight.     The      first     graduating class, Laura. That's why it was so important,because we were the      first     .     We sat on a little platform, twenty-five of us. Below us was a beachof faces, most of them strange, shining like pebbles in the warm NewMexican sunlight. They were the faces of mothers and fathers andgrandparents and kid brothers and sisters—the people who a short timeago had been only scrawled names on letters from home or words spokenwistfully at Christmas. They were the memory-people who, to me, hadnever really existed.     But today they had become real, and they were here and looking at uswith pride in their eyes.     A voice was speaking, deep, sure, resonant. ... these boys have workedhard for six years, and now they're going to do a lot of big things.They're going to bring us the metals and minerals that we desperatelyneed. They're going to find new land for our colonists, good rich landthat will bear food and be a home for our children. And perhaps mostimportant of all, they'll make other men think of the stars and look upat them and feel humility—for mankind needs humility.     The speaker was Robert Chandler, who'd brought the first rocket down onMars just five years ago, who'd established the first colony there, andwho had just returned from his second hop to Venus.     Instead of listening to his words, I was staring at his broad shouldersand his dark, crew-cut hair and his white uniform which was silk-smoothand skin-tight. I was worshiping him and hating him at the same time,for I was thinking:       He's already reached Mars and Venus. Let him leave Jupiter and theothers alone! Let us be the first to land somewhere! Let us be thefirst!    Mickey Cameron, sitting next to me, dug an elbow into my ribs. I don'tsee 'em, Ben, he whispered. Where do you suppose they are?     I blinked. Who?     My folks.     That was something I didn't have to worry about. My parents had died ina strato-jet crash when I was four, so I hadn't needed many of thoseYou are cordially invited cards. Just one, which I'd sent to CharlieTaggart.     Stardust Charlie, we called him, although I never knew why. He was aveteran of Everson's first trip to the Moon nearly twenty-five yearsago, and he was still at it. He was Chief Jetman now on the      LunarLady     , a commercial ore ship on a shuttle between Luna City and WhiteSands.     I remembered how, as a kid, I'd pestered him in the Long IslandSpaceport, tagging after him like a puppy, and how he'd grown to likeme until he became father, mother, and buddy all in one to me. And Iremembered, too, how his recommendation had finally made me a cadet.     My gaze wandered over the faces, but I couldn't find Charlie's. Itwasn't surprising. The      Lunar Lady     was in White Sands now, butliberties, as Charlie said, were as scarce as water on Mars.       It doesn't matter     , I told myself.     Then Mickey stiffened. I see 'em, Ben! There in the fifth row!     Usually Mickey was the same whether in a furnace-hot engine room or agarden party, smiling, accepting whatever the world offered. But now atenseness and an excitement had gripped even him. I was grateful thathe was beside me; we'd been a good team during those final months atthe Academy and I knew we'd be a good team in space. The Universe wasmighty big, but with two of us to face it together, it would be onlyhalf as big.     And then it seemed that all the proud faces were looking at us as if wewere gods. A shiver went through my body. Though it was daytime, I sawthe stars in my mind's vision, the great shining balls of silver, eachlike a voice crying out and pleading to be explored, to be touched bythe sons of Earth.       They expect a lot from us. They expect us to make a new kind ofcivilization and a better place out of Earth. They expect all this anda hell of a lot more. They think there's nothing we can't do.       I felt very small and very humble. I was scared. Damned scared.  At last it was over, and the proud faces descended upon us in a huge,babbling wave.     Then I saw him. Good old Stardust Charlie.     His wizened little body was shuffling down an aisle, his eyes shininglike a child's. He'd been sandwiched, evidently, in one of the rearrows.     But he wasn't the Charlie I'd seen a year ago. He'd become gaunt andold, and he walked with an unnatural stiffness. He looked so old thatit was hard to believe he'd once been young.     He scratched his mop of steel-gray hair and grinned.     You made it, boy, he chortled, and by Jupiter, we'll celebratetonight. Yes, siree, I got twenty-four hours, and we'll celebrate asgood spacemen should!     Then Mickey strode up to us. He was his normal, boyish self again,walking lightly, his blond, curly-haired skull swaying as if in rhythmwith some silent melody.     And you, Laura, were with him.     Meet the Brat, he said. My sister Laura.     I stared almost rudely. You were like a doll lost in the immensityof your fluffy pink dress. Your hair was long and transformed into agolden froth where sunlight touched it. But your eyes were the eyesof a woman, glowing like dark stars and reflecting a softness, agentleness that I'd never seen in eyes before.     I'm happy to meet you, Ben, you said. I've heard of no one else forthe past year.     A tide of heat crept up from my collar. I stuttered through anintroduction of Charlie.     You and Mickey looked strangely at Charlie, and I realized that oldStardust was not a cadet's notion of the ideal spaceman. Charliescorned the skin-tight uniforms of the government service and wore ashiny black suit that was a relic of Everson's early-day Moon Patrol.His tie was clumsily knotted, and a button on his coat was missing.     And the left side of his face was streaked with dark scar tissue, theresult of an atomic blowup on one of the old Moon ships. I was soaccustomed to the scars, I was seldom aware of them; but others, Iknew, would find them ugly.     You were kind. You shook hands and said, softly: It's a privilege tomeet you, Charlie. Just think—one of Everson's men, one of the firstto reach the Moon!     Charlie gulped helplessly, and Mickey said: Still going to spend theweekend with us, aren't you, Ben?     I shook my head. Charlie has only twenty-four hours liberty. We'replanning to see the town tonight.     Why don't you both come with us? you asked. Our folks have theirown plane, so it would be no problem. And we've got a big guest room.Charlie, wouldn't you like a home-cooked meal before going back to theMoon?     Charlie's answer was obscured by a sudden burst of coughing. I knewthat he'd infinitely prefer to spend his liberty sampling Martianfizzes and Plutonian zombies.     But this night seemed too sacred for Charlie's kind of celebration.     We'd really like to come, I said.  On our way to the 'copter parking field, Dean Dawson passed us. He wasa tall, willowy man, spectacled, looking the way an academy professorshould look.     Ben, he called, don't forget that offer. Remember you've got twomonths to decide.     No, thanks, I answered. Better not count on me.     A moment later Mickey said, frowning, What was he talking about, Ben?Did he make you an offer?     I laughed. He offered me a job here at the Academy teachingastrogation. What a life      that     would be! Imagine standing in aclassroom for forty years when I've got the chance to—     I hesitated, and you supplied the right words: When you've got thechance to be the first to reach a new planet. That's what most of youwant, isn't it? That's what Mickey used to want.     I looked at you as if you were Everson himself, because you seemed tounderstand the hunger that could lie in a man's heart.     Then your last words came back and jabbed me: That's what Mickey usedto want.           Used     to want? I asked. What do you mean?     You bit your lip, not answering.     What did she mean, Mickey?     Mickey looked down at his feet. I didn't want to tell you yet, Ben.We've been together a long time, planning to be on a rocket. But—     Yes?     Well, what does it add up to? You become a spaceman and wear a prettyuniform. You wade through the sands of Mars and the dust of Venus. Ifyou're lucky, you're good for five, maybe ten years. Then one thing oranother gets you. They don't insure rocketmen, you know.     My stomach was full of churning, biting ice. What are you trying tosay, Mickey?     I've thought about it a long time. They want me for Cargo Supervisorof White Sands Port. He raised his hand to stop me. I know. It's notso exciting. I'll just live a lot longer. I'm sorry, Ben.     I couldn't answer. It was as if someone had whacked the back of myknees with the blast of a jet.     It doesn't change anything, Ben—right now, I mean. We can still havea good weekend.     Charlie was muttering under his breath, smoldering like a bomb about toreach critical mass. I shook my head dazedly at him as we got to the'copter.     Sure, I said to Mickey, we can still have a good weekend.  I liked your folks, Laura. There was no star-hunger in them, of course.They were simple and solid and settled, like green growing things,deep-rooted, belonging to Earth. They were content with a home that wascool on this warm summer night, with a 'copter and a tri-dimensionalvideo, and a handsome automatic home that needed no servants orhousework.     Stardust Charlie was as comfortable as a Martian sand-monkey in ashower, but he tried courageously to be himself.     At the dinner table he stared glassily at nothing and grated, Only hitMars once, but I'll never forget the kid who called himself a medic.Skipper started coughing, kept it up for three days. Whoopin' cough,the medic says, not knowin' the air had chemicals that turned to acidin your lungs. I'd never been to Mars before, but I knew better'n that.Hell, I says, that ain't whoopin' cough, that's lung-rot.     That was when your father said he wasn't so hungry after all.     Afterward, you and I walked onto the terrace, into the moonlit night,to watch for crimson-tailed continental rockets that occasionallystreaked up from White Sands.     We gazed for a few seconds up into the dark sky, and then you said:Charlie is funny, isn't he? He's nice and I'm glad he's here, but he'ssort of funny.     He's an old-time spaceman. You didn't need much education in thosedays, just a lot of brawn and a quick mind. It took guts to be aspaceman then.     But he wasn't always a spaceman. Didn't he ever have a family?     I smiled and shook my head. If he had, he never mentioned it. Charliedoesn't like to be sentimental, at least not on the outside. As far asI know, his life began when he took off for the Moon with Everson.     You stared at me strangely, almost in a sacred kind of way. I knewsuddenly that you liked me, and my heart began to beat faster.     There was silence.     You were lovely, your soft hair like strands of gold, and there wereflecks of silver in your dark eyes. Somehow I was afraid. I had thefeeling that I shouldn't have come here.     You kept looking at me until I had to ask: What are you thinking,Laura?     You laughed, but it was a sad, fearful laugh. No, I shouldn't bethinking it. You'd hate me if I told you, and I wouldn't want that.     I could never hate you.     It—it's about the stars, you said very softly. I understand why youwant to go to them. Mickey and I used to dream about them when we werekids. Of course I was a girl, so it was just a game to me. But once Idreamed of going to England. Oh, it was going to be so wonderful. Ilived for months, just thinking about it.     One summer we went. I had fun. I saw the old buildings and castles,and the spaceports and the Channel Tube. But after it was over, Irealized England wasn't so different from America. Places seem excitingbefore you get to them, and afterward they're not really.     I frowned. And you mean it might be the same with the stars? You thinkmaybe I haven't grown up yet?     Anxiety darkened your features. No, it'd be good to be a spaceman,to see the strange places and make history. But is it worth it? Is itworth the things you'd have to give up?     I didn't understand at first, and I wanted to ask, Give up      what     ?     Then I looked at you and the promise in your eyes, and I knew.     All through the years I'd been walking down a single, narrow path.     Government boarding school, the Academy, my eyes always upward and onthe stars.     Now I'd stumbled into a cross-roads, beholding a strange new path thatI'd never noticed before.       You can go into space     , I thought,      and try to do as much living inten years as normal men do in fifty. You can be like Everson, who diedin a Moon crash at the age of 36, or like a thousand others who lieburied in Martian sand and Venusian dust. Or, if you're lucky, likeCharlie—a kind of human meteor streaking through space, eternallyalone, never finding a home.         Or there's the other path. To stay on this little prison of an Earthin cool, comfortable houses. To be one of the solid, rooted people witha wife and kids. To be one of the people who live long enough to growold, who awake to the song of birds instead of rocket grumblings, whofill their lungs with the clean rich air of Earth instead of poisonousdust.       I'm sorry, you said. I didn't mean to make you sad, Ben.     It's all right, I said, clenching my fists. You made sense—a lot ofsense.  The next morning Charlie said good-bye in our room. He rubbed hisscarred face nervously as he cleared his throat with a series of thin,tight coughs.     Then he pointed to a brown, faded tin box lying on the bed. I'mleavin' that for you. It's full of old stuff, souvenirs mostly. Thoughtmaybe you'd like to have 'em.     I scowled, not understanding. Why, Charlie? What for?     He shrugged as if afraid he might be accused of sentimentality. Oh,it's just that I've been dodgin' meteors now for twenty-five years.That's a long time, boy. Ain't one spaceman in a thousand that lucky.Some of these days, I won't be so lucky.     I tried to laugh. You're good for another twenty-five years, Charlie.     He shook his head stiffly, staring at nothing. Maybe. Anyway, I'mgonna get off the Shuttle this time, make one more trip to Mars. Tellyou what. There's a little stone cafe on Mars, the      Space Rat     , justoff Chandler Field on the Grand Canal. When you get to Mars, take alook inside. I'll probably be there.     He coughed again, a deep, rasping cough that filled his eyes with tears.     Not used to this Earth air, he muttered. What I need's some Martianclimate.     Suddenly that cough frightened me. It didn't seem normal. I wondered,too, about his stiff movements and glassy stare. It was as if he weredrugged.     I shook the thought away. If Charlie was sick, he wouldn't talk aboutgoing to Mars. The medics wouldn't let him go even as far as Luna.     We watched him leave, you and Mickey and I.     When will you be back? you asked.     Charlie's hard face contorted itself into a gargoylish grin. Maybe acouple of months, maybe a couple of years. You know spacemen.     Then he waved and strode away, a strange, gray, withered gnome of a man.     I wanted him to say something, to tell me the secret that would killthe doubt worming through my brain.     But he rounded a corner, still grinning and waving, and then he wasgone.  That afternoon Mickey showed me his room. It was more like a boy'sroom than a spaceman's. In it were all the little things that kidstreasure—pennants, models of Everson's two ships, a tennis trophy,books, a home-made video.     I began to realize how important a room like this could be to a boy.I could imagine, too, the happiness that parents felt as they watchedtheir children grow to adulthood.     I'd missed something. My folks were shadow-people, my impressions ofthem drawn half from ancient photos, half from imagination. For me, ithad been a cold, automatic kind of life, the life of dormitories androutines and rules. I'd been so blinded by the brilliancy of my dreams,I hadn't realized I was different.       My folks were killed in a rocket crash. If it weren't for rockets, I'dhave lived the kind of life a kid should live.       Mickey noticed my frown.     What's the matter, Ben? Still sore? I feel like a heel, but I'm justnot like you and Charlie, I guess. I—     No, I understand, Mickey. I'm not sore, really.     Listen, then. You haven't accepted any offer yet, have you?     No. I got a couple of possibilities. Could get a berth on the      Odyssey     , the new ship being finished at Los Angeles. They want me,too, for the Moon Patrol, but that's old stuff, not much better thanteaching. I want to be in deep space.     Well, how about staying with us till you decide? Might as well enjoyEarth life while you can. Okay?     I felt like running from the house, to forget that it existed. I wantedsomeone to tell me one of the old stories about space, a tale ofcourage that would put fuel on dying dreams.     But I wanted, also, to be with you, Laura, to see your smile and theflecks of silver in your eyes and the way your nose turned upward everso slightly when you laughed. You see, I loved you already, almost asmuch as I loved the stars.     And I said, slowly, my voice sounding unfamiliar and far away, Sure,I'll stay, Mickey. Sure.  Forty days of joy, forty nights of fear and indecision. We did all thelittle things, like watching the rockets land at White Sands and flyingdown to the Gulf to swim in cool waters. You tried, unsuccessfully, toteach me to dance, and we talked about Everson and Charlie and the Moonand the stars. You felt you had to give the stars all the beauty andpromise of a child's dream, because you knew that was what I wanted.     One morning I thought,      Why must I make a choice? Why can't I have bothyou and the stars? Would that be asking too much?       All day the thought lay in my mind like fire.     That evening I asked you to marry me. I said it very simply: Laura, Iwant you to be my wife.     You looked up at Venus, and you were silent for a long while, your faceflushed.     Then you murmured, I—I want to marry you, Ben, but are you asking meto marry a spaceman or a teacher?     Can't a spaceman marry, too?     Yes, a spaceman can marry, but what would it be like? Don't you see,Ben? You'd be like Charlie. Gone for      maybe     two months,      maybe     twoyears. Then you'd have a twenty-four hour liberty—and I'd have what?     Somehow I'd expected words like these, but still they hurt. I wouldn'thave to be a spaceman forever. I could try it for a couple of years,then teach.     Would you, Ben? Would you be satisfied with just seeing Mars? Wouldn'tyou want to go on to Jupiter and Saturn and Uranus and on and on?     Your voice was choked, and even in the semi-darkness I saw tearsglittering in your eyes.     Do you think I'd dare have children, Ben? Mickey told me what happenedon the      Cyclops     . There was a leak in the atomic engines. The ship wasflooded with radiation—just for a second. It didn't seem serious. Themen had no burns. But a year later the captain had a child. And itwas—     I know, Laura. Don't say it.     You had to finish. It was a monster.     That night I lay awake, the fears and doubts too frantic to let mesleep.       You've got to decide now     , I told myself.      You can't stay here. You'vegot to make a choice.       The teaching job was still open. The spot on the      Odyssey     was stillopen—and the big ship, it was rumored, was equipped to make it all theway to Pluto.       You can take Dean Dawson's job and stay with Laura and have kids and ahome and live to see what happens in this world sixty years from now.         Or you can see what's on the other side of the mountain. You can be aline in a history book.       I cursed. I knew what Charlie would say. He'd say, Get the hell outof there, boy. Don't let a fool woman make a sucker out of you. Getout there on the      Odyssey     where you belong. We got a date on Mars,remember? At the      Space Rat     , just off Chandler Field on the GrandCanal.     That's what he'd say.     And yet I wanted you, Laura. I wanted to be with you, always.     Oh God, I moaned, what shall I do?  Next morning the door chimes pealed, and you went to the door andbrought back the audiogram. It was addressed to me; I wondered whocould be sending me a message.     I pressed the stud on the little gray cylinder, and a rasping,automatic voice droned: Luna City, Luna, July 27, 1995. Regret toinform you of death of Charles Taggart, Chief Jetman....     Then there was a Latin name which was more polite than the wordlung-rot and the metallic phrase, This message brought to you bycourtesy of United Nations Earth-Luna Communication Corps.     I stood staring at the cylinder.     Charles Taggart was dead.     Charles Taggart was Charlie. Stardust Charlie.     My heart thudded crazily against my chest. It couldn't be! Not Charlie!The audiogram had lied!     I pressed the stud again. ... regret to inform you of death ofCharles ...     I hurled the cylinder at the wall. It thudded, fell, rolled. The brokenvoice droned on.     You ran to it, shut it off. I'm sorry, Ben, so terribly—     Without answering, I walked into my room. I knew it was true now. Iremembered Charlie's coughing, his gaunt features, his drugged gaze.The metallic words had told the truth.     I sat for a long time on my bed, crying inside, but staring dry-eyed atCharlie's faded tin box.     Then, finally, I fingered his meager possessions—a few wrinkledphotos, some letters, a small black statue of a forgotten Martian god,a gold service medal from the Moon Patrol.       This was what remained of Charlie after twenty-five years in space.It was a bitter bargain. A statue instead of a wife, yellowed lettersinstead of children, a medal instead of a home.       It'd be a great future     , I thought.      You'd dream of sitting in a dingystone dive on the Grand Canal with sand-wasps buzzing around smoky,stinking candles. A bottle of luchu juice and a couple of Martian girlswith dirty feet for company. And a sudden cough that would be the firstsign of lung-rot.       To hell with it!     I walked into your living room and called Dean Dawson on the visiphone.     I accepted that job teaching.  And now, Laura, it's nearly midnight. You're in your room, sleeping,and the house is silent.     It's hard to tell you, to make you understand, and that is why I amwriting this.     I looked through Charlie's box again, more carefully this time, readingthe old letters and studying the photographs. I believe now thatCharlie sensed my indecision, that he left these things so that theycould tell me what he could not express in words.     And among the things, Laura, I found a ring.     A wedding ring.     In that past he never talked about, there was a woman—his wife.Charlie was young once, his eyes full of dreams, and he faced the samedecision that I am facing. Two paths were before him, but he tried totravel both. He later learned what we already know—that there can beno compromise. And you know, too, which path he finally chose.     Do you know why he had to drug himself to watch me graduate? So hecould look at me, knowing that I would see the worlds he could neverlive to see. Charlie didn't leave just a few trinkets behind him. Heleft himself, Laura, for he showed me that a boy's dream can also be aman's dream.     He made his last trip to Luna when he knew he was going to die. Heavenknows how he escaped a checkup. Maybe the captain understood and waskind—but that doesn't matter now.     Do you know      why     he wanted to reach Mars? Do you know why he didn'twant to die in the clean, cool air of Earth?     It was because he wanted to die nearer home. His home, Laura, was theUniverse, where the ship was his house, the crew his father, mother,brothers, the planets his children.     You say that the beauty of the other side of the mountain vanishesafter you reach it. But how can one ever be      sure     until the journey ismade? Could I or Charlie or the thousand before us bear to look upon astar and think,      I might have gone there; I could have been the first     ?     We said, too, that the life of a spaceman is lonely. Yet how could onebe lonely when men like Charlie roam the spaceways?     Charlie wanted me to himself that night after graduation. He wanted usto celebrate as spacemen should, for he knew that this would be hislast night on Earth. It might have seemed an ugly kind of celebrationto you, but he wanted it with all his heart, and we robbed him of it.     Because of these things, Laura, I will be gone in the morning. Explainthe best you can to Mickey and to your parents and Dean Dawson.     Right now I've got a date that I'm going to keep—at a dingy stone cafeon Mars, the      Space Rat     , just off Chandler Field on the Grand Canal.     Stardust Charlie will be there; he'll go with me in memory to whateverpart of the Galaxy I may live to reach. And so will you, Laura.     I have two wedding rings with me—his wife's ring and yours.   ","When Ben meets Laura, Mickey’s sister, at his spaceman graduation, he feels an instant connection with her. He enjoys talking to her and wants to learn everything there is to know about her. Although he’s happy to see Charlie Taggart, the closest thing he has to a family member, he chooses spending time with Laura and her family over spending time with Charlie alone. He can’t help feeling drawn to her. At first, Ben is completely oblivious to the feelings that Laura has for him, but after a walk under the stars together, he sees that she also sees a future with him. He has never before considered living on earth, getting married, owning a house, and settling for a “boring” life, but after she suggests that visiting the stars might just be like her trip to England, he wonders if she’s right. Maybe he has hyped up space travel so much and it will end up being a disappointment. Maybe Mickey is onto something, and sacrificing a normal life on earth where living to old age is expected is not a choice he should give up so easily. Ben desperately wants to be with Laura. He loves her just as much as he loves the stars. He spends forty incredible days with the woman of his dreams, but in the end, it’s not enough to convince him to give up his lifelong dream of being a spaceman. Sure, he’s uncomfortable with the amount of pressure that’s put on him, and he recognizes that he will be risking his life every single day, but he can see that Charlie does not regret giving up the quiet homelife for the incredible adventures that await in space. Ben wants to be the first man to visit a planet or find a helpful mineral or create a useful colony, and his love for Laura cannot change his dreams."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     Birds of a Feather     By ROBERT SILVERBERG     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine November 1958.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Getting specimens for the interstellar zoo       was no problem—they battled for the honor—but       now I had to fight like a wildcat to       keep a display from making a monkey of me!        It was our first day of recruiting on the planet, and the alienlife-forms had lined up for hundreds of feet back from my rentedoffice. As I came down the block from the hotel, I could hear and seeand smell them with ease.     My three staff men, Auchinleck, Stebbins and Ludlow, walked shieldwisein front of me. I peered between them to size the crop up. The alienscame in every shape and form, in all colors and textures—and all ofthem eager for a Corrigan contract. The Galaxy is full of bizarrebeings, but there's barely a species anywhere that can resist the oldexhibitionist urge.     Send them in one at a time, I told Stebbins. I ducked into theoffice, took my place back of the desk and waited for the procession tobegin.     The name of the planet was MacTavish IV (if you went by the officialTerran listing) or Ghryne (if you called it by what its people wereaccustomed to calling it). I thought of it privately as MacTavish IVand referred to it publicly as Ghryne. I believe in keeping the localshappy wherever I go.     Through the front window of the office, I could see our big gay tridimsign plastered to a facing wall: WANTED—EXTRATERRESTRIALS! We hadsaturated MacTavish IV with our promotional poop for a month precedingarrival. Stuff like this:       Want to visit Earth—see the Galaxy's most glittering and exclusiveworld? Want to draw good pay, work short hours, experience the thrillsof show business on romantic Terra? If you are a non-terrestrial,there may be a place for you in the Corrigan Institute ofMorphological Science. No freaks wanted—normal beings only. J. F.Corrigan will hold interviews in person on Ghryne from Thirdday toFifthday of Tenmonth. His last visit to the Caledonia Cluster until2937, so don't miss your chance! Hurry! A life of wonder and richescan be yours!    Broadsides like that, distributed wholesale in half a thousandlanguages, always bring them running. And the Corrigan Institute reallypacks in the crowds back on Earth. Why not? It's the best of its kind,the only really decent place where Earthmen can get a gander at theother species of the universe.     The office buzzer sounded. Auchinleck said unctuously, The firstapplicant is ready to see you, sir.     Send him, her or it in.     The door opened and a timid-looking life-form advanced toward me onnervous little legs. He was a globular creature about the size of abig basketball, yellowish-green, with two spindly double-kneed legs andfive double-elbowed arms, the latter spaced regularly around his body.There was a lidless eye at the top of his head and five lidded ones,one above each arm. Plus a big, gaping, toothless mouth.       His voice was a surprisingly resounding basso. You are Mr. Corrigan?     That's right. I reached for a data blank. Before we begin, I'll needcertain information about—     I am a being of Regulus II, came the grave, booming reply, evenbefore I had picked up the blank. I need no special care and I am nota fugitive from the law of any world.     Your name?     Lawrence R. Fitzgerald.     I throttled my exclamation of surprise, concealing it behind a quickcough. Let me have that again, please?     Certainly. My name is Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. The 'R' stands forRaymond.     Of course, that's not the name you were born with.     The being closed his eyes and toddled around in a 360-degree rotation,remaining in place. On his world, that gesture is the equivalent ofan apologetic smile. My Regulan name no longer matters. I am now andshall evermore be Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. I am a Terraphile, you see.  The little Regulan was as good as hired. Only the formalities remained.You understand our terms, Mr. Fitzgerald?     I'll be placed on exhibition at your Institute on Earth. You'll payfor my services, transportation and expenses. I'll be required toremain on exhibit no more than one-third of each Terran sidereal day.     And the pay will be—ah—$50 Galactic a week, plus expenses andtransportation.     The spherical creature clapped his hands in joy, three hands clappingon one side, two on the other. Wonderful! I will see Earth at last! Iaccept the terms!     I buzzed for Ludlow and gave him the fast signal that meant we weresigning this alien up at half the usual pay, and Ludlow took him intothe other office to sign him up.     I grinned, pleased with myself. We needed a green Regulan in our show;the last one had quit four years ago. But just because we needed himdidn't mean we had to be extravagant in hiring him. A Terraphile alienwho goes to the extent of rechristening himself with a Terran monickerwould work for nothing, or even pay us, just so long as we let him getto Earth. My conscience won't let me really      exploit     a being, but Idon't believe in throwing money away, either.     The next applicant was a beefy ursinoid from Aldebaran IX. Our outfithas all the ursinoids it needs or is likely to need in the next fewdecades, and so I got rid of him in a couple of minutes. He wasfollowed by a roly-poly blue-skinned humanoid from Donovan's Planet,four feet high and five hundred pounds heavy. We already had a coupleof his species in the show, but they made good crowd-pleasers, beingso plump and cheerful. I passed him along to Auchinleck to sign atanything short of top rate.     Next came a bedraggled Sirian spider who was more interested in ahandout than a job. If there's any species we have a real over-supplyof, it's those silver-colored spiders, but this seedy specimen gave ita try anyway. He got the gate in half a minute, and he didn't even getthe handout he was angling for. I don't approve of begging.     The flora of applicants was steady. Ghryne is in the heart of theCaledonia Cluster, where the interstellar crossroads meet. We hadfigured to pick up plenty of new exhibits here and we were right.  It was the isolationism of the late 29th century that turned me intothe successful proprietor of Corrigan's Institute, after some yearsas an impoverished carnival man in the Betelgeuse system. Back in2903, the World Congress declared Terra off-bounds for non-terrestrialbeings, as an offshoot of the Terra for Terrans movement.     Before then, anyone could visit Earth. After the gate clanged down,a non-terrestrial could only get onto Sol III as a specimen in ascientific collection—in short, as an exhibit in a zoo.     That's what the Corrigan Institute of Morphological Science really is,of course. A zoo. But we don't go out and hunt for our specimens; weadvertise and they come flocking to us. Every alien wants to see Earthonce in his lifetime, and there's only one way he can do it.     We don't keep too big an inventory. At last count, we had 690 specimensbefore this trip, representing 298 different intelligent life-forms.My goal is at least one member of at least 500 different races. When Ireach that, I'll sit back and let the competition catch up—if it can.     After an hour of steady work that morning, we had signed eleven newspecimens. At the same time, we had turned away a dozen ursinoids,fifty of the reptilian natives of Ghryne, seven Sirian spiders, and noless than nineteen chlorine-breathing Procyonites wearing gas masks.     It was also my sad duty to nix a Vegan who was negotiating through aGhrynian agent. A Vegan would be a top-flight attraction, being some400 feet long and appropriately fearsome to the eye, but I didn't seehow we could take one on. They're gentle and likable beings, but theirupkeep runs into literally tons of fresh meat a day, and not just anyold kind of meat either. So we had to do without the Vegan.     One more specimen before lunch, I told Stebbins, to make it an evendozen.     He looked at me queerly and nodded. A being entered. I took a longclose look at the life-form when it came in, and after that I tookanother one. I wondered what kind of stunt was being pulled. So far asI could tell, the being was quite plainly nothing but an Earthman.     He sat down facing me without being asked and crossed his legs. He wastall and extremely thin, with pale blue eyes and dirty-blond hair, andthough he was clean and reasonably well dressed, he had a shabby lookabout him. He said, in level Terran accents, I'm looking for a jobwith your outfit, Corrigan.     There's been a mistake. We're interested in non-terrestrials only.     I'm a non-terrestrial. My name is Ildwar Gorb, of the planet WazzenazzXIII.  I don't mind conning the public from time to time, but I draw the lineat getting bilked myself. Look, friend, I'm busy, and I'm not knownfor my sense of humor. Or my generosity.     I'm not panhandling. I'm looking for a job.     Then try elsewhere. Suppose you stop wasting my time, bud. You're asEarthborn as I am.     I've never been within a dozen parsecs of Earth, he said smoothly. Ihappen to be a representative of the only Earthlike race that existsanywhere in the Galaxy but on Earth itself. Wazzenazz XIII is a smalland little-known planet in the Crab Nebula. Through an evolutionaryfluke, my race is identical with yours. Now, don't you want me in yourcircus?     No. And it's not a circus. It's—     A scientific institute. I stand corrected.     There was something glib and appealing about this preposterous phony. Iguess I recognized a kindred spirit or I would have tossed him out onhis ear without another word. Instead I played along. If you're fromsuch a distant place, how come you speak English so well?     I'm not speaking. I'm a telepath—not the kind that reads minds, justthe kind that projects. I communicate in symbols that you translateback to colloquial speech.     Very clever, Mr. Gorb. I grinned at him and shook my head. You spina good yarn—but for my money, you're really Sam Jones or Phil Smithfrom Earth, stranded here and out of cash. You want a free trip back toEarth. No deal. The demand for beings from Wazzenazz XIII is pretty lowthese days. Zero, in fact. Good-by, Mr. Gorb.     He pointed a finger squarely at me and said, You're making a bigmistake. I'm just what your outfit needs. A representative of ahitherto utterly unknown race identical to humanity in every respect!Look here, examine my teeth. Absolutely like human teeth! And—     I pulled away from his yawning mouth. Good-by, Mr. Gorb, I repeated.     All I ask is a contract, Corrigan. It isn't much. I'll be a bigattraction. I'll—           Good-by, Mr. Gorb!          He glowered at me reproachfully for a moment, stood up and sauntered tothe door. I thought you were a man of acumen, Corrigan. Well, thinkit over. Maybe you'll regret your hastiness. I'll be back to give youanother chance.     He slammed the door and I let my grim expression relax into a smile.This was the best con switch yet—an Earthman posing as an alien to geta job!     But I wasn't buying it, even if I could appreciate his clevernessintellectually. There's no such place as Wazzenazz XIII and there'sonly one human race in the Galaxy—on Earth. I was going to need somereal good reason before I gave a down-and-out grifter a free tickethome.     I didn't know it then, but before the day was out, I would have thatreason. And, with it, plenty of trouble on my hands.  The first harbinger of woe turned up after lunch in the person of aKallerian. The Kallerian was the sixth applicant that afternoon. Ihad turned away three more ursinoids, hired a vegetable from Miazan,and said no to a scaly pseudo-armadillo from one of the Delta Worlds.Hardly had the 'dillo scuttled dejectedly out of my office when theKallerian came striding in, not even waiting for Stebbins to admit himofficially.     He was big even for his kind—in the neighborhood of nine feet high,and getting on toward a ton. He planted himself firmly on his threestocky feet, extended his massive arms in a Kallerian greeting-gesture,and growled, I am Vallo Heraal, Freeman of Kaller IV. You will sign meimmediately to a contract.     Sit down, Freeman Heraal. I like to make my own decisions, thanks.     You will grant me a contract!     Will you please sit down?     He said sulkily, I will remain standing.     As you prefer. My desk has a few concealed features which aresometimes useful in dealing with belligerent or disappointedlife-forms. My fingers roamed to the meshgun trigger, just in case oftrouble.     The Kallerian stood motionless before me. They're hairy creatures, andthis one had a coarse, thick mat of blue fur completely covering hisbody. Two fierce eyes glimmered out through the otherwise dense blanketof fur. He was wearing the kilt, girdle and ceremonial blaster of hiswarlike race.     I said, You'll have to understand, Freeman Heraal, that it's not ourpolicy to maintain more than a few members of each species at ourInstitute. And we're not currently in need of any Kallerian males,because—     You will hire me or trouble I will make!     I opened our inventory chart. I showed him that we were alreadycarrying four Kallerians, and that was more than plenty.     The beady little eyes flashed like beacons in the fur. Yes, you havefour representatives—of the Clan Verdrokh! None of the Clan Gursdrinn!For three years, I have waited for a chance to avenge this insult tothe noble Clan Gursdrinn!     At the key-word      avenge     , I readied myself to ensnarl the Kallerianin a spume of tanglemesh the instant he went for his blaster, but hedidn't move. He bellowed, I have vowed a vow, Earthman. Take me toEarth, enroll a Gursdrinn, or the consequences will be terrible!  I'm a man of principles, like all straightforward double-dealers, andone of the most important of those principles is that I never letmyself be bullied by anyone. I deeply regret having unintentionallyinsulted your clan, Freeman Heraal. Will you accept my apologies?     He glared at me in silence.     I went on, Please be assured that I'll undo the insult at the earliestpossible opportunity. It's not feasible for us to hire anotherKallerian now, but I'll give preference to the Clan Gursdrinn as soonas a vacancy—     No. You will hire me now.     It can't be done, Freeman Heraal. We have a budget, and we stick toit.     You will rue! I will take drastic measures!     Threats will get you nowhere, Freeman Heraal. I give you my word I'llget in touch with you as soon as our organization has room for anotherKallerian. And now, please, there are many applicants waiting—     You'd think it would be sort of humiliating to become a specimen in azoo, but most of these races take it as an honor. And there's alwaysthe chance that, by picking a given member of a race, we're insultingall the others.     I nudged the trouble-button on the side of my desk and Auchinleck andLudlow appeared simultaneously from the two doors at right and left.They surrounded the towering Kallerian and sweet-talkingly led himaway. He wasn't minded to quarrel physically, or he could have knockedthem both into the next city with a backhand swipe of his shaggy paw,but he kept up a growling flow of invective and threats until he wasout in the hall.     I mopped sweat from my forehead and began to buzz Stebbins for the nextapplicant. But before my finger touched the button, the door poppedopen and a small being came scooting in, followed by an angry Stebbins.     Come here, you!     Stebbins? I said gently.     I'm sorry, Mr. Corrigan. I lost sight of this one for a moment, and hecame running in—     Please, please, squeaked the little alien pitifully. I must see you,honored sir!     It isn't his turn in line, Stebbins protested. There are at leastfifty ahead of him.       All right, I said tiredly. As long as he's in here already, I mightas well see him. Be more careful next time, Stebbins.     Stebbins nodded dolefully and backed out.  The alien was a pathetic sight: a Stortulian, a squirrely-lookingcreature about three feet high. His fur, which should have been alustrous black, was a dull gray, and his eyes were wet and sad. Histail drooped. His voice was little more than a faint whimper, even atfull volume.     Begging your most honored pardon most humbly, important sir. I am abeing of Stortul XII, having sold my last few possessions to travelto Ghryne for the miserable purpose of obtaining an interview withyourself.     I said, I'd better tell you right at the outset that we're alreadycarrying our full complement of Stortulians. We have both a male and afemale now and—     This is known to me. The female—is her name perchance Tiress?     I glanced down at the inventory chart until I found the Stortulianentry. Yes, that's her name.     The little being immediately emitted a soul-shaking gasp. It is she!It is she!     I'm afraid we don't have room for any more—     You are not in full understanding of my plight. The female Tiress,she is—was—my own Fire-sent spouse, my comfort and my warmth, my lifeand my love.     Funny, I said. When we signed her three years ago, she said she wassingle. It's right here on the chart.     She lied! She left my burrow because she longed to see the splendorsof Earth. And I am alone, bound by our sacred customs never to remarry,languishing in sadness and pining for her return. You      must     take me toEarth!     But—     I must see her—her and this disgrace-bringing lover of hers. I mustreason with her. Earthman, can't you see I must appeal to her innerflame?      I must bring her back!          My face was expressionless. You don't really intend to join ourorganization at all—you just want free passage to Earth?     Yes, yes! wailed the Stortulian. Find some other member of my race,if you must! Let me have my wife again, Earthman! Is your heart a deadlump of stone?  It isn't, but another of my principles is to refuse to be swayed bysentiment. I felt sorry for this being's domestic troubles, but Iwasn't going to break up a good act just to make an alien squirrelhappy—not to mention footing the transportation.     I said, I don't see how we can manage it. The laws are very stricton the subject of bringing alien life to Earth. It has to be forscientific purposes only. And if I know in advance that your purpose incoming isn't scientific, I can't in all conscience      lie     for you, canI?     Well—     Of course not. I took advantage of his pathetic upset to steam rightalong. Now if you had come in here and simply asked me to sign you up,I might conceivably have done it. But no—you had to go unburden yourheart to me.     I thought the truth would move you.     It did. But in effect you're now asking me to conspire in a fraudulentcriminal act. Friend, I can't do it. My reputation means too much tome, I said piously.     Then you will refuse me?     My heart melts to nothingness for you. But I can't take you to Earth.     Perhaps you will send my wife to me here?     There's a clause in every contract that allows me to jettison anunwanted specimen. All I have to do is declare it no longer ofscientific interest, and the World Government will deport theundesirable alien back to its home world. But I wouldn't pull a lowtrick like that on our female Stortulian.     I said, I'll ask her about coming home. But I won't ship her backagainst her will. And maybe she's happier where she is.     The Stortulian seemed to shrivel. His eyelids closed half-way to maskhis tears. He turned and shambled slowly to the door, walking like aliving dishrag. In a bleak voice, he said, There is no hope then. Allis lost. I will never see my soulmate again. Good day, Earthman.     He spoke in a drab monotone that almost, but not quite, had me weeping.I watched him shuffle out. I do have      some     conscience, and I had theuneasy feeling I had just been talking to a being who was about tocommit suicide on my account.  About fifty more applicants were processed without a hitch. Then lifestarted to get complicated again.     Nine of the fifty were okay. The rest were unacceptable for one reasonor another, and they took the bad news quietly enough. The haul for theday so far was close to two dozen new life-forms under contract.     I had just about begun to forget about the incidents of the Kallerian'soutraged pride and the Stortulian's flighty wife when the door openedand the Earthman who called himself Ildwar Gorb of Wazzenazz XIIIstepped in.     How did      you     get in here? I demanded.     Your man happened to be looking the wrong way, he said cheerily.Change your mind about me yet?     Get out before I have you thrown out.     Gorb shrugged. I figured you hadn't changed your mind, so I've changedmy pitch a bit. If you won't believe I'm from Wazzenazz XIII, suppose Itell you that I      am     Earthborn, and that I'm looking for a job on yourstaff.     I don't care      what     your story is! Get out or—     —you'll have me thrown out. Okay, okay. Just give me half a second.Corrigan, you're no fool, and neither am I—but that fellow of yoursoutside      is     . He doesn't know how to handle alien beings. How manytimes today has a life-form come in here unexpectedly?     I scowled at him. Too damn many.     You see? He's incompetent. Suppose you fire him, take me on instead.I've been living in the outworlds half my life; I know all there is toknow about alien life-forms. You can use me, Corrigan.     I took a deep breath and glanced all around the paneled ceiling ofthe office before I spoke. Listen, Gorb, or whatever your name is,I've had a hard day. There's been a Kallerian in here who just aboutthreatened murder, and there's been a Stortulian in here who's aboutto commit suicide because of me. I have a conscience and it's troublingme. But get this: I just want to finish off my recruiting, pack up andgo home to Earth. I don't want you hanging around here bothering me.I'm not looking to hire new staff members, and if you switch back toclaiming you're an unknown life-form from Wazzenazz XIII, the answer isthat I'm not looking for any of      those     either. Now will you scram or—     The office door crashed open at that point and Heraal, the Kallerian,came thundering in. He was dressed from head to toe in glitteringmetalfoil, and instead of his ceremonial blaster, he was wieldinga sword the length of a human being. Stebbins and Auchinleck camedragging helplessly along in his wake, hanging desperately to his belt.     Sorry, Chief, Stebbins gasped. I tried to keep him out, but—     Heraal, who had planted himself in front of my desk, drowned him outwith a roar. Earthman, you have mortally insulted the Clan Gursdrinn!  Sitting with my hands poised near the meshgun trigger, I was ready tolet him have it at the first sight of actual violence.     Heraal boomed, You are responsible for what is to happen now. I havenotified the authorities and you prosecuted will be for causing thedeath of a life-form! Suffer, Earthborn ape! Suffer!     Watch it, Chief, Stebbins yelled. He's going to—     An instant before my numb fingers could tighten on the meshguntrigger, Heraal swung that huge sword through the air and plunged itsavagely through his body. He toppled forward onto the carpet with thesword projecting a couple of feet out of his back. A few driblets ofbluish-purple blood spread from beneath him.     Before I could react to the big life-form's hara-kiri, the office doorflew open again and three sleek reptilian beings entered, garbed in thegreen sashes of the local police force. Their golden eyes goggled downat the figure on the floor, then came to rest on me.     You are J. F. Corrigan? the leader asked.     Y-yes.     We have received word of a complaint against you. Said complaintbeing—     —that your unethical actions have directly contributed to theuntimely death of an intelligent life-form, filled in the second ofthe Ghrynian policemen.     The evidence lies before us, intoned the leader, in the cadaverof the unfortunate Kallerian who filed the complaint with us severalminutes ago.     And therefore, said the third lizard, it is our duty to arrestyou for this crime and declare you subject to a fine of no less than$100,000 Galactic or two years in prison.     Hold on! I stormed. You mean that any being from anywhere in theUniverse can come in here and gut himself on my carpet, and      I'm     responsible?     This is the law. Do you deny that your stubborn refusal to yield tothis late life-form's request lies at the root of his sad demise?     Well, no, but—     Failure to deny is admission of guilt. You are guilty, Earthman.  Closing my eyes wearily, I tried to wish the whole babbling lot of themaway. If I had to, I could pony up the hundred-grand fine, but it wasgoing to put an awful dent in this year's take. And I shuddered when Iremembered that any minute that scrawny little Stortulian was likely tocome bursting in here to kill himself too. Was it a fine of $100,000per suicide? At that rate, I could be out of business by nightfall.     I was spared further such morbid thoughts by yet another unannouncedarrival.     The small figure of the Stortulian trudged through the open doorwayand stationed itself limply near the threshold. The three Ghrynianpolicemen and my three assistants forgot the dead Kallerian for amoment and turned to eye the newcomer.     I had visions of unending troubles with the law here on Ghryne. Iresolved never to come here on a recruiting trip again—or, if I      did     come, to figure out some more effective way of screening myself againstcrackpots.     In heart-rending tones, the Stortulian declared, Life is no longerworth living. My last hope is gone. There is only one thing left for meto do.     I was quivering at the thought of another hundred thousand smackersgoing down the drain. Stop him, somebody! He's going to kill himself!He's—     Then somebody sprinted toward me, hit me amidships, and knocked meflying out from behind my desk before I had a chance to fire themeshgun. My head walloped the floor, and for five or six seconds, Iguess I wasn't fully aware of what was going on.     Gradually the scene took shape around me. There was a monstrous holein the wall behind my desk; a smoking blaster lay on the floor, and Isaw the three Ghrynian policemen sitting on the raving Stortulian. Theman who called himself Ildwar Gorb was getting to his feet and dustinghimself off.     He helped me up. Sorry to have had to tackle you, Corrigan. But thatStortulian wasn't here to commit suicide, you see. He was out to getyou.     I weaved dizzily toward my desk and dropped into my chair. A flyingfragment of wall had deflated my pneumatic cushion. The smell of ashedplaster was everywhere. The police were effectively cocooning thestruggling little alien in an unbreakable tanglemesh.     Evidently you don't know as much as you think you do about Stortulianpsychology, Corrigan, Gorb said lightly. Suicide is completelyabhorrent to them. When they're troubled, they kill the person whocaused their trouble. In this case, you.  I began to chuckle—more of a tension-relieving snicker than afull-bodied laugh.     Funny, I said.     What is? asked the self-styled Wazzenazzian.     These aliens. Big blustery Heraal came in with murder in his eye andkilled      himself     , and the pint-sized Stortulian who looked so meek andpathetic damn near blew my head off. I shuddered. Thanks for thetackle job.     Don't mention it, Gorb said.     I glared at the Ghrynian police. Well? What are you waiting for? Takethat murderous little beast out of here! Or isn't murder against thelocal laws?     The Stortulian will be duly punished, replied the leader of theGhrynian cops calmly. But there is the matter of the dead Kallerianand the fine of—     —one hundred thousand dollars. I know. I groaned and turned toStebbins. Get the Terran Consulate on the phone, Stebbins. Have themsend down a legal adviser. Find out if there's any way we can get outof this mess with our skins intact.     Right, Chief. Stebbins moved toward the visiphone.     Gorb stepped forward and put a hand on his chest.     Hold it, the Wazzenazzian said crisply. The Consulate can't helpyou. I can.     You? I said.     I can get you out of this cheap.           How     cheap?     Gorb grinned rakishly. Five thousand in cash plus a contract as aspecimen with your outfit. In advance, of course. That's a heck of alot better than forking over a hundred grand, isn't it?     I eyed Gorb uncertainly. The Terran Consulate people probably wouldn'tbe much help; they tried to keep out of local squabbles unless theywere really serious, and I knew from past experiences that no officialsever worried much about the state of my pocketbook. On the other hand,giving this slyster a contract might be a risky proposition.     Tell you what, I said finally. You've got yourself a deal—but ona contingency basis. Get me out of this and you'll have five grand andthe contract. Otherwise, nothing.     Gorb shrugged. What have I to lose?  ","Sometime after the year 2903, the narrator of the story, Mr. Corrigan, is having a recruiting day on the planet of Ghryne, which he privately calls MacTavish IV. Mr. Corrigan owns a popular zoo on Earth called the Corrigan Institute - the only place where humans can see other species of the universe. He recruits alien life forms to exhibit at the zoo, and relatively quickly signs eleven new specimens onto his current 690 that are under contract at the institute on earth. This is a viable business because the World Congress declared Earth off-bounds to aliens in 2903, and the only way aliens can now go to Earth is as exhibits in this zoo.Aliens make great sacrifices to come interview with Mr. Corrigan, as it seems he offers them a good deal. Those under contract are required to remain on exhibit for less than one-third of each day and get paid $50 Galactic a week, with expenses and transportation included. He interviews many different creatures through the day, with some being noteworthy and some not as much, being ushered away quickly by Mr. Corrigan’s assistant Stebbins. A Stortulian who claims his wife ran away to the Corrigan Institute, leaving him alone and unable to remarry due to his customs, pleads with Corrigan to let him go to Earth or at the very least to send her back. Mr. Corrigan is slightly frazzled by the story, but ultimately asks the Stortulian to leave, feeling sad and that he may commit suicide upon leaving and losing hope for his wife to return.Vallo Heraal, Freeman of Kaller IV, was another notable interview. He stormed in and demanded to be signed to contract - and Mr. Corrigan preferred to make his own decisions. Herald felt insulted that the only four Kallerians at the institute were from the Clan Verdrokh, with no representation at all from his Clan Gursdrinn. Corrigan insisted he was unable to take another Kallerian, and apologized for insulting Clan Gursdrinn. This was enough to de-escalate physical violence, but Heraal was not pleased, and had to be escorted out of the room by Auchinleck and Ludlow who were summoned when Corrigan pushed a panic button under his desk.In a surprise twist from what Corrigan had expected - the Stortulian to kill himself, and for Heraal to try to kill him - the opposite happens. Heraal storms in and stabs himself with his own sword, killing him instantly. The Stortulian returns and attempts to murder Mr. Corrigan, who is narrowly saved by being tackled by Gorb. The Ghrynian cops attempt to place a $100,000 fine on Corrigan for causing the death of a being (Heraal, who killed himself after being refused a contract). Gorb offers to get Corrigan out of the situation for $5000 and a contract to the institute, which is accepted."
"Who is Mr. Fitzgerald and what happens to him in the story? </s>     Birds of a Feather     By ROBERT SILVERBERG     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine November 1958.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Getting specimens for the interstellar zoo       was no problem—they battled for the honor—but       now I had to fight like a wildcat to       keep a display from making a monkey of me!        It was our first day of recruiting on the planet, and the alienlife-forms had lined up for hundreds of feet back from my rentedoffice. As I came down the block from the hotel, I could hear and seeand smell them with ease.     My three staff men, Auchinleck, Stebbins and Ludlow, walked shieldwisein front of me. I peered between them to size the crop up. The alienscame in every shape and form, in all colors and textures—and all ofthem eager for a Corrigan contract. The Galaxy is full of bizarrebeings, but there's barely a species anywhere that can resist the oldexhibitionist urge.     Send them in one at a time, I told Stebbins. I ducked into theoffice, took my place back of the desk and waited for the procession tobegin.     The name of the planet was MacTavish IV (if you went by the officialTerran listing) or Ghryne (if you called it by what its people wereaccustomed to calling it). I thought of it privately as MacTavish IVand referred to it publicly as Ghryne. I believe in keeping the localshappy wherever I go.     Through the front window of the office, I could see our big gay tridimsign plastered to a facing wall: WANTED—EXTRATERRESTRIALS! We hadsaturated MacTavish IV with our promotional poop for a month precedingarrival. Stuff like this:       Want to visit Earth—see the Galaxy's most glittering and exclusiveworld? Want to draw good pay, work short hours, experience the thrillsof show business on romantic Terra? If you are a non-terrestrial,there may be a place for you in the Corrigan Institute ofMorphological Science. No freaks wanted—normal beings only. J. F.Corrigan will hold interviews in person on Ghryne from Thirdday toFifthday of Tenmonth. His last visit to the Caledonia Cluster until2937, so don't miss your chance! Hurry! A life of wonder and richescan be yours!    Broadsides like that, distributed wholesale in half a thousandlanguages, always bring them running. And the Corrigan Institute reallypacks in the crowds back on Earth. Why not? It's the best of its kind,the only really decent place where Earthmen can get a gander at theother species of the universe.     The office buzzer sounded. Auchinleck said unctuously, The firstapplicant is ready to see you, sir.     Send him, her or it in.     The door opened and a timid-looking life-form advanced toward me onnervous little legs. He was a globular creature about the size of abig basketball, yellowish-green, with two spindly double-kneed legs andfive double-elbowed arms, the latter spaced regularly around his body.There was a lidless eye at the top of his head and five lidded ones,one above each arm. Plus a big, gaping, toothless mouth.       His voice was a surprisingly resounding basso. You are Mr. Corrigan?     That's right. I reached for a data blank. Before we begin, I'll needcertain information about—     I am a being of Regulus II, came the grave, booming reply, evenbefore I had picked up the blank. I need no special care and I am nota fugitive from the law of any world.     Your name?     Lawrence R. Fitzgerald.     I throttled my exclamation of surprise, concealing it behind a quickcough. Let me have that again, please?     Certainly. My name is Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. The 'R' stands forRaymond.     Of course, that's not the name you were born with.     The being closed his eyes and toddled around in a 360-degree rotation,remaining in place. On his world, that gesture is the equivalent ofan apologetic smile. My Regulan name no longer matters. I am now andshall evermore be Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. I am a Terraphile, you see.  The little Regulan was as good as hired. Only the formalities remained.You understand our terms, Mr. Fitzgerald?     I'll be placed on exhibition at your Institute on Earth. You'll payfor my services, transportation and expenses. I'll be required toremain on exhibit no more than one-third of each Terran sidereal day.     And the pay will be—ah—$50 Galactic a week, plus expenses andtransportation.     The spherical creature clapped his hands in joy, three hands clappingon one side, two on the other. Wonderful! I will see Earth at last! Iaccept the terms!     I buzzed for Ludlow and gave him the fast signal that meant we weresigning this alien up at half the usual pay, and Ludlow took him intothe other office to sign him up.     I grinned, pleased with myself. We needed a green Regulan in our show;the last one had quit four years ago. But just because we needed himdidn't mean we had to be extravagant in hiring him. A Terraphile alienwho goes to the extent of rechristening himself with a Terran monickerwould work for nothing, or even pay us, just so long as we let him getto Earth. My conscience won't let me really      exploit     a being, but Idon't believe in throwing money away, either.     The next applicant was a beefy ursinoid from Aldebaran IX. Our outfithas all the ursinoids it needs or is likely to need in the next fewdecades, and so I got rid of him in a couple of minutes. He wasfollowed by a roly-poly blue-skinned humanoid from Donovan's Planet,four feet high and five hundred pounds heavy. We already had a coupleof his species in the show, but they made good crowd-pleasers, beingso plump and cheerful. I passed him along to Auchinleck to sign atanything short of top rate.     Next came a bedraggled Sirian spider who was more interested in ahandout than a job. If there's any species we have a real over-supplyof, it's those silver-colored spiders, but this seedy specimen gave ita try anyway. He got the gate in half a minute, and he didn't even getthe handout he was angling for. I don't approve of begging.     The flora of applicants was steady. Ghryne is in the heart of theCaledonia Cluster, where the interstellar crossroads meet. We hadfigured to pick up plenty of new exhibits here and we were right.  It was the isolationism of the late 29th century that turned me intothe successful proprietor of Corrigan's Institute, after some yearsas an impoverished carnival man in the Betelgeuse system. Back in2903, the World Congress declared Terra off-bounds for non-terrestrialbeings, as an offshoot of the Terra for Terrans movement.     Before then, anyone could visit Earth. After the gate clanged down,a non-terrestrial could only get onto Sol III as a specimen in ascientific collection—in short, as an exhibit in a zoo.     That's what the Corrigan Institute of Morphological Science really is,of course. A zoo. But we don't go out and hunt for our specimens; weadvertise and they come flocking to us. Every alien wants to see Earthonce in his lifetime, and there's only one way he can do it.     We don't keep too big an inventory. At last count, we had 690 specimensbefore this trip, representing 298 different intelligent life-forms.My goal is at least one member of at least 500 different races. When Ireach that, I'll sit back and let the competition catch up—if it can.     After an hour of steady work that morning, we had signed eleven newspecimens. At the same time, we had turned away a dozen ursinoids,fifty of the reptilian natives of Ghryne, seven Sirian spiders, and noless than nineteen chlorine-breathing Procyonites wearing gas masks.     It was also my sad duty to nix a Vegan who was negotiating through aGhrynian agent. A Vegan would be a top-flight attraction, being some400 feet long and appropriately fearsome to the eye, but I didn't seehow we could take one on. They're gentle and likable beings, but theirupkeep runs into literally tons of fresh meat a day, and not just anyold kind of meat either. So we had to do without the Vegan.     One more specimen before lunch, I told Stebbins, to make it an evendozen.     He looked at me queerly and nodded. A being entered. I took a longclose look at the life-form when it came in, and after that I tookanother one. I wondered what kind of stunt was being pulled. So far asI could tell, the being was quite plainly nothing but an Earthman.     He sat down facing me without being asked and crossed his legs. He wastall and extremely thin, with pale blue eyes and dirty-blond hair, andthough he was clean and reasonably well dressed, he had a shabby lookabout him. He said, in level Terran accents, I'm looking for a jobwith your outfit, Corrigan.     There's been a mistake. We're interested in non-terrestrials only.     I'm a non-terrestrial. My name is Ildwar Gorb, of the planet WazzenazzXIII.  I don't mind conning the public from time to time, but I draw the lineat getting bilked myself. Look, friend, I'm busy, and I'm not knownfor my sense of humor. Or my generosity.     I'm not panhandling. I'm looking for a job.     Then try elsewhere. Suppose you stop wasting my time, bud. You're asEarthborn as I am.     I've never been within a dozen parsecs of Earth, he said smoothly. Ihappen to be a representative of the only Earthlike race that existsanywhere in the Galaxy but on Earth itself. Wazzenazz XIII is a smalland little-known planet in the Crab Nebula. Through an evolutionaryfluke, my race is identical with yours. Now, don't you want me in yourcircus?     No. And it's not a circus. It's—     A scientific institute. I stand corrected.     There was something glib and appealing about this preposterous phony. Iguess I recognized a kindred spirit or I would have tossed him out onhis ear without another word. Instead I played along. If you're fromsuch a distant place, how come you speak English so well?     I'm not speaking. I'm a telepath—not the kind that reads minds, justthe kind that projects. I communicate in symbols that you translateback to colloquial speech.     Very clever, Mr. Gorb. I grinned at him and shook my head. You spina good yarn—but for my money, you're really Sam Jones or Phil Smithfrom Earth, stranded here and out of cash. You want a free trip back toEarth. No deal. The demand for beings from Wazzenazz XIII is pretty lowthese days. Zero, in fact. Good-by, Mr. Gorb.     He pointed a finger squarely at me and said, You're making a bigmistake. I'm just what your outfit needs. A representative of ahitherto utterly unknown race identical to humanity in every respect!Look here, examine my teeth. Absolutely like human teeth! And—     I pulled away from his yawning mouth. Good-by, Mr. Gorb, I repeated.     All I ask is a contract, Corrigan. It isn't much. I'll be a bigattraction. I'll—           Good-by, Mr. Gorb!          He glowered at me reproachfully for a moment, stood up and sauntered tothe door. I thought you were a man of acumen, Corrigan. Well, thinkit over. Maybe you'll regret your hastiness. I'll be back to give youanother chance.     He slammed the door and I let my grim expression relax into a smile.This was the best con switch yet—an Earthman posing as an alien to geta job!     But I wasn't buying it, even if I could appreciate his clevernessintellectually. There's no such place as Wazzenazz XIII and there'sonly one human race in the Galaxy—on Earth. I was going to need somereal good reason before I gave a down-and-out grifter a free tickethome.     I didn't know it then, but before the day was out, I would have thatreason. And, with it, plenty of trouble on my hands.  The first harbinger of woe turned up after lunch in the person of aKallerian. The Kallerian was the sixth applicant that afternoon. Ihad turned away three more ursinoids, hired a vegetable from Miazan,and said no to a scaly pseudo-armadillo from one of the Delta Worlds.Hardly had the 'dillo scuttled dejectedly out of my office when theKallerian came striding in, not even waiting for Stebbins to admit himofficially.     He was big even for his kind—in the neighborhood of nine feet high,and getting on toward a ton. He planted himself firmly on his threestocky feet, extended his massive arms in a Kallerian greeting-gesture,and growled, I am Vallo Heraal, Freeman of Kaller IV. You will sign meimmediately to a contract.     Sit down, Freeman Heraal. I like to make my own decisions, thanks.     You will grant me a contract!     Will you please sit down?     He said sulkily, I will remain standing.     As you prefer. My desk has a few concealed features which aresometimes useful in dealing with belligerent or disappointedlife-forms. My fingers roamed to the meshgun trigger, just in case oftrouble.     The Kallerian stood motionless before me. They're hairy creatures, andthis one had a coarse, thick mat of blue fur completely covering hisbody. Two fierce eyes glimmered out through the otherwise dense blanketof fur. He was wearing the kilt, girdle and ceremonial blaster of hiswarlike race.     I said, You'll have to understand, Freeman Heraal, that it's not ourpolicy to maintain more than a few members of each species at ourInstitute. And we're not currently in need of any Kallerian males,because—     You will hire me or trouble I will make!     I opened our inventory chart. I showed him that we were alreadycarrying four Kallerians, and that was more than plenty.     The beady little eyes flashed like beacons in the fur. Yes, you havefour representatives—of the Clan Verdrokh! None of the Clan Gursdrinn!For three years, I have waited for a chance to avenge this insult tothe noble Clan Gursdrinn!     At the key-word      avenge     , I readied myself to ensnarl the Kallerianin a spume of tanglemesh the instant he went for his blaster, but hedidn't move. He bellowed, I have vowed a vow, Earthman. Take me toEarth, enroll a Gursdrinn, or the consequences will be terrible!  I'm a man of principles, like all straightforward double-dealers, andone of the most important of those principles is that I never letmyself be bullied by anyone. I deeply regret having unintentionallyinsulted your clan, Freeman Heraal. Will you accept my apologies?     He glared at me in silence.     I went on, Please be assured that I'll undo the insult at the earliestpossible opportunity. It's not feasible for us to hire anotherKallerian now, but I'll give preference to the Clan Gursdrinn as soonas a vacancy—     No. You will hire me now.     It can't be done, Freeman Heraal. We have a budget, and we stick toit.     You will rue! I will take drastic measures!     Threats will get you nowhere, Freeman Heraal. I give you my word I'llget in touch with you as soon as our organization has room for anotherKallerian. And now, please, there are many applicants waiting—     You'd think it would be sort of humiliating to become a specimen in azoo, but most of these races take it as an honor. And there's alwaysthe chance that, by picking a given member of a race, we're insultingall the others.     I nudged the trouble-button on the side of my desk and Auchinleck andLudlow appeared simultaneously from the two doors at right and left.They surrounded the towering Kallerian and sweet-talkingly led himaway. He wasn't minded to quarrel physically, or he could have knockedthem both into the next city with a backhand swipe of his shaggy paw,but he kept up a growling flow of invective and threats until he wasout in the hall.     I mopped sweat from my forehead and began to buzz Stebbins for the nextapplicant. But before my finger touched the button, the door poppedopen and a small being came scooting in, followed by an angry Stebbins.     Come here, you!     Stebbins? I said gently.     I'm sorry, Mr. Corrigan. I lost sight of this one for a moment, and hecame running in—     Please, please, squeaked the little alien pitifully. I must see you,honored sir!     It isn't his turn in line, Stebbins protested. There are at leastfifty ahead of him.       All right, I said tiredly. As long as he's in here already, I mightas well see him. Be more careful next time, Stebbins.     Stebbins nodded dolefully and backed out.  The alien was a pathetic sight: a Stortulian, a squirrely-lookingcreature about three feet high. His fur, which should have been alustrous black, was a dull gray, and his eyes were wet and sad. Histail drooped. His voice was little more than a faint whimper, even atfull volume.     Begging your most honored pardon most humbly, important sir. I am abeing of Stortul XII, having sold my last few possessions to travelto Ghryne for the miserable purpose of obtaining an interview withyourself.     I said, I'd better tell you right at the outset that we're alreadycarrying our full complement of Stortulians. We have both a male and afemale now and—     This is known to me. The female—is her name perchance Tiress?     I glanced down at the inventory chart until I found the Stortulianentry. Yes, that's her name.     The little being immediately emitted a soul-shaking gasp. It is she!It is she!     I'm afraid we don't have room for any more—     You are not in full understanding of my plight. The female Tiress,she is—was—my own Fire-sent spouse, my comfort and my warmth, my lifeand my love.     Funny, I said. When we signed her three years ago, she said she wassingle. It's right here on the chart.     She lied! She left my burrow because she longed to see the splendorsof Earth. And I am alone, bound by our sacred customs never to remarry,languishing in sadness and pining for her return. You      must     take me toEarth!     But—     I must see her—her and this disgrace-bringing lover of hers. I mustreason with her. Earthman, can't you see I must appeal to her innerflame?      I must bring her back!          My face was expressionless. You don't really intend to join ourorganization at all—you just want free passage to Earth?     Yes, yes! wailed the Stortulian. Find some other member of my race,if you must! Let me have my wife again, Earthman! Is your heart a deadlump of stone?  It isn't, but another of my principles is to refuse to be swayed bysentiment. I felt sorry for this being's domestic troubles, but Iwasn't going to break up a good act just to make an alien squirrelhappy—not to mention footing the transportation.     I said, I don't see how we can manage it. The laws are very stricton the subject of bringing alien life to Earth. It has to be forscientific purposes only. And if I know in advance that your purpose incoming isn't scientific, I can't in all conscience      lie     for you, canI?     Well—     Of course not. I took advantage of his pathetic upset to steam rightalong. Now if you had come in here and simply asked me to sign you up,I might conceivably have done it. But no—you had to go unburden yourheart to me.     I thought the truth would move you.     It did. But in effect you're now asking me to conspire in a fraudulentcriminal act. Friend, I can't do it. My reputation means too much tome, I said piously.     Then you will refuse me?     My heart melts to nothingness for you. But I can't take you to Earth.     Perhaps you will send my wife to me here?     There's a clause in every contract that allows me to jettison anunwanted specimen. All I have to do is declare it no longer ofscientific interest, and the World Government will deport theundesirable alien back to its home world. But I wouldn't pull a lowtrick like that on our female Stortulian.     I said, I'll ask her about coming home. But I won't ship her backagainst her will. And maybe she's happier where she is.     The Stortulian seemed to shrivel. His eyelids closed half-way to maskhis tears. He turned and shambled slowly to the door, walking like aliving dishrag. In a bleak voice, he said, There is no hope then. Allis lost. I will never see my soulmate again. Good day, Earthman.     He spoke in a drab monotone that almost, but not quite, had me weeping.I watched him shuffle out. I do have      some     conscience, and I had theuneasy feeling I had just been talking to a being who was about tocommit suicide on my account.  About fifty more applicants were processed without a hitch. Then lifestarted to get complicated again.     Nine of the fifty were okay. The rest were unacceptable for one reasonor another, and they took the bad news quietly enough. The haul for theday so far was close to two dozen new life-forms under contract.     I had just about begun to forget about the incidents of the Kallerian'soutraged pride and the Stortulian's flighty wife when the door openedand the Earthman who called himself Ildwar Gorb of Wazzenazz XIIIstepped in.     How did      you     get in here? I demanded.     Your man happened to be looking the wrong way, he said cheerily.Change your mind about me yet?     Get out before I have you thrown out.     Gorb shrugged. I figured you hadn't changed your mind, so I've changedmy pitch a bit. If you won't believe I'm from Wazzenazz XIII, suppose Itell you that I      am     Earthborn, and that I'm looking for a job on yourstaff.     I don't care      what     your story is! Get out or—     —you'll have me thrown out. Okay, okay. Just give me half a second.Corrigan, you're no fool, and neither am I—but that fellow of yoursoutside      is     . He doesn't know how to handle alien beings. How manytimes today has a life-form come in here unexpectedly?     I scowled at him. Too damn many.     You see? He's incompetent. Suppose you fire him, take me on instead.I've been living in the outworlds half my life; I know all there is toknow about alien life-forms. You can use me, Corrigan.     I took a deep breath and glanced all around the paneled ceiling ofthe office before I spoke. Listen, Gorb, or whatever your name is,I've had a hard day. There's been a Kallerian in here who just aboutthreatened murder, and there's been a Stortulian in here who's aboutto commit suicide because of me. I have a conscience and it's troublingme. But get this: I just want to finish off my recruiting, pack up andgo home to Earth. I don't want you hanging around here bothering me.I'm not looking to hire new staff members, and if you switch back toclaiming you're an unknown life-form from Wazzenazz XIII, the answer isthat I'm not looking for any of      those     either. Now will you scram or—     The office door crashed open at that point and Heraal, the Kallerian,came thundering in. He was dressed from head to toe in glitteringmetalfoil, and instead of his ceremonial blaster, he was wieldinga sword the length of a human being. Stebbins and Auchinleck camedragging helplessly along in his wake, hanging desperately to his belt.     Sorry, Chief, Stebbins gasped. I tried to keep him out, but—     Heraal, who had planted himself in front of my desk, drowned him outwith a roar. Earthman, you have mortally insulted the Clan Gursdrinn!  Sitting with my hands poised near the meshgun trigger, I was ready tolet him have it at the first sight of actual violence.     Heraal boomed, You are responsible for what is to happen now. I havenotified the authorities and you prosecuted will be for causing thedeath of a life-form! Suffer, Earthborn ape! Suffer!     Watch it, Chief, Stebbins yelled. He's going to—     An instant before my numb fingers could tighten on the meshguntrigger, Heraal swung that huge sword through the air and plunged itsavagely through his body. He toppled forward onto the carpet with thesword projecting a couple of feet out of his back. A few driblets ofbluish-purple blood spread from beneath him.     Before I could react to the big life-form's hara-kiri, the office doorflew open again and three sleek reptilian beings entered, garbed in thegreen sashes of the local police force. Their golden eyes goggled downat the figure on the floor, then came to rest on me.     You are J. F. Corrigan? the leader asked.     Y-yes.     We have received word of a complaint against you. Said complaintbeing—     —that your unethical actions have directly contributed to theuntimely death of an intelligent life-form, filled in the second ofthe Ghrynian policemen.     The evidence lies before us, intoned the leader, in the cadaverof the unfortunate Kallerian who filed the complaint with us severalminutes ago.     And therefore, said the third lizard, it is our duty to arrestyou for this crime and declare you subject to a fine of no less than$100,000 Galactic or two years in prison.     Hold on! I stormed. You mean that any being from anywhere in theUniverse can come in here and gut himself on my carpet, and      I'm     responsible?     This is the law. Do you deny that your stubborn refusal to yield tothis late life-form's request lies at the root of his sad demise?     Well, no, but—     Failure to deny is admission of guilt. You are guilty, Earthman.  Closing my eyes wearily, I tried to wish the whole babbling lot of themaway. If I had to, I could pony up the hundred-grand fine, but it wasgoing to put an awful dent in this year's take. And I shuddered when Iremembered that any minute that scrawny little Stortulian was likely tocome bursting in here to kill himself too. Was it a fine of $100,000per suicide? At that rate, I could be out of business by nightfall.     I was spared further such morbid thoughts by yet another unannouncedarrival.     The small figure of the Stortulian trudged through the open doorwayand stationed itself limply near the threshold. The three Ghrynianpolicemen and my three assistants forgot the dead Kallerian for amoment and turned to eye the newcomer.     I had visions of unending troubles with the law here on Ghryne. Iresolved never to come here on a recruiting trip again—or, if I      did     come, to figure out some more effective way of screening myself againstcrackpots.     In heart-rending tones, the Stortulian declared, Life is no longerworth living. My last hope is gone. There is only one thing left for meto do.     I was quivering at the thought of another hundred thousand smackersgoing down the drain. Stop him, somebody! He's going to kill himself!He's—     Then somebody sprinted toward me, hit me amidships, and knocked meflying out from behind my desk before I had a chance to fire themeshgun. My head walloped the floor, and for five or six seconds, Iguess I wasn't fully aware of what was going on.     Gradually the scene took shape around me. There was a monstrous holein the wall behind my desk; a smoking blaster lay on the floor, and Isaw the three Ghrynian policemen sitting on the raving Stortulian. Theman who called himself Ildwar Gorb was getting to his feet and dustinghimself off.     He helped me up. Sorry to have had to tackle you, Corrigan. But thatStortulian wasn't here to commit suicide, you see. He was out to getyou.     I weaved dizzily toward my desk and dropped into my chair. A flyingfragment of wall had deflated my pneumatic cushion. The smell of ashedplaster was everywhere. The police were effectively cocooning thestruggling little alien in an unbreakable tanglemesh.     Evidently you don't know as much as you think you do about Stortulianpsychology, Corrigan, Gorb said lightly. Suicide is completelyabhorrent to them. When they're troubled, they kill the person whocaused their trouble. In this case, you.  I began to chuckle—more of a tension-relieving snicker than afull-bodied laugh.     Funny, I said.     What is? asked the self-styled Wazzenazzian.     These aliens. Big blustery Heraal came in with murder in his eye andkilled      himself     , and the pint-sized Stortulian who looked so meek andpathetic damn near blew my head off. I shuddered. Thanks for thetackle job.     Don't mention it, Gorb said.     I glared at the Ghrynian police. Well? What are you waiting for? Takethat murderous little beast out of here! Or isn't murder against thelocal laws?     The Stortulian will be duly punished, replied the leader of theGhrynian cops calmly. But there is the matter of the dead Kallerianand the fine of—     —one hundred thousand dollars. I know. I groaned and turned toStebbins. Get the Terran Consulate on the phone, Stebbins. Have themsend down a legal adviser. Find out if there's any way we can get outof this mess with our skins intact.     Right, Chief. Stebbins moved toward the visiphone.     Gorb stepped forward and put a hand on his chest.     Hold it, the Wazzenazzian said crisply. The Consulate can't helpyou. I can.     You? I said.     I can get you out of this cheap.           How     cheap?     Gorb grinned rakishly. Five thousand in cash plus a contract as aspecimen with your outfit. In advance, of course. That's a heck of alot better than forking over a hundred grand, isn't it?     I eyed Gorb uncertainly. The Terran Consulate people probably wouldn'tbe much help; they tried to keep out of local squabbles unless theywere really serious, and I knew from past experiences that no officialsever worried much about the state of my pocketbook. On the other hand,giving this slyster a contract might be a risky proposition.     Tell you what, I said finally. You've got yourself a deal—but ona contingency basis. Get me out of this and you'll have five grand andthe contract. Otherwise, nothing.     Gorb shrugged. What have I to lose?  ","Lawrence Raymond Fitzgerald is a being of Regulus II, who is a self-procclaimed Terrophile, who changed his name to a famous human’s which pleases Mr. Corrigan.Mr. Fitzgerald had a very deep voice, and was a yellow-green spherical shape the size of a basketball, with two double-kneed legs and five double-elbowed arms. He had size eyes, one with no eyelid right at the top of his head, and a mouth with no teeth.He was fortunate to be in-demand for the zoo - Mr. Corrigan saying that he needed a Regulan - and is signed extremely quickly onto contract with Mr. Corrigan during his interview. He’ll be paid $50 Galactic per week on Earth, which is very pleasing for him."
"Who is Gorb and what happens to him in the story? </s>     Birds of a Feather     By ROBERT SILVERBERG     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine November 1958.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Getting specimens for the interstellar zoo       was no problem—they battled for the honor—but       now I had to fight like a wildcat to       keep a display from making a monkey of me!        It was our first day of recruiting on the planet, and the alienlife-forms had lined up for hundreds of feet back from my rentedoffice. As I came down the block from the hotel, I could hear and seeand smell them with ease.     My three staff men, Auchinleck, Stebbins and Ludlow, walked shieldwisein front of me. I peered between them to size the crop up. The alienscame in every shape and form, in all colors and textures—and all ofthem eager for a Corrigan contract. The Galaxy is full of bizarrebeings, but there's barely a species anywhere that can resist the oldexhibitionist urge.     Send them in one at a time, I told Stebbins. I ducked into theoffice, took my place back of the desk and waited for the procession tobegin.     The name of the planet was MacTavish IV (if you went by the officialTerran listing) or Ghryne (if you called it by what its people wereaccustomed to calling it). I thought of it privately as MacTavish IVand referred to it publicly as Ghryne. I believe in keeping the localshappy wherever I go.     Through the front window of the office, I could see our big gay tridimsign plastered to a facing wall: WANTED—EXTRATERRESTRIALS! We hadsaturated MacTavish IV with our promotional poop for a month precedingarrival. Stuff like this:       Want to visit Earth—see the Galaxy's most glittering and exclusiveworld? Want to draw good pay, work short hours, experience the thrillsof show business on romantic Terra? If you are a non-terrestrial,there may be a place for you in the Corrigan Institute ofMorphological Science. No freaks wanted—normal beings only. J. F.Corrigan will hold interviews in person on Ghryne from Thirdday toFifthday of Tenmonth. His last visit to the Caledonia Cluster until2937, so don't miss your chance! Hurry! A life of wonder and richescan be yours!    Broadsides like that, distributed wholesale in half a thousandlanguages, always bring them running. And the Corrigan Institute reallypacks in the crowds back on Earth. Why not? It's the best of its kind,the only really decent place where Earthmen can get a gander at theother species of the universe.     The office buzzer sounded. Auchinleck said unctuously, The firstapplicant is ready to see you, sir.     Send him, her or it in.     The door opened and a timid-looking life-form advanced toward me onnervous little legs. He was a globular creature about the size of abig basketball, yellowish-green, with two spindly double-kneed legs andfive double-elbowed arms, the latter spaced regularly around his body.There was a lidless eye at the top of his head and five lidded ones,one above each arm. Plus a big, gaping, toothless mouth.       His voice was a surprisingly resounding basso. You are Mr. Corrigan?     That's right. I reached for a data blank. Before we begin, I'll needcertain information about—     I am a being of Regulus II, came the grave, booming reply, evenbefore I had picked up the blank. I need no special care and I am nota fugitive from the law of any world.     Your name?     Lawrence R. Fitzgerald.     I throttled my exclamation of surprise, concealing it behind a quickcough. Let me have that again, please?     Certainly. My name is Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. The 'R' stands forRaymond.     Of course, that's not the name you were born with.     The being closed his eyes and toddled around in a 360-degree rotation,remaining in place. On his world, that gesture is the equivalent ofan apologetic smile. My Regulan name no longer matters. I am now andshall evermore be Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. I am a Terraphile, you see.  The little Regulan was as good as hired. Only the formalities remained.You understand our terms, Mr. Fitzgerald?     I'll be placed on exhibition at your Institute on Earth. You'll payfor my services, transportation and expenses. I'll be required toremain on exhibit no more than one-third of each Terran sidereal day.     And the pay will be—ah—$50 Galactic a week, plus expenses andtransportation.     The spherical creature clapped his hands in joy, three hands clappingon one side, two on the other. Wonderful! I will see Earth at last! Iaccept the terms!     I buzzed for Ludlow and gave him the fast signal that meant we weresigning this alien up at half the usual pay, and Ludlow took him intothe other office to sign him up.     I grinned, pleased with myself. We needed a green Regulan in our show;the last one had quit four years ago. But just because we needed himdidn't mean we had to be extravagant in hiring him. A Terraphile alienwho goes to the extent of rechristening himself with a Terran monickerwould work for nothing, or even pay us, just so long as we let him getto Earth. My conscience won't let me really      exploit     a being, but Idon't believe in throwing money away, either.     The next applicant was a beefy ursinoid from Aldebaran IX. Our outfithas all the ursinoids it needs or is likely to need in the next fewdecades, and so I got rid of him in a couple of minutes. He wasfollowed by a roly-poly blue-skinned humanoid from Donovan's Planet,four feet high and five hundred pounds heavy. We already had a coupleof his species in the show, but they made good crowd-pleasers, beingso plump and cheerful. I passed him along to Auchinleck to sign atanything short of top rate.     Next came a bedraggled Sirian spider who was more interested in ahandout than a job. If there's any species we have a real over-supplyof, it's those silver-colored spiders, but this seedy specimen gave ita try anyway. He got the gate in half a minute, and he didn't even getthe handout he was angling for. I don't approve of begging.     The flora of applicants was steady. Ghryne is in the heart of theCaledonia Cluster, where the interstellar crossroads meet. We hadfigured to pick up plenty of new exhibits here and we were right.  It was the isolationism of the late 29th century that turned me intothe successful proprietor of Corrigan's Institute, after some yearsas an impoverished carnival man in the Betelgeuse system. Back in2903, the World Congress declared Terra off-bounds for non-terrestrialbeings, as an offshoot of the Terra for Terrans movement.     Before then, anyone could visit Earth. After the gate clanged down,a non-terrestrial could only get onto Sol III as a specimen in ascientific collection—in short, as an exhibit in a zoo.     That's what the Corrigan Institute of Morphological Science really is,of course. A zoo. But we don't go out and hunt for our specimens; weadvertise and they come flocking to us. Every alien wants to see Earthonce in his lifetime, and there's only one way he can do it.     We don't keep too big an inventory. At last count, we had 690 specimensbefore this trip, representing 298 different intelligent life-forms.My goal is at least one member of at least 500 different races. When Ireach that, I'll sit back and let the competition catch up—if it can.     After an hour of steady work that morning, we had signed eleven newspecimens. At the same time, we had turned away a dozen ursinoids,fifty of the reptilian natives of Ghryne, seven Sirian spiders, and noless than nineteen chlorine-breathing Procyonites wearing gas masks.     It was also my sad duty to nix a Vegan who was negotiating through aGhrynian agent. A Vegan would be a top-flight attraction, being some400 feet long and appropriately fearsome to the eye, but I didn't seehow we could take one on. They're gentle and likable beings, but theirupkeep runs into literally tons of fresh meat a day, and not just anyold kind of meat either. So we had to do without the Vegan.     One more specimen before lunch, I told Stebbins, to make it an evendozen.     He looked at me queerly and nodded. A being entered. I took a longclose look at the life-form when it came in, and after that I tookanother one. I wondered what kind of stunt was being pulled. So far asI could tell, the being was quite plainly nothing but an Earthman.     He sat down facing me without being asked and crossed his legs. He wastall and extremely thin, with pale blue eyes and dirty-blond hair, andthough he was clean and reasonably well dressed, he had a shabby lookabout him. He said, in level Terran accents, I'm looking for a jobwith your outfit, Corrigan.     There's been a mistake. We're interested in non-terrestrials only.     I'm a non-terrestrial. My name is Ildwar Gorb, of the planet WazzenazzXIII.  I don't mind conning the public from time to time, but I draw the lineat getting bilked myself. Look, friend, I'm busy, and I'm not knownfor my sense of humor. Or my generosity.     I'm not panhandling. I'm looking for a job.     Then try elsewhere. Suppose you stop wasting my time, bud. You're asEarthborn as I am.     I've never been within a dozen parsecs of Earth, he said smoothly. Ihappen to be a representative of the only Earthlike race that existsanywhere in the Galaxy but on Earth itself. Wazzenazz XIII is a smalland little-known planet in the Crab Nebula. Through an evolutionaryfluke, my race is identical with yours. Now, don't you want me in yourcircus?     No. And it's not a circus. It's—     A scientific institute. I stand corrected.     There was something glib and appealing about this preposterous phony. Iguess I recognized a kindred spirit or I would have tossed him out onhis ear without another word. Instead I played along. If you're fromsuch a distant place, how come you speak English so well?     I'm not speaking. I'm a telepath—not the kind that reads minds, justthe kind that projects. I communicate in symbols that you translateback to colloquial speech.     Very clever, Mr. Gorb. I grinned at him and shook my head. You spina good yarn—but for my money, you're really Sam Jones or Phil Smithfrom Earth, stranded here and out of cash. You want a free trip back toEarth. No deal. The demand for beings from Wazzenazz XIII is pretty lowthese days. Zero, in fact. Good-by, Mr. Gorb.     He pointed a finger squarely at me and said, You're making a bigmistake. I'm just what your outfit needs. A representative of ahitherto utterly unknown race identical to humanity in every respect!Look here, examine my teeth. Absolutely like human teeth! And—     I pulled away from his yawning mouth. Good-by, Mr. Gorb, I repeated.     All I ask is a contract, Corrigan. It isn't much. I'll be a bigattraction. I'll—           Good-by, Mr. Gorb!          He glowered at me reproachfully for a moment, stood up and sauntered tothe door. I thought you were a man of acumen, Corrigan. Well, thinkit over. Maybe you'll regret your hastiness. I'll be back to give youanother chance.     He slammed the door and I let my grim expression relax into a smile.This was the best con switch yet—an Earthman posing as an alien to geta job!     But I wasn't buying it, even if I could appreciate his clevernessintellectually. There's no such place as Wazzenazz XIII and there'sonly one human race in the Galaxy—on Earth. I was going to need somereal good reason before I gave a down-and-out grifter a free tickethome.     I didn't know it then, but before the day was out, I would have thatreason. And, with it, plenty of trouble on my hands.  The first harbinger of woe turned up after lunch in the person of aKallerian. The Kallerian was the sixth applicant that afternoon. Ihad turned away three more ursinoids, hired a vegetable from Miazan,and said no to a scaly pseudo-armadillo from one of the Delta Worlds.Hardly had the 'dillo scuttled dejectedly out of my office when theKallerian came striding in, not even waiting for Stebbins to admit himofficially.     He was big even for his kind—in the neighborhood of nine feet high,and getting on toward a ton. He planted himself firmly on his threestocky feet, extended his massive arms in a Kallerian greeting-gesture,and growled, I am Vallo Heraal, Freeman of Kaller IV. You will sign meimmediately to a contract.     Sit down, Freeman Heraal. I like to make my own decisions, thanks.     You will grant me a contract!     Will you please sit down?     He said sulkily, I will remain standing.     As you prefer. My desk has a few concealed features which aresometimes useful in dealing with belligerent or disappointedlife-forms. My fingers roamed to the meshgun trigger, just in case oftrouble.     The Kallerian stood motionless before me. They're hairy creatures, andthis one had a coarse, thick mat of blue fur completely covering hisbody. Two fierce eyes glimmered out through the otherwise dense blanketof fur. He was wearing the kilt, girdle and ceremonial blaster of hiswarlike race.     I said, You'll have to understand, Freeman Heraal, that it's not ourpolicy to maintain more than a few members of each species at ourInstitute. And we're not currently in need of any Kallerian males,because—     You will hire me or trouble I will make!     I opened our inventory chart. I showed him that we were alreadycarrying four Kallerians, and that was more than plenty.     The beady little eyes flashed like beacons in the fur. Yes, you havefour representatives—of the Clan Verdrokh! None of the Clan Gursdrinn!For three years, I have waited for a chance to avenge this insult tothe noble Clan Gursdrinn!     At the key-word      avenge     , I readied myself to ensnarl the Kallerianin a spume of tanglemesh the instant he went for his blaster, but hedidn't move. He bellowed, I have vowed a vow, Earthman. Take me toEarth, enroll a Gursdrinn, or the consequences will be terrible!  I'm a man of principles, like all straightforward double-dealers, andone of the most important of those principles is that I never letmyself be bullied by anyone. I deeply regret having unintentionallyinsulted your clan, Freeman Heraal. Will you accept my apologies?     He glared at me in silence.     I went on, Please be assured that I'll undo the insult at the earliestpossible opportunity. It's not feasible for us to hire anotherKallerian now, but I'll give preference to the Clan Gursdrinn as soonas a vacancy—     No. You will hire me now.     It can't be done, Freeman Heraal. We have a budget, and we stick toit.     You will rue! I will take drastic measures!     Threats will get you nowhere, Freeman Heraal. I give you my word I'llget in touch with you as soon as our organization has room for anotherKallerian. And now, please, there are many applicants waiting—     You'd think it would be sort of humiliating to become a specimen in azoo, but most of these races take it as an honor. And there's alwaysthe chance that, by picking a given member of a race, we're insultingall the others.     I nudged the trouble-button on the side of my desk and Auchinleck andLudlow appeared simultaneously from the two doors at right and left.They surrounded the towering Kallerian and sweet-talkingly led himaway. He wasn't minded to quarrel physically, or he could have knockedthem both into the next city with a backhand swipe of his shaggy paw,but he kept up a growling flow of invective and threats until he wasout in the hall.     I mopped sweat from my forehead and began to buzz Stebbins for the nextapplicant. But before my finger touched the button, the door poppedopen and a small being came scooting in, followed by an angry Stebbins.     Come here, you!     Stebbins? I said gently.     I'm sorry, Mr. Corrigan. I lost sight of this one for a moment, and hecame running in—     Please, please, squeaked the little alien pitifully. I must see you,honored sir!     It isn't his turn in line, Stebbins protested. There are at leastfifty ahead of him.       All right, I said tiredly. As long as he's in here already, I mightas well see him. Be more careful next time, Stebbins.     Stebbins nodded dolefully and backed out.  The alien was a pathetic sight: a Stortulian, a squirrely-lookingcreature about three feet high. His fur, which should have been alustrous black, was a dull gray, and his eyes were wet and sad. Histail drooped. His voice was little more than a faint whimper, even atfull volume.     Begging your most honored pardon most humbly, important sir. I am abeing of Stortul XII, having sold my last few possessions to travelto Ghryne for the miserable purpose of obtaining an interview withyourself.     I said, I'd better tell you right at the outset that we're alreadycarrying our full complement of Stortulians. We have both a male and afemale now and—     This is known to me. The female—is her name perchance Tiress?     I glanced down at the inventory chart until I found the Stortulianentry. Yes, that's her name.     The little being immediately emitted a soul-shaking gasp. It is she!It is she!     I'm afraid we don't have room for any more—     You are not in full understanding of my plight. The female Tiress,she is—was—my own Fire-sent spouse, my comfort and my warmth, my lifeand my love.     Funny, I said. When we signed her three years ago, she said she wassingle. It's right here on the chart.     She lied! She left my burrow because she longed to see the splendorsof Earth. And I am alone, bound by our sacred customs never to remarry,languishing in sadness and pining for her return. You      must     take me toEarth!     But—     I must see her—her and this disgrace-bringing lover of hers. I mustreason with her. Earthman, can't you see I must appeal to her innerflame?      I must bring her back!          My face was expressionless. You don't really intend to join ourorganization at all—you just want free passage to Earth?     Yes, yes! wailed the Stortulian. Find some other member of my race,if you must! Let me have my wife again, Earthman! Is your heart a deadlump of stone?  It isn't, but another of my principles is to refuse to be swayed bysentiment. I felt sorry for this being's domestic troubles, but Iwasn't going to break up a good act just to make an alien squirrelhappy—not to mention footing the transportation.     I said, I don't see how we can manage it. The laws are very stricton the subject of bringing alien life to Earth. It has to be forscientific purposes only. And if I know in advance that your purpose incoming isn't scientific, I can't in all conscience      lie     for you, canI?     Well—     Of course not. I took advantage of his pathetic upset to steam rightalong. Now if you had come in here and simply asked me to sign you up,I might conceivably have done it. But no—you had to go unburden yourheart to me.     I thought the truth would move you.     It did. But in effect you're now asking me to conspire in a fraudulentcriminal act. Friend, I can't do it. My reputation means too much tome, I said piously.     Then you will refuse me?     My heart melts to nothingness for you. But I can't take you to Earth.     Perhaps you will send my wife to me here?     There's a clause in every contract that allows me to jettison anunwanted specimen. All I have to do is declare it no longer ofscientific interest, and the World Government will deport theundesirable alien back to its home world. But I wouldn't pull a lowtrick like that on our female Stortulian.     I said, I'll ask her about coming home. But I won't ship her backagainst her will. And maybe she's happier where she is.     The Stortulian seemed to shrivel. His eyelids closed half-way to maskhis tears. He turned and shambled slowly to the door, walking like aliving dishrag. In a bleak voice, he said, There is no hope then. Allis lost. I will never see my soulmate again. Good day, Earthman.     He spoke in a drab monotone that almost, but not quite, had me weeping.I watched him shuffle out. I do have      some     conscience, and I had theuneasy feeling I had just been talking to a being who was about tocommit suicide on my account.  About fifty more applicants were processed without a hitch. Then lifestarted to get complicated again.     Nine of the fifty were okay. The rest were unacceptable for one reasonor another, and they took the bad news quietly enough. The haul for theday so far was close to two dozen new life-forms under contract.     I had just about begun to forget about the incidents of the Kallerian'soutraged pride and the Stortulian's flighty wife when the door openedand the Earthman who called himself Ildwar Gorb of Wazzenazz XIIIstepped in.     How did      you     get in here? I demanded.     Your man happened to be looking the wrong way, he said cheerily.Change your mind about me yet?     Get out before I have you thrown out.     Gorb shrugged. I figured you hadn't changed your mind, so I've changedmy pitch a bit. If you won't believe I'm from Wazzenazz XIII, suppose Itell you that I      am     Earthborn, and that I'm looking for a job on yourstaff.     I don't care      what     your story is! Get out or—     —you'll have me thrown out. Okay, okay. Just give me half a second.Corrigan, you're no fool, and neither am I—but that fellow of yoursoutside      is     . He doesn't know how to handle alien beings. How manytimes today has a life-form come in here unexpectedly?     I scowled at him. Too damn many.     You see? He's incompetent. Suppose you fire him, take me on instead.I've been living in the outworlds half my life; I know all there is toknow about alien life-forms. You can use me, Corrigan.     I took a deep breath and glanced all around the paneled ceiling ofthe office before I spoke. Listen, Gorb, or whatever your name is,I've had a hard day. There's been a Kallerian in here who just aboutthreatened murder, and there's been a Stortulian in here who's aboutto commit suicide because of me. I have a conscience and it's troublingme. But get this: I just want to finish off my recruiting, pack up andgo home to Earth. I don't want you hanging around here bothering me.I'm not looking to hire new staff members, and if you switch back toclaiming you're an unknown life-form from Wazzenazz XIII, the answer isthat I'm not looking for any of      those     either. Now will you scram or—     The office door crashed open at that point and Heraal, the Kallerian,came thundering in. He was dressed from head to toe in glitteringmetalfoil, and instead of his ceremonial blaster, he was wieldinga sword the length of a human being. Stebbins and Auchinleck camedragging helplessly along in his wake, hanging desperately to his belt.     Sorry, Chief, Stebbins gasped. I tried to keep him out, but—     Heraal, who had planted himself in front of my desk, drowned him outwith a roar. Earthman, you have mortally insulted the Clan Gursdrinn!  Sitting with my hands poised near the meshgun trigger, I was ready tolet him have it at the first sight of actual violence.     Heraal boomed, You are responsible for what is to happen now. I havenotified the authorities and you prosecuted will be for causing thedeath of a life-form! Suffer, Earthborn ape! Suffer!     Watch it, Chief, Stebbins yelled. He's going to—     An instant before my numb fingers could tighten on the meshguntrigger, Heraal swung that huge sword through the air and plunged itsavagely through his body. He toppled forward onto the carpet with thesword projecting a couple of feet out of his back. A few driblets ofbluish-purple blood spread from beneath him.     Before I could react to the big life-form's hara-kiri, the office doorflew open again and three sleek reptilian beings entered, garbed in thegreen sashes of the local police force. Their golden eyes goggled downat the figure on the floor, then came to rest on me.     You are J. F. Corrigan? the leader asked.     Y-yes.     We have received word of a complaint against you. Said complaintbeing—     —that your unethical actions have directly contributed to theuntimely death of an intelligent life-form, filled in the second ofthe Ghrynian policemen.     The evidence lies before us, intoned the leader, in the cadaverof the unfortunate Kallerian who filed the complaint with us severalminutes ago.     And therefore, said the third lizard, it is our duty to arrestyou for this crime and declare you subject to a fine of no less than$100,000 Galactic or two years in prison.     Hold on! I stormed. You mean that any being from anywhere in theUniverse can come in here and gut himself on my carpet, and      I'm     responsible?     This is the law. Do you deny that your stubborn refusal to yield tothis late life-form's request lies at the root of his sad demise?     Well, no, but—     Failure to deny is admission of guilt. You are guilty, Earthman.  Closing my eyes wearily, I tried to wish the whole babbling lot of themaway. If I had to, I could pony up the hundred-grand fine, but it wasgoing to put an awful dent in this year's take. And I shuddered when Iremembered that any minute that scrawny little Stortulian was likely tocome bursting in here to kill himself too. Was it a fine of $100,000per suicide? At that rate, I could be out of business by nightfall.     I was spared further such morbid thoughts by yet another unannouncedarrival.     The small figure of the Stortulian trudged through the open doorwayand stationed itself limply near the threshold. The three Ghrynianpolicemen and my three assistants forgot the dead Kallerian for amoment and turned to eye the newcomer.     I had visions of unending troubles with the law here on Ghryne. Iresolved never to come here on a recruiting trip again—or, if I      did     come, to figure out some more effective way of screening myself againstcrackpots.     In heart-rending tones, the Stortulian declared, Life is no longerworth living. My last hope is gone. There is only one thing left for meto do.     I was quivering at the thought of another hundred thousand smackersgoing down the drain. Stop him, somebody! He's going to kill himself!He's—     Then somebody sprinted toward me, hit me amidships, and knocked meflying out from behind my desk before I had a chance to fire themeshgun. My head walloped the floor, and for five or six seconds, Iguess I wasn't fully aware of what was going on.     Gradually the scene took shape around me. There was a monstrous holein the wall behind my desk; a smoking blaster lay on the floor, and Isaw the three Ghrynian policemen sitting on the raving Stortulian. Theman who called himself Ildwar Gorb was getting to his feet and dustinghimself off.     He helped me up. Sorry to have had to tackle you, Corrigan. But thatStortulian wasn't here to commit suicide, you see. He was out to getyou.     I weaved dizzily toward my desk and dropped into my chair. A flyingfragment of wall had deflated my pneumatic cushion. The smell of ashedplaster was everywhere. The police were effectively cocooning thestruggling little alien in an unbreakable tanglemesh.     Evidently you don't know as much as you think you do about Stortulianpsychology, Corrigan, Gorb said lightly. Suicide is completelyabhorrent to them. When they're troubled, they kill the person whocaused their trouble. In this case, you.  I began to chuckle—more of a tension-relieving snicker than afull-bodied laugh.     Funny, I said.     What is? asked the self-styled Wazzenazzian.     These aliens. Big blustery Heraal came in with murder in his eye andkilled      himself     , and the pint-sized Stortulian who looked so meek andpathetic damn near blew my head off. I shuddered. Thanks for thetackle job.     Don't mention it, Gorb said.     I glared at the Ghrynian police. Well? What are you waiting for? Takethat murderous little beast out of here! Or isn't murder against thelocal laws?     The Stortulian will be duly punished, replied the leader of theGhrynian cops calmly. But there is the matter of the dead Kallerianand the fine of—     —one hundred thousand dollars. I know. I groaned and turned toStebbins. Get the Terran Consulate on the phone, Stebbins. Have themsend down a legal adviser. Find out if there's any way we can get outof this mess with our skins intact.     Right, Chief. Stebbins moved toward the visiphone.     Gorb stepped forward and put a hand on his chest.     Hold it, the Wazzenazzian said crisply. The Consulate can't helpyou. I can.     You? I said.     I can get you out of this cheap.           How     cheap?     Gorb grinned rakishly. Five thousand in cash plus a contract as aspecimen with your outfit. In advance, of course. That's a heck of alot better than forking over a hundred grand, isn't it?     I eyed Gorb uncertainly. The Terran Consulate people probably wouldn'tbe much help; they tried to keep out of local squabbles unless theywere really serious, and I knew from past experiences that no officialsever worried much about the state of my pocketbook. On the other hand,giving this slyster a contract might be a risky proposition.     Tell you what, I said finally. You've got yourself a deal—but ona contingency basis. Get me out of this and you'll have five grand andthe contract. Otherwise, nothing.     Gorb shrugged. What have I to lose?  ","Ildwar Gorb is a human-looking alien of the planet Wazzenazz XIII in the Crab Nebula. He claims to have never been within “a dozen parsecs of Earth,” but to look so human-like due to an evolutionary fluke. As he is interviewing with Mr. Corrigan, he says he is not actually speaking, but is a telepathic that communicates in symbols that are translated into the colloquial speech of the person he is interacting with.He appeals to Mr. Corrigan to be exhibited as a specimen, but when Corrigan in unconvinced Gorb isn’t just a regular human trying to fool him, he also tries to appeal to him to hire him as a member of his human staff. This is also a no, since Mr. Corrigan would be breaking the law to do so if he was an alien.Gorb throws himself at Mr. Corrigan to tackle him and save his life from a murder attempt by the Stortulian. This gesture buys him enough goodwill for Corrigan to accept his offer to get him out of the trouble with the Ghrynian cops. He will do the job for $5000 and a contract to the Corrigan Institute - ultimately getting him what he wanted in the first place."
"Who is Mr. Corrigan and what is his personality like? </s>     Birds of a Feather     By ROBERT SILVERBERG     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine November 1958.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Getting specimens for the interstellar zoo       was no problem—they battled for the honor—but       now I had to fight like a wildcat to       keep a display from making a monkey of me!        It was our first day of recruiting on the planet, and the alienlife-forms had lined up for hundreds of feet back from my rentedoffice. As I came down the block from the hotel, I could hear and seeand smell them with ease.     My three staff men, Auchinleck, Stebbins and Ludlow, walked shieldwisein front of me. I peered between them to size the crop up. The alienscame in every shape and form, in all colors and textures—and all ofthem eager for a Corrigan contract. The Galaxy is full of bizarrebeings, but there's barely a species anywhere that can resist the oldexhibitionist urge.     Send them in one at a time, I told Stebbins. I ducked into theoffice, took my place back of the desk and waited for the procession tobegin.     The name of the planet was MacTavish IV (if you went by the officialTerran listing) or Ghryne (if you called it by what its people wereaccustomed to calling it). I thought of it privately as MacTavish IVand referred to it publicly as Ghryne. I believe in keeping the localshappy wherever I go.     Through the front window of the office, I could see our big gay tridimsign plastered to a facing wall: WANTED—EXTRATERRESTRIALS! We hadsaturated MacTavish IV with our promotional poop for a month precedingarrival. Stuff like this:       Want to visit Earth—see the Galaxy's most glittering and exclusiveworld? Want to draw good pay, work short hours, experience the thrillsof show business on romantic Terra? If you are a non-terrestrial,there may be a place for you in the Corrigan Institute ofMorphological Science. No freaks wanted—normal beings only. J. F.Corrigan will hold interviews in person on Ghryne from Thirdday toFifthday of Tenmonth. His last visit to the Caledonia Cluster until2937, so don't miss your chance! Hurry! A life of wonder and richescan be yours!    Broadsides like that, distributed wholesale in half a thousandlanguages, always bring them running. And the Corrigan Institute reallypacks in the crowds back on Earth. Why not? It's the best of its kind,the only really decent place where Earthmen can get a gander at theother species of the universe.     The office buzzer sounded. Auchinleck said unctuously, The firstapplicant is ready to see you, sir.     Send him, her or it in.     The door opened and a timid-looking life-form advanced toward me onnervous little legs. He was a globular creature about the size of abig basketball, yellowish-green, with two spindly double-kneed legs andfive double-elbowed arms, the latter spaced regularly around his body.There was a lidless eye at the top of his head and five lidded ones,one above each arm. Plus a big, gaping, toothless mouth.       His voice was a surprisingly resounding basso. You are Mr. Corrigan?     That's right. I reached for a data blank. Before we begin, I'll needcertain information about—     I am a being of Regulus II, came the grave, booming reply, evenbefore I had picked up the blank. I need no special care and I am nota fugitive from the law of any world.     Your name?     Lawrence R. Fitzgerald.     I throttled my exclamation of surprise, concealing it behind a quickcough. Let me have that again, please?     Certainly. My name is Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. The 'R' stands forRaymond.     Of course, that's not the name you were born with.     The being closed his eyes and toddled around in a 360-degree rotation,remaining in place. On his world, that gesture is the equivalent ofan apologetic smile. My Regulan name no longer matters. I am now andshall evermore be Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. I am a Terraphile, you see.  The little Regulan was as good as hired. Only the formalities remained.You understand our terms, Mr. Fitzgerald?     I'll be placed on exhibition at your Institute on Earth. You'll payfor my services, transportation and expenses. I'll be required toremain on exhibit no more than one-third of each Terran sidereal day.     And the pay will be—ah—$50 Galactic a week, plus expenses andtransportation.     The spherical creature clapped his hands in joy, three hands clappingon one side, two on the other. Wonderful! I will see Earth at last! Iaccept the terms!     I buzzed for Ludlow and gave him the fast signal that meant we weresigning this alien up at half the usual pay, and Ludlow took him intothe other office to sign him up.     I grinned, pleased with myself. We needed a green Regulan in our show;the last one had quit four years ago. But just because we needed himdidn't mean we had to be extravagant in hiring him. A Terraphile alienwho goes to the extent of rechristening himself with a Terran monickerwould work for nothing, or even pay us, just so long as we let him getto Earth. My conscience won't let me really      exploit     a being, but Idon't believe in throwing money away, either.     The next applicant was a beefy ursinoid from Aldebaran IX. Our outfithas all the ursinoids it needs or is likely to need in the next fewdecades, and so I got rid of him in a couple of minutes. He wasfollowed by a roly-poly blue-skinned humanoid from Donovan's Planet,four feet high and five hundred pounds heavy. We already had a coupleof his species in the show, but they made good crowd-pleasers, beingso plump and cheerful. I passed him along to Auchinleck to sign atanything short of top rate.     Next came a bedraggled Sirian spider who was more interested in ahandout than a job. If there's any species we have a real over-supplyof, it's those silver-colored spiders, but this seedy specimen gave ita try anyway. He got the gate in half a minute, and he didn't even getthe handout he was angling for. I don't approve of begging.     The flora of applicants was steady. Ghryne is in the heart of theCaledonia Cluster, where the interstellar crossroads meet. We hadfigured to pick up plenty of new exhibits here and we were right.  It was the isolationism of the late 29th century that turned me intothe successful proprietor of Corrigan's Institute, after some yearsas an impoverished carnival man in the Betelgeuse system. Back in2903, the World Congress declared Terra off-bounds for non-terrestrialbeings, as an offshoot of the Terra for Terrans movement.     Before then, anyone could visit Earth. After the gate clanged down,a non-terrestrial could only get onto Sol III as a specimen in ascientific collection—in short, as an exhibit in a zoo.     That's what the Corrigan Institute of Morphological Science really is,of course. A zoo. But we don't go out and hunt for our specimens; weadvertise and they come flocking to us. Every alien wants to see Earthonce in his lifetime, and there's only one way he can do it.     We don't keep too big an inventory. At last count, we had 690 specimensbefore this trip, representing 298 different intelligent life-forms.My goal is at least one member of at least 500 different races. When Ireach that, I'll sit back and let the competition catch up—if it can.     After an hour of steady work that morning, we had signed eleven newspecimens. At the same time, we had turned away a dozen ursinoids,fifty of the reptilian natives of Ghryne, seven Sirian spiders, and noless than nineteen chlorine-breathing Procyonites wearing gas masks.     It was also my sad duty to nix a Vegan who was negotiating through aGhrynian agent. A Vegan would be a top-flight attraction, being some400 feet long and appropriately fearsome to the eye, but I didn't seehow we could take one on. They're gentle and likable beings, but theirupkeep runs into literally tons of fresh meat a day, and not just anyold kind of meat either. So we had to do without the Vegan.     One more specimen before lunch, I told Stebbins, to make it an evendozen.     He looked at me queerly and nodded. A being entered. I took a longclose look at the life-form when it came in, and after that I tookanother one. I wondered what kind of stunt was being pulled. So far asI could tell, the being was quite plainly nothing but an Earthman.     He sat down facing me without being asked and crossed his legs. He wastall and extremely thin, with pale blue eyes and dirty-blond hair, andthough he was clean and reasonably well dressed, he had a shabby lookabout him. He said, in level Terran accents, I'm looking for a jobwith your outfit, Corrigan.     There's been a mistake. We're interested in non-terrestrials only.     I'm a non-terrestrial. My name is Ildwar Gorb, of the planet WazzenazzXIII.  I don't mind conning the public from time to time, but I draw the lineat getting bilked myself. Look, friend, I'm busy, and I'm not knownfor my sense of humor. Or my generosity.     I'm not panhandling. I'm looking for a job.     Then try elsewhere. Suppose you stop wasting my time, bud. You're asEarthborn as I am.     I've never been within a dozen parsecs of Earth, he said smoothly. Ihappen to be a representative of the only Earthlike race that existsanywhere in the Galaxy but on Earth itself. Wazzenazz XIII is a smalland little-known planet in the Crab Nebula. Through an evolutionaryfluke, my race is identical with yours. Now, don't you want me in yourcircus?     No. And it's not a circus. It's—     A scientific institute. I stand corrected.     There was something glib and appealing about this preposterous phony. Iguess I recognized a kindred spirit or I would have tossed him out onhis ear without another word. Instead I played along. If you're fromsuch a distant place, how come you speak English so well?     I'm not speaking. I'm a telepath—not the kind that reads minds, justthe kind that projects. I communicate in symbols that you translateback to colloquial speech.     Very clever, Mr. Gorb. I grinned at him and shook my head. You spina good yarn—but for my money, you're really Sam Jones or Phil Smithfrom Earth, stranded here and out of cash. You want a free trip back toEarth. No deal. The demand for beings from Wazzenazz XIII is pretty lowthese days. Zero, in fact. Good-by, Mr. Gorb.     He pointed a finger squarely at me and said, You're making a bigmistake. I'm just what your outfit needs. A representative of ahitherto utterly unknown race identical to humanity in every respect!Look here, examine my teeth. Absolutely like human teeth! And—     I pulled away from his yawning mouth. Good-by, Mr. Gorb, I repeated.     All I ask is a contract, Corrigan. It isn't much. I'll be a bigattraction. I'll—           Good-by, Mr. Gorb!          He glowered at me reproachfully for a moment, stood up and sauntered tothe door. I thought you were a man of acumen, Corrigan. Well, thinkit over. Maybe you'll regret your hastiness. I'll be back to give youanother chance.     He slammed the door and I let my grim expression relax into a smile.This was the best con switch yet—an Earthman posing as an alien to geta job!     But I wasn't buying it, even if I could appreciate his clevernessintellectually. There's no such place as Wazzenazz XIII and there'sonly one human race in the Galaxy—on Earth. I was going to need somereal good reason before I gave a down-and-out grifter a free tickethome.     I didn't know it then, but before the day was out, I would have thatreason. And, with it, plenty of trouble on my hands.  The first harbinger of woe turned up after lunch in the person of aKallerian. The Kallerian was the sixth applicant that afternoon. Ihad turned away three more ursinoids, hired a vegetable from Miazan,and said no to a scaly pseudo-armadillo from one of the Delta Worlds.Hardly had the 'dillo scuttled dejectedly out of my office when theKallerian came striding in, not even waiting for Stebbins to admit himofficially.     He was big even for his kind—in the neighborhood of nine feet high,and getting on toward a ton. He planted himself firmly on his threestocky feet, extended his massive arms in a Kallerian greeting-gesture,and growled, I am Vallo Heraal, Freeman of Kaller IV. You will sign meimmediately to a contract.     Sit down, Freeman Heraal. I like to make my own decisions, thanks.     You will grant me a contract!     Will you please sit down?     He said sulkily, I will remain standing.     As you prefer. My desk has a few concealed features which aresometimes useful in dealing with belligerent or disappointedlife-forms. My fingers roamed to the meshgun trigger, just in case oftrouble.     The Kallerian stood motionless before me. They're hairy creatures, andthis one had a coarse, thick mat of blue fur completely covering hisbody. Two fierce eyes glimmered out through the otherwise dense blanketof fur. He was wearing the kilt, girdle and ceremonial blaster of hiswarlike race.     I said, You'll have to understand, Freeman Heraal, that it's not ourpolicy to maintain more than a few members of each species at ourInstitute. And we're not currently in need of any Kallerian males,because—     You will hire me or trouble I will make!     I opened our inventory chart. I showed him that we were alreadycarrying four Kallerians, and that was more than plenty.     The beady little eyes flashed like beacons in the fur. Yes, you havefour representatives—of the Clan Verdrokh! None of the Clan Gursdrinn!For three years, I have waited for a chance to avenge this insult tothe noble Clan Gursdrinn!     At the key-word      avenge     , I readied myself to ensnarl the Kallerianin a spume of tanglemesh the instant he went for his blaster, but hedidn't move. He bellowed, I have vowed a vow, Earthman. Take me toEarth, enroll a Gursdrinn, or the consequences will be terrible!  I'm a man of principles, like all straightforward double-dealers, andone of the most important of those principles is that I never letmyself be bullied by anyone. I deeply regret having unintentionallyinsulted your clan, Freeman Heraal. Will you accept my apologies?     He glared at me in silence.     I went on, Please be assured that I'll undo the insult at the earliestpossible opportunity. It's not feasible for us to hire anotherKallerian now, but I'll give preference to the Clan Gursdrinn as soonas a vacancy—     No. You will hire me now.     It can't be done, Freeman Heraal. We have a budget, and we stick toit.     You will rue! I will take drastic measures!     Threats will get you nowhere, Freeman Heraal. I give you my word I'llget in touch with you as soon as our organization has room for anotherKallerian. And now, please, there are many applicants waiting—     You'd think it would be sort of humiliating to become a specimen in azoo, but most of these races take it as an honor. And there's alwaysthe chance that, by picking a given member of a race, we're insultingall the others.     I nudged the trouble-button on the side of my desk and Auchinleck andLudlow appeared simultaneously from the two doors at right and left.They surrounded the towering Kallerian and sweet-talkingly led himaway. He wasn't minded to quarrel physically, or he could have knockedthem both into the next city with a backhand swipe of his shaggy paw,but he kept up a growling flow of invective and threats until he wasout in the hall.     I mopped sweat from my forehead and began to buzz Stebbins for the nextapplicant. But before my finger touched the button, the door poppedopen and a small being came scooting in, followed by an angry Stebbins.     Come here, you!     Stebbins? I said gently.     I'm sorry, Mr. Corrigan. I lost sight of this one for a moment, and hecame running in—     Please, please, squeaked the little alien pitifully. I must see you,honored sir!     It isn't his turn in line, Stebbins protested. There are at leastfifty ahead of him.       All right, I said tiredly. As long as he's in here already, I mightas well see him. Be more careful next time, Stebbins.     Stebbins nodded dolefully and backed out.  The alien was a pathetic sight: a Stortulian, a squirrely-lookingcreature about three feet high. His fur, which should have been alustrous black, was a dull gray, and his eyes were wet and sad. Histail drooped. His voice was little more than a faint whimper, even atfull volume.     Begging your most honored pardon most humbly, important sir. I am abeing of Stortul XII, having sold my last few possessions to travelto Ghryne for the miserable purpose of obtaining an interview withyourself.     I said, I'd better tell you right at the outset that we're alreadycarrying our full complement of Stortulians. We have both a male and afemale now and—     This is known to me. The female—is her name perchance Tiress?     I glanced down at the inventory chart until I found the Stortulianentry. Yes, that's her name.     The little being immediately emitted a soul-shaking gasp. It is she!It is she!     I'm afraid we don't have room for any more—     You are not in full understanding of my plight. The female Tiress,she is—was—my own Fire-sent spouse, my comfort and my warmth, my lifeand my love.     Funny, I said. When we signed her three years ago, she said she wassingle. It's right here on the chart.     She lied! She left my burrow because she longed to see the splendorsof Earth. And I am alone, bound by our sacred customs never to remarry,languishing in sadness and pining for her return. You      must     take me toEarth!     But—     I must see her—her and this disgrace-bringing lover of hers. I mustreason with her. Earthman, can't you see I must appeal to her innerflame?      I must bring her back!          My face was expressionless. You don't really intend to join ourorganization at all—you just want free passage to Earth?     Yes, yes! wailed the Stortulian. Find some other member of my race,if you must! Let me have my wife again, Earthman! Is your heart a deadlump of stone?  It isn't, but another of my principles is to refuse to be swayed bysentiment. I felt sorry for this being's domestic troubles, but Iwasn't going to break up a good act just to make an alien squirrelhappy—not to mention footing the transportation.     I said, I don't see how we can manage it. The laws are very stricton the subject of bringing alien life to Earth. It has to be forscientific purposes only. And if I know in advance that your purpose incoming isn't scientific, I can't in all conscience      lie     for you, canI?     Well—     Of course not. I took advantage of his pathetic upset to steam rightalong. Now if you had come in here and simply asked me to sign you up,I might conceivably have done it. But no—you had to go unburden yourheart to me.     I thought the truth would move you.     It did. But in effect you're now asking me to conspire in a fraudulentcriminal act. Friend, I can't do it. My reputation means too much tome, I said piously.     Then you will refuse me?     My heart melts to nothingness for you. But I can't take you to Earth.     Perhaps you will send my wife to me here?     There's a clause in every contract that allows me to jettison anunwanted specimen. All I have to do is declare it no longer ofscientific interest, and the World Government will deport theundesirable alien back to its home world. But I wouldn't pull a lowtrick like that on our female Stortulian.     I said, I'll ask her about coming home. But I won't ship her backagainst her will. And maybe she's happier where she is.     The Stortulian seemed to shrivel. His eyelids closed half-way to maskhis tears. He turned and shambled slowly to the door, walking like aliving dishrag. In a bleak voice, he said, There is no hope then. Allis lost. I will never see my soulmate again. Good day, Earthman.     He spoke in a drab monotone that almost, but not quite, had me weeping.I watched him shuffle out. I do have      some     conscience, and I had theuneasy feeling I had just been talking to a being who was about tocommit suicide on my account.  About fifty more applicants were processed without a hitch. Then lifestarted to get complicated again.     Nine of the fifty were okay. The rest were unacceptable for one reasonor another, and they took the bad news quietly enough. The haul for theday so far was close to two dozen new life-forms under contract.     I had just about begun to forget about the incidents of the Kallerian'soutraged pride and the Stortulian's flighty wife when the door openedand the Earthman who called himself Ildwar Gorb of Wazzenazz XIIIstepped in.     How did      you     get in here? I demanded.     Your man happened to be looking the wrong way, he said cheerily.Change your mind about me yet?     Get out before I have you thrown out.     Gorb shrugged. I figured you hadn't changed your mind, so I've changedmy pitch a bit. If you won't believe I'm from Wazzenazz XIII, suppose Itell you that I      am     Earthborn, and that I'm looking for a job on yourstaff.     I don't care      what     your story is! Get out or—     —you'll have me thrown out. Okay, okay. Just give me half a second.Corrigan, you're no fool, and neither am I—but that fellow of yoursoutside      is     . He doesn't know how to handle alien beings. How manytimes today has a life-form come in here unexpectedly?     I scowled at him. Too damn many.     You see? He's incompetent. Suppose you fire him, take me on instead.I've been living in the outworlds half my life; I know all there is toknow about alien life-forms. You can use me, Corrigan.     I took a deep breath and glanced all around the paneled ceiling ofthe office before I spoke. Listen, Gorb, or whatever your name is,I've had a hard day. There's been a Kallerian in here who just aboutthreatened murder, and there's been a Stortulian in here who's aboutto commit suicide because of me. I have a conscience and it's troublingme. But get this: I just want to finish off my recruiting, pack up andgo home to Earth. I don't want you hanging around here bothering me.I'm not looking to hire new staff members, and if you switch back toclaiming you're an unknown life-form from Wazzenazz XIII, the answer isthat I'm not looking for any of      those     either. Now will you scram or—     The office door crashed open at that point and Heraal, the Kallerian,came thundering in. He was dressed from head to toe in glitteringmetalfoil, and instead of his ceremonial blaster, he was wieldinga sword the length of a human being. Stebbins and Auchinleck camedragging helplessly along in his wake, hanging desperately to his belt.     Sorry, Chief, Stebbins gasped. I tried to keep him out, but—     Heraal, who had planted himself in front of my desk, drowned him outwith a roar. Earthman, you have mortally insulted the Clan Gursdrinn!  Sitting with my hands poised near the meshgun trigger, I was ready tolet him have it at the first sight of actual violence.     Heraal boomed, You are responsible for what is to happen now. I havenotified the authorities and you prosecuted will be for causing thedeath of a life-form! Suffer, Earthborn ape! Suffer!     Watch it, Chief, Stebbins yelled. He's going to—     An instant before my numb fingers could tighten on the meshguntrigger, Heraal swung that huge sword through the air and plunged itsavagely through his body. He toppled forward onto the carpet with thesword projecting a couple of feet out of his back. A few driblets ofbluish-purple blood spread from beneath him.     Before I could react to the big life-form's hara-kiri, the office doorflew open again and three sleek reptilian beings entered, garbed in thegreen sashes of the local police force. Their golden eyes goggled downat the figure on the floor, then came to rest on me.     You are J. F. Corrigan? the leader asked.     Y-yes.     We have received word of a complaint against you. Said complaintbeing—     —that your unethical actions have directly contributed to theuntimely death of an intelligent life-form, filled in the second ofthe Ghrynian policemen.     The evidence lies before us, intoned the leader, in the cadaverof the unfortunate Kallerian who filed the complaint with us severalminutes ago.     And therefore, said the third lizard, it is our duty to arrestyou for this crime and declare you subject to a fine of no less than$100,000 Galactic or two years in prison.     Hold on! I stormed. You mean that any being from anywhere in theUniverse can come in here and gut himself on my carpet, and      I'm     responsible?     This is the law. Do you deny that your stubborn refusal to yield tothis late life-form's request lies at the root of his sad demise?     Well, no, but—     Failure to deny is admission of guilt. You are guilty, Earthman.  Closing my eyes wearily, I tried to wish the whole babbling lot of themaway. If I had to, I could pony up the hundred-grand fine, but it wasgoing to put an awful dent in this year's take. And I shuddered when Iremembered that any minute that scrawny little Stortulian was likely tocome bursting in here to kill himself too. Was it a fine of $100,000per suicide? At that rate, I could be out of business by nightfall.     I was spared further such morbid thoughts by yet another unannouncedarrival.     The small figure of the Stortulian trudged through the open doorwayand stationed itself limply near the threshold. The three Ghrynianpolicemen and my three assistants forgot the dead Kallerian for amoment and turned to eye the newcomer.     I had visions of unending troubles with the law here on Ghryne. Iresolved never to come here on a recruiting trip again—or, if I      did     come, to figure out some more effective way of screening myself againstcrackpots.     In heart-rending tones, the Stortulian declared, Life is no longerworth living. My last hope is gone. There is only one thing left for meto do.     I was quivering at the thought of another hundred thousand smackersgoing down the drain. Stop him, somebody! He's going to kill himself!He's—     Then somebody sprinted toward me, hit me amidships, and knocked meflying out from behind my desk before I had a chance to fire themeshgun. My head walloped the floor, and for five or six seconds, Iguess I wasn't fully aware of what was going on.     Gradually the scene took shape around me. There was a monstrous holein the wall behind my desk; a smoking blaster lay on the floor, and Isaw the three Ghrynian policemen sitting on the raving Stortulian. Theman who called himself Ildwar Gorb was getting to his feet and dustinghimself off.     He helped me up. Sorry to have had to tackle you, Corrigan. But thatStortulian wasn't here to commit suicide, you see. He was out to getyou.     I weaved dizzily toward my desk and dropped into my chair. A flyingfragment of wall had deflated my pneumatic cushion. The smell of ashedplaster was everywhere. The police were effectively cocooning thestruggling little alien in an unbreakable tanglemesh.     Evidently you don't know as much as you think you do about Stortulianpsychology, Corrigan, Gorb said lightly. Suicide is completelyabhorrent to them. When they're troubled, they kill the person whocaused their trouble. In this case, you.  I began to chuckle—more of a tension-relieving snicker than afull-bodied laugh.     Funny, I said.     What is? asked the self-styled Wazzenazzian.     These aliens. Big blustery Heraal came in with murder in his eye andkilled      himself     , and the pint-sized Stortulian who looked so meek andpathetic damn near blew my head off. I shuddered. Thanks for thetackle job.     Don't mention it, Gorb said.     I glared at the Ghrynian police. Well? What are you waiting for? Takethat murderous little beast out of here! Or isn't murder against thelocal laws?     The Stortulian will be duly punished, replied the leader of theGhrynian cops calmly. But there is the matter of the dead Kallerianand the fine of—     —one hundred thousand dollars. I know. I groaned and turned toStebbins. Get the Terran Consulate on the phone, Stebbins. Have themsend down a legal adviser. Find out if there's any way we can get outof this mess with our skins intact.     Right, Chief. Stebbins moved toward the visiphone.     Gorb stepped forward and put a hand on his chest.     Hold it, the Wazzenazzian said crisply. The Consulate can't helpyou. I can.     You? I said.     I can get you out of this cheap.           How     cheap?     Gorb grinned rakishly. Five thousand in cash plus a contract as aspecimen with your outfit. In advance, of course. That's a heck of alot better than forking over a hundred grand, isn't it?     I eyed Gorb uncertainly. The Terran Consulate people probably wouldn'tbe much help; they tried to keep out of local squabbles unless theywere really serious, and I knew from past experiences that no officialsever worried much about the state of my pocketbook. On the other hand,giving this slyster a contract might be a risky proposition.     Tell you what, I said finally. You've got yourself a deal—but ona contingency basis. Get me out of this and you'll have five grand andthe contract. Otherwise, nothing.     Gorb shrugged. What have I to lose?  ","Mr. Corrigan was an impoverished carnival man in the Betelgeuse system prior to the year 2903, when the World Congress made it illegal for aliens to travel to the planet Earth. He seized a business opportunity to open Corrigan’s Institute and collect aliens as scientific specimens, charging humans money to see them on Earth. This turned out to be a very lucrative business, and the zoo was very popular.Mr. Corrigan tries to be fair to those he is interviewing, but is having an exceptionally hard day that is straining his patience. He does not allow himself to be swayed or pushed around by the sad stories (the Stortulian) or the demands (Heraal) of those in the interviews. He is resolved in his assumptions, and is truly shocked when the outcome of who would commit suicide and who would attempt to kill him is revealed."
"Describe the settings the story takes place in. </s>     Birds of a Feather     By ROBERT SILVERBERG     Illustrated by WOOD     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine November 1958.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Getting specimens for the interstellar zoo       was no problem—they battled for the honor—but       now I had to fight like a wildcat to       keep a display from making a monkey of me!        It was our first day of recruiting on the planet, and the alienlife-forms had lined up for hundreds of feet back from my rentedoffice. As I came down the block from the hotel, I could hear and seeand smell them with ease.     My three staff men, Auchinleck, Stebbins and Ludlow, walked shieldwisein front of me. I peered between them to size the crop up. The alienscame in every shape and form, in all colors and textures—and all ofthem eager for a Corrigan contract. The Galaxy is full of bizarrebeings, but there's barely a species anywhere that can resist the oldexhibitionist urge.     Send them in one at a time, I told Stebbins. I ducked into theoffice, took my place back of the desk and waited for the procession tobegin.     The name of the planet was MacTavish IV (if you went by the officialTerran listing) or Ghryne (if you called it by what its people wereaccustomed to calling it). I thought of it privately as MacTavish IVand referred to it publicly as Ghryne. I believe in keeping the localshappy wherever I go.     Through the front window of the office, I could see our big gay tridimsign plastered to a facing wall: WANTED—EXTRATERRESTRIALS! We hadsaturated MacTavish IV with our promotional poop for a month precedingarrival. Stuff like this:       Want to visit Earth—see the Galaxy's most glittering and exclusiveworld? Want to draw good pay, work short hours, experience the thrillsof show business on romantic Terra? If you are a non-terrestrial,there may be a place for you in the Corrigan Institute ofMorphological Science. No freaks wanted—normal beings only. J. F.Corrigan will hold interviews in person on Ghryne from Thirdday toFifthday of Tenmonth. His last visit to the Caledonia Cluster until2937, so don't miss your chance! Hurry! A life of wonder and richescan be yours!    Broadsides like that, distributed wholesale in half a thousandlanguages, always bring them running. And the Corrigan Institute reallypacks in the crowds back on Earth. Why not? It's the best of its kind,the only really decent place where Earthmen can get a gander at theother species of the universe.     The office buzzer sounded. Auchinleck said unctuously, The firstapplicant is ready to see you, sir.     Send him, her or it in.     The door opened and a timid-looking life-form advanced toward me onnervous little legs. He was a globular creature about the size of abig basketball, yellowish-green, with two spindly double-kneed legs andfive double-elbowed arms, the latter spaced regularly around his body.There was a lidless eye at the top of his head and five lidded ones,one above each arm. Plus a big, gaping, toothless mouth.       His voice was a surprisingly resounding basso. You are Mr. Corrigan?     That's right. I reached for a data blank. Before we begin, I'll needcertain information about—     I am a being of Regulus II, came the grave, booming reply, evenbefore I had picked up the blank. I need no special care and I am nota fugitive from the law of any world.     Your name?     Lawrence R. Fitzgerald.     I throttled my exclamation of surprise, concealing it behind a quickcough. Let me have that again, please?     Certainly. My name is Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. The 'R' stands forRaymond.     Of course, that's not the name you were born with.     The being closed his eyes and toddled around in a 360-degree rotation,remaining in place. On his world, that gesture is the equivalent ofan apologetic smile. My Regulan name no longer matters. I am now andshall evermore be Lawrence R. Fitzgerald. I am a Terraphile, you see.  The little Regulan was as good as hired. Only the formalities remained.You understand our terms, Mr. Fitzgerald?     I'll be placed on exhibition at your Institute on Earth. You'll payfor my services, transportation and expenses. I'll be required toremain on exhibit no more than one-third of each Terran sidereal day.     And the pay will be—ah—$50 Galactic a week, plus expenses andtransportation.     The spherical creature clapped his hands in joy, three hands clappingon one side, two on the other. Wonderful! I will see Earth at last! Iaccept the terms!     I buzzed for Ludlow and gave him the fast signal that meant we weresigning this alien up at half the usual pay, and Ludlow took him intothe other office to sign him up.     I grinned, pleased with myself. We needed a green Regulan in our show;the last one had quit four years ago. But just because we needed himdidn't mean we had to be extravagant in hiring him. A Terraphile alienwho goes to the extent of rechristening himself with a Terran monickerwould work for nothing, or even pay us, just so long as we let him getto Earth. My conscience won't let me really      exploit     a being, but Idon't believe in throwing money away, either.     The next applicant was a beefy ursinoid from Aldebaran IX. Our outfithas all the ursinoids it needs or is likely to need in the next fewdecades, and so I got rid of him in a couple of minutes. He wasfollowed by a roly-poly blue-skinned humanoid from Donovan's Planet,four feet high and five hundred pounds heavy. We already had a coupleof his species in the show, but they made good crowd-pleasers, beingso plump and cheerful. I passed him along to Auchinleck to sign atanything short of top rate.     Next came a bedraggled Sirian spider who was more interested in ahandout than a job. If there's any species we have a real over-supplyof, it's those silver-colored spiders, but this seedy specimen gave ita try anyway. He got the gate in half a minute, and he didn't even getthe handout he was angling for. I don't approve of begging.     The flora of applicants was steady. Ghryne is in the heart of theCaledonia Cluster, where the interstellar crossroads meet. We hadfigured to pick up plenty of new exhibits here and we were right.  It was the isolationism of the late 29th century that turned me intothe successful proprietor of Corrigan's Institute, after some yearsas an impoverished carnival man in the Betelgeuse system. Back in2903, the World Congress declared Terra off-bounds for non-terrestrialbeings, as an offshoot of the Terra for Terrans movement.     Before then, anyone could visit Earth. After the gate clanged down,a non-terrestrial could only get onto Sol III as a specimen in ascientific collection—in short, as an exhibit in a zoo.     That's what the Corrigan Institute of Morphological Science really is,of course. A zoo. But we don't go out and hunt for our specimens; weadvertise and they come flocking to us. Every alien wants to see Earthonce in his lifetime, and there's only one way he can do it.     We don't keep too big an inventory. At last count, we had 690 specimensbefore this trip, representing 298 different intelligent life-forms.My goal is at least one member of at least 500 different races. When Ireach that, I'll sit back and let the competition catch up—if it can.     After an hour of steady work that morning, we had signed eleven newspecimens. At the same time, we had turned away a dozen ursinoids,fifty of the reptilian natives of Ghryne, seven Sirian spiders, and noless than nineteen chlorine-breathing Procyonites wearing gas masks.     It was also my sad duty to nix a Vegan who was negotiating through aGhrynian agent. A Vegan would be a top-flight attraction, being some400 feet long and appropriately fearsome to the eye, but I didn't seehow we could take one on. They're gentle and likable beings, but theirupkeep runs into literally tons of fresh meat a day, and not just anyold kind of meat either. So we had to do without the Vegan.     One more specimen before lunch, I told Stebbins, to make it an evendozen.     He looked at me queerly and nodded. A being entered. I took a longclose look at the life-form when it came in, and after that I tookanother one. I wondered what kind of stunt was being pulled. So far asI could tell, the being was quite plainly nothing but an Earthman.     He sat down facing me without being asked and crossed his legs. He wastall and extremely thin, with pale blue eyes and dirty-blond hair, andthough he was clean and reasonably well dressed, he had a shabby lookabout him. He said, in level Terran accents, I'm looking for a jobwith your outfit, Corrigan.     There's been a mistake. We're interested in non-terrestrials only.     I'm a non-terrestrial. My name is Ildwar Gorb, of the planet WazzenazzXIII.  I don't mind conning the public from time to time, but I draw the lineat getting bilked myself. Look, friend, I'm busy, and I'm not knownfor my sense of humor. Or my generosity.     I'm not panhandling. I'm looking for a job.     Then try elsewhere. Suppose you stop wasting my time, bud. You're asEarthborn as I am.     I've never been within a dozen parsecs of Earth, he said smoothly. Ihappen to be a representative of the only Earthlike race that existsanywhere in the Galaxy but on Earth itself. Wazzenazz XIII is a smalland little-known planet in the Crab Nebula. Through an evolutionaryfluke, my race is identical with yours. Now, don't you want me in yourcircus?     No. And it's not a circus. It's—     A scientific institute. I stand corrected.     There was something glib and appealing about this preposterous phony. Iguess I recognized a kindred spirit or I would have tossed him out onhis ear without another word. Instead I played along. If you're fromsuch a distant place, how come you speak English so well?     I'm not speaking. I'm a telepath—not the kind that reads minds, justthe kind that projects. I communicate in symbols that you translateback to colloquial speech.     Very clever, Mr. Gorb. I grinned at him and shook my head. You spina good yarn—but for my money, you're really Sam Jones or Phil Smithfrom Earth, stranded here and out of cash. You want a free trip back toEarth. No deal. The demand for beings from Wazzenazz XIII is pretty lowthese days. Zero, in fact. Good-by, Mr. Gorb.     He pointed a finger squarely at me and said, You're making a bigmistake. I'm just what your outfit needs. A representative of ahitherto utterly unknown race identical to humanity in every respect!Look here, examine my teeth. Absolutely like human teeth! And—     I pulled away from his yawning mouth. Good-by, Mr. Gorb, I repeated.     All I ask is a contract, Corrigan. It isn't much. I'll be a bigattraction. I'll—           Good-by, Mr. Gorb!          He glowered at me reproachfully for a moment, stood up and sauntered tothe door. I thought you were a man of acumen, Corrigan. Well, thinkit over. Maybe you'll regret your hastiness. I'll be back to give youanother chance.     He slammed the door and I let my grim expression relax into a smile.This was the best con switch yet—an Earthman posing as an alien to geta job!     But I wasn't buying it, even if I could appreciate his clevernessintellectually. There's no such place as Wazzenazz XIII and there'sonly one human race in the Galaxy—on Earth. I was going to need somereal good reason before I gave a down-and-out grifter a free tickethome.     I didn't know it then, but before the day was out, I would have thatreason. And, with it, plenty of trouble on my hands.  The first harbinger of woe turned up after lunch in the person of aKallerian. The Kallerian was the sixth applicant that afternoon. Ihad turned away three more ursinoids, hired a vegetable from Miazan,and said no to a scaly pseudo-armadillo from one of the Delta Worlds.Hardly had the 'dillo scuttled dejectedly out of my office when theKallerian came striding in, not even waiting for Stebbins to admit himofficially.     He was big even for his kind—in the neighborhood of nine feet high,and getting on toward a ton. He planted himself firmly on his threestocky feet, extended his massive arms in a Kallerian greeting-gesture,and growled, I am Vallo Heraal, Freeman of Kaller IV. You will sign meimmediately to a contract.     Sit down, Freeman Heraal. I like to make my own decisions, thanks.     You will grant me a contract!     Will you please sit down?     He said sulkily, I will remain standing.     As you prefer. My desk has a few concealed features which aresometimes useful in dealing with belligerent or disappointedlife-forms. My fingers roamed to the meshgun trigger, just in case oftrouble.     The Kallerian stood motionless before me. They're hairy creatures, andthis one had a coarse, thick mat of blue fur completely covering hisbody. Two fierce eyes glimmered out through the otherwise dense blanketof fur. He was wearing the kilt, girdle and ceremonial blaster of hiswarlike race.     I said, You'll have to understand, Freeman Heraal, that it's not ourpolicy to maintain more than a few members of each species at ourInstitute. And we're not currently in need of any Kallerian males,because—     You will hire me or trouble I will make!     I opened our inventory chart. I showed him that we were alreadycarrying four Kallerians, and that was more than plenty.     The beady little eyes flashed like beacons in the fur. Yes, you havefour representatives—of the Clan Verdrokh! None of the Clan Gursdrinn!For three years, I have waited for a chance to avenge this insult tothe noble Clan Gursdrinn!     At the key-word      avenge     , I readied myself to ensnarl the Kallerianin a spume of tanglemesh the instant he went for his blaster, but hedidn't move. He bellowed, I have vowed a vow, Earthman. Take me toEarth, enroll a Gursdrinn, or the consequences will be terrible!  I'm a man of principles, like all straightforward double-dealers, andone of the most important of those principles is that I never letmyself be bullied by anyone. I deeply regret having unintentionallyinsulted your clan, Freeman Heraal. Will you accept my apologies?     He glared at me in silence.     I went on, Please be assured that I'll undo the insult at the earliestpossible opportunity. It's not feasible for us to hire anotherKallerian now, but I'll give preference to the Clan Gursdrinn as soonas a vacancy—     No. You will hire me now.     It can't be done, Freeman Heraal. We have a budget, and we stick toit.     You will rue! I will take drastic measures!     Threats will get you nowhere, Freeman Heraal. I give you my word I'llget in touch with you as soon as our organization has room for anotherKallerian. And now, please, there are many applicants waiting—     You'd think it would be sort of humiliating to become a specimen in azoo, but most of these races take it as an honor. And there's alwaysthe chance that, by picking a given member of a race, we're insultingall the others.     I nudged the trouble-button on the side of my desk and Auchinleck andLudlow appeared simultaneously from the two doors at right and left.They surrounded the towering Kallerian and sweet-talkingly led himaway. He wasn't minded to quarrel physically, or he could have knockedthem both into the next city with a backhand swipe of his shaggy paw,but he kept up a growling flow of invective and threats until he wasout in the hall.     I mopped sweat from my forehead and began to buzz Stebbins for the nextapplicant. But before my finger touched the button, the door poppedopen and a small being came scooting in, followed by an angry Stebbins.     Come here, you!     Stebbins? I said gently.     I'm sorry, Mr. Corrigan. I lost sight of this one for a moment, and hecame running in—     Please, please, squeaked the little alien pitifully. I must see you,honored sir!     It isn't his turn in line, Stebbins protested. There are at leastfifty ahead of him.       All right, I said tiredly. As long as he's in here already, I mightas well see him. Be more careful next time, Stebbins.     Stebbins nodded dolefully and backed out.  The alien was a pathetic sight: a Stortulian, a squirrely-lookingcreature about three feet high. His fur, which should have been alustrous black, was a dull gray, and his eyes were wet and sad. Histail drooped. His voice was little more than a faint whimper, even atfull volume.     Begging your most honored pardon most humbly, important sir. I am abeing of Stortul XII, having sold my last few possessions to travelto Ghryne for the miserable purpose of obtaining an interview withyourself.     I said, I'd better tell you right at the outset that we're alreadycarrying our full complement of Stortulians. We have both a male and afemale now and—     This is known to me. The female—is her name perchance Tiress?     I glanced down at the inventory chart until I found the Stortulianentry. Yes, that's her name.     The little being immediately emitted a soul-shaking gasp. It is she!It is she!     I'm afraid we don't have room for any more—     You are not in full understanding of my plight. The female Tiress,she is—was—my own Fire-sent spouse, my comfort and my warmth, my lifeand my love.     Funny, I said. When we signed her three years ago, she said she wassingle. It's right here on the chart.     She lied! She left my burrow because she longed to see the splendorsof Earth. And I am alone, bound by our sacred customs never to remarry,languishing in sadness and pining for her return. You      must     take me toEarth!     But—     I must see her—her and this disgrace-bringing lover of hers. I mustreason with her. Earthman, can't you see I must appeal to her innerflame?      I must bring her back!          My face was expressionless. You don't really intend to join ourorganization at all—you just want free passage to Earth?     Yes, yes! wailed the Stortulian. Find some other member of my race,if you must! Let me have my wife again, Earthman! Is your heart a deadlump of stone?  It isn't, but another of my principles is to refuse to be swayed bysentiment. I felt sorry for this being's domestic troubles, but Iwasn't going to break up a good act just to make an alien squirrelhappy—not to mention footing the transportation.     I said, I don't see how we can manage it. The laws are very stricton the subject of bringing alien life to Earth. It has to be forscientific purposes only. And if I know in advance that your purpose incoming isn't scientific, I can't in all conscience      lie     for you, canI?     Well—     Of course not. I took advantage of his pathetic upset to steam rightalong. Now if you had come in here and simply asked me to sign you up,I might conceivably have done it. But no—you had to go unburden yourheart to me.     I thought the truth would move you.     It did. But in effect you're now asking me to conspire in a fraudulentcriminal act. Friend, I can't do it. My reputation means too much tome, I said piously.     Then you will refuse me?     My heart melts to nothingness for you. But I can't take you to Earth.     Perhaps you will send my wife to me here?     There's a clause in every contract that allows me to jettison anunwanted specimen. All I have to do is declare it no longer ofscientific interest, and the World Government will deport theundesirable alien back to its home world. But I wouldn't pull a lowtrick like that on our female Stortulian.     I said, I'll ask her about coming home. But I won't ship her backagainst her will. And maybe she's happier where she is.     The Stortulian seemed to shrivel. His eyelids closed half-way to maskhis tears. He turned and shambled slowly to the door, walking like aliving dishrag. In a bleak voice, he said, There is no hope then. Allis lost. I will never see my soulmate again. Good day, Earthman.     He spoke in a drab monotone that almost, but not quite, had me weeping.I watched him shuffle out. I do have      some     conscience, and I had theuneasy feeling I had just been talking to a being who was about tocommit suicide on my account.  About fifty more applicants were processed without a hitch. Then lifestarted to get complicated again.     Nine of the fifty were okay. The rest were unacceptable for one reasonor another, and they took the bad news quietly enough. The haul for theday so far was close to two dozen new life-forms under contract.     I had just about begun to forget about the incidents of the Kallerian'soutraged pride and the Stortulian's flighty wife when the door openedand the Earthman who called himself Ildwar Gorb of Wazzenazz XIIIstepped in.     How did      you     get in here? I demanded.     Your man happened to be looking the wrong way, he said cheerily.Change your mind about me yet?     Get out before I have you thrown out.     Gorb shrugged. I figured you hadn't changed your mind, so I've changedmy pitch a bit. If you won't believe I'm from Wazzenazz XIII, suppose Itell you that I      am     Earthborn, and that I'm looking for a job on yourstaff.     I don't care      what     your story is! Get out or—     —you'll have me thrown out. Okay, okay. Just give me half a second.Corrigan, you're no fool, and neither am I—but that fellow of yoursoutside      is     . He doesn't know how to handle alien beings. How manytimes today has a life-form come in here unexpectedly?     I scowled at him. Too damn many.     You see? He's incompetent. Suppose you fire him, take me on instead.I've been living in the outworlds half my life; I know all there is toknow about alien life-forms. You can use me, Corrigan.     I took a deep breath and glanced all around the paneled ceiling ofthe office before I spoke. Listen, Gorb, or whatever your name is,I've had a hard day. There's been a Kallerian in here who just aboutthreatened murder, and there's been a Stortulian in here who's aboutto commit suicide because of me. I have a conscience and it's troublingme. But get this: I just want to finish off my recruiting, pack up andgo home to Earth. I don't want you hanging around here bothering me.I'm not looking to hire new staff members, and if you switch back toclaiming you're an unknown life-form from Wazzenazz XIII, the answer isthat I'm not looking for any of      those     either. Now will you scram or—     The office door crashed open at that point and Heraal, the Kallerian,came thundering in. He was dressed from head to toe in glitteringmetalfoil, and instead of his ceremonial blaster, he was wieldinga sword the length of a human being. Stebbins and Auchinleck camedragging helplessly along in his wake, hanging desperately to his belt.     Sorry, Chief, Stebbins gasped. I tried to keep him out, but—     Heraal, who had planted himself in front of my desk, drowned him outwith a roar. Earthman, you have mortally insulted the Clan Gursdrinn!  Sitting with my hands poised near the meshgun trigger, I was ready tolet him have it at the first sight of actual violence.     Heraal boomed, You are responsible for what is to happen now. I havenotified the authorities and you prosecuted will be for causing thedeath of a life-form! Suffer, Earthborn ape! Suffer!     Watch it, Chief, Stebbins yelled. He's going to—     An instant before my numb fingers could tighten on the meshguntrigger, Heraal swung that huge sword through the air and plunged itsavagely through his body. He toppled forward onto the carpet with thesword projecting a couple of feet out of his back. A few driblets ofbluish-purple blood spread from beneath him.     Before I could react to the big life-form's hara-kiri, the office doorflew open again and three sleek reptilian beings entered, garbed in thegreen sashes of the local police force. Their golden eyes goggled downat the figure on the floor, then came to rest on me.     You are J. F. Corrigan? the leader asked.     Y-yes.     We have received word of a complaint against you. Said complaintbeing—     —that your unethical actions have directly contributed to theuntimely death of an intelligent life-form, filled in the second ofthe Ghrynian policemen.     The evidence lies before us, intoned the leader, in the cadaverof the unfortunate Kallerian who filed the complaint with us severalminutes ago.     And therefore, said the third lizard, it is our duty to arrestyou for this crime and declare you subject to a fine of no less than$100,000 Galactic or two years in prison.     Hold on! I stormed. You mean that any being from anywhere in theUniverse can come in here and gut himself on my carpet, and      I'm     responsible?     This is the law. Do you deny that your stubborn refusal to yield tothis late life-form's request lies at the root of his sad demise?     Well, no, but—     Failure to deny is admission of guilt. You are guilty, Earthman.  Closing my eyes wearily, I tried to wish the whole babbling lot of themaway. If I had to, I could pony up the hundred-grand fine, but it wasgoing to put an awful dent in this year's take. And I shuddered when Iremembered that any minute that scrawny little Stortulian was likely tocome bursting in here to kill himself too. Was it a fine of $100,000per suicide? At that rate, I could be out of business by nightfall.     I was spared further such morbid thoughts by yet another unannouncedarrival.     The small figure of the Stortulian trudged through the open doorwayand stationed itself limply near the threshold. The three Ghrynianpolicemen and my three assistants forgot the dead Kallerian for amoment and turned to eye the newcomer.     I had visions of unending troubles with the law here on Ghryne. Iresolved never to come here on a recruiting trip again—or, if I      did     come, to figure out some more effective way of screening myself againstcrackpots.     In heart-rending tones, the Stortulian declared, Life is no longerworth living. My last hope is gone. There is only one thing left for meto do.     I was quivering at the thought of another hundred thousand smackersgoing down the drain. Stop him, somebody! He's going to kill himself!He's—     Then somebody sprinted toward me, hit me amidships, and knocked meflying out from behind my desk before I had a chance to fire themeshgun. My head walloped the floor, and for five or six seconds, Iguess I wasn't fully aware of what was going on.     Gradually the scene took shape around me. There was a monstrous holein the wall behind my desk; a smoking blaster lay on the floor, and Isaw the three Ghrynian policemen sitting on the raving Stortulian. Theman who called himself Ildwar Gorb was getting to his feet and dustinghimself off.     He helped me up. Sorry to have had to tackle you, Corrigan. But thatStortulian wasn't here to commit suicide, you see. He was out to getyou.     I weaved dizzily toward my desk and dropped into my chair. A flyingfragment of wall had deflated my pneumatic cushion. The smell of ashedplaster was everywhere. The police were effectively cocooning thestruggling little alien in an unbreakable tanglemesh.     Evidently you don't know as much as you think you do about Stortulianpsychology, Corrigan, Gorb said lightly. Suicide is completelyabhorrent to them. When they're troubled, they kill the person whocaused their trouble. In this case, you.  I began to chuckle—more of a tension-relieving snicker than afull-bodied laugh.     Funny, I said.     What is? asked the self-styled Wazzenazzian.     These aliens. Big blustery Heraal came in with murder in his eye andkilled      himself     , and the pint-sized Stortulian who looked so meek andpathetic damn near blew my head off. I shuddered. Thanks for thetackle job.     Don't mention it, Gorb said.     I glared at the Ghrynian police. Well? What are you waiting for? Takethat murderous little beast out of here! Or isn't murder against thelocal laws?     The Stortulian will be duly punished, replied the leader of theGhrynian cops calmly. But there is the matter of the dead Kallerianand the fine of—     —one hundred thousand dollars. I know. I groaned and turned toStebbins. Get the Terran Consulate on the phone, Stebbins. Have themsend down a legal adviser. Find out if there's any way we can get outof this mess with our skins intact.     Right, Chief. Stebbins moved toward the visiphone.     Gorb stepped forward and put a hand on his chest.     Hold it, the Wazzenazzian said crisply. The Consulate can't helpyou. I can.     You? I said.     I can get you out of this cheap.           How     cheap?     Gorb grinned rakishly. Five thousand in cash plus a contract as aspecimen with your outfit. In advance, of course. That's a heck of alot better than forking over a hundred grand, isn't it?     I eyed Gorb uncertainly. The Terran Consulate people probably wouldn'tbe much help; they tried to keep out of local squabbles unless theywere really serious, and I knew from past experiences that no officialsever worried much about the state of my pocketbook. On the other hand,giving this slyster a contract might be a risky proposition.     Tell you what, I said finally. You've got yourself a deal—but ona contingency basis. Get me out of this and you'll have five grand andthe contract. Otherwise, nothing.     Gorb shrugged. What have I to lose?  ","The story takes place during a single day in Mr. Corrigan’s rented office on the planet Ghryne some time after the year 2903. His office has a desk, chairs for his interviewees to sit in, and a sign advertising that extraterrestrials are wanted. There is a waiting room outside the office, and applicants are buzzed in by Corrigan’s assistant.On this planet, there is a strong desire for aliens to want to go on exhibit on Earth. Mr. Corrigan profits from having them on display, and is willing to go through long and stressful interview days to hand select his specimens. His desire is to have at least 500 different alien races in his collection.There is frequent reference to the location of the Corrigan Institute on Earth, though it is never visited in the story. The Institute is very popular with humans, and has 690 specimens, representing 298 different types of aliens."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     A Coffin for Jacob     By EDWARD W. LUDWIG     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        With never a moment to rest, the pursuit       through space felt like a game of hounds       and hares ... or was it follow the leader?        Ben Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of theBlast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him.     His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian ginmill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whoseingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets.     Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobaccosmoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here andthere, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,Martians or Venusians.     Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that itwas the dead man's hand.           Coma esta, senor?      a small voice piped.       Speken die Deutsch?Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet?          Ben looked down.     The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was likea red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a tornskivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees.     I'm American, Ben muttered.     Ah,      buena     ! I speak English      tres     fine,      senor     . I have Martianfriend, she      tres     pretty and      tres     fat. She weigh almost eightypounds,      monsieur     . I take you to her,      si     ?     Ben shook his head.  He thought,      I don't want your Martian wench. I don't want your opiumor your Devil's Egg or your Venusian kali. But if you had a drug that'dbring a dead man to life, I'd buy and pay with my soul.       It is deal,      monsieur     ? Five dollars or twenty      keelis     for visitMartian friend. Maybe you like House of Dreams. For House of Dreams—     I'm not buying.     The dirty-faced kid shrugged. Then I show you to good table,—      tresbien     . I do not charge you,      senor     .     The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason forresisting, he followed. They plunged into shifting layers of smoke andthrough the drone of alcohol-cracked voices.       They passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyedEarthmen—merchant spacemen.     They wormed down a narrow aisle flanked by booths carved from Venusianmarble that jutted up into the semi-darkness like fog-blanketedtombstones.     Several times, Ben glimpsed the bulky figures of CO  2  -breathingVenusians, the first he'd ever seen.     They were smoky gray, scaly, naked giants, toads in human shape.They stood solitary and motionless, aloof, their green-lidded eyesunblinking. They certainly didn't look like telepaths, as Ben had heardthey were, but the thought sent a fresh rivulet of fear down his spine.     Once he spied a white-uniformed officer of Hoover City's SecurityPolice. The man was striding down an aisle, idly tapping his neuro-clubagainst the stone booths.       Keep walking     , Ben told himself.      You look the same as anyone elsehere. Keep walking. Look straight ahead.       The officer passed. Ben breathed easier.     Here we are,      monsieur     , piped the Martian boy. A      tres     fine table.Close in the shadows.     Ben winced. How did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows?Frowning, he sat down—he and the dead man.     He listened to the lonely rhythms of the four-piece Martian orchestra.     The Martians were fragile, doll-like creatures with heads too large fortheir spindly bodies. Their long fingers played upon the strings oftheir      cirillas     or crawled over the holes of their flutes like spiderlegs. Their tune was sad. Even when they played an Earth tune, it stillseemed a song of old Mars, charged with echoes of lost voices andforgotten grandeur.     For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the deadman. He thought,      What are they doing here, these Martians? Here, ina smoke-filled room under a metalite dome on a dust-covered world?Couldn't they have played their music on Mars? Or had they, like me,felt the challenge of new worlds?       He sobered. It didn't matter. He ordered a whiskey from a Chinesewaiter. He wet his lips but did not drink. His gaze wandered over thefaces of the Inn's other occupants.       You've got to find him     , he thought.      You've got to find the man withthe red beard. It's the only way you can escape the dead man.    The dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby andabout forty and he hated spacemen.     His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outsideLuna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much apart of Ben as sight in his eyes.     Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lipsspitting whiskey-slurred curses.     Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fistthudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in thewhiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would tricklefrom a corner of the gaping mouth.     You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him orignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from amemory that has burned into your mind.     It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands hadbeen successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobbplopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him.     Spacemen, he muttered, are getting like flies. Everywhere, all yousee's spacemen.     He was a neatly dressed civilian.     Ben smiled. If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here.     The name's Cobb. The man hiccoughed. Spacemen in their white monkeysuits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're alittle tin god. He downed a shot of whiskey.     Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,crimson-braided uniform of the      Odyssey's     junior astrogation officer.He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shininguniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe.     He'd sought long for that key.  At the age of five—perhaps in order to dull the memory of his parents'death in a recent strato-jet crash—he'd spent hours watching the nightsky for streaking flame-tails of Moon rockets. At ten, he'd groundhis first telescope. At fourteen, he'd converted an abandoned shed onthe government boarding-school grounds to a retreat which housed hiscollection of astronomy and rocketry books.     At sixteen, he'd spent every weekend holiday hitchhiking from BoysTown No. 5 in the Catskills to Long Island Spaceport. There, amongthe grizzled veterans of the old Moon Patrol, he'd found friends whounderstood his dream and who later recommended his appointment to theU. S. Academy for the Conquest of Space.     And a month ago, he'd signed aboard the      Odyssey     —the first ship, itwas rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhapsbeyond.     Cobb was persistent: Damn fools shoulda known enough to stay on Earth.What the hell good is it, jumpin' from planet to planet?       The guy's drunk     , Ben thought. He took his drink and moved threestools down the bar.     Cobb followed. You don't like the truth, eh, kid? You don't likepeople to call you a sucker.     Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm andheld him there.     Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'llbe dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. Wait and see, sucker!     Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly andwithout warning, it welled up into savage fury.     His fist struck the man on the chin. Cobb's eyes gaped in shockedhorror. He spun backward. His head cracked sickeningly on the edge ofthe bar. The sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end oflife.     He sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw.     Ben knew that he was dead.     Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as,a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger.     He ran.  For some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare worldof dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet.     At last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. He sawthat he was still on the rocketfront, but in the Tycho-ward side of thecity.     He huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette.A thousand stars—a thousand motionless balls of silver fire—shoneabove him through Luna City's transparent dome.     He was sorry he'd hit Cobb, of course. He was not sorry he'd run.Escaping at least gave him a power of choice, of decision.       You can do two things     , he thought.       You can give yourself up, and that's what a good officer would do.That would eliminate the escape charge. You'd get off with voluntarymanslaughter. Under interplanetary law, that would mean ten years inprison and a dishonorable discharge. And then you'd be free.         But you'd be through with rockets and space. They don't want newmen over thirty-four for officers on rockets or even for third-classjet-men on beat-up freighters—they don't want convicted killers. You'dget the rest of the thrill of conquering space through video and bypeeking through electric fences of spaceports.         Or—       There were old wives' tales of a group of renegade spacemen whooperated from the Solar System's frontiers. The spacemen weren'toutlaws. They were misfits, rejectees from the clearing houses on Earth.     And whereas no legally recognized ship had ventured past Mars, thesouped-up renegade rigs had supposedly hit the asteroids. Theirheadquarters was Venus. Their leader—a subject of popular andfantastic conjecture in the men's audiozines—was rumored to be ared-bearded giant.       So     , Ben reflected,      you can take a beer-and-pretzels tale seriously.You can hide for a couple of days, get rid of your uniform, change yourname. You can wait for a chance to get to Venus. To hell with yourduty. You can try to stay in space, even if you exile yourself fromEarth.       After all, was it right for a single second, a single insignificantsecond, to destroy a man's life and his dream?  He was lucky. He found a tramp freighter whose skipper was on his lastflight before retirement. Discipline was lax, investigation of newpersonnel even more so.     Ben Curtis made it to Venus.     There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that thememory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow himas constantly as breath flowed into his lungs.     But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring deadvoice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spacewaysobscure the dead face?     So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once.     You look for someone,      senor     ?     He jumped. Oh. You still here?           Oui.      The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. Ikeep you company on your first night in Hoover City,      n'est-ce-pas     ?     This isn't my first night here, Ben lied. I've been around a while.     You are spacemen?     Ben threw a fifty-cent credit piece on the table. Here. Take off, willyou?     Spiderlike fingers swept down upon the coin.       Ich danke, senor.     Youknow why city is called Hoover City?     Ben didn't answer.     They say it is because after women come, they want first thing athousand vacuum cleaners for dust. What is vacuum cleaner,      monsieur     ?     Ben raised his hand as if to strike the boy.           Ai-yee     , I go. You keep listen to good Martian music.     The toothpick of a body melted into the semi-darkness.     Minutes passed. There were two more whiskeys. A ceaseless parade offaces broke through the smoky veil that enclosed him—reddish balloonfaces, scaly reptilian faces, white-skinned, slit-eyed faces, andoccasionally a white, rouged, powdered face. But nowhere was there aface with a red beard.     A sense of hopelessness gripped Ben Curtis. Hoover City was but one ofa dozen cities of Venus. Each had twenty dives such as this.     He needed help.     But his picture must have been 'scoped to Venusian visiscreens. Areward must have been offered for his capture. Whom could he trust? TheMartian kid, perhaps?     Far down the darkened aisle nearest him, his eyes caught a flash ofwhite. He tensed.     Like the uniform of a Security Policeman, he thought.     His gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness.     And then he saw another and another and another.     Each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of awheel with Ben as their focal point.       You idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known!    Light showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded,realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had beenturned on.     The light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of broodingwickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor.     Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements anda chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were liketatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away.     Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward,falling.     The white-clad men charged, neuro-clubs upraised.     A woman screamed. The music ceased. The Martian orchestra slunk withfeline stealth to a rear exit. Only the giant Venusians remainedundisturbed. They stood unmoving, their staring eyes shifting lazily inBen's direction.     Curtis! one of the policemen yelled. You're covered! Hold it!     Ben whirled away from the advancing police, made for the exit intowhich the musicians had disappeared.     A hissing sound traveled past his left ear, a sound like compressed airescaping from a container. A dime-sized section of the concrete wallahead of him crumbled.     He stumbled forward. They were using deadly neuro-pistols now, not themildly stunning neuro-clubs.     Another hiss passed his cheek. He was about twelve feet from the exit.      Another second     , his brain screamed.      Just another second—       Or would the exits be guarded?     He heard the hiss.     It hit directly in the small of his back. There was no pain, just aslight pricking sensation, like the shallow jab of a needle.  He froze as if yanked to a stop by a noose. His body seemed to begrowing, swelling into balloon proportions. He knew that the tinyneedle had imbedded itself deep in his flesh, knew that the paralyzingmortocain was spreading like icy fire into every fiber and muscle ofhis body.     He staggered like a man of stone moving in slow motion. He'd havefifteen—maybe twenty—seconds before complete lethargy of mind andbody overpowered him.     In the dark world beyond his fading consciousness, he heard a voiceyell, Turn on the damn lights!     Then a pressure and a coldness were on his left hand. He realized thatsomeone had seized it.     A soft feminine voice spoke to him. You're wounded? They hit you?     Yes. His thick lips wouldn't let go of the word.     You want to escape—even now?     Yes.     You may die if you don't give yourself up.     No, no.     He tried to stumble toward the exit.     All right then. Not that way. Here, this way.     Heavy footsteps thudded toward them. A few yards away, a flashlightflicked on.     Hands were guiding him. He was aware of being pushed and pulled. Adoor closed behind him. The glare of the flashlight faded from hisvision—if he still had vision.     You're sure? the voice persisted.     I'm sure, Ben managed to say.     I have no antidote. You may die.     His mind fought to comprehend. With the anti-paralysis injection,massage and rest, a man could recover from the effects of mortocainwithin half a day. Without treatment, the paralysis could spread toheart and lungs. It could become a paralysis of death. An effectiveweapon: the slightest wound compelled the average criminal to surrenderat once.     Anti ... anti ... The words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forcedfrom his throat. No ... I'm sure ... sure.     He didn't hear the answer or anything else.  Ben Curtis had no precise sensation of awakening. Return toconsciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of blacknothingness to a dream-like state of awareness.     He felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders,hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation andsensitivity. He knew they were strong hands. Their strength seemed totransfer itself to his own body.     For a long time, he tried to open his eyes. His lids felt weldedshut. But after a while, they opened. His world of darkness gave wayto a translucent cloak of mist. A round, featureless shape hoveredconstantly above him—a face, he supposed.     He tried to talk. Although his lips moved slightly, the only sound wasa deep, staccato grunting.     But he heard someone say, Don't try to talk. It was the same gentlevoice he'd heard in the Blast Inn. Don't talk. Just lie still andrest. Everything'll be all right.       Everything all right     , he thought dimly.     There were long periods of lethargy when he was aware of nothing. Therewere periods of light and of darkness. Gradually he grew aware ofthings. He realized that the soft rubber mouth of a spaceman's oxygenmask was clamped over his nose. He felt the heat of electric blanketsswathed about his body. Occasionally a tube would be in his mouth andhe would taste liquid food and feel a pleasant warmth in his stomach.     Always, it seemed, the face was above him, floating in the obscuringmist. Always, it seemed, the soft voice was echoing in his ears:     Swallow this now. That's it. You must have food. Or, Close youreyes. Don't strain. It won't be long. You're getting better.       Better     , he'd think.      Getting better....       At last, after one of the periods of lethargy, his eyes opened. Themist brightened, then dissolved.     He beheld the cracked, unpainted ceiling of a small room, its colorlesswalls broken with a single, round window. He saw the footboard of hisaluminite bed and the outlines of his feet beneath a faded blanket.     Finally he saw the face and figure that stood at his side.     You are better? the kind voice asked.  The face was that of a girl probably somewhere between twenty-fiveand thirty. Her features, devoid of makeup, had an unhealthy-lookingpallor, as if she hadn't used a sunlamp for many weeks. Yet, at thesame time, her firm slim body suggested a solidity and a strength. Herstraight brown hair was combed backward, tight upon her scalp, anddrawn together in a knot at the nape of her neck.     I—I am better, he murmured. His words were still slow and thick. Iam going to live?     You will live.     He thought for a moment. How long have I been here?     Nine days.     You took care of me? He noted the deep, dark circles beneath hersleep-robbed eyes.     She nodded.     You're the one who carried me when I was shot?     Yes.     Why?     Suddenly he began to cough. Breath came hard. She held the oxygen maskin readiness. He shook his head, not wanting it.     Why? he asked again.     It would be a long story. Perhaps I'll tell you tomorrow.     A new thought, cloaked in sudden fear, entered his murky consciousness.Tell me, will—will I be well again? Will I be able to walk?     He lay back then, panting, exhausted.     You have nothing to worry about, the girl said softly. Her cool handtouched his hot forehead. Rest. We'll talk later.     His eyes closed and breath came easier. He slept.     When he next awoke, his gaze turned first to the window. There waslight outside, but he had no way of knowing if this was morning, noonor afternoon—or on what planet.     He saw no white-domed buildings of Hoover City, no formal lines ofgreen-treed parks, no streams of buzzing gyro-cars. There was only atranslucent and infinite whiteness. It was as if the window were set onthe edge of the Universe overlooking a solemn, silent and matterlessvoid.     The girl entered the room.     Hi, she said, smiling. The dark half-moons under her eyes were lessprominent. Her face was relaxed.     She increased the pressure in his rubberex pillows and helped him riseto a sitting position.     Where are we? he asked.     Venus.     We're not in Hoover City?     No.     He looked at her, wondering. You won't tell me?     Not yet. Later, perhaps.     Then how did you get me here? How did we escape from the Inn?  She shrugged. We have friends who can be bribed. A hiding place in thecity, the use of a small desert-taxi, a pass to leave the city—thesecan be had for a price.     You'll tell me your name?     Maggie.     Why did you save me?     Her eyes twinkled mischievously. Because you're a good astrogator.     His own eyes widened. How did you know that?     She sat on a plain chair beside his bed. I know everything about you,Lieutenant Curtis.     How did you learn my name? I destroyed all my papers—     I know that you're twenty-four. Born July 10, 1971. Orphaned at four,you attended Boys Town in the Catskills till you were 19. You graduatedfrom the Academy at White Sands last June with a major in Astrogation.Your rating for the five-year period was 3.8—the second highest in aclass of fifty-seven. Your only low mark in the five years was a 3.2 inHistory of Martian Civilization. Want me to go on?     Fascinated, Ben nodded.     You were accepted as junior astrogation officer aboard the      Odyssey     .You did well on your flight from Roswell to Luna City. In a barroomfight in Luna City, you struck and killed a man named Arthur Cobb, apre-fab salesman. You've been charged with second degree murder andescape. A reward of 5,000 credits has been offered for your capture.You came to Hoover City in the hope of finding a renegade group ofspacemen who operate beyond Mars. You were looking for them in theBlast Inn.     He gaped incredulously, struggling to rise from his pillows. I—don'tget it.     There are ways of finding out what we want to know. As I told you, wehave many friends.     He fell back into his pillows, breathing hard. She rose quickly.     I'm sorry, she said. I shouldn't have told you yet. I felt so happybecause you're alive. Rest now. We'll talk again soon.     Maggie, you—you said I'd live. You didn't say I'd be able to walkagain.     She lowered her gaze. I hope you'll be able to.     But you don't think I will, do you?     I don't know. We'll try walking tomorrow. Don't think about it now.Rest.     He tried to relax, but his mind was a vortex of conjecture.     Just one more question, he almost whispered.     Yes?     The man I killed—did he have a wife?     She hesitated. He thought,      Damn it, of all the questions, why did Iask that?       Finally she said, He had a wife.     Children?     Two. I don't know their ages.     She left the room.  He sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room.     He sat straight up, his chest heaving.     The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in amerchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatlytrimmed      red beard     !     Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped intorestless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through hisbrain.     The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyesaccused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night.     And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reacheddown and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands andknees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was achilling wail in his ears.     His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voicescreamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stompingrelentlessly toward him.     He awoke still screaming....     A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, aquestion already formed in his mind.     She came and at once he asked, Who is the man with the red beard?     She smiled. I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You      were     looking for him, weren't you?     Who is he?     She sat on the chair beside him.     My husband, she said softly.     He began to understand. And your husband needs an astrogator? That'swhy you saved me?     We need all the good men we can get.     Where is he?     She cocked her head in mock suspicion. Somewhere between Mercury andPluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When hisship returns, I'll be going to him.     Why aren't you with him now?     He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've beenstudying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau ofInvestigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know howwe operate?     He told her the tales he'd heard.  She nodded. There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and adozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years agoafter we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,but with almost every advance in space, someone dies.     Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is onlya temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I mightas well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one.     Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group iswanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just peoplelike yourself and Jacob.     Jacob? Your husband?     She laughed. Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of agrizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either.     She lit a cigarette. Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond thefrontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not evento Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejectswho couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They knownothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships tofrontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies.     Don't the authorities object?     Not very strongly. The I. B. I. has too many problems right here tosearch the whole System for a few two-bit crooks. Besides, we carrycargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that'sscarce on Earth and Mars and Venus. Nobody really cares whether itcomes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives miningit, that's our business.     She pursed her lips. But if they guessed how strong we are or that wehave friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different.There probably would be a crackdown.     Ben scowled. What happens if there      is     a crackdown? And what will youdo when Space Corps ships officially reach the asteroids? They can'tignore you then.     Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take themto Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll bepushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suitedboys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It      could     be us, youknow—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. Youcan't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make upyour own.  Ben stiffened. And that's why you want me for an astrogator.     Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. If you want to come—and if you getwell. She looked at him strangely.     Suppose— He fought to find the right words. Suppose I got well anddecided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let mego?     Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment,then fear. I don't know. That would be up to Jacob.     He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched hishand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotionthat had coursed through her.     The only thing that matters, really, she murmured, is your walkingagain. We'll try this afternoon. Okay?     Okay, he said.     When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo.     He was like two people, he thought.     Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one singlestarry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal.     He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when shewas alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions:     A Space Officer Is Honest A Space Officer Is Loyal. A SpaceOfficer Is Dutiful.     Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held itprisoner for half a million years.     Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago.  ","Ben Curtis enters a dark gin mill followed by the dead man and a boy offers him a wench. Ben denies and follows to a table past drinking men from different planets and a policeman, whose presence makes Ben anxious. He is followed by the dead man everywhere and has to find some red-bearded man to escape the dead man. A week ago Ben met a drunk man Cobb in a bar and they had a fight which led to Cobb's death by accident. Ben ran and didn't give in not to end his space career. He starts searching for the red-bearded man on Venus who led a group of renegade spacemen. In the gin mill Ben gets hopeless and is surrounded by the police, he runs again. He is paralyzed by the police but a woman who doesn't have an antidote helps him escape. He wakes up and can't talk, the woman massages him and looks after. When Ben gains consciousness he asks questions, he is not in Hoover city any longer but still on Venus. Turns out the woman knows a lot about her patient and saved him with a use of money. She doesn't know if he is to walk again but he will live. Ben learns the dead man had a family and they haunt him in nightmares. He also sees a photo of a red-bearded man, and it turns out the woman is his wife and they need an astrogator. She tells about her husband, his team and goal. Ben understands he won't be let go if he denies the job. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     A Coffin for Jacob     By EDWARD W. LUDWIG     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        With never a moment to rest, the pursuit       through space felt like a game of hounds       and hares ... or was it follow the leader?        Ben Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of theBlast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him.     His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian ginmill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whoseingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets.     Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobaccosmoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here andthere, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,Martians or Venusians.     Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that itwas the dead man's hand.           Coma esta, senor?      a small voice piped.       Speken die Deutsch?Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet?          Ben looked down.     The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was likea red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a tornskivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees.     I'm American, Ben muttered.     Ah,      buena     ! I speak English      tres     fine,      senor     . I have Martianfriend, she      tres     pretty and      tres     fat. She weigh almost eightypounds,      monsieur     . I take you to her,      si     ?     Ben shook his head.  He thought,      I don't want your Martian wench. I don't want your opiumor your Devil's Egg or your Venusian kali. But if you had a drug that'dbring a dead man to life, I'd buy and pay with my soul.       It is deal,      monsieur     ? Five dollars or twenty      keelis     for visitMartian friend. Maybe you like House of Dreams. For House of Dreams—     I'm not buying.     The dirty-faced kid shrugged. Then I show you to good table,—      tresbien     . I do not charge you,      senor     .     The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason forresisting, he followed. They plunged into shifting layers of smoke andthrough the drone of alcohol-cracked voices.       They passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyedEarthmen—merchant spacemen.     They wormed down a narrow aisle flanked by booths carved from Venusianmarble that jutted up into the semi-darkness like fog-blanketedtombstones.     Several times, Ben glimpsed the bulky figures of CO  2  -breathingVenusians, the first he'd ever seen.     They were smoky gray, scaly, naked giants, toads in human shape.They stood solitary and motionless, aloof, their green-lidded eyesunblinking. They certainly didn't look like telepaths, as Ben had heardthey were, but the thought sent a fresh rivulet of fear down his spine.     Once he spied a white-uniformed officer of Hoover City's SecurityPolice. The man was striding down an aisle, idly tapping his neuro-clubagainst the stone booths.       Keep walking     , Ben told himself.      You look the same as anyone elsehere. Keep walking. Look straight ahead.       The officer passed. Ben breathed easier.     Here we are,      monsieur     , piped the Martian boy. A      tres     fine table.Close in the shadows.     Ben winced. How did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows?Frowning, he sat down—he and the dead man.     He listened to the lonely rhythms of the four-piece Martian orchestra.     The Martians were fragile, doll-like creatures with heads too large fortheir spindly bodies. Their long fingers played upon the strings oftheir      cirillas     or crawled over the holes of their flutes like spiderlegs. Their tune was sad. Even when they played an Earth tune, it stillseemed a song of old Mars, charged with echoes of lost voices andforgotten grandeur.     For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the deadman. He thought,      What are they doing here, these Martians? Here, ina smoke-filled room under a metalite dome on a dust-covered world?Couldn't they have played their music on Mars? Or had they, like me,felt the challenge of new worlds?       He sobered. It didn't matter. He ordered a whiskey from a Chinesewaiter. He wet his lips but did not drink. His gaze wandered over thefaces of the Inn's other occupants.       You've got to find him     , he thought.      You've got to find the man withthe red beard. It's the only way you can escape the dead man.    The dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby andabout forty and he hated spacemen.     His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outsideLuna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much apart of Ben as sight in his eyes.     Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lipsspitting whiskey-slurred curses.     Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fistthudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in thewhiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would tricklefrom a corner of the gaping mouth.     You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him orignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from amemory that has burned into your mind.     It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands hadbeen successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobbplopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him.     Spacemen, he muttered, are getting like flies. Everywhere, all yousee's spacemen.     He was a neatly dressed civilian.     Ben smiled. If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here.     The name's Cobb. The man hiccoughed. Spacemen in their white monkeysuits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're alittle tin god. He downed a shot of whiskey.     Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,crimson-braided uniform of the      Odyssey's     junior astrogation officer.He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shininguniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe.     He'd sought long for that key.  At the age of five—perhaps in order to dull the memory of his parents'death in a recent strato-jet crash—he'd spent hours watching the nightsky for streaking flame-tails of Moon rockets. At ten, he'd groundhis first telescope. At fourteen, he'd converted an abandoned shed onthe government boarding-school grounds to a retreat which housed hiscollection of astronomy and rocketry books.     At sixteen, he'd spent every weekend holiday hitchhiking from BoysTown No. 5 in the Catskills to Long Island Spaceport. There, amongthe grizzled veterans of the old Moon Patrol, he'd found friends whounderstood his dream and who later recommended his appointment to theU. S. Academy for the Conquest of Space.     And a month ago, he'd signed aboard the      Odyssey     —the first ship, itwas rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhapsbeyond.     Cobb was persistent: Damn fools shoulda known enough to stay on Earth.What the hell good is it, jumpin' from planet to planet?       The guy's drunk     , Ben thought. He took his drink and moved threestools down the bar.     Cobb followed. You don't like the truth, eh, kid? You don't likepeople to call you a sucker.     Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm andheld him there.     Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'llbe dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. Wait and see, sucker!     Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly andwithout warning, it welled up into savage fury.     His fist struck the man on the chin. Cobb's eyes gaped in shockedhorror. He spun backward. His head cracked sickeningly on the edge ofthe bar. The sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end oflife.     He sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw.     Ben knew that he was dead.     Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as,a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger.     He ran.  For some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare worldof dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet.     At last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. He sawthat he was still on the rocketfront, but in the Tycho-ward side of thecity.     He huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette.A thousand stars—a thousand motionless balls of silver fire—shoneabove him through Luna City's transparent dome.     He was sorry he'd hit Cobb, of course. He was not sorry he'd run.Escaping at least gave him a power of choice, of decision.       You can do two things     , he thought.       You can give yourself up, and that's what a good officer would do.That would eliminate the escape charge. You'd get off with voluntarymanslaughter. Under interplanetary law, that would mean ten years inprison and a dishonorable discharge. And then you'd be free.         But you'd be through with rockets and space. They don't want newmen over thirty-four for officers on rockets or even for third-classjet-men on beat-up freighters—they don't want convicted killers. You'dget the rest of the thrill of conquering space through video and bypeeking through electric fences of spaceports.         Or—       There were old wives' tales of a group of renegade spacemen whooperated from the Solar System's frontiers. The spacemen weren'toutlaws. They were misfits, rejectees from the clearing houses on Earth.     And whereas no legally recognized ship had ventured past Mars, thesouped-up renegade rigs had supposedly hit the asteroids. Theirheadquarters was Venus. Their leader—a subject of popular andfantastic conjecture in the men's audiozines—was rumored to be ared-bearded giant.       So     , Ben reflected,      you can take a beer-and-pretzels tale seriously.You can hide for a couple of days, get rid of your uniform, change yourname. You can wait for a chance to get to Venus. To hell with yourduty. You can try to stay in space, even if you exile yourself fromEarth.       After all, was it right for a single second, a single insignificantsecond, to destroy a man's life and his dream?  He was lucky. He found a tramp freighter whose skipper was on his lastflight before retirement. Discipline was lax, investigation of newpersonnel even more so.     Ben Curtis made it to Venus.     There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that thememory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow himas constantly as breath flowed into his lungs.     But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring deadvoice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spacewaysobscure the dead face?     So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once.     You look for someone,      senor     ?     He jumped. Oh. You still here?           Oui.      The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. Ikeep you company on your first night in Hoover City,      n'est-ce-pas     ?     This isn't my first night here, Ben lied. I've been around a while.     You are spacemen?     Ben threw a fifty-cent credit piece on the table. Here. Take off, willyou?     Spiderlike fingers swept down upon the coin.       Ich danke, senor.     Youknow why city is called Hoover City?     Ben didn't answer.     They say it is because after women come, they want first thing athousand vacuum cleaners for dust. What is vacuum cleaner,      monsieur     ?     Ben raised his hand as if to strike the boy.           Ai-yee     , I go. You keep listen to good Martian music.     The toothpick of a body melted into the semi-darkness.     Minutes passed. There were two more whiskeys. A ceaseless parade offaces broke through the smoky veil that enclosed him—reddish balloonfaces, scaly reptilian faces, white-skinned, slit-eyed faces, andoccasionally a white, rouged, powdered face. But nowhere was there aface with a red beard.     A sense of hopelessness gripped Ben Curtis. Hoover City was but one ofa dozen cities of Venus. Each had twenty dives such as this.     He needed help.     But his picture must have been 'scoped to Venusian visiscreens. Areward must have been offered for his capture. Whom could he trust? TheMartian kid, perhaps?     Far down the darkened aisle nearest him, his eyes caught a flash ofwhite. He tensed.     Like the uniform of a Security Policeman, he thought.     His gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness.     And then he saw another and another and another.     Each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of awheel with Ben as their focal point.       You idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known!    Light showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded,realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had beenturned on.     The light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of broodingwickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor.     Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements anda chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were liketatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away.     Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward,falling.     The white-clad men charged, neuro-clubs upraised.     A woman screamed. The music ceased. The Martian orchestra slunk withfeline stealth to a rear exit. Only the giant Venusians remainedundisturbed. They stood unmoving, their staring eyes shifting lazily inBen's direction.     Curtis! one of the policemen yelled. You're covered! Hold it!     Ben whirled away from the advancing police, made for the exit intowhich the musicians had disappeared.     A hissing sound traveled past his left ear, a sound like compressed airescaping from a container. A dime-sized section of the concrete wallahead of him crumbled.     He stumbled forward. They were using deadly neuro-pistols now, not themildly stunning neuro-clubs.     Another hiss passed his cheek. He was about twelve feet from the exit.      Another second     , his brain screamed.      Just another second—       Or would the exits be guarded?     He heard the hiss.     It hit directly in the small of his back. There was no pain, just aslight pricking sensation, like the shallow jab of a needle.  He froze as if yanked to a stop by a noose. His body seemed to begrowing, swelling into balloon proportions. He knew that the tinyneedle had imbedded itself deep in his flesh, knew that the paralyzingmortocain was spreading like icy fire into every fiber and muscle ofhis body.     He staggered like a man of stone moving in slow motion. He'd havefifteen—maybe twenty—seconds before complete lethargy of mind andbody overpowered him.     In the dark world beyond his fading consciousness, he heard a voiceyell, Turn on the damn lights!     Then a pressure and a coldness were on his left hand. He realized thatsomeone had seized it.     A soft feminine voice spoke to him. You're wounded? They hit you?     Yes. His thick lips wouldn't let go of the word.     You want to escape—even now?     Yes.     You may die if you don't give yourself up.     No, no.     He tried to stumble toward the exit.     All right then. Not that way. Here, this way.     Heavy footsteps thudded toward them. A few yards away, a flashlightflicked on.     Hands were guiding him. He was aware of being pushed and pulled. Adoor closed behind him. The glare of the flashlight faded from hisvision—if he still had vision.     You're sure? the voice persisted.     I'm sure, Ben managed to say.     I have no antidote. You may die.     His mind fought to comprehend. With the anti-paralysis injection,massage and rest, a man could recover from the effects of mortocainwithin half a day. Without treatment, the paralysis could spread toheart and lungs. It could become a paralysis of death. An effectiveweapon: the slightest wound compelled the average criminal to surrenderat once.     Anti ... anti ... The words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forcedfrom his throat. No ... I'm sure ... sure.     He didn't hear the answer or anything else.  Ben Curtis had no precise sensation of awakening. Return toconsciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of blacknothingness to a dream-like state of awareness.     He felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders,hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation andsensitivity. He knew they were strong hands. Their strength seemed totransfer itself to his own body.     For a long time, he tried to open his eyes. His lids felt weldedshut. But after a while, they opened. His world of darkness gave wayto a translucent cloak of mist. A round, featureless shape hoveredconstantly above him—a face, he supposed.     He tried to talk. Although his lips moved slightly, the only sound wasa deep, staccato grunting.     But he heard someone say, Don't try to talk. It was the same gentlevoice he'd heard in the Blast Inn. Don't talk. Just lie still andrest. Everything'll be all right.       Everything all right     , he thought dimly.     There were long periods of lethargy when he was aware of nothing. Therewere periods of light and of darkness. Gradually he grew aware ofthings. He realized that the soft rubber mouth of a spaceman's oxygenmask was clamped over his nose. He felt the heat of electric blanketsswathed about his body. Occasionally a tube would be in his mouth andhe would taste liquid food and feel a pleasant warmth in his stomach.     Always, it seemed, the face was above him, floating in the obscuringmist. Always, it seemed, the soft voice was echoing in his ears:     Swallow this now. That's it. You must have food. Or, Close youreyes. Don't strain. It won't be long. You're getting better.       Better     , he'd think.      Getting better....       At last, after one of the periods of lethargy, his eyes opened. Themist brightened, then dissolved.     He beheld the cracked, unpainted ceiling of a small room, its colorlesswalls broken with a single, round window. He saw the footboard of hisaluminite bed and the outlines of his feet beneath a faded blanket.     Finally he saw the face and figure that stood at his side.     You are better? the kind voice asked.  The face was that of a girl probably somewhere between twenty-fiveand thirty. Her features, devoid of makeup, had an unhealthy-lookingpallor, as if she hadn't used a sunlamp for many weeks. Yet, at thesame time, her firm slim body suggested a solidity and a strength. Herstraight brown hair was combed backward, tight upon her scalp, anddrawn together in a knot at the nape of her neck.     I—I am better, he murmured. His words were still slow and thick. Iam going to live?     You will live.     He thought for a moment. How long have I been here?     Nine days.     You took care of me? He noted the deep, dark circles beneath hersleep-robbed eyes.     She nodded.     You're the one who carried me when I was shot?     Yes.     Why?     Suddenly he began to cough. Breath came hard. She held the oxygen maskin readiness. He shook his head, not wanting it.     Why? he asked again.     It would be a long story. Perhaps I'll tell you tomorrow.     A new thought, cloaked in sudden fear, entered his murky consciousness.Tell me, will—will I be well again? Will I be able to walk?     He lay back then, panting, exhausted.     You have nothing to worry about, the girl said softly. Her cool handtouched his hot forehead. Rest. We'll talk later.     His eyes closed and breath came easier. He slept.     When he next awoke, his gaze turned first to the window. There waslight outside, but he had no way of knowing if this was morning, noonor afternoon—or on what planet.     He saw no white-domed buildings of Hoover City, no formal lines ofgreen-treed parks, no streams of buzzing gyro-cars. There was only atranslucent and infinite whiteness. It was as if the window were set onthe edge of the Universe overlooking a solemn, silent and matterlessvoid.     The girl entered the room.     Hi, she said, smiling. The dark half-moons under her eyes were lessprominent. Her face was relaxed.     She increased the pressure in his rubberex pillows and helped him riseto a sitting position.     Where are we? he asked.     Venus.     We're not in Hoover City?     No.     He looked at her, wondering. You won't tell me?     Not yet. Later, perhaps.     Then how did you get me here? How did we escape from the Inn?  She shrugged. We have friends who can be bribed. A hiding place in thecity, the use of a small desert-taxi, a pass to leave the city—thesecan be had for a price.     You'll tell me your name?     Maggie.     Why did you save me?     Her eyes twinkled mischievously. Because you're a good astrogator.     His own eyes widened. How did you know that?     She sat on a plain chair beside his bed. I know everything about you,Lieutenant Curtis.     How did you learn my name? I destroyed all my papers—     I know that you're twenty-four. Born July 10, 1971. Orphaned at four,you attended Boys Town in the Catskills till you were 19. You graduatedfrom the Academy at White Sands last June with a major in Astrogation.Your rating for the five-year period was 3.8—the second highest in aclass of fifty-seven. Your only low mark in the five years was a 3.2 inHistory of Martian Civilization. Want me to go on?     Fascinated, Ben nodded.     You were accepted as junior astrogation officer aboard the      Odyssey     .You did well on your flight from Roswell to Luna City. In a barroomfight in Luna City, you struck and killed a man named Arthur Cobb, apre-fab salesman. You've been charged with second degree murder andescape. A reward of 5,000 credits has been offered for your capture.You came to Hoover City in the hope of finding a renegade group ofspacemen who operate beyond Mars. You were looking for them in theBlast Inn.     He gaped incredulously, struggling to rise from his pillows. I—don'tget it.     There are ways of finding out what we want to know. As I told you, wehave many friends.     He fell back into his pillows, breathing hard. She rose quickly.     I'm sorry, she said. I shouldn't have told you yet. I felt so happybecause you're alive. Rest now. We'll talk again soon.     Maggie, you—you said I'd live. You didn't say I'd be able to walkagain.     She lowered her gaze. I hope you'll be able to.     But you don't think I will, do you?     I don't know. We'll try walking tomorrow. Don't think about it now.Rest.     He tried to relax, but his mind was a vortex of conjecture.     Just one more question, he almost whispered.     Yes?     The man I killed—did he have a wife?     She hesitated. He thought,      Damn it, of all the questions, why did Iask that?       Finally she said, He had a wife.     Children?     Two. I don't know their ages.     She left the room.  He sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room.     He sat straight up, his chest heaving.     The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in amerchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatlytrimmed      red beard     !     Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped intorestless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through hisbrain.     The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyesaccused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night.     And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reacheddown and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands andknees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was achilling wail in his ears.     His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voicescreamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stompingrelentlessly toward him.     He awoke still screaming....     A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, aquestion already formed in his mind.     She came and at once he asked, Who is the man with the red beard?     She smiled. I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You      were     looking for him, weren't you?     Who is he?     She sat on the chair beside him.     My husband, she said softly.     He began to understand. And your husband needs an astrogator? That'swhy you saved me?     We need all the good men we can get.     Where is he?     She cocked her head in mock suspicion. Somewhere between Mercury andPluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When hisship returns, I'll be going to him.     Why aren't you with him now?     He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've beenstudying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau ofInvestigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know howwe operate?     He told her the tales he'd heard.  She nodded. There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and adozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years agoafter we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,but with almost every advance in space, someone dies.     Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is onlya temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I mightas well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one.     Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group iswanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just peoplelike yourself and Jacob.     Jacob? Your husband?     She laughed. Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of agrizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either.     She lit a cigarette. Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond thefrontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not evento Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejectswho couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They knownothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships tofrontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies.     Don't the authorities object?     Not very strongly. The I. B. I. has too many problems right here tosearch the whole System for a few two-bit crooks. Besides, we carrycargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that'sscarce on Earth and Mars and Venus. Nobody really cares whether itcomes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives miningit, that's our business.     She pursed her lips. But if they guessed how strong we are or that wehave friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different.There probably would be a crackdown.     Ben scowled. What happens if there      is     a crackdown? And what will youdo when Space Corps ships officially reach the asteroids? They can'tignore you then.     Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take themto Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll bepushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suitedboys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It      could     be us, youknow—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. Youcan't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make upyour own.  Ben stiffened. And that's why you want me for an astrogator.     Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. If you want to come—and if you getwell. She looked at him strangely.     Suppose— He fought to find the right words. Suppose I got well anddecided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let mego?     Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment,then fear. I don't know. That would be up to Jacob.     He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched hishand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotionthat had coursed through her.     The only thing that matters, really, she murmured, is your walkingagain. We'll try this afternoon. Okay?     Okay, he said.     When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo.     He was like two people, he thought.     Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one singlestarry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal.     He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when shewas alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions:     A Space Officer Is Honest A Space Officer Is Loyal. A SpaceOfficer Is Dutiful.     Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held itprisoner for half a million years.     Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago.  ","The story begins in the Blast Inn, a dim gin mill with a sense of evil. The huge room is obscure with smoke and full of people from different planets drinking and smoking. Ben's table is in the shadows far away, a lonely Martian orchestra is playing. Then the story goes to one week ago, a bar on Earth and a fight. There was a chase then through the rocket front alleys with a thousand stars above. Ben fled to Venus. In the gin mill's shadow, the light is suddenly on, the orchestra leaves and Ben is surrendered to the police. He runs and wakes up in a place he can't see. He is with a woman who looks after him, the room is small with a small window with infinite whiteness outside. He was moved to a different city on Venus. Soon, there turns out to be a photo of a red-bearded man in the room. Nightmares and memories haunt Ben in this room. "
"What do we know about the red-bearded man and his operations? </s>     A Coffin for Jacob     By EDWARD W. LUDWIG     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        With never a moment to rest, the pursuit       through space felt like a game of hounds       and hares ... or was it follow the leader?        Ben Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of theBlast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him.     His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian ginmill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whoseingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets.     Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobaccosmoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here andthere, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,Martians or Venusians.     Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that itwas the dead man's hand.           Coma esta, senor?      a small voice piped.       Speken die Deutsch?Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet?          Ben looked down.     The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was likea red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a tornskivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees.     I'm American, Ben muttered.     Ah,      buena     ! I speak English      tres     fine,      senor     . I have Martianfriend, she      tres     pretty and      tres     fat. She weigh almost eightypounds,      monsieur     . I take you to her,      si     ?     Ben shook his head.  He thought,      I don't want your Martian wench. I don't want your opiumor your Devil's Egg or your Venusian kali. But if you had a drug that'dbring a dead man to life, I'd buy and pay with my soul.       It is deal,      monsieur     ? Five dollars or twenty      keelis     for visitMartian friend. Maybe you like House of Dreams. For House of Dreams—     I'm not buying.     The dirty-faced kid shrugged. Then I show you to good table,—      tresbien     . I do not charge you,      senor     .     The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason forresisting, he followed. They plunged into shifting layers of smoke andthrough the drone of alcohol-cracked voices.       They passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyedEarthmen—merchant spacemen.     They wormed down a narrow aisle flanked by booths carved from Venusianmarble that jutted up into the semi-darkness like fog-blanketedtombstones.     Several times, Ben glimpsed the bulky figures of CO  2  -breathingVenusians, the first he'd ever seen.     They were smoky gray, scaly, naked giants, toads in human shape.They stood solitary and motionless, aloof, their green-lidded eyesunblinking. They certainly didn't look like telepaths, as Ben had heardthey were, but the thought sent a fresh rivulet of fear down his spine.     Once he spied a white-uniformed officer of Hoover City's SecurityPolice. The man was striding down an aisle, idly tapping his neuro-clubagainst the stone booths.       Keep walking     , Ben told himself.      You look the same as anyone elsehere. Keep walking. Look straight ahead.       The officer passed. Ben breathed easier.     Here we are,      monsieur     , piped the Martian boy. A      tres     fine table.Close in the shadows.     Ben winced. How did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows?Frowning, he sat down—he and the dead man.     He listened to the lonely rhythms of the four-piece Martian orchestra.     The Martians were fragile, doll-like creatures with heads too large fortheir spindly bodies. Their long fingers played upon the strings oftheir      cirillas     or crawled over the holes of their flutes like spiderlegs. Their tune was sad. Even when they played an Earth tune, it stillseemed a song of old Mars, charged with echoes of lost voices andforgotten grandeur.     For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the deadman. He thought,      What are they doing here, these Martians? Here, ina smoke-filled room under a metalite dome on a dust-covered world?Couldn't they have played their music on Mars? Or had they, like me,felt the challenge of new worlds?       He sobered. It didn't matter. He ordered a whiskey from a Chinesewaiter. He wet his lips but did not drink. His gaze wandered over thefaces of the Inn's other occupants.       You've got to find him     , he thought.      You've got to find the man withthe red beard. It's the only way you can escape the dead man.    The dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby andabout forty and he hated spacemen.     His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outsideLuna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much apart of Ben as sight in his eyes.     Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lipsspitting whiskey-slurred curses.     Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fistthudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in thewhiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would tricklefrom a corner of the gaping mouth.     You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him orignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from amemory that has burned into your mind.     It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands hadbeen successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobbplopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him.     Spacemen, he muttered, are getting like flies. Everywhere, all yousee's spacemen.     He was a neatly dressed civilian.     Ben smiled. If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here.     The name's Cobb. The man hiccoughed. Spacemen in their white monkeysuits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're alittle tin god. He downed a shot of whiskey.     Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,crimson-braided uniform of the      Odyssey's     junior astrogation officer.He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shininguniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe.     He'd sought long for that key.  At the age of five—perhaps in order to dull the memory of his parents'death in a recent strato-jet crash—he'd spent hours watching the nightsky for streaking flame-tails of Moon rockets. At ten, he'd groundhis first telescope. At fourteen, he'd converted an abandoned shed onthe government boarding-school grounds to a retreat which housed hiscollection of astronomy and rocketry books.     At sixteen, he'd spent every weekend holiday hitchhiking from BoysTown No. 5 in the Catskills to Long Island Spaceport. There, amongthe grizzled veterans of the old Moon Patrol, he'd found friends whounderstood his dream and who later recommended his appointment to theU. S. Academy for the Conquest of Space.     And a month ago, he'd signed aboard the      Odyssey     —the first ship, itwas rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhapsbeyond.     Cobb was persistent: Damn fools shoulda known enough to stay on Earth.What the hell good is it, jumpin' from planet to planet?       The guy's drunk     , Ben thought. He took his drink and moved threestools down the bar.     Cobb followed. You don't like the truth, eh, kid? You don't likepeople to call you a sucker.     Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm andheld him there.     Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'llbe dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. Wait and see, sucker!     Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly andwithout warning, it welled up into savage fury.     His fist struck the man on the chin. Cobb's eyes gaped in shockedhorror. He spun backward. His head cracked sickeningly on the edge ofthe bar. The sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end oflife.     He sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw.     Ben knew that he was dead.     Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as,a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger.     He ran.  For some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare worldof dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet.     At last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. He sawthat he was still on the rocketfront, but in the Tycho-ward side of thecity.     He huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette.A thousand stars—a thousand motionless balls of silver fire—shoneabove him through Luna City's transparent dome.     He was sorry he'd hit Cobb, of course. He was not sorry he'd run.Escaping at least gave him a power of choice, of decision.       You can do two things     , he thought.       You can give yourself up, and that's what a good officer would do.That would eliminate the escape charge. You'd get off with voluntarymanslaughter. Under interplanetary law, that would mean ten years inprison and a dishonorable discharge. And then you'd be free.         But you'd be through with rockets and space. They don't want newmen over thirty-four for officers on rockets or even for third-classjet-men on beat-up freighters—they don't want convicted killers. You'dget the rest of the thrill of conquering space through video and bypeeking through electric fences of spaceports.         Or—       There were old wives' tales of a group of renegade spacemen whooperated from the Solar System's frontiers. The spacemen weren'toutlaws. They were misfits, rejectees from the clearing houses on Earth.     And whereas no legally recognized ship had ventured past Mars, thesouped-up renegade rigs had supposedly hit the asteroids. Theirheadquarters was Venus. Their leader—a subject of popular andfantastic conjecture in the men's audiozines—was rumored to be ared-bearded giant.       So     , Ben reflected,      you can take a beer-and-pretzels tale seriously.You can hide for a couple of days, get rid of your uniform, change yourname. You can wait for a chance to get to Venus. To hell with yourduty. You can try to stay in space, even if you exile yourself fromEarth.       After all, was it right for a single second, a single insignificantsecond, to destroy a man's life and his dream?  He was lucky. He found a tramp freighter whose skipper was on his lastflight before retirement. Discipline was lax, investigation of newpersonnel even more so.     Ben Curtis made it to Venus.     There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that thememory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow himas constantly as breath flowed into his lungs.     But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring deadvoice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spacewaysobscure the dead face?     So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once.     You look for someone,      senor     ?     He jumped. Oh. You still here?           Oui.      The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. Ikeep you company on your first night in Hoover City,      n'est-ce-pas     ?     This isn't my first night here, Ben lied. I've been around a while.     You are spacemen?     Ben threw a fifty-cent credit piece on the table. Here. Take off, willyou?     Spiderlike fingers swept down upon the coin.       Ich danke, senor.     Youknow why city is called Hoover City?     Ben didn't answer.     They say it is because after women come, they want first thing athousand vacuum cleaners for dust. What is vacuum cleaner,      monsieur     ?     Ben raised his hand as if to strike the boy.           Ai-yee     , I go. You keep listen to good Martian music.     The toothpick of a body melted into the semi-darkness.     Minutes passed. There were two more whiskeys. A ceaseless parade offaces broke through the smoky veil that enclosed him—reddish balloonfaces, scaly reptilian faces, white-skinned, slit-eyed faces, andoccasionally a white, rouged, powdered face. But nowhere was there aface with a red beard.     A sense of hopelessness gripped Ben Curtis. Hoover City was but one ofa dozen cities of Venus. Each had twenty dives such as this.     He needed help.     But his picture must have been 'scoped to Venusian visiscreens. Areward must have been offered for his capture. Whom could he trust? TheMartian kid, perhaps?     Far down the darkened aisle nearest him, his eyes caught a flash ofwhite. He tensed.     Like the uniform of a Security Policeman, he thought.     His gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness.     And then he saw another and another and another.     Each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of awheel with Ben as their focal point.       You idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known!    Light showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded,realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had beenturned on.     The light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of broodingwickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor.     Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements anda chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were liketatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away.     Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward,falling.     The white-clad men charged, neuro-clubs upraised.     A woman screamed. The music ceased. The Martian orchestra slunk withfeline stealth to a rear exit. Only the giant Venusians remainedundisturbed. They stood unmoving, their staring eyes shifting lazily inBen's direction.     Curtis! one of the policemen yelled. You're covered! Hold it!     Ben whirled away from the advancing police, made for the exit intowhich the musicians had disappeared.     A hissing sound traveled past his left ear, a sound like compressed airescaping from a container. A dime-sized section of the concrete wallahead of him crumbled.     He stumbled forward. They were using deadly neuro-pistols now, not themildly stunning neuro-clubs.     Another hiss passed his cheek. He was about twelve feet from the exit.      Another second     , his brain screamed.      Just another second—       Or would the exits be guarded?     He heard the hiss.     It hit directly in the small of his back. There was no pain, just aslight pricking sensation, like the shallow jab of a needle.  He froze as if yanked to a stop by a noose. His body seemed to begrowing, swelling into balloon proportions. He knew that the tinyneedle had imbedded itself deep in his flesh, knew that the paralyzingmortocain was spreading like icy fire into every fiber and muscle ofhis body.     He staggered like a man of stone moving in slow motion. He'd havefifteen—maybe twenty—seconds before complete lethargy of mind andbody overpowered him.     In the dark world beyond his fading consciousness, he heard a voiceyell, Turn on the damn lights!     Then a pressure and a coldness were on his left hand. He realized thatsomeone had seized it.     A soft feminine voice spoke to him. You're wounded? They hit you?     Yes. His thick lips wouldn't let go of the word.     You want to escape—even now?     Yes.     You may die if you don't give yourself up.     No, no.     He tried to stumble toward the exit.     All right then. Not that way. Here, this way.     Heavy footsteps thudded toward them. A few yards away, a flashlightflicked on.     Hands were guiding him. He was aware of being pushed and pulled. Adoor closed behind him. The glare of the flashlight faded from hisvision—if he still had vision.     You're sure? the voice persisted.     I'm sure, Ben managed to say.     I have no antidote. You may die.     His mind fought to comprehend. With the anti-paralysis injection,massage and rest, a man could recover from the effects of mortocainwithin half a day. Without treatment, the paralysis could spread toheart and lungs. It could become a paralysis of death. An effectiveweapon: the slightest wound compelled the average criminal to surrenderat once.     Anti ... anti ... The words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forcedfrom his throat. No ... I'm sure ... sure.     He didn't hear the answer or anything else.  Ben Curtis had no precise sensation of awakening. Return toconsciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of blacknothingness to a dream-like state of awareness.     He felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders,hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation andsensitivity. He knew they were strong hands. Their strength seemed totransfer itself to his own body.     For a long time, he tried to open his eyes. His lids felt weldedshut. But after a while, they opened. His world of darkness gave wayto a translucent cloak of mist. A round, featureless shape hoveredconstantly above him—a face, he supposed.     He tried to talk. Although his lips moved slightly, the only sound wasa deep, staccato grunting.     But he heard someone say, Don't try to talk. It was the same gentlevoice he'd heard in the Blast Inn. Don't talk. Just lie still andrest. Everything'll be all right.       Everything all right     , he thought dimly.     There were long periods of lethargy when he was aware of nothing. Therewere periods of light and of darkness. Gradually he grew aware ofthings. He realized that the soft rubber mouth of a spaceman's oxygenmask was clamped over his nose. He felt the heat of electric blanketsswathed about his body. Occasionally a tube would be in his mouth andhe would taste liquid food and feel a pleasant warmth in his stomach.     Always, it seemed, the face was above him, floating in the obscuringmist. Always, it seemed, the soft voice was echoing in his ears:     Swallow this now. That's it. You must have food. Or, Close youreyes. Don't strain. It won't be long. You're getting better.       Better     , he'd think.      Getting better....       At last, after one of the periods of lethargy, his eyes opened. Themist brightened, then dissolved.     He beheld the cracked, unpainted ceiling of a small room, its colorlesswalls broken with a single, round window. He saw the footboard of hisaluminite bed and the outlines of his feet beneath a faded blanket.     Finally he saw the face and figure that stood at his side.     You are better? the kind voice asked.  The face was that of a girl probably somewhere between twenty-fiveand thirty. Her features, devoid of makeup, had an unhealthy-lookingpallor, as if she hadn't used a sunlamp for many weeks. Yet, at thesame time, her firm slim body suggested a solidity and a strength. Herstraight brown hair was combed backward, tight upon her scalp, anddrawn together in a knot at the nape of her neck.     I—I am better, he murmured. His words were still slow and thick. Iam going to live?     You will live.     He thought for a moment. How long have I been here?     Nine days.     You took care of me? He noted the deep, dark circles beneath hersleep-robbed eyes.     She nodded.     You're the one who carried me when I was shot?     Yes.     Why?     Suddenly he began to cough. Breath came hard. She held the oxygen maskin readiness. He shook his head, not wanting it.     Why? he asked again.     It would be a long story. Perhaps I'll tell you tomorrow.     A new thought, cloaked in sudden fear, entered his murky consciousness.Tell me, will—will I be well again? Will I be able to walk?     He lay back then, panting, exhausted.     You have nothing to worry about, the girl said softly. Her cool handtouched his hot forehead. Rest. We'll talk later.     His eyes closed and breath came easier. He slept.     When he next awoke, his gaze turned first to the window. There waslight outside, but he had no way of knowing if this was morning, noonor afternoon—or on what planet.     He saw no white-domed buildings of Hoover City, no formal lines ofgreen-treed parks, no streams of buzzing gyro-cars. There was only atranslucent and infinite whiteness. It was as if the window were set onthe edge of the Universe overlooking a solemn, silent and matterlessvoid.     The girl entered the room.     Hi, she said, smiling. The dark half-moons under her eyes were lessprominent. Her face was relaxed.     She increased the pressure in his rubberex pillows and helped him riseto a sitting position.     Where are we? he asked.     Venus.     We're not in Hoover City?     No.     He looked at her, wondering. You won't tell me?     Not yet. Later, perhaps.     Then how did you get me here? How did we escape from the Inn?  She shrugged. We have friends who can be bribed. A hiding place in thecity, the use of a small desert-taxi, a pass to leave the city—thesecan be had for a price.     You'll tell me your name?     Maggie.     Why did you save me?     Her eyes twinkled mischievously. Because you're a good astrogator.     His own eyes widened. How did you know that?     She sat on a plain chair beside his bed. I know everything about you,Lieutenant Curtis.     How did you learn my name? I destroyed all my papers—     I know that you're twenty-four. Born July 10, 1971. Orphaned at four,you attended Boys Town in the Catskills till you were 19. You graduatedfrom the Academy at White Sands last June with a major in Astrogation.Your rating for the five-year period was 3.8—the second highest in aclass of fifty-seven. Your only low mark in the five years was a 3.2 inHistory of Martian Civilization. Want me to go on?     Fascinated, Ben nodded.     You were accepted as junior astrogation officer aboard the      Odyssey     .You did well on your flight from Roswell to Luna City. In a barroomfight in Luna City, you struck and killed a man named Arthur Cobb, apre-fab salesman. You've been charged with second degree murder andescape. A reward of 5,000 credits has been offered for your capture.You came to Hoover City in the hope of finding a renegade group ofspacemen who operate beyond Mars. You were looking for them in theBlast Inn.     He gaped incredulously, struggling to rise from his pillows. I—don'tget it.     There are ways of finding out what we want to know. As I told you, wehave many friends.     He fell back into his pillows, breathing hard. She rose quickly.     I'm sorry, she said. I shouldn't have told you yet. I felt so happybecause you're alive. Rest now. We'll talk again soon.     Maggie, you—you said I'd live. You didn't say I'd be able to walkagain.     She lowered her gaze. I hope you'll be able to.     But you don't think I will, do you?     I don't know. We'll try walking tomorrow. Don't think about it now.Rest.     He tried to relax, but his mind was a vortex of conjecture.     Just one more question, he almost whispered.     Yes?     The man I killed—did he have a wife?     She hesitated. He thought,      Damn it, of all the questions, why did Iask that?       Finally she said, He had a wife.     Children?     Two. I don't know their ages.     She left the room.  He sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room.     He sat straight up, his chest heaving.     The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in amerchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatlytrimmed      red beard     !     Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped intorestless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through hisbrain.     The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyesaccused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night.     And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reacheddown and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands andknees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was achilling wail in his ears.     His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voicescreamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stompingrelentlessly toward him.     He awoke still screaming....     A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, aquestion already formed in his mind.     She came and at once he asked, Who is the man with the red beard?     She smiled. I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You      were     looking for him, weren't you?     Who is he?     She sat on the chair beside him.     My husband, she said softly.     He began to understand. And your husband needs an astrogator? That'swhy you saved me?     We need all the good men we can get.     Where is he?     She cocked her head in mock suspicion. Somewhere between Mercury andPluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When hisship returns, I'll be going to him.     Why aren't you with him now?     He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've beenstudying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau ofInvestigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know howwe operate?     He told her the tales he'd heard.  She nodded. There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and adozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years agoafter we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,but with almost every advance in space, someone dies.     Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is onlya temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I mightas well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one.     Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group iswanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just peoplelike yourself and Jacob.     Jacob? Your husband?     She laughed. Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of agrizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either.     She lit a cigarette. Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond thefrontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not evento Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejectswho couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They knownothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships tofrontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies.     Don't the authorities object?     Not very strongly. The I. B. I. has too many problems right here tosearch the whole System for a few two-bit crooks. Besides, we carrycargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that'sscarce on Earth and Mars and Venus. Nobody really cares whether itcomes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives miningit, that's our business.     She pursed her lips. But if they guessed how strong we are or that wehave friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different.There probably would be a crackdown.     Ben scowled. What happens if there      is     a crackdown? And what will youdo when Space Corps ships officially reach the asteroids? They can'tignore you then.     Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take themto Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll bepushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suitedboys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It      could     be us, youknow—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. Youcan't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make upyour own.  Ben stiffened. And that's why you want me for an astrogator.     Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. If you want to come—and if you getwell. She looked at him strangely.     Suppose— He fought to find the right words. Suppose I got well anddecided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let mego?     Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment,then fear. I don't know. That would be up to Jacob.     He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched hishand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotionthat had coursed through her.     The only thing that matters, really, she murmured, is your walkingagain. We'll try this afternoon. Okay?     Okay, he said.     When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo.     He was like two people, he thought.     Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one singlestarry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal.     He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when shewas alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions:     A Space Officer Is Honest A Space Officer Is Loyal. A SpaceOfficer Is Dutiful.     Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held itprisoner for half a million years.     Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago.  ","The man is the leader of renegade spacemen who operate from the Solar System's frontiers and are not outlaws. The man is almost a myth. Right now the man is exploring new parts of space and is building a new base. The team is huge and the base has moved from Venus towards the Pole for a while, planning to move to an asteroid later. Half the team are wanted but their livings are still honest. The man is banned from Earth and brings cargo to the frontiers and the authorities close their eyes. They want to go further than the System itself and need a good astrogator like Ben out there."
"What do we know about Ben's life before the murder in the bar? </s>     A Coffin for Jacob     By EDWARD W. LUDWIG     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        With never a moment to rest, the pursuit       through space felt like a game of hounds       and hares ... or was it follow the leader?        Ben Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of theBlast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him.     His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian ginmill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whoseingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets.     Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobaccosmoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here andthere, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,Martians or Venusians.     Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that itwas the dead man's hand.           Coma esta, senor?      a small voice piped.       Speken die Deutsch?Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet?          Ben looked down.     The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was likea red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a tornskivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees.     I'm American, Ben muttered.     Ah,      buena     ! I speak English      tres     fine,      senor     . I have Martianfriend, she      tres     pretty and      tres     fat. She weigh almost eightypounds,      monsieur     . I take you to her,      si     ?     Ben shook his head.  He thought,      I don't want your Martian wench. I don't want your opiumor your Devil's Egg or your Venusian kali. But if you had a drug that'dbring a dead man to life, I'd buy and pay with my soul.       It is deal,      monsieur     ? Five dollars or twenty      keelis     for visitMartian friend. Maybe you like House of Dreams. For House of Dreams—     I'm not buying.     The dirty-faced kid shrugged. Then I show you to good table,—      tresbien     . I do not charge you,      senor     .     The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason forresisting, he followed. They plunged into shifting layers of smoke andthrough the drone of alcohol-cracked voices.       They passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyedEarthmen—merchant spacemen.     They wormed down a narrow aisle flanked by booths carved from Venusianmarble that jutted up into the semi-darkness like fog-blanketedtombstones.     Several times, Ben glimpsed the bulky figures of CO  2  -breathingVenusians, the first he'd ever seen.     They were smoky gray, scaly, naked giants, toads in human shape.They stood solitary and motionless, aloof, their green-lidded eyesunblinking. They certainly didn't look like telepaths, as Ben had heardthey were, but the thought sent a fresh rivulet of fear down his spine.     Once he spied a white-uniformed officer of Hoover City's SecurityPolice. The man was striding down an aisle, idly tapping his neuro-clubagainst the stone booths.       Keep walking     , Ben told himself.      You look the same as anyone elsehere. Keep walking. Look straight ahead.       The officer passed. Ben breathed easier.     Here we are,      monsieur     , piped the Martian boy. A      tres     fine table.Close in the shadows.     Ben winced. How did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows?Frowning, he sat down—he and the dead man.     He listened to the lonely rhythms of the four-piece Martian orchestra.     The Martians were fragile, doll-like creatures with heads too large fortheir spindly bodies. Their long fingers played upon the strings oftheir      cirillas     or crawled over the holes of their flutes like spiderlegs. Their tune was sad. Even when they played an Earth tune, it stillseemed a song of old Mars, charged with echoes of lost voices andforgotten grandeur.     For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the deadman. He thought,      What are they doing here, these Martians? Here, ina smoke-filled room under a metalite dome on a dust-covered world?Couldn't they have played their music on Mars? Or had they, like me,felt the challenge of new worlds?       He sobered. It didn't matter. He ordered a whiskey from a Chinesewaiter. He wet his lips but did not drink. His gaze wandered over thefaces of the Inn's other occupants.       You've got to find him     , he thought.      You've got to find the man withthe red beard. It's the only way you can escape the dead man.    The dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby andabout forty and he hated spacemen.     His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outsideLuna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much apart of Ben as sight in his eyes.     Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lipsspitting whiskey-slurred curses.     Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fistthudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in thewhiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would tricklefrom a corner of the gaping mouth.     You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him orignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from amemory that has burned into your mind.     It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands hadbeen successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobbplopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him.     Spacemen, he muttered, are getting like flies. Everywhere, all yousee's spacemen.     He was a neatly dressed civilian.     Ben smiled. If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here.     The name's Cobb. The man hiccoughed. Spacemen in their white monkeysuits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're alittle tin god. He downed a shot of whiskey.     Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,crimson-braided uniform of the      Odyssey's     junior astrogation officer.He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shininguniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe.     He'd sought long for that key.  At the age of five—perhaps in order to dull the memory of his parents'death in a recent strato-jet crash—he'd spent hours watching the nightsky for streaking flame-tails of Moon rockets. At ten, he'd groundhis first telescope. At fourteen, he'd converted an abandoned shed onthe government boarding-school grounds to a retreat which housed hiscollection of astronomy and rocketry books.     At sixteen, he'd spent every weekend holiday hitchhiking from BoysTown No. 5 in the Catskills to Long Island Spaceport. There, amongthe grizzled veterans of the old Moon Patrol, he'd found friends whounderstood his dream and who later recommended his appointment to theU. S. Academy for the Conquest of Space.     And a month ago, he'd signed aboard the      Odyssey     —the first ship, itwas rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhapsbeyond.     Cobb was persistent: Damn fools shoulda known enough to stay on Earth.What the hell good is it, jumpin' from planet to planet?       The guy's drunk     , Ben thought. He took his drink and moved threestools down the bar.     Cobb followed. You don't like the truth, eh, kid? You don't likepeople to call you a sucker.     Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm andheld him there.     Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'llbe dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. Wait and see, sucker!     Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly andwithout warning, it welled up into savage fury.     His fist struck the man on the chin. Cobb's eyes gaped in shockedhorror. He spun backward. His head cracked sickeningly on the edge ofthe bar. The sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end oflife.     He sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw.     Ben knew that he was dead.     Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as,a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger.     He ran.  For some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare worldof dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet.     At last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. He sawthat he was still on the rocketfront, but in the Tycho-ward side of thecity.     He huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette.A thousand stars—a thousand motionless balls of silver fire—shoneabove him through Luna City's transparent dome.     He was sorry he'd hit Cobb, of course. He was not sorry he'd run.Escaping at least gave him a power of choice, of decision.       You can do two things     , he thought.       You can give yourself up, and that's what a good officer would do.That would eliminate the escape charge. You'd get off with voluntarymanslaughter. Under interplanetary law, that would mean ten years inprison and a dishonorable discharge. And then you'd be free.         But you'd be through with rockets and space. They don't want newmen over thirty-four for officers on rockets or even for third-classjet-men on beat-up freighters—they don't want convicted killers. You'dget the rest of the thrill of conquering space through video and bypeeking through electric fences of spaceports.         Or—       There were old wives' tales of a group of renegade spacemen whooperated from the Solar System's frontiers. The spacemen weren'toutlaws. They were misfits, rejectees from the clearing houses on Earth.     And whereas no legally recognized ship had ventured past Mars, thesouped-up renegade rigs had supposedly hit the asteroids. Theirheadquarters was Venus. Their leader—a subject of popular andfantastic conjecture in the men's audiozines—was rumored to be ared-bearded giant.       So     , Ben reflected,      you can take a beer-and-pretzels tale seriously.You can hide for a couple of days, get rid of your uniform, change yourname. You can wait for a chance to get to Venus. To hell with yourduty. You can try to stay in space, even if you exile yourself fromEarth.       After all, was it right for a single second, a single insignificantsecond, to destroy a man's life and his dream?  He was lucky. He found a tramp freighter whose skipper was on his lastflight before retirement. Discipline was lax, investigation of newpersonnel even more so.     Ben Curtis made it to Venus.     There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that thememory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow himas constantly as breath flowed into his lungs.     But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring deadvoice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spacewaysobscure the dead face?     So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once.     You look for someone,      senor     ?     He jumped. Oh. You still here?           Oui.      The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. Ikeep you company on your first night in Hoover City,      n'est-ce-pas     ?     This isn't my first night here, Ben lied. I've been around a while.     You are spacemen?     Ben threw a fifty-cent credit piece on the table. Here. Take off, willyou?     Spiderlike fingers swept down upon the coin.       Ich danke, senor.     Youknow why city is called Hoover City?     Ben didn't answer.     They say it is because after women come, they want first thing athousand vacuum cleaners for dust. What is vacuum cleaner,      monsieur     ?     Ben raised his hand as if to strike the boy.           Ai-yee     , I go. You keep listen to good Martian music.     The toothpick of a body melted into the semi-darkness.     Minutes passed. There were two more whiskeys. A ceaseless parade offaces broke through the smoky veil that enclosed him—reddish balloonfaces, scaly reptilian faces, white-skinned, slit-eyed faces, andoccasionally a white, rouged, powdered face. But nowhere was there aface with a red beard.     A sense of hopelessness gripped Ben Curtis. Hoover City was but one ofa dozen cities of Venus. Each had twenty dives such as this.     He needed help.     But his picture must have been 'scoped to Venusian visiscreens. Areward must have been offered for his capture. Whom could he trust? TheMartian kid, perhaps?     Far down the darkened aisle nearest him, his eyes caught a flash ofwhite. He tensed.     Like the uniform of a Security Policeman, he thought.     His gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness.     And then he saw another and another and another.     Each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of awheel with Ben as their focal point.       You idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known!    Light showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded,realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had beenturned on.     The light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of broodingwickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor.     Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements anda chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were liketatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away.     Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward,falling.     The white-clad men charged, neuro-clubs upraised.     A woman screamed. The music ceased. The Martian orchestra slunk withfeline stealth to a rear exit. Only the giant Venusians remainedundisturbed. They stood unmoving, their staring eyes shifting lazily inBen's direction.     Curtis! one of the policemen yelled. You're covered! Hold it!     Ben whirled away from the advancing police, made for the exit intowhich the musicians had disappeared.     A hissing sound traveled past his left ear, a sound like compressed airescaping from a container. A dime-sized section of the concrete wallahead of him crumbled.     He stumbled forward. They were using deadly neuro-pistols now, not themildly stunning neuro-clubs.     Another hiss passed his cheek. He was about twelve feet from the exit.      Another second     , his brain screamed.      Just another second—       Or would the exits be guarded?     He heard the hiss.     It hit directly in the small of his back. There was no pain, just aslight pricking sensation, like the shallow jab of a needle.  He froze as if yanked to a stop by a noose. His body seemed to begrowing, swelling into balloon proportions. He knew that the tinyneedle had imbedded itself deep in his flesh, knew that the paralyzingmortocain was spreading like icy fire into every fiber and muscle ofhis body.     He staggered like a man of stone moving in slow motion. He'd havefifteen—maybe twenty—seconds before complete lethargy of mind andbody overpowered him.     In the dark world beyond his fading consciousness, he heard a voiceyell, Turn on the damn lights!     Then a pressure and a coldness were on his left hand. He realized thatsomeone had seized it.     A soft feminine voice spoke to him. You're wounded? They hit you?     Yes. His thick lips wouldn't let go of the word.     You want to escape—even now?     Yes.     You may die if you don't give yourself up.     No, no.     He tried to stumble toward the exit.     All right then. Not that way. Here, this way.     Heavy footsteps thudded toward them. A few yards away, a flashlightflicked on.     Hands were guiding him. He was aware of being pushed and pulled. Adoor closed behind him. The glare of the flashlight faded from hisvision—if he still had vision.     You're sure? the voice persisted.     I'm sure, Ben managed to say.     I have no antidote. You may die.     His mind fought to comprehend. With the anti-paralysis injection,massage and rest, a man could recover from the effects of mortocainwithin half a day. Without treatment, the paralysis could spread toheart and lungs. It could become a paralysis of death. An effectiveweapon: the slightest wound compelled the average criminal to surrenderat once.     Anti ... anti ... The words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forcedfrom his throat. No ... I'm sure ... sure.     He didn't hear the answer or anything else.  Ben Curtis had no precise sensation of awakening. Return toconsciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of blacknothingness to a dream-like state of awareness.     He felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders,hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation andsensitivity. He knew they were strong hands. Their strength seemed totransfer itself to his own body.     For a long time, he tried to open his eyes. His lids felt weldedshut. But after a while, they opened. His world of darkness gave wayto a translucent cloak of mist. A round, featureless shape hoveredconstantly above him—a face, he supposed.     He tried to talk. Although his lips moved slightly, the only sound wasa deep, staccato grunting.     But he heard someone say, Don't try to talk. It was the same gentlevoice he'd heard in the Blast Inn. Don't talk. Just lie still andrest. Everything'll be all right.       Everything all right     , he thought dimly.     There were long periods of lethargy when he was aware of nothing. Therewere periods of light and of darkness. Gradually he grew aware ofthings. He realized that the soft rubber mouth of a spaceman's oxygenmask was clamped over his nose. He felt the heat of electric blanketsswathed about his body. Occasionally a tube would be in his mouth andhe would taste liquid food and feel a pleasant warmth in his stomach.     Always, it seemed, the face was above him, floating in the obscuringmist. Always, it seemed, the soft voice was echoing in his ears:     Swallow this now. That's it. You must have food. Or, Close youreyes. Don't strain. It won't be long. You're getting better.       Better     , he'd think.      Getting better....       At last, after one of the periods of lethargy, his eyes opened. Themist brightened, then dissolved.     He beheld the cracked, unpainted ceiling of a small room, its colorlesswalls broken with a single, round window. He saw the footboard of hisaluminite bed and the outlines of his feet beneath a faded blanket.     Finally he saw the face and figure that stood at his side.     You are better? the kind voice asked.  The face was that of a girl probably somewhere between twenty-fiveand thirty. Her features, devoid of makeup, had an unhealthy-lookingpallor, as if she hadn't used a sunlamp for many weeks. Yet, at thesame time, her firm slim body suggested a solidity and a strength. Herstraight brown hair was combed backward, tight upon her scalp, anddrawn together in a knot at the nape of her neck.     I—I am better, he murmured. His words were still slow and thick. Iam going to live?     You will live.     He thought for a moment. How long have I been here?     Nine days.     You took care of me? He noted the deep, dark circles beneath hersleep-robbed eyes.     She nodded.     You're the one who carried me when I was shot?     Yes.     Why?     Suddenly he began to cough. Breath came hard. She held the oxygen maskin readiness. He shook his head, not wanting it.     Why? he asked again.     It would be a long story. Perhaps I'll tell you tomorrow.     A new thought, cloaked in sudden fear, entered his murky consciousness.Tell me, will—will I be well again? Will I be able to walk?     He lay back then, panting, exhausted.     You have nothing to worry about, the girl said softly. Her cool handtouched his hot forehead. Rest. We'll talk later.     His eyes closed and breath came easier. He slept.     When he next awoke, his gaze turned first to the window. There waslight outside, but he had no way of knowing if this was morning, noonor afternoon—or on what planet.     He saw no white-domed buildings of Hoover City, no formal lines ofgreen-treed parks, no streams of buzzing gyro-cars. There was only atranslucent and infinite whiteness. It was as if the window were set onthe edge of the Universe overlooking a solemn, silent and matterlessvoid.     The girl entered the room.     Hi, she said, smiling. The dark half-moons under her eyes were lessprominent. Her face was relaxed.     She increased the pressure in his rubberex pillows and helped him riseto a sitting position.     Where are we? he asked.     Venus.     We're not in Hoover City?     No.     He looked at her, wondering. You won't tell me?     Not yet. Later, perhaps.     Then how did you get me here? How did we escape from the Inn?  She shrugged. We have friends who can be bribed. A hiding place in thecity, the use of a small desert-taxi, a pass to leave the city—thesecan be had for a price.     You'll tell me your name?     Maggie.     Why did you save me?     Her eyes twinkled mischievously. Because you're a good astrogator.     His own eyes widened. How did you know that?     She sat on a plain chair beside his bed. I know everything about you,Lieutenant Curtis.     How did you learn my name? I destroyed all my papers—     I know that you're twenty-four. Born July 10, 1971. Orphaned at four,you attended Boys Town in the Catskills till you were 19. You graduatedfrom the Academy at White Sands last June with a major in Astrogation.Your rating for the five-year period was 3.8—the second highest in aclass of fifty-seven. Your only low mark in the five years was a 3.2 inHistory of Martian Civilization. Want me to go on?     Fascinated, Ben nodded.     You were accepted as junior astrogation officer aboard the      Odyssey     .You did well on your flight from Roswell to Luna City. In a barroomfight in Luna City, you struck and killed a man named Arthur Cobb, apre-fab salesman. You've been charged with second degree murder andescape. A reward of 5,000 credits has been offered for your capture.You came to Hoover City in the hope of finding a renegade group ofspacemen who operate beyond Mars. You were looking for them in theBlast Inn.     He gaped incredulously, struggling to rise from his pillows. I—don'tget it.     There are ways of finding out what we want to know. As I told you, wehave many friends.     He fell back into his pillows, breathing hard. She rose quickly.     I'm sorry, she said. I shouldn't have told you yet. I felt so happybecause you're alive. Rest now. We'll talk again soon.     Maggie, you—you said I'd live. You didn't say I'd be able to walkagain.     She lowered her gaze. I hope you'll be able to.     But you don't think I will, do you?     I don't know. We'll try walking tomorrow. Don't think about it now.Rest.     He tried to relax, but his mind was a vortex of conjecture.     Just one more question, he almost whispered.     Yes?     The man I killed—did he have a wife?     She hesitated. He thought,      Damn it, of all the questions, why did Iask that?       Finally she said, He had a wife.     Children?     Two. I don't know their ages.     She left the room.  He sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room.     He sat straight up, his chest heaving.     The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in amerchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatlytrimmed      red beard     !     Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped intorestless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through hisbrain.     The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyesaccused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night.     And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reacheddown and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands andknees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was achilling wail in his ears.     His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voicescreamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stompingrelentlessly toward him.     He awoke still screaming....     A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, aquestion already formed in his mind.     She came and at once he asked, Who is the man with the red beard?     She smiled. I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You      were     looking for him, weren't you?     Who is he?     She sat on the chair beside him.     My husband, she said softly.     He began to understand. And your husband needs an astrogator? That'swhy you saved me?     We need all the good men we can get.     Where is he?     She cocked her head in mock suspicion. Somewhere between Mercury andPluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When hisship returns, I'll be going to him.     Why aren't you with him now?     He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've beenstudying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau ofInvestigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know howwe operate?     He told her the tales he'd heard.  She nodded. There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and adozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years agoafter we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,but with almost every advance in space, someone dies.     Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is onlya temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I mightas well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one.     Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group iswanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just peoplelike yourself and Jacob.     Jacob? Your husband?     She laughed. Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of agrizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either.     She lit a cigarette. Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond thefrontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not evento Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejectswho couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They knownothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships tofrontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies.     Don't the authorities object?     Not very strongly. The I. B. I. has too many problems right here tosearch the whole System for a few two-bit crooks. Besides, we carrycargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that'sscarce on Earth and Mars and Venus. Nobody really cares whether itcomes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives miningit, that's our business.     She pursed her lips. But if they guessed how strong we are or that wehave friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different.There probably would be a crackdown.     Ben scowled. What happens if there      is     a crackdown? And what will youdo when Space Corps ships officially reach the asteroids? They can'tignore you then.     Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take themto Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll bepushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suitedboys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It      could     be us, youknow—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. Youcan't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make upyour own.  Ben stiffened. And that's why you want me for an astrogator.     Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. If you want to come—and if you getwell. She looked at him strangely.     Suppose— He fought to find the right words. Suppose I got well anddecided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let mego?     Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment,then fear. I don't know. That would be up to Jacob.     He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched hishand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotionthat had coursed through her.     The only thing that matters, really, she murmured, is your walkingagain. We'll try this afternoon. Okay?     Okay, he said.     When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo.     He was like two people, he thought.     Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one singlestarry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal.     He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when shewas alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions:     A Space Officer Is Honest A Space Officer Is Loyal. A SpaceOfficer Is Dutiful.     Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held itprisoner for half a million years.     Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago.  ",Ben lost his parents at four in a a crash in space and has wanted to be a spaceman ever since. All his life he has been passionate about space. He graduated from an academy as an astrogation major and was a great student. After one month he signed aboard the ship called Odyssey. The bar fight occurred when he was celebrating his successful flight and he was proud of his uniform yet considering it a key for everything - the idea he had for a long time before. 
"What images keep haunting Ben? </s>     A Coffin for Jacob     By EDWARD W. LUDWIG     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1956.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        With never a moment to rest, the pursuit       through space felt like a game of hounds       and hares ... or was it follow the leader?        Ben Curtis eased his pale, gaunt body through the open doorway of theBlast Inn, the dead man following silently behind him.     His fear-borne gaze traveled into the dimly illumined Venusian ginmill. The place was like an evil caldron steaming with a brew whoseingredients had been culled from the back corners of three planets.     Most of the big room lay obscured behind a shimmering veil of tobaccosmoke and the sweet, heavy fumes of Martian Devil's Egg. Here andthere, Ben saw moving figures. He could not tell if they were Earthmen,Martians or Venusians.     Someone tugged at his greasy coat. He jumped, thinking absurdly that itwas the dead man's hand.           Coma esta, senor?      a small voice piped.       Speken die Deutsch?Desirez-vous d'amour? Da? Nyet?          Ben looked down.     The speaker was an eager-eyed Martian boy of about ten. He was likea red-skinned marionette with pipestem arms and legs, clad in a tornskivvy shirt and faded blue dungarees.     I'm American, Ben muttered.     Ah,      buena     ! I speak English      tres     fine,      senor     . I have Martianfriend, she      tres     pretty and      tres     fat. She weigh almost eightypounds,      monsieur     . I take you to her,      si     ?     Ben shook his head.  He thought,      I don't want your Martian wench. I don't want your opiumor your Devil's Egg or your Venusian kali. But if you had a drug that'dbring a dead man to life, I'd buy and pay with my soul.       It is deal,      monsieur     ? Five dollars or twenty      keelis     for visitMartian friend. Maybe you like House of Dreams. For House of Dreams—     I'm not buying.     The dirty-faced kid shrugged. Then I show you to good table,—      tresbien     . I do not charge you,      senor     .     The boy grabbed his hand. Because Ben could think of no reason forresisting, he followed. They plunged into shifting layers of smoke andthrough the drone of alcohol-cracked voices.       They passed the bar with its line of lean-featured, slit-eyedEarthmen—merchant spacemen.     They wormed down a narrow aisle flanked by booths carved from Venusianmarble that jutted up into the semi-darkness like fog-blanketedtombstones.     Several times, Ben glimpsed the bulky figures of CO  2  -breathingVenusians, the first he'd ever seen.     They were smoky gray, scaly, naked giants, toads in human shape.They stood solitary and motionless, aloof, their green-lidded eyesunblinking. They certainly didn't look like telepaths, as Ben had heardthey were, but the thought sent a fresh rivulet of fear down his spine.     Once he spied a white-uniformed officer of Hoover City's SecurityPolice. The man was striding down an aisle, idly tapping his neuro-clubagainst the stone booths.       Keep walking     , Ben told himself.      You look the same as anyone elsehere. Keep walking. Look straight ahead.       The officer passed. Ben breathed easier.     Here we are,      monsieur     , piped the Martian boy. A      tres     fine table.Close in the shadows.     Ben winced. How did this kid know he wanted to sit in the shadows?Frowning, he sat down—he and the dead man.     He listened to the lonely rhythms of the four-piece Martian orchestra.     The Martians were fragile, doll-like creatures with heads too large fortheir spindly bodies. Their long fingers played upon the strings oftheir      cirillas     or crawled over the holes of their flutes like spiderlegs. Their tune was sad. Even when they played an Earth tune, it stillseemed a song of old Mars, charged with echoes of lost voices andforgotten grandeur.     For an instant, Ben's mind rose above the haunting vision of the deadman. He thought,      What are they doing here, these Martians? Here, ina smoke-filled room under a metalite dome on a dust-covered world?Couldn't they have played their music on Mars? Or had they, like me,felt the challenge of new worlds?       He sobered. It didn't matter. He ordered a whiskey from a Chinesewaiter. He wet his lips but did not drink. His gaze wandered over thefaces of the Inn's other occupants.       You've got to find him     , he thought.      You've got to find the man withthe red beard. It's the only way you can escape the dead man.    The dead man was real. His name was Cobb. He was stout and flabby andabout forty and he hated spacemen.     His body was buried now—probably in the silent gray wastes outsideLuna City. But he'd become a kind of invisible Siamese twin, as much apart of Ben as sight in his eyes.     Sometimes the image would be shuffling drunkenly beside him, its lipsspitting whiskey-slurred curses.     Again, its face would be a pop-eyed mask of surprise as Ben's fistthudded into its jaw. More often, the face would be frozen in thewhiteness of death. The large eyes would stare. Blood would tricklefrom a corner of the gaping mouth.     You can forget a living man. You can defeat him or submit to him orignore him, and the matter is over and done. You can't escape from amemory that has burned into your mind.     It had begun a week ago in Luna City. The flight from White Sands hadbeen successful. Ben, quietly and moderately, wanted to celebrate.He stopped alone in a rocketfront bar for a beer. The man named Cobbplopped his portly and unsteady posterior on the stool next to him.     Spacemen, he muttered, are getting like flies. Everywhere, all yousee's spacemen.     He was a neatly dressed civilian.     Ben smiled. If it weren't for spacemen, you wouldn't be here.     The name's Cobb. The man hiccoughed. Spacemen in their white monkeysuits. They think they're little tin gods. Betcha you think you're alittle tin god. He downed a shot of whiskey.     Ben stiffened. He was twenty-four and dressed in the white,crimson-braided uniform of the      Odyssey's     junior astrogation officer.He was three months out of the Academy at White Sands and the shininguniform was like a key to all the mysteries of the Universe.     He'd sought long for that key.  At the age of five—perhaps in order to dull the memory of his parents'death in a recent strato-jet crash—he'd spent hours watching the nightsky for streaking flame-tails of Moon rockets. At ten, he'd groundhis first telescope. At fourteen, he'd converted an abandoned shed onthe government boarding-school grounds to a retreat which housed hiscollection of astronomy and rocketry books.     At sixteen, he'd spent every weekend holiday hitchhiking from BoysTown No. 5 in the Catskills to Long Island Spaceport. There, amongthe grizzled veterans of the old Moon Patrol, he'd found friends whounderstood his dream and who later recommended his appointment to theU. S. Academy for the Conquest of Space.     And a month ago, he'd signed aboard the      Odyssey     —the first ship, itwas rumored, equipped to venture as far as the asteroids and perhapsbeyond.     Cobb was persistent: Damn fools shoulda known enough to stay on Earth.What the hell good is it, jumpin' from planet to planet?       The guy's drunk     , Ben thought. He took his drink and moved threestools down the bar.     Cobb followed. You don't like the truth, eh, kid? You don't likepeople to call you a sucker.     Ben rose and started to leave the bar, but Cobb grabbed his arm andheld him there.     Thas what you are—a sucker. You're young now. Wait ten years. You'llbe dyin' of radiation rot or a meteor'll get you. Wait and see, sucker!     Until this instant, Ben had suppressed his anger. Now, suddenly andwithout warning, it welled up into savage fury.     His fist struck the man on the chin. Cobb's eyes gaped in shockedhorror. He spun backward. His head cracked sickeningly on the edge ofthe bar. The sound was like a punctuation mark signaling the end oflife.     He sank to the floor, eyes glassy, blood tricking down his jaw.     Ben knew that he was dead.     Then, for a single absurd second, Ben was seized with terror—just as,a moment before, he'd been overwhelmed with anger.     He ran.  For some twenty minutes, he raced through a dizzying, nightmare worldof dark rocketfront alleys and shouting voices and pursuing feet.     At last, abruptly, he realized that he was alone and in silence. He sawthat he was still on the rocketfront, but in the Tycho-ward side of thecity.     He huddled in a dark corner of a loading platform and lit a cigarette.A thousand stars—a thousand motionless balls of silver fire—shoneabove him through Luna City's transparent dome.     He was sorry he'd hit Cobb, of course. He was not sorry he'd run.Escaping at least gave him a power of choice, of decision.       You can do two things     , he thought.       You can give yourself up, and that's what a good officer would do.That would eliminate the escape charge. You'd get off with voluntarymanslaughter. Under interplanetary law, that would mean ten years inprison and a dishonorable discharge. And then you'd be free.         But you'd be through with rockets and space. They don't want newmen over thirty-four for officers on rockets or even for third-classjet-men on beat-up freighters—they don't want convicted killers. You'dget the rest of the thrill of conquering space through video and bypeeking through electric fences of spaceports.         Or—       There were old wives' tales of a group of renegade spacemen whooperated from the Solar System's frontiers. The spacemen weren'toutlaws. They were misfits, rejectees from the clearing houses on Earth.     And whereas no legally recognized ship had ventured past Mars, thesouped-up renegade rigs had supposedly hit the asteroids. Theirheadquarters was Venus. Their leader—a subject of popular andfantastic conjecture in the men's audiozines—was rumored to be ared-bearded giant.       So     , Ben reflected,      you can take a beer-and-pretzels tale seriously.You can hide for a couple of days, get rid of your uniform, change yourname. You can wait for a chance to get to Venus. To hell with yourduty. You can try to stay in space, even if you exile yourself fromEarth.       After all, was it right for a single second, a single insignificantsecond, to destroy a man's life and his dream?  He was lucky. He found a tramp freighter whose skipper was on his lastflight before retirement. Discipline was lax, investigation of newpersonnel even more so.     Ben Curtis made it to Venus.     There was just one flaw in his decision. He hadn't realized that thememory of the dead man's face would haunt him, torment him, follow himas constantly as breath flowed into his lungs.     But might not the rumble of atomic engines drown the murmuring deadvoice? Might not the vision of alien worlds and infinite spacewaysobscure the dead face?     So now he sat searching for a perhaps nonexistent red-bearded giant,and hoping and doubting and fearing, all at once.     You look for someone,      senor     ?     He jumped. Oh. You still here?           Oui.      The Martian kid grinned, his mouth full of purple teeth. Ikeep you company on your first night in Hoover City,      n'est-ce-pas     ?     This isn't my first night here, Ben lied. I've been around a while.     You are spacemen?     Ben threw a fifty-cent credit piece on the table. Here. Take off, willyou?     Spiderlike fingers swept down upon the coin.       Ich danke, senor.     Youknow why city is called Hoover City?     Ben didn't answer.     They say it is because after women come, they want first thing athousand vacuum cleaners for dust. What is vacuum cleaner,      monsieur     ?     Ben raised his hand as if to strike the boy.           Ai-yee     , I go. You keep listen to good Martian music.     The toothpick of a body melted into the semi-darkness.     Minutes passed. There were two more whiskeys. A ceaseless parade offaces broke through the smoky veil that enclosed him—reddish balloonfaces, scaly reptilian faces, white-skinned, slit-eyed faces, andoccasionally a white, rouged, powdered face. But nowhere was there aface with a red beard.     A sense of hopelessness gripped Ben Curtis. Hoover City was but one ofa dozen cities of Venus. Each had twenty dives such as this.     He needed help.     But his picture must have been 'scoped to Venusian visiscreens. Areward must have been offered for his capture. Whom could he trust? TheMartian kid, perhaps?     Far down the darkened aisle nearest him, his eyes caught a flash ofwhite. He tensed.     Like the uniform of a Security Policeman, he thought.     His gaze shifted to another aisle and another hint of whiteness.     And then he saw another and another and another.     Each whiteness became brighter and closer, like shrinking spokes of awheel with Ben as their focal point.       You idiot! The damned Martian kid! You should have known!    Light showered the room in a dazzling explosion. Ben, half blinded,realized that a broad circle of unshaded globes in the ceiling had beenturned on.     The light washed away the room's strangeness and its air of broodingwickedness, revealing drab concrete walls and a debris-strewn floor.     Eyes blinked and squinted. There were swift, frightened movements anda chorus of angry murmurs. The patrons of the Blast Inn were liketatter-clad occupants of a house whose walls have been ripped away.     Ben Curtis twisted his lean body erect. His chair tumbled backward,falling.     The white-clad men charged, neuro-clubs upraised.     A woman screamed. The music ceased. The Martian orchestra slunk withfeline stealth to a rear exit. Only the giant Venusians remainedundisturbed. They stood unmoving, their staring eyes shifting lazily inBen's direction.     Curtis! one of the policemen yelled. You're covered! Hold it!     Ben whirled away from the advancing police, made for the exit intowhich the musicians had disappeared.     A hissing sound traveled past his left ear, a sound like compressed airescaping from a container. A dime-sized section of the concrete wallahead of him crumbled.     He stumbled forward. They were using deadly neuro-pistols now, not themildly stunning neuro-clubs.     Another hiss passed his cheek. He was about twelve feet from the exit.      Another second     , his brain screamed.      Just another second—       Or would the exits be guarded?     He heard the hiss.     It hit directly in the small of his back. There was no pain, just aslight pricking sensation, like the shallow jab of a needle.  He froze as if yanked to a stop by a noose. His body seemed to begrowing, swelling into balloon proportions. He knew that the tinyneedle had imbedded itself deep in his flesh, knew that the paralyzingmortocain was spreading like icy fire into every fiber and muscle ofhis body.     He staggered like a man of stone moving in slow motion. He'd havefifteen—maybe twenty—seconds before complete lethargy of mind andbody overpowered him.     In the dark world beyond his fading consciousness, he heard a voiceyell, Turn on the damn lights!     Then a pressure and a coldness were on his left hand. He realized thatsomeone had seized it.     A soft feminine voice spoke to him. You're wounded? They hit you?     Yes. His thick lips wouldn't let go of the word.     You want to escape—even now?     Yes.     You may die if you don't give yourself up.     No, no.     He tried to stumble toward the exit.     All right then. Not that way. Here, this way.     Heavy footsteps thudded toward them. A few yards away, a flashlightflicked on.     Hands were guiding him. He was aware of being pushed and pulled. Adoor closed behind him. The glare of the flashlight faded from hisvision—if he still had vision.     You're sure? the voice persisted.     I'm sure, Ben managed to say.     I have no antidote. You may die.     His mind fought to comprehend. With the anti-paralysis injection,massage and rest, a man could recover from the effects of mortocainwithin half a day. Without treatment, the paralysis could spread toheart and lungs. It could become a paralysis of death. An effectiveweapon: the slightest wound compelled the average criminal to surrenderat once.     Anti ... anti ... The words were as heavy as blobs of mercury forcedfrom his throat. No ... I'm sure ... sure.     He didn't hear the answer or anything else.  Ben Curtis had no precise sensation of awakening. Return toconsciousness was an intangible evolution from a world of blacknothingness to a dream-like state of awareness.     He felt the pressure of hands on his naked arms and shoulders,hands that massaged, manipulated, fought to restore circulation andsensitivity. He knew they were strong hands. Their strength seemed totransfer itself to his own body.     For a long time, he tried to open his eyes. His lids felt weldedshut. But after a while, they opened. His world of darkness gave wayto a translucent cloak of mist. A round, featureless shape hoveredconstantly above him—a face, he supposed.     He tried to talk. Although his lips moved slightly, the only sound wasa deep, staccato grunting.     But he heard someone say, Don't try to talk. It was the same gentlevoice he'd heard in the Blast Inn. Don't talk. Just lie still andrest. Everything'll be all right.       Everything all right     , he thought dimly.     There were long periods of lethargy when he was aware of nothing. Therewere periods of light and of darkness. Gradually he grew aware ofthings. He realized that the soft rubber mouth of a spaceman's oxygenmask was clamped over his nose. He felt the heat of electric blanketsswathed about his body. Occasionally a tube would be in his mouth andhe would taste liquid food and feel a pleasant warmth in his stomach.     Always, it seemed, the face was above him, floating in the obscuringmist. Always, it seemed, the soft voice was echoing in his ears:     Swallow this now. That's it. You must have food. Or, Close youreyes. Don't strain. It won't be long. You're getting better.       Better     , he'd think.      Getting better....       At last, after one of the periods of lethargy, his eyes opened. Themist brightened, then dissolved.     He beheld the cracked, unpainted ceiling of a small room, its colorlesswalls broken with a single, round window. He saw the footboard of hisaluminite bed and the outlines of his feet beneath a faded blanket.     Finally he saw the face and figure that stood at his side.     You are better? the kind voice asked.  The face was that of a girl probably somewhere between twenty-fiveand thirty. Her features, devoid of makeup, had an unhealthy-lookingpallor, as if she hadn't used a sunlamp for many weeks. Yet, at thesame time, her firm slim body suggested a solidity and a strength. Herstraight brown hair was combed backward, tight upon her scalp, anddrawn together in a knot at the nape of her neck.     I—I am better, he murmured. His words were still slow and thick. Iam going to live?     You will live.     He thought for a moment. How long have I been here?     Nine days.     You took care of me? He noted the deep, dark circles beneath hersleep-robbed eyes.     She nodded.     You're the one who carried me when I was shot?     Yes.     Why?     Suddenly he began to cough. Breath came hard. She held the oxygen maskin readiness. He shook his head, not wanting it.     Why? he asked again.     It would be a long story. Perhaps I'll tell you tomorrow.     A new thought, cloaked in sudden fear, entered his murky consciousness.Tell me, will—will I be well again? Will I be able to walk?     He lay back then, panting, exhausted.     You have nothing to worry about, the girl said softly. Her cool handtouched his hot forehead. Rest. We'll talk later.     His eyes closed and breath came easier. He slept.     When he next awoke, his gaze turned first to the window. There waslight outside, but he had no way of knowing if this was morning, noonor afternoon—or on what planet.     He saw no white-domed buildings of Hoover City, no formal lines ofgreen-treed parks, no streams of buzzing gyro-cars. There was only atranslucent and infinite whiteness. It was as if the window were set onthe edge of the Universe overlooking a solemn, silent and matterlessvoid.     The girl entered the room.     Hi, she said, smiling. The dark half-moons under her eyes were lessprominent. Her face was relaxed.     She increased the pressure in his rubberex pillows and helped him riseto a sitting position.     Where are we? he asked.     Venus.     We're not in Hoover City?     No.     He looked at her, wondering. You won't tell me?     Not yet. Later, perhaps.     Then how did you get me here? How did we escape from the Inn?  She shrugged. We have friends who can be bribed. A hiding place in thecity, the use of a small desert-taxi, a pass to leave the city—thesecan be had for a price.     You'll tell me your name?     Maggie.     Why did you save me?     Her eyes twinkled mischievously. Because you're a good astrogator.     His own eyes widened. How did you know that?     She sat on a plain chair beside his bed. I know everything about you,Lieutenant Curtis.     How did you learn my name? I destroyed all my papers—     I know that you're twenty-four. Born July 10, 1971. Orphaned at four,you attended Boys Town in the Catskills till you were 19. You graduatedfrom the Academy at White Sands last June with a major in Astrogation.Your rating for the five-year period was 3.8—the second highest in aclass of fifty-seven. Your only low mark in the five years was a 3.2 inHistory of Martian Civilization. Want me to go on?     Fascinated, Ben nodded.     You were accepted as junior astrogation officer aboard the      Odyssey     .You did well on your flight from Roswell to Luna City. In a barroomfight in Luna City, you struck and killed a man named Arthur Cobb, apre-fab salesman. You've been charged with second degree murder andescape. A reward of 5,000 credits has been offered for your capture.You came to Hoover City in the hope of finding a renegade group ofspacemen who operate beyond Mars. You were looking for them in theBlast Inn.     He gaped incredulously, struggling to rise from his pillows. I—don'tget it.     There are ways of finding out what we want to know. As I told you, wehave many friends.     He fell back into his pillows, breathing hard. She rose quickly.     I'm sorry, she said. I shouldn't have told you yet. I felt so happybecause you're alive. Rest now. We'll talk again soon.     Maggie, you—you said I'd live. You didn't say I'd be able to walkagain.     She lowered her gaze. I hope you'll be able to.     But you don't think I will, do you?     I don't know. We'll try walking tomorrow. Don't think about it now.Rest.     He tried to relax, but his mind was a vortex of conjecture.     Just one more question, he almost whispered.     Yes?     The man I killed—did he have a wife?     She hesitated. He thought,      Damn it, of all the questions, why did Iask that?       Finally she said, He had a wife.     Children?     Two. I don't know their ages.     She left the room.  He sank into the softness of his bed. As he turned over on his side,his gaze fell upon an object on a bureau in a far corner of the room.     He sat straight up, his chest heaving.     The object was a tri-dimensional photo of a rock-faced man in amerchant spaceman's uniform. He was a giant of a man with a neatlytrimmed      red beard     !     Ben stared at the photo for a long time. At length, he slipped intorestless sleep. Images of faces and echoes of words spun through hisbrain.     The dead man returned to him. Bloodied lips cursed at him. Glassy eyesaccused him. Somewhere were two lost children crying in the night.     And towering above him was a red-bearded man whose great hands reacheddown and beckoned to him. Ben crawled through the night on hands andknees, his legs numb and useless. The crying of the children was achilling wail in his ears.     His head rose and turned to the red-bearded man. His pleading voicescreamed out to him in a thick, harsh cackle. Yet even as he screamed,the giant disappeared, to be replaced by white-booted feet stompingrelentlessly toward him.     He awoke still screaming....     A night without darkness passed. Ben lay waiting for Maggie's return, aquestion already formed in his mind.     She came and at once he asked, Who is the man with the red beard?     She smiled. I was right then when I gave you that thumbnail biog. You      were     looking for him, weren't you?     Who is he?     She sat on the chair beside him.     My husband, she said softly.     He began to understand. And your husband needs an astrogator? That'swhy you saved me?     We need all the good men we can get.     Where is he?     She cocked her head in mock suspicion. Somewhere between Mercury andPluto. He's building a new base for us—and a home for me. When hisship returns, I'll be going to him.     Why aren't you with him now?     He said unexplored space is no place for a woman. So I've beenstudying criminal reports and photos from the Interplanetary Bureau ofInvestigation and trying to find recruits like yourself. You know howwe operate?     He told her the tales he'd heard.  She nodded. There are quite a few of us now—about a thousand—and adozen ships. Our base used to be here on Venus, down toward the Pole.The dome we're in now was designed and built by us a few years agoafter we got pushed off Mars. We lost a few men in the construction,but with almost every advance in space, someone dies.     Venus is getting too civilized. We're moving out and this dome is onlya temporary base when we have cases like yours. The new base—I mightas well tell you it's going to be an asteroid. I won't say which one.     Don't get the idea that we're outlaws. Sure, about half our group iswanted by the Bureau, but we make honest livings. We're just peoplelike yourself and Jacob.     Jacob? Your husband?     She laughed. Makes you think of a Biblical character, doesn't it?Jacob's anything but that. And just plain 'Jake' reminds one of agrizzled old uranium prospector and he isn't like that, either.     She lit a cigarette. Anyway, the wanted ones stay out beyond thefrontiers. Jacob and those like him can never return to Earth—not evento Hoover City—except dead. The others are physical or psycho rejectswho couldn't get clearance if they went back to Earth. They knownothing but rocketing and won't give up. They bring in our ships tofrontier ports like Hoover City to unload cargo and take on supplies.     Don't the authorities object?     Not very strongly. The I. B. I. has too many problems right here tosearch the whole System for a few two-bit crooks. Besides, we carrycargoes of almost pure uranium and tungsten and all the stuff that'sscarce on Earth and Mars and Venus. Nobody really cares whether itcomes from the asteroids or Hades. If we want to risk our lives miningit, that's our business.     She pursed her lips. But if they guessed how strong we are or that wehave friends planted in the I. B. I.—well, things might be different.There probably would be a crackdown.     Ben scowled. What happens if there      is     a crackdown? And what will youdo when Space Corps ships officially reach the asteroids? They can'tignore you then.     Then we move on. We dream up new gimmicks for our crates and take themto Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto. In time, maybe, we'll bepushed out of the System itself. Maybe it won't be the white-suitedboys who'll make that first hop to the stars. It      could     be us, youknow—if we live long enough. But that Asteroid Belt is murder. Youcan't follow the text-book rules of astrogation out there. You make upyour own.  Ben stiffened. And that's why you want me for an astrogator.     Maggie rose, her eyes wistful. If you want to come—and if you getwell. She looked at him strangely.     Suppose— He fought to find the right words. Suppose I got well anddecided not to join Jacob. What would happen to me? Would you let mego?     Her thin face was criss-crossed by emotion—alarm, then bewilderment,then fear. I don't know. That would be up to Jacob.     He lay biting his lip, staring at the photo of Jacob. She touched hishand and it seemed that sadness now dominated the flurry of emotionthat had coursed through her.     The only thing that matters, really, she murmured, is your walkingagain. We'll try this afternoon. Okay?     Okay, he said.     When she left, his eyes were still turned toward Jacob's photo.     He was like two people, he thought.     Half of him was an officer of the Space Corps. Perhaps one singlestarry-eyed boy out of ten thousand was lucky enough to reach that goal.     He remembered a little picture book his mother had given him when shewas alive. Under the bright pictures of spacemen were the captions:     A Space Officer Is Honest A Space Officer Is Loyal. A SpaceOfficer Is Dutiful.     Honesty, loyalty, duty. Trite words, but without those concepts,mankind would never have broken away from the planet that held itprisoner for half a million years.     Without them, Everson, after three failures and a hundred men dead,would never have landed on the Moon twenty-seven years ago.  ","Ben is haunted with the image of a dead man. In a bar a man, Cobb, picked a fight with Ben claiming that spacemen suck. Ben soon surrendered to his anger and hit the man, who died by accident. Now Ben is followed everywhere by the scary rage of the dead man with blood in his mouth. Ben is even more upset when he learns that Cobb had a wife and two kids. The whole family haunts Ben in nightmares. He is constantly scared of being found as well and deprived of being a spaceman. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     TOLLIVER'S ORBIT     was slow—but it wasn't boring. And     it would get you there—as long as     you weren't going anywhere anyhow!     By H. B. FYFE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His blackthatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way.     I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I? he demanded.Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operatingsomething sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me.     The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch ofKoslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightenedthe office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seenthrough the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dimand rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half amillion miles distant.     Try not to be simple—for once! growled Jeffers. A little percentagehere and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get backto Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it onthe estimates.     You asked any of them lately? Tolliver prodded.     Now,      listen     ! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the minesand the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in thebeginning, most of them.      They     know what it's like. D'ya think theydon't expect us to make what we can on the side?     Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blueuniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly.     You just don't listen to      me     , he complained. You know I took thispiloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degreeback on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something Ican't quit.     Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk ofhis body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers.     Aw, it's not like that, the manager muttered. You can ease outwhenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on youraccount?     Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meetinghis eye.     All right, then! Jeffers snapped after a long moment. If you want itthat way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now!     You can't fire me, retorted the pilot pityingly. I came out hereon a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred forhazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter?     Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. We'll see how long youkeep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit inyour quarters and see if the company calls      that     hazardous duty!     Doesn't matter, answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. The hazardouspart is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months.     He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind himso as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him.       Looks like a little vacation     , he thought, unperturbed.      He'll comearound. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffersand his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It'stheir risk.    Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter.     His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted.     On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes.     He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles.     The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation.     Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside.     Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver.     What do you mean?     They say some home-office relative is coming in on the      Javelin     .     What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean.     Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load!     Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged.     She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer.     Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty.     Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking,      Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried?       They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship?     It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip.  He followed the signals of a spacesuited member of the port staff andmaneuvered out of the dome. Then he headed the tractor across thefrozen surface of Ganymede toward the permanent domes of the city.     How is it here? asked the girl. They told me it's pretty rough.     What did you expect? asked Tolliver. Square dances with champagne?     Don't be silly. Daddy says I'm supposed to learn traffic routing andthe business management of a local branch. They probably won't let mesee much else.     You never can tell, said the pilot, yielding to temptation. Anysquare inch of Ganymede is likely to be dangerous.       I'll be sorry later     , he reflected,      but if Jeffers keeps me jockeyingthis creeper, I'm entitled to some amusement. And Daddy's little girlis trying too hard to sound like one of the gang.       Yeah, he went on, right now, I don't do a thing but drive missionsfrom the city to the spaceport.     Missions! You call driving a mile or so a      mission     ?     Tolliver pursed his lips and put on a shrewd expression.     Don't sneer at Ganymede, honey! he warned portentously. Many aman who did isn't here today. Take the fellow who used to drive thismission!     You can call me Betty. What happened to him?     I'll tell you some day, Tolliver promised darkly. This moon canstrike like a vicious animal.     Oh, they told me there was nothing alive on Ganymede!     I was thinking of the mountain slides, said the pilot. Not tomention volcanic puffballs that pop out through the frozen crust whereyou'd least expect. That's why I draw such high pay for driving anunarmored tractor.     You use armored vehicles? gasped the girl.     She was now sitting bolt upright in the swaying seat. Tolliverdeliberately dipped one track into an icy hollow. In the light gravity,the tractor responded with a weird, floating lurch.     Those slides, he continued. Ganymede's only about the size ofMercury, something like 3200 miles in diameter, so things get heaped upat steep angles. When the rock and ice are set to sliding, they comeat you practically horizontally. It doesn't need much start, and itbarrels on for a long way before there's enough friction to stop it. Ifyou're in the way—well, it's just too bad!       Say, that's pretty good!     he told himself.      What a liar you are,Tolliver!       He enlarged upon other dangers to be encountered on the satellite,taking care to impress the newcomer with the daredeviltry of JohnTolliver, driver of missions across the menacing wastes between domeand port.     In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weeklypaycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicatehe was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful.     I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive, he said bravely,edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. Made mypile. No use pushing your luck too far.     His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to requestthat Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed alongas if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscienceprickled.       I'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight     ,he resolved.      It isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant toknow better.    Remembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walkingin without knocking.     Jeffers, he announced, this is ... just call her Betty.     The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome asjovial as that of a hungry crocodile.     Miss Koslow! he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor toshow you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver?     Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers, snapped the girl, in a tone new toTolliver. We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already hadenough rope.     Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His looselips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. Thepilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of theelder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he hadtold en route from the spaceport.     Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow? Jeffers stammered.     He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver.     Mr. Jeffers, said the girl, I may look like just another spoiledlittle blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something aboutholding on to it.     Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl.     Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, whenhe told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.I have      some     authority, though. And you look like the source of thetrouble to me.     You can't prove anything, declared Jeffers hoarsely.     Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won'tbe hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good asfired!     The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly atBetty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about just landed.After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab anintercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other endto come in without a countdown.     Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to bea secretary, but it turned out to be three members of Jeffers'headquarters staff. He recognized one as Rawlins, a warehouse chief,and guessed that the other two might be his assistants. They were largeenough.     No stupid questions! Jeffers ordered. Lock these two up while Ithink!     Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off.     Where should we lock—? the fellow paused to ask.     Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling thatit was a poor time to engage Jeffers in fruitless debate.     In the gravity of Ganymede, the man was knocked off balance as much ashe was hurt, and sprawled on the floor.     I      told     you no questions! bawled Jeffers.     The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbingBetty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around hisdesk to assist.  Tolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in theadjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time hadbeen spent in carrying him there.     He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitchedin with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp ofdeparting footsteps and then by silence.     After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up.     He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind hisleft ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily.     I'm sorry about that, murmured Betty.     Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was hein a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like himanyway.     I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner, remarked the girl.     Thanks for letting me know in time, said Tolliver.     The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could seewell enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him.     What can we use to get out of here? he mused.     Why should we try? asked the girl. What can he do?     You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon?     Your paycheck, said Betty. As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to beJeffers.     Tolliver groaned.     Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. Youdidn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, andseemed to blame you for it.     Sure! grumbled the pilot. He thinks I told you he was grafting orsmuggling, or whatever he has going for him here. That's why I want toget out of here—before I find myself involved in some kind of fatalaccident!     What do you know about the crooked goings-on here? asked Betty aftera startled pause.     Nothing, retorted Tolliver. Except that there are some. There arerumors, and I had a halfway invitation to join in. I think he sellsthings to the mining colonies and makes a double profit for himself byclaiming the stuff lost in transit. You didn't think you scared himthat bad over a little slack managing?     The picture of Jeffers huddled with his partners in the headquartersbuilding, plotting the next move, brought Tolliver to his feet.     There was nothing in the unused office but an old table and half adozen plastic crates. He saw that the latter contained a mess ofdiscarded records.     Better than nothing at all, he muttered.     He ripped out a double handful of the forms, crumpled them into a pileat the doorway, and pulled out his cigarette lighter.     What do you think you're up to? asked Betty with some concern.     This plastic is tough, said Tolliver, but it will bend with enoughheat. If I can kick loose a hinge, maybe we can fool them yet!     He got a little fire going, and fed it judiciously with more papers.     You know, he reflected, it might be better for you to stay here.He can't do much about you, and you don't have any real proof just byyourself.     I'll come along with you, Tolliver, said the girl.     No, I don't think you'd better.     Why not?     Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident tothe daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without alot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it.     Let's not argue about it, said Betty, a trifle pale but lookingdetermined. I'm coming with you. Is that stuff getting soft yet?     Tolliver kicked at the edge of the door experimentally. It seemed togive slightly, so he knocked the burning papers aside and drove hisheel hard at the corner below the hinge.     The plastic yielded.     That's enough already, Tolliver, whispered the girl. We can crawlthrough!  Hardly sixty seconds later, he led her into a maze of stacked cratesin the warehouse proper. The building was not much longer than wide,for each of the structures in the colony had its own hemisphericalemergency dome of transparent plastic. They soon reached the other end.     I think there's a storeroom for spacesuits around here, mutteredTolliver.     Why do you want them?     Honey, I just don't think it will be so easy to lay hands on atractor. I bet Jeffers already phoned the garage and all the airlockswith some good lie that will keep me from getting through.     After a brief search, he located the spacesuits. Many, evidentlyintended for replacements, had never been unpacked, but there were adozen or so serviced and standing ready for emergencies. He showedBetty how to climb into one, and checked her seals and valves afterdonning a suit himself.     That switch under your chin, he said, touching helmets so she couldhear him. Leave it turned off.      Anybody     might be listening!     He led the way out a rear door of the warehouse. With the heavy knifethat was standard suit equipment, he deliberately slashed a four-footsquare section out of the dome. He motioned to Betty to step through,then trailed along with the plastic under his arm.     He caught up and touched helmets again.     Just act as if you're on business, he told her. For all anyone cansee, we might be inspecting the dome.     Where are you going? asked Betty.     Right through the wall, and then head for the nearest mine. Jefferscan't be running      everything     !     Is there any way to get to a TV? asked the girl. I ... uh ... Daddygave me a good number to call if I needed help.     How good?     Pretty official, as a matter of fact.     All right, Tolliver decided. We'll try the ship you just came in on.They might have finished refueling and left her empty.     They had to cross one open lane between buildings, and Tolliver wasvery conscious of moving figures in the distance; but no one seemed tolook their way.     Reaching the foot of the main dome over the establishment, he glancedfurtively about, then plunged his knife into the transparent material.     From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Betty make a startledgesture, but he had his work cut out for him. This was tougher than theinterior dome.     Finally, he managed to saw a ragged slit through which they couldsqueeze. There was room to walk between the inner and outer layer, sohe moved along a few yards. A little dust began to blow about wherethey had gone through. He touched helmets once more.     This time, he said, the air will really start to blow, so getthrough as fast as you can. If I can slap this piece of plastic overthe rip, it may stow down the loss of pressure enough to give us quitea lead before the alarms go off.     Through the faceplates, he saw the girl nod, wide-eyed.     As soon as he plunged the knife into the outer layer, he could seedusty, moist air puffing out into the near-vacuum of Ganymede'ssurface. Fumbling, he cut as fast as he could and shoved Betty throughthe small opening.     Squeezing through in his turn, he left one arm inside to spread theplastic sheet as best he could. The internal air pressure slapped itagainst the inside of the dome as if glued, although it immediatelyshowed an alarming tendency to balloon through the ruptured spot.       They'll find it, all right     , Tolliver reminded himself.      Don't be herewhen they do!       He grabbed Betty by the wrist of her spacesuit and headed for thenearest outcropping of rock.     It promptly developed that she had something to learn about running onice in such low gravity. Until they were out of direct line of sightfrom the settlement, Tolliver simply dragged her.     Then, when he decided that it was safe enough to pause and tell herhow to manage better, the sight of her outraged scowl through theface-plate made him think better of it.       By the time we reach the ship, she'll have learned     , he consoledhimself.  It was a long mile, even at the pace human muscles could achieve onGanymede. They took one short rest, during which Tolliver was forcedto explain away the dangers of slides and volcanic puffballs. Headmitted to having exaggerated slightly. In the end, they reached thespaceship.     There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsedand stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed.     That's all right, Tolliver told the girl. We can get in with notrouble.     It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved thathe caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at thespot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognizedthe outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tiltingdownward again.     In fact, we      have     to get in to stay out of trouble, he said to Betty.     He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated themechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder.     It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder andinside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting atthe time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and thenTolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was aclumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time.       In the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet.     Leave the suit on, he ordered, getting in the first word while shewas still shaking her head. It will help a little on the takeoff.     Takeoff! shrilled Betty. What do you think you're going to do? Ijust want to use the radio or TV!     That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut yourconversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over thesedials!     He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of theship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into aneconomy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. Hewarned her the trip might be long.     I told you not to come, he said at last. Now sit back!     He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process.     In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,and then it was out of his hands for several minutes.     That wasn't so bad, Betty admitted some time later. Did you go inthe right direction?     Who knows? retorted Tolliver. There wasn't time to check      everything     . We'll worry about that after we make your call.     Oh! Betty looked helpless. It's in my pocket.     Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pryher out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed anyfurther help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set aboutmaking contact.     It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitoredexpectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore auniform.     Space Patrol? whispered Tolliver incredulously.     That's right, said Betty. Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me.     Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float outof range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he staredexasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man whocould arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede andwondering what was behind it all.     When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers andreporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began tosuspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of thePatrolman.  For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after.       They really sent her out to nail someone     , Tolliver realized.      Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed!       We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed.     Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater.     Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel.     Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately.     He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status.     This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that.     The girl grinned.     Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him?     You ... you...?     Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate—     I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later.     Oh, come      on     ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing?     I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up.     He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again.     We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow.     I didn't expect to so soon.     Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede.     Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am!     Yes, admitted Tolliver, there      are     problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV.     I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly.     The main problem is whether you can cook.     Betty frowned at him.     I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry.     Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do.     I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck.     Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo.       After a while     , he promised himself,      I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede!    ","The story begins as Johnny Tolliver argues with Jeffers, the manager of Ganymedan branch of Koslow Spaceways, about how he doesn’t want to be involved with whatever he is doing. This makes Jeffers angry, knowing that he cannot fire Tolliver, he decides to make Tolliver’s job extremely boring. Thus, for the next few days, he simply hang around the garage, with nothing to do. Then on Friday, he gets assigned to take the creeper outside. He picks Betty up, where he told her about the dangers of Ganymede such as the volcanic puffballs and the mountain slides, he explains his high pay for driving unarmored tractor by mentioning that if he survives the six month, he will retire. However, Tolliver understand that this is completely a lie. After they go to see Jeffers, Betty states that she will not work with them, and them fires Jeffers. Jeffers order his men to lock Betty and Tolliver up. After Tolliver wakes up, they decided to escape. Betty told Tolliver about how she was able to figure out that there’s something wrong – his extremely high paycheck. After crawling through the hole by bending plastic, they finds spacesuits in the storeroom. Finally, they are able to escape by taking off on an economy orbit for Earth. After contacting with Space Patrol, Tolliver finds it odd when he says “Miss Koslow.” Questioning Betty, she admits that she works for a private investigating firm. Then, in the end, Tolliver is going to cut the fuel flow to see if Betty will suspect anything, since they are just orbiting Ganymede. "
"What happens to Betty throughout the story </s>     TOLLIVER'S ORBIT     was slow—but it wasn't boring. And     it would get you there—as long as     you weren't going anywhere anyhow!     By H. B. FYFE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His blackthatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way.     I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I? he demanded.Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operatingsomething sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me.     The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch ofKoslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightenedthe office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seenthrough the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dimand rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half amillion miles distant.     Try not to be simple—for once! growled Jeffers. A little percentagehere and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get backto Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it onthe estimates.     You asked any of them lately? Tolliver prodded.     Now,      listen     ! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the minesand the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in thebeginning, most of them.      They     know what it's like. D'ya think theydon't expect us to make what we can on the side?     Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blueuniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly.     You just don't listen to      me     , he complained. You know I took thispiloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degreeback on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something Ican't quit.     Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk ofhis body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers.     Aw, it's not like that, the manager muttered. You can ease outwhenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on youraccount?     Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meetinghis eye.     All right, then! Jeffers snapped after a long moment. If you want itthat way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now!     You can't fire me, retorted the pilot pityingly. I came out hereon a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred forhazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter?     Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. We'll see how long youkeep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit inyour quarters and see if the company calls      that     hazardous duty!     Doesn't matter, answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. The hazardouspart is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months.     He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind himso as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him.       Looks like a little vacation     , he thought, unperturbed.      He'll comearound. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffersand his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It'stheir risk.    Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter.     His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted.     On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes.     He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles.     The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation.     Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside.     Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver.     What do you mean?     They say some home-office relative is coming in on the      Javelin     .     What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean.     Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load!     Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged.     She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer.     Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty.     Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking,      Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried?       They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship?     It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip.  He followed the signals of a spacesuited member of the port staff andmaneuvered out of the dome. Then he headed the tractor across thefrozen surface of Ganymede toward the permanent domes of the city.     How is it here? asked the girl. They told me it's pretty rough.     What did you expect? asked Tolliver. Square dances with champagne?     Don't be silly. Daddy says I'm supposed to learn traffic routing andthe business management of a local branch. They probably won't let mesee much else.     You never can tell, said the pilot, yielding to temptation. Anysquare inch of Ganymede is likely to be dangerous.       I'll be sorry later     , he reflected,      but if Jeffers keeps me jockeyingthis creeper, I'm entitled to some amusement. And Daddy's little girlis trying too hard to sound like one of the gang.       Yeah, he went on, right now, I don't do a thing but drive missionsfrom the city to the spaceport.     Missions! You call driving a mile or so a      mission     ?     Tolliver pursed his lips and put on a shrewd expression.     Don't sneer at Ganymede, honey! he warned portentously. Many aman who did isn't here today. Take the fellow who used to drive thismission!     You can call me Betty. What happened to him?     I'll tell you some day, Tolliver promised darkly. This moon canstrike like a vicious animal.     Oh, they told me there was nothing alive on Ganymede!     I was thinking of the mountain slides, said the pilot. Not tomention volcanic puffballs that pop out through the frozen crust whereyou'd least expect. That's why I draw such high pay for driving anunarmored tractor.     You use armored vehicles? gasped the girl.     She was now sitting bolt upright in the swaying seat. Tolliverdeliberately dipped one track into an icy hollow. In the light gravity,the tractor responded with a weird, floating lurch.     Those slides, he continued. Ganymede's only about the size ofMercury, something like 3200 miles in diameter, so things get heaped upat steep angles. When the rock and ice are set to sliding, they comeat you practically horizontally. It doesn't need much start, and itbarrels on for a long way before there's enough friction to stop it. Ifyou're in the way—well, it's just too bad!       Say, that's pretty good!     he told himself.      What a liar you are,Tolliver!       He enlarged upon other dangers to be encountered on the satellite,taking care to impress the newcomer with the daredeviltry of JohnTolliver, driver of missions across the menacing wastes between domeand port.     In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weeklypaycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicatehe was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful.     I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive, he said bravely,edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. Made mypile. No use pushing your luck too far.     His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to requestthat Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed alongas if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscienceprickled.       I'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight     ,he resolved.      It isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant toknow better.    Remembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walkingin without knocking.     Jeffers, he announced, this is ... just call her Betty.     The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome asjovial as that of a hungry crocodile.     Miss Koslow! he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor toshow you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver?     Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers, snapped the girl, in a tone new toTolliver. We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already hadenough rope.     Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His looselips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. Thepilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of theelder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he hadtold en route from the spaceport.     Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow? Jeffers stammered.     He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver.     Mr. Jeffers, said the girl, I may look like just another spoiledlittle blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something aboutholding on to it.     Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl.     Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, whenhe told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.I have      some     authority, though. And you look like the source of thetrouble to me.     You can't prove anything, declared Jeffers hoarsely.     Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won'tbe hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good asfired!     The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly atBetty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about just landed.After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab anintercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other endto come in without a countdown.     Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to bea secretary, but it turned out to be three members of Jeffers'headquarters staff. He recognized one as Rawlins, a warehouse chief,and guessed that the other two might be his assistants. They were largeenough.     No stupid questions! Jeffers ordered. Lock these two up while Ithink!     Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off.     Where should we lock—? the fellow paused to ask.     Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling thatit was a poor time to engage Jeffers in fruitless debate.     In the gravity of Ganymede, the man was knocked off balance as much ashe was hurt, and sprawled on the floor.     I      told     you no questions! bawled Jeffers.     The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbingBetty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around hisdesk to assist.  Tolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in theadjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time hadbeen spent in carrying him there.     He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitchedin with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp ofdeparting footsteps and then by silence.     After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up.     He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind hisleft ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily.     I'm sorry about that, murmured Betty.     Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was hein a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like himanyway.     I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner, remarked the girl.     Thanks for letting me know in time, said Tolliver.     The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could seewell enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him.     What can we use to get out of here? he mused.     Why should we try? asked the girl. What can he do?     You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon?     Your paycheck, said Betty. As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to beJeffers.     Tolliver groaned.     Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. Youdidn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, andseemed to blame you for it.     Sure! grumbled the pilot. He thinks I told you he was grafting orsmuggling, or whatever he has going for him here. That's why I want toget out of here—before I find myself involved in some kind of fatalaccident!     What do you know about the crooked goings-on here? asked Betty aftera startled pause.     Nothing, retorted Tolliver. Except that there are some. There arerumors, and I had a halfway invitation to join in. I think he sellsthings to the mining colonies and makes a double profit for himself byclaiming the stuff lost in transit. You didn't think you scared himthat bad over a little slack managing?     The picture of Jeffers huddled with his partners in the headquartersbuilding, plotting the next move, brought Tolliver to his feet.     There was nothing in the unused office but an old table and half adozen plastic crates. He saw that the latter contained a mess ofdiscarded records.     Better than nothing at all, he muttered.     He ripped out a double handful of the forms, crumpled them into a pileat the doorway, and pulled out his cigarette lighter.     What do you think you're up to? asked Betty with some concern.     This plastic is tough, said Tolliver, but it will bend with enoughheat. If I can kick loose a hinge, maybe we can fool them yet!     He got a little fire going, and fed it judiciously with more papers.     You know, he reflected, it might be better for you to stay here.He can't do much about you, and you don't have any real proof just byyourself.     I'll come along with you, Tolliver, said the girl.     No, I don't think you'd better.     Why not?     Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident tothe daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without alot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it.     Let's not argue about it, said Betty, a trifle pale but lookingdetermined. I'm coming with you. Is that stuff getting soft yet?     Tolliver kicked at the edge of the door experimentally. It seemed togive slightly, so he knocked the burning papers aside and drove hisheel hard at the corner below the hinge.     The plastic yielded.     That's enough already, Tolliver, whispered the girl. We can crawlthrough!  Hardly sixty seconds later, he led her into a maze of stacked cratesin the warehouse proper. The building was not much longer than wide,for each of the structures in the colony had its own hemisphericalemergency dome of transparent plastic. They soon reached the other end.     I think there's a storeroom for spacesuits around here, mutteredTolliver.     Why do you want them?     Honey, I just don't think it will be so easy to lay hands on atractor. I bet Jeffers already phoned the garage and all the airlockswith some good lie that will keep me from getting through.     After a brief search, he located the spacesuits. Many, evidentlyintended for replacements, had never been unpacked, but there were adozen or so serviced and standing ready for emergencies. He showedBetty how to climb into one, and checked her seals and valves afterdonning a suit himself.     That switch under your chin, he said, touching helmets so she couldhear him. Leave it turned off.      Anybody     might be listening!     He led the way out a rear door of the warehouse. With the heavy knifethat was standard suit equipment, he deliberately slashed a four-footsquare section out of the dome. He motioned to Betty to step through,then trailed along with the plastic under his arm.     He caught up and touched helmets again.     Just act as if you're on business, he told her. For all anyone cansee, we might be inspecting the dome.     Where are you going? asked Betty.     Right through the wall, and then head for the nearest mine. Jefferscan't be running      everything     !     Is there any way to get to a TV? asked the girl. I ... uh ... Daddygave me a good number to call if I needed help.     How good?     Pretty official, as a matter of fact.     All right, Tolliver decided. We'll try the ship you just came in on.They might have finished refueling and left her empty.     They had to cross one open lane between buildings, and Tolliver wasvery conscious of moving figures in the distance; but no one seemed tolook their way.     Reaching the foot of the main dome over the establishment, he glancedfurtively about, then plunged his knife into the transparent material.     From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Betty make a startledgesture, but he had his work cut out for him. This was tougher than theinterior dome.     Finally, he managed to saw a ragged slit through which they couldsqueeze. There was room to walk between the inner and outer layer, sohe moved along a few yards. A little dust began to blow about wherethey had gone through. He touched helmets once more.     This time, he said, the air will really start to blow, so getthrough as fast as you can. If I can slap this piece of plastic overthe rip, it may stow down the loss of pressure enough to give us quitea lead before the alarms go off.     Through the faceplates, he saw the girl nod, wide-eyed.     As soon as he plunged the knife into the outer layer, he could seedusty, moist air puffing out into the near-vacuum of Ganymede'ssurface. Fumbling, he cut as fast as he could and shoved Betty throughthe small opening.     Squeezing through in his turn, he left one arm inside to spread theplastic sheet as best he could. The internal air pressure slapped itagainst the inside of the dome as if glued, although it immediatelyshowed an alarming tendency to balloon through the ruptured spot.       They'll find it, all right     , Tolliver reminded himself.      Don't be herewhen they do!       He grabbed Betty by the wrist of her spacesuit and headed for thenearest outcropping of rock.     It promptly developed that she had something to learn about running onice in such low gravity. Until they were out of direct line of sightfrom the settlement, Tolliver simply dragged her.     Then, when he decided that it was safe enough to pause and tell herhow to manage better, the sight of her outraged scowl through theface-plate made him think better of it.       By the time we reach the ship, she'll have learned     , he consoledhimself.  It was a long mile, even at the pace human muscles could achieve onGanymede. They took one short rest, during which Tolliver was forcedto explain away the dangers of slides and volcanic puffballs. Headmitted to having exaggerated slightly. In the end, they reached thespaceship.     There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsedand stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed.     That's all right, Tolliver told the girl. We can get in with notrouble.     It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved thathe caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at thespot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognizedthe outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tiltingdownward again.     In fact, we      have     to get in to stay out of trouble, he said to Betty.     He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated themechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder.     It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder andinside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting atthe time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and thenTolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was aclumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time.       In the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet.     Leave the suit on, he ordered, getting in the first word while shewas still shaking her head. It will help a little on the takeoff.     Takeoff! shrilled Betty. What do you think you're going to do? Ijust want to use the radio or TV!     That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut yourconversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over thesedials!     He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of theship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into aneconomy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. Hewarned her the trip might be long.     I told you not to come, he said at last. Now sit back!     He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process.     In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,and then it was out of his hands for several minutes.     That wasn't so bad, Betty admitted some time later. Did you go inthe right direction?     Who knows? retorted Tolliver. There wasn't time to check      everything     . We'll worry about that after we make your call.     Oh! Betty looked helpless. It's in my pocket.     Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pryher out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed anyfurther help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set aboutmaking contact.     It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitoredexpectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore auniform.     Space Patrol? whispered Tolliver incredulously.     That's right, said Betty. Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me.     Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float outof range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he staredexasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man whocould arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede andwondering what was behind it all.     When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers andreporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began tosuspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of thePatrolman.  For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after.       They really sent her out to nail someone     , Tolliver realized.      Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed!       We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed.     Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater.     Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel.     Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately.     He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status.     This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that.     The girl grinned.     Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him?     You ... you...?     Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate—     I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later.     Oh, come      on     ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing?     I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up.     He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again.     We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow.     I didn't expect to so soon.     Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede.     Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am!     Yes, admitted Tolliver, there      are     problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV.     I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly.     The main problem is whether you can cook.     Betty frowned at him.     I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry.     Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do.     I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck.     Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo.       After a while     , he promised himself,      I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede!    ","Betty first disguises as the president’s daughter. She is five feet four, and her hair was a shade too blonde; she has blue eyes and is wearing gray slacks with a heavy sweater. She comes to Ganymedan to learn about traffic routing as well as business management of local branches. Betty is shocked by the exaggerated description that Tolliver gives on the tractor about how dangerous Ganymedan is. Once she arrives in the office, she fires Jeffers stating that she knows that he has been doing. Making Jeffers very angry, he locks her along with Tolliver into the empty office. There, Betty follows Tolliver to escape to the control room. Once she is told that they will take off, she refuses. But, in order to escape, Tolliver takes off the ship into an economy orbit for Earth anyway. Betty finally makes the microphone call to Space Patrol, telling them to capture Jeffers. From the way that the other side of the phone reacted to Tolliver calling Betty Miss Koslow, Tolliver realizes that something’s off. Then Betty tells him that she actually works for a private investigating firm, and her name is Betty Hanlon. Betty "
"What happens to Jeffers throughout the story </s>     TOLLIVER'S ORBIT     was slow—but it wasn't boring. And     it would get you there—as long as     you weren't going anywhere anyhow!     By H. B. FYFE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His blackthatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way.     I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I? he demanded.Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operatingsomething sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me.     The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch ofKoslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightenedthe office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seenthrough the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dimand rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half amillion miles distant.     Try not to be simple—for once! growled Jeffers. A little percentagehere and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get backto Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it onthe estimates.     You asked any of them lately? Tolliver prodded.     Now,      listen     ! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the minesand the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in thebeginning, most of them.      They     know what it's like. D'ya think theydon't expect us to make what we can on the side?     Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blueuniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly.     You just don't listen to      me     , he complained. You know I took thispiloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degreeback on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something Ican't quit.     Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk ofhis body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers.     Aw, it's not like that, the manager muttered. You can ease outwhenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on youraccount?     Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meetinghis eye.     All right, then! Jeffers snapped after a long moment. If you want itthat way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now!     You can't fire me, retorted the pilot pityingly. I came out hereon a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred forhazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter?     Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. We'll see how long youkeep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit inyour quarters and see if the company calls      that     hazardous duty!     Doesn't matter, answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. The hazardouspart is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months.     He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind himso as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him.       Looks like a little vacation     , he thought, unperturbed.      He'll comearound. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffersand his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It'stheir risk.    Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter.     His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted.     On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes.     He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles.     The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation.     Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside.     Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver.     What do you mean?     They say some home-office relative is coming in on the      Javelin     .     What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean.     Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load!     Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged.     She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer.     Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty.     Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking,      Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried?       They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship?     It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip.  He followed the signals of a spacesuited member of the port staff andmaneuvered out of the dome. Then he headed the tractor across thefrozen surface of Ganymede toward the permanent domes of the city.     How is it here? asked the girl. They told me it's pretty rough.     What did you expect? asked Tolliver. Square dances with champagne?     Don't be silly. Daddy says I'm supposed to learn traffic routing andthe business management of a local branch. They probably won't let mesee much else.     You never can tell, said the pilot, yielding to temptation. Anysquare inch of Ganymede is likely to be dangerous.       I'll be sorry later     , he reflected,      but if Jeffers keeps me jockeyingthis creeper, I'm entitled to some amusement. And Daddy's little girlis trying too hard to sound like one of the gang.       Yeah, he went on, right now, I don't do a thing but drive missionsfrom the city to the spaceport.     Missions! You call driving a mile or so a      mission     ?     Tolliver pursed his lips and put on a shrewd expression.     Don't sneer at Ganymede, honey! he warned portentously. Many aman who did isn't here today. Take the fellow who used to drive thismission!     You can call me Betty. What happened to him?     I'll tell you some day, Tolliver promised darkly. This moon canstrike like a vicious animal.     Oh, they told me there was nothing alive on Ganymede!     I was thinking of the mountain slides, said the pilot. Not tomention volcanic puffballs that pop out through the frozen crust whereyou'd least expect. That's why I draw such high pay for driving anunarmored tractor.     You use armored vehicles? gasped the girl.     She was now sitting bolt upright in the swaying seat. Tolliverdeliberately dipped one track into an icy hollow. In the light gravity,the tractor responded with a weird, floating lurch.     Those slides, he continued. Ganymede's only about the size ofMercury, something like 3200 miles in diameter, so things get heaped upat steep angles. When the rock and ice are set to sliding, they comeat you practically horizontally. It doesn't need much start, and itbarrels on for a long way before there's enough friction to stop it. Ifyou're in the way—well, it's just too bad!       Say, that's pretty good!     he told himself.      What a liar you are,Tolliver!       He enlarged upon other dangers to be encountered on the satellite,taking care to impress the newcomer with the daredeviltry of JohnTolliver, driver of missions across the menacing wastes between domeand port.     In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weeklypaycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicatehe was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful.     I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive, he said bravely,edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. Made mypile. No use pushing your luck too far.     His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to requestthat Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed alongas if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscienceprickled.       I'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight     ,he resolved.      It isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant toknow better.    Remembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walkingin without knocking.     Jeffers, he announced, this is ... just call her Betty.     The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome asjovial as that of a hungry crocodile.     Miss Koslow! he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor toshow you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver?     Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers, snapped the girl, in a tone new toTolliver. We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already hadenough rope.     Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His looselips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. Thepilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of theelder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he hadtold en route from the spaceport.     Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow? Jeffers stammered.     He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver.     Mr. Jeffers, said the girl, I may look like just another spoiledlittle blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something aboutholding on to it.     Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl.     Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, whenhe told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.I have      some     authority, though. And you look like the source of thetrouble to me.     You can't prove anything, declared Jeffers hoarsely.     Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won'tbe hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good asfired!     The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly atBetty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about just landed.After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab anintercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other endto come in without a countdown.     Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to bea secretary, but it turned out to be three members of Jeffers'headquarters staff. He recognized one as Rawlins, a warehouse chief,and guessed that the other two might be his assistants. They were largeenough.     No stupid questions! Jeffers ordered. Lock these two up while Ithink!     Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off.     Where should we lock—? the fellow paused to ask.     Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling thatit was a poor time to engage Jeffers in fruitless debate.     In the gravity of Ganymede, the man was knocked off balance as much ashe was hurt, and sprawled on the floor.     I      told     you no questions! bawled Jeffers.     The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbingBetty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around hisdesk to assist.  Tolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in theadjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time hadbeen spent in carrying him there.     He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitchedin with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp ofdeparting footsteps and then by silence.     After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up.     He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind hisleft ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily.     I'm sorry about that, murmured Betty.     Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was hein a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like himanyway.     I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner, remarked the girl.     Thanks for letting me know in time, said Tolliver.     The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could seewell enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him.     What can we use to get out of here? he mused.     Why should we try? asked the girl. What can he do?     You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon?     Your paycheck, said Betty. As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to beJeffers.     Tolliver groaned.     Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. Youdidn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, andseemed to blame you for it.     Sure! grumbled the pilot. He thinks I told you he was grafting orsmuggling, or whatever he has going for him here. That's why I want toget out of here—before I find myself involved in some kind of fatalaccident!     What do you know about the crooked goings-on here? asked Betty aftera startled pause.     Nothing, retorted Tolliver. Except that there are some. There arerumors, and I had a halfway invitation to join in. I think he sellsthings to the mining colonies and makes a double profit for himself byclaiming the stuff lost in transit. You didn't think you scared himthat bad over a little slack managing?     The picture of Jeffers huddled with his partners in the headquartersbuilding, plotting the next move, brought Tolliver to his feet.     There was nothing in the unused office but an old table and half adozen plastic crates. He saw that the latter contained a mess ofdiscarded records.     Better than nothing at all, he muttered.     He ripped out a double handful of the forms, crumpled them into a pileat the doorway, and pulled out his cigarette lighter.     What do you think you're up to? asked Betty with some concern.     This plastic is tough, said Tolliver, but it will bend with enoughheat. If I can kick loose a hinge, maybe we can fool them yet!     He got a little fire going, and fed it judiciously with more papers.     You know, he reflected, it might be better for you to stay here.He can't do much about you, and you don't have any real proof just byyourself.     I'll come along with you, Tolliver, said the girl.     No, I don't think you'd better.     Why not?     Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident tothe daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without alot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it.     Let's not argue about it, said Betty, a trifle pale but lookingdetermined. I'm coming with you. Is that stuff getting soft yet?     Tolliver kicked at the edge of the door experimentally. It seemed togive slightly, so he knocked the burning papers aside and drove hisheel hard at the corner below the hinge.     The plastic yielded.     That's enough already, Tolliver, whispered the girl. We can crawlthrough!  Hardly sixty seconds later, he led her into a maze of stacked cratesin the warehouse proper. The building was not much longer than wide,for each of the structures in the colony had its own hemisphericalemergency dome of transparent plastic. They soon reached the other end.     I think there's a storeroom for spacesuits around here, mutteredTolliver.     Why do you want them?     Honey, I just don't think it will be so easy to lay hands on atractor. I bet Jeffers already phoned the garage and all the airlockswith some good lie that will keep me from getting through.     After a brief search, he located the spacesuits. Many, evidentlyintended for replacements, had never been unpacked, but there were adozen or so serviced and standing ready for emergencies. He showedBetty how to climb into one, and checked her seals and valves afterdonning a suit himself.     That switch under your chin, he said, touching helmets so she couldhear him. Leave it turned off.      Anybody     might be listening!     He led the way out a rear door of the warehouse. With the heavy knifethat was standard suit equipment, he deliberately slashed a four-footsquare section out of the dome. He motioned to Betty to step through,then trailed along with the plastic under his arm.     He caught up and touched helmets again.     Just act as if you're on business, he told her. For all anyone cansee, we might be inspecting the dome.     Where are you going? asked Betty.     Right through the wall, and then head for the nearest mine. Jefferscan't be running      everything     !     Is there any way to get to a TV? asked the girl. I ... uh ... Daddygave me a good number to call if I needed help.     How good?     Pretty official, as a matter of fact.     All right, Tolliver decided. We'll try the ship you just came in on.They might have finished refueling and left her empty.     They had to cross one open lane between buildings, and Tolliver wasvery conscious of moving figures in the distance; but no one seemed tolook their way.     Reaching the foot of the main dome over the establishment, he glancedfurtively about, then plunged his knife into the transparent material.     From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Betty make a startledgesture, but he had his work cut out for him. This was tougher than theinterior dome.     Finally, he managed to saw a ragged slit through which they couldsqueeze. There was room to walk between the inner and outer layer, sohe moved along a few yards. A little dust began to blow about wherethey had gone through. He touched helmets once more.     This time, he said, the air will really start to blow, so getthrough as fast as you can. If I can slap this piece of plastic overthe rip, it may stow down the loss of pressure enough to give us quitea lead before the alarms go off.     Through the faceplates, he saw the girl nod, wide-eyed.     As soon as he plunged the knife into the outer layer, he could seedusty, moist air puffing out into the near-vacuum of Ganymede'ssurface. Fumbling, he cut as fast as he could and shoved Betty throughthe small opening.     Squeezing through in his turn, he left one arm inside to spread theplastic sheet as best he could. The internal air pressure slapped itagainst the inside of the dome as if glued, although it immediatelyshowed an alarming tendency to balloon through the ruptured spot.       They'll find it, all right     , Tolliver reminded himself.      Don't be herewhen they do!       He grabbed Betty by the wrist of her spacesuit and headed for thenearest outcropping of rock.     It promptly developed that she had something to learn about running onice in such low gravity. Until they were out of direct line of sightfrom the settlement, Tolliver simply dragged her.     Then, when he decided that it was safe enough to pause and tell herhow to manage better, the sight of her outraged scowl through theface-plate made him think better of it.       By the time we reach the ship, she'll have learned     , he consoledhimself.  It was a long mile, even at the pace human muscles could achieve onGanymede. They took one short rest, during which Tolliver was forcedto explain away the dangers of slides and volcanic puffballs. Headmitted to having exaggerated slightly. In the end, they reached thespaceship.     There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsedand stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed.     That's all right, Tolliver told the girl. We can get in with notrouble.     It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved thathe caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at thespot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognizedthe outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tiltingdownward again.     In fact, we      have     to get in to stay out of trouble, he said to Betty.     He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated themechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder.     It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder andinside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting atthe time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and thenTolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was aclumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time.       In the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet.     Leave the suit on, he ordered, getting in the first word while shewas still shaking her head. It will help a little on the takeoff.     Takeoff! shrilled Betty. What do you think you're going to do? Ijust want to use the radio or TV!     That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut yourconversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over thesedials!     He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of theship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into aneconomy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. Hewarned her the trip might be long.     I told you not to come, he said at last. Now sit back!     He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process.     In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,and then it was out of his hands for several minutes.     That wasn't so bad, Betty admitted some time later. Did you go inthe right direction?     Who knows? retorted Tolliver. There wasn't time to check      everything     . We'll worry about that after we make your call.     Oh! Betty looked helpless. It's in my pocket.     Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pryher out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed anyfurther help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set aboutmaking contact.     It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitoredexpectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore auniform.     Space Patrol? whispered Tolliver incredulously.     That's right, said Betty. Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me.     Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float outof range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he staredexasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man whocould arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede andwondering what was behind it all.     When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers andreporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began tosuspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of thePatrolman.  For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after.       They really sent her out to nail someone     , Tolliver realized.      Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed!       We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed.     Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater.     Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel.     Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately.     He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status.     This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that.     The girl grinned.     Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him?     You ... you...?     Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate—     I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later.     Oh, come      on     ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing?     I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up.     He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again.     We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow.     I didn't expect to so soon.     Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede.     Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am!     Yes, admitted Tolliver, there      are     problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV.     I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly.     The main problem is whether you can cook.     Betty frowned at him.     I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry.     Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do.     I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck.     Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo.       After a while     , he promised himself,      I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede!    ","Jeffers is the manager of the Ganymedan branch of Koslow Spaceways. He is operating something sneaky all through the colony. When he tries to make Tolliver join him, he refuses. But Jeffers cannot legally fire him, thus he decides to make him do some very boring works as a driver of airtight tractor, which is used between the dome city and the spaceport. Then after learning that Betty knows about what he is doing and wants to fire him, he is very shocked. He orders three men to lock Betty and Tolliver up. Later, Jeffers and his partners goes to the headquarters building, plotting their next moves. Tolliver assumes that Jeffers has already warned the garage and airlocks about the two, so that they cannot escape. Finally, when Betty reaches Space Patrol through the microphone, she told them to arrest Jeffers. "
"Describe the equipments used throughout the story </s>     TOLLIVER'S ORBIT     was slow—but it wasn't boring. And     it would get you there—as long as     you weren't going anywhere anyhow!     By H. B. FYFE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His blackthatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way.     I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I? he demanded.Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operatingsomething sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me.     The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch ofKoslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightenedthe office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seenthrough the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dimand rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half amillion miles distant.     Try not to be simple—for once! growled Jeffers. A little percentagehere and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get backto Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it onthe estimates.     You asked any of them lately? Tolliver prodded.     Now,      listen     ! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the minesand the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in thebeginning, most of them.      They     know what it's like. D'ya think theydon't expect us to make what we can on the side?     Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blueuniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly.     You just don't listen to      me     , he complained. You know I took thispiloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degreeback on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something Ican't quit.     Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk ofhis body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers.     Aw, it's not like that, the manager muttered. You can ease outwhenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on youraccount?     Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meetinghis eye.     All right, then! Jeffers snapped after a long moment. If you want itthat way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now!     You can't fire me, retorted the pilot pityingly. I came out hereon a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred forhazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter?     Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. We'll see how long youkeep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit inyour quarters and see if the company calls      that     hazardous duty!     Doesn't matter, answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. The hazardouspart is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months.     He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind himso as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him.       Looks like a little vacation     , he thought, unperturbed.      He'll comearound. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffersand his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It'stheir risk.    Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter.     His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted.     On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes.     He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles.     The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation.     Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside.     Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver.     What do you mean?     They say some home-office relative is coming in on the      Javelin     .     What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean.     Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load!     Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged.     She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer.     Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty.     Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking,      Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried?       They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship?     It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip.  He followed the signals of a spacesuited member of the port staff andmaneuvered out of the dome. Then he headed the tractor across thefrozen surface of Ganymede toward the permanent domes of the city.     How is it here? asked the girl. They told me it's pretty rough.     What did you expect? asked Tolliver. Square dances with champagne?     Don't be silly. Daddy says I'm supposed to learn traffic routing andthe business management of a local branch. They probably won't let mesee much else.     You never can tell, said the pilot, yielding to temptation. Anysquare inch of Ganymede is likely to be dangerous.       I'll be sorry later     , he reflected,      but if Jeffers keeps me jockeyingthis creeper, I'm entitled to some amusement. And Daddy's little girlis trying too hard to sound like one of the gang.       Yeah, he went on, right now, I don't do a thing but drive missionsfrom the city to the spaceport.     Missions! You call driving a mile or so a      mission     ?     Tolliver pursed his lips and put on a shrewd expression.     Don't sneer at Ganymede, honey! he warned portentously. Many aman who did isn't here today. Take the fellow who used to drive thismission!     You can call me Betty. What happened to him?     I'll tell you some day, Tolliver promised darkly. This moon canstrike like a vicious animal.     Oh, they told me there was nothing alive on Ganymede!     I was thinking of the mountain slides, said the pilot. Not tomention volcanic puffballs that pop out through the frozen crust whereyou'd least expect. That's why I draw such high pay for driving anunarmored tractor.     You use armored vehicles? gasped the girl.     She was now sitting bolt upright in the swaying seat. Tolliverdeliberately dipped one track into an icy hollow. In the light gravity,the tractor responded with a weird, floating lurch.     Those slides, he continued. Ganymede's only about the size ofMercury, something like 3200 miles in diameter, so things get heaped upat steep angles. When the rock and ice are set to sliding, they comeat you practically horizontally. It doesn't need much start, and itbarrels on for a long way before there's enough friction to stop it. Ifyou're in the way—well, it's just too bad!       Say, that's pretty good!     he told himself.      What a liar you are,Tolliver!       He enlarged upon other dangers to be encountered on the satellite,taking care to impress the newcomer with the daredeviltry of JohnTolliver, driver of missions across the menacing wastes between domeand port.     In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weeklypaycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicatehe was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful.     I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive, he said bravely,edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. Made mypile. No use pushing your luck too far.     His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to requestthat Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed alongas if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscienceprickled.       I'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight     ,he resolved.      It isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant toknow better.    Remembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walkingin without knocking.     Jeffers, he announced, this is ... just call her Betty.     The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome asjovial as that of a hungry crocodile.     Miss Koslow! he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor toshow you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver?     Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers, snapped the girl, in a tone new toTolliver. We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already hadenough rope.     Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His looselips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. Thepilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of theelder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he hadtold en route from the spaceport.     Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow? Jeffers stammered.     He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver.     Mr. Jeffers, said the girl, I may look like just another spoiledlittle blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something aboutholding on to it.     Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl.     Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, whenhe told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.I have      some     authority, though. And you look like the source of thetrouble to me.     You can't prove anything, declared Jeffers hoarsely.     Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won'tbe hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good asfired!     The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly atBetty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about just landed.After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab anintercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other endto come in without a countdown.     Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to bea secretary, but it turned out to be three members of Jeffers'headquarters staff. He recognized one as Rawlins, a warehouse chief,and guessed that the other two might be his assistants. They were largeenough.     No stupid questions! Jeffers ordered. Lock these two up while Ithink!     Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off.     Where should we lock—? the fellow paused to ask.     Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling thatit was a poor time to engage Jeffers in fruitless debate.     In the gravity of Ganymede, the man was knocked off balance as much ashe was hurt, and sprawled on the floor.     I      told     you no questions! bawled Jeffers.     The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbingBetty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around hisdesk to assist.  Tolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in theadjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time hadbeen spent in carrying him there.     He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitchedin with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp ofdeparting footsteps and then by silence.     After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up.     He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind hisleft ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily.     I'm sorry about that, murmured Betty.     Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was hein a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like himanyway.     I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner, remarked the girl.     Thanks for letting me know in time, said Tolliver.     The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could seewell enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him.     What can we use to get out of here? he mused.     Why should we try? asked the girl. What can he do?     You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon?     Your paycheck, said Betty. As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to beJeffers.     Tolliver groaned.     Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. Youdidn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, andseemed to blame you for it.     Sure! grumbled the pilot. He thinks I told you he was grafting orsmuggling, or whatever he has going for him here. That's why I want toget out of here—before I find myself involved in some kind of fatalaccident!     What do you know about the crooked goings-on here? asked Betty aftera startled pause.     Nothing, retorted Tolliver. Except that there are some. There arerumors, and I had a halfway invitation to join in. I think he sellsthings to the mining colonies and makes a double profit for himself byclaiming the stuff lost in transit. You didn't think you scared himthat bad over a little slack managing?     The picture of Jeffers huddled with his partners in the headquartersbuilding, plotting the next move, brought Tolliver to his feet.     There was nothing in the unused office but an old table and half adozen plastic crates. He saw that the latter contained a mess ofdiscarded records.     Better than nothing at all, he muttered.     He ripped out a double handful of the forms, crumpled them into a pileat the doorway, and pulled out his cigarette lighter.     What do you think you're up to? asked Betty with some concern.     This plastic is tough, said Tolliver, but it will bend with enoughheat. If I can kick loose a hinge, maybe we can fool them yet!     He got a little fire going, and fed it judiciously with more papers.     You know, he reflected, it might be better for you to stay here.He can't do much about you, and you don't have any real proof just byyourself.     I'll come along with you, Tolliver, said the girl.     No, I don't think you'd better.     Why not?     Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident tothe daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without alot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it.     Let's not argue about it, said Betty, a trifle pale but lookingdetermined. I'm coming with you. Is that stuff getting soft yet?     Tolliver kicked at the edge of the door experimentally. It seemed togive slightly, so he knocked the burning papers aside and drove hisheel hard at the corner below the hinge.     The plastic yielded.     That's enough already, Tolliver, whispered the girl. We can crawlthrough!  Hardly sixty seconds later, he led her into a maze of stacked cratesin the warehouse proper. The building was not much longer than wide,for each of the structures in the colony had its own hemisphericalemergency dome of transparent plastic. They soon reached the other end.     I think there's a storeroom for spacesuits around here, mutteredTolliver.     Why do you want them?     Honey, I just don't think it will be so easy to lay hands on atractor. I bet Jeffers already phoned the garage and all the airlockswith some good lie that will keep me from getting through.     After a brief search, he located the spacesuits. Many, evidentlyintended for replacements, had never been unpacked, but there were adozen or so serviced and standing ready for emergencies. He showedBetty how to climb into one, and checked her seals and valves afterdonning a suit himself.     That switch under your chin, he said, touching helmets so she couldhear him. Leave it turned off.      Anybody     might be listening!     He led the way out a rear door of the warehouse. With the heavy knifethat was standard suit equipment, he deliberately slashed a four-footsquare section out of the dome. He motioned to Betty to step through,then trailed along with the plastic under his arm.     He caught up and touched helmets again.     Just act as if you're on business, he told her. For all anyone cansee, we might be inspecting the dome.     Where are you going? asked Betty.     Right through the wall, and then head for the nearest mine. Jefferscan't be running      everything     !     Is there any way to get to a TV? asked the girl. I ... uh ... Daddygave me a good number to call if I needed help.     How good?     Pretty official, as a matter of fact.     All right, Tolliver decided. We'll try the ship you just came in on.They might have finished refueling and left her empty.     They had to cross one open lane between buildings, and Tolliver wasvery conscious of moving figures in the distance; but no one seemed tolook their way.     Reaching the foot of the main dome over the establishment, he glancedfurtively about, then plunged his knife into the transparent material.     From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Betty make a startledgesture, but he had his work cut out for him. This was tougher than theinterior dome.     Finally, he managed to saw a ragged slit through which they couldsqueeze. There was room to walk between the inner and outer layer, sohe moved along a few yards. A little dust began to blow about wherethey had gone through. He touched helmets once more.     This time, he said, the air will really start to blow, so getthrough as fast as you can. If I can slap this piece of plastic overthe rip, it may stow down the loss of pressure enough to give us quitea lead before the alarms go off.     Through the faceplates, he saw the girl nod, wide-eyed.     As soon as he plunged the knife into the outer layer, he could seedusty, moist air puffing out into the near-vacuum of Ganymede'ssurface. Fumbling, he cut as fast as he could and shoved Betty throughthe small opening.     Squeezing through in his turn, he left one arm inside to spread theplastic sheet as best he could. The internal air pressure slapped itagainst the inside of the dome as if glued, although it immediatelyshowed an alarming tendency to balloon through the ruptured spot.       They'll find it, all right     , Tolliver reminded himself.      Don't be herewhen they do!       He grabbed Betty by the wrist of her spacesuit and headed for thenearest outcropping of rock.     It promptly developed that she had something to learn about running onice in such low gravity. Until they were out of direct line of sightfrom the settlement, Tolliver simply dragged her.     Then, when he decided that it was safe enough to pause and tell herhow to manage better, the sight of her outraged scowl through theface-plate made him think better of it.       By the time we reach the ship, she'll have learned     , he consoledhimself.  It was a long mile, even at the pace human muscles could achieve onGanymede. They took one short rest, during which Tolliver was forcedto explain away the dangers of slides and volcanic puffballs. Headmitted to having exaggerated slightly. In the end, they reached thespaceship.     There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsedand stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed.     That's all right, Tolliver told the girl. We can get in with notrouble.     It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved thathe caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at thespot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognizedthe outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tiltingdownward again.     In fact, we      have     to get in to stay out of trouble, he said to Betty.     He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated themechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder.     It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder andinside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting atthe time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and thenTolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was aclumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time.       In the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet.     Leave the suit on, he ordered, getting in the first word while shewas still shaking her head. It will help a little on the takeoff.     Takeoff! shrilled Betty. What do you think you're going to do? Ijust want to use the radio or TV!     That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut yourconversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over thesedials!     He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of theship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into aneconomy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. Hewarned her the trip might be long.     I told you not to come, he said at last. Now sit back!     He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process.     In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,and then it was out of his hands for several minutes.     That wasn't so bad, Betty admitted some time later. Did you go inthe right direction?     Who knows? retorted Tolliver. There wasn't time to check      everything     . We'll worry about that after we make your call.     Oh! Betty looked helpless. It's in my pocket.     Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pryher out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed anyfurther help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set aboutmaking contact.     It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitoredexpectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore auniform.     Space Patrol? whispered Tolliver incredulously.     That's right, said Betty. Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me.     Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float outof range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he staredexasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man whocould arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede andwondering what was behind it all.     When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers andreporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began tosuspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of thePatrolman.  For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after.       They really sent her out to nail someone     , Tolliver realized.      Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed!       We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed.     Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater.     Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel.     Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately.     He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status.     This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that.     The girl grinned.     Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him?     You ... you...?     Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate—     I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later.     Oh, come      on     ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing?     I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up.     He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again.     We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow.     I didn't expect to so soon.     Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede.     Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am!     Yes, admitted Tolliver, there      are     problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV.     I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly.     The main problem is whether you can cook.     Betty frowned at him.     I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry.     Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do.     I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck.     Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo.       After a while     , he promised himself,      I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede!    ","Firstly, Tolliver takes Betty towards Jeffers’ office on a tractor since it can go through the frozen surface of Ganymede. Then later, when Betty and Tolliver were put in the empty office, Tolliver uses a lighter to light up the mess of discarded records so that the plastic can be bent. Later, inside the storage room, Tolliver finds some spacesuits for the two to wear. Then finally, when they gets to the control room, they gets onto the acceleration seat. Using the ship, the two fly into the economy orbit for Earth in order to escape. In the end, Betty uses the scanner and microphone to make a call to the Space Patrol so that they will arrest Jeffers. "
"Describe the setting of the story </s>     TOLLIVER'S ORBIT     was slow—but it wasn't boring. And     it would get you there—as long as     you weren't going anywhere anyhow!     By H. B. FYFE     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      Johnny Tolliver scowled across the desk at his superior. His blackthatch was ruffled, as if he had been rubbed the wrong way.     I didn't ask you to cut out your own graft, did I? he demanded.Just don't try to sucker me in on the deal. I know you're operatingsomething sneaky all through the colony, but it's not for me.     The big moon-face of Jeffers, manager of the Ganymedan branch ofKoslow Spaceways, glowered back at him. Its reddish tinge brightenedthe office noticeably, for such of Ganymede's surface as could be seenthrough the transparent dome outside the office window was cold, dimand rugged. The glowing semi-disk of Jupiter was more than half amillion miles distant.     Try not to be simple—for once! growled Jeffers. A little percentagehere and there on the cargoes never shows by the time figures get backto Earth. The big jets in the home office don't care. They count it onthe estimates.     You asked any of them lately? Tolliver prodded.     Now,      listen     ! Maybe they live soft back on Earth since the minesand the Jovian satellite colonies grew; but they were out here in thebeginning, most of them.      They     know what it's like. D'ya think theydon't expect us to make what we can on the side?     Tolliver rammed his fists into the side pockets of his loose blueuniform jacket. He shook his head, grinning resignedly.     You just don't listen to      me     , he complained. You know I took thispiloting job just to scrape up money for an advanced engineering degreeback on Earth. I only want to finish my year—not get into something Ican't quit.     Jeffers fidgeted in his chair, causing it to creak under the bulk ofhis body. It had been built for Ganymede, but not for Jeffers.     Aw, it's not like that, the manager muttered. You can ease outwhenever your contract's up. Think we'd bend a good orbit on youraccount?     Tolliver stared at him silently, but the other had difficulty meetinghis eye.     All right, then! Jeffers snapped after a long moment. If you want itthat way, either you get in line with us or you're through right now!     You can't fire me, retorted the pilot pityingly. I came out hereon a contract. Five hundred credits a week base pay, five hundred forhazardous duty. How else can you get pilots out to Jupiter?     Okay I can't fire you legally—as long as you report for work,grumbled Jeffers, by now a shade more ruddy. We'll see how long youkeep reporting. Because you're off the Callisto run as of now! Sit inyour quarters and see if the company calls      that     hazardous duty!     Doesn't matter, answered Tolliver, grinning amiably. The hazardouspart is just being on the same moon as you for the next six months.     He winked and walked out, deliberately leaving the door open behind himso as to enjoy the incoherent bellowing that followed him.       Looks like a little vacation     , he thought, unperturbed.      He'll comearound. I just want to get back to Earth with a clean rep. Let Jeffersand his gang steal the Great Red Spot off Jupiter if they like! It'stheir risk.    Tolliver began to have his doubts the next day; which was Tuesdayby the arbitrary calender constructed to match Ganymede's week-longjourney around Jupiter.     His contract guaranteed a pilot's rating, but someone had neglected tospecify the type of craft to be piloted.     On the bulletin board, Tolliver's name stood out beside the numberof one of the airtight tractors used between the dome city and thespaceport, or for hauling cross-country to one of the mining domes.     He soon found that there was nothing for him to do but hang around thegarage in case a spaceship should land. The few runs to other domesseemed to be assigned to drivers with larger vehicles.     The following day was just as boring, and the next more so. He sworewhen he found the assignment unchanged by Friday. Even the reflectionthat it was payday was small consolation.     Hey, Johnny! said a voice at his shoulder. The word is that they'refinally gonna trust you to take that creeper outside.     Tolliver turned to see Red Higgins, a regular driver.     What do you mean?     They say some home-office relative is coming in on the      Javelin     .     What's wrong with that? asked Tolliver. Outside of the way they keephanding out soft jobs to nephews, I mean.     Aah, these young punks just come out for a few months so they can goback to Earth making noises like spacemen. Sometimes there's no reasonbut them for sending a ship back with a crew instead of in an economyorbit. Wait till you see the baggage you'll have to load!     Later in the day-period, Tolliver recalled this warning. Under aportable, double-chambered plastic dome blown up outside the ship'sairlock, a crewman helped him load two trunks and a collection of bagsinto the tractor. He was struggling to suppress a feeling of outrage atthe waste of fuel involved when the home-office relative emerged.     She was about five feet four and moved as if she walked lightly evenin stronger gravity than Ganymede's. Her trim coiffure was a shade tooblonde which served to set off both the blue of her eyes and the capapparently won from one of the pilots. She wore gray slacks and a heavysweater, like a spacer.     Sorry to keep you waiting, she said, sliding into the seat besideTolliver. By the way, just call me Betty.     Sure, agreed Tolliver thinking,      Ohmigod! Trying already to be justone of the gang, instead of Lady Betty! Is her old man the treasurer,or does he just know where bodies are buried?       They were making dates, said the girl. Were they ribbing me, or isit true that none of the four of them goes back with the ship?     It's true enough, Tolliver assured her. We need people out here, andit costs a lot to make the trip. They found they could send back loadedships by 'automatic' flight—that is, a long, slow, economical orbitand automatic signalling equipment. Then they're boarded approachingEarth's orbit and landed by pilots who don't have to waste their timemaking the entire trip.  He followed the signals of a spacesuited member of the port staff andmaneuvered out of the dome. Then he headed the tractor across thefrozen surface of Ganymede toward the permanent domes of the city.     How is it here? asked the girl. They told me it's pretty rough.     What did you expect? asked Tolliver. Square dances with champagne?     Don't be silly. Daddy says I'm supposed to learn traffic routing andthe business management of a local branch. They probably won't let mesee much else.     You never can tell, said the pilot, yielding to temptation. Anysquare inch of Ganymede is likely to be dangerous.       I'll be sorry later     , he reflected,      but if Jeffers keeps me jockeyingthis creeper, I'm entitled to some amusement. And Daddy's little girlis trying too hard to sound like one of the gang.       Yeah, he went on, right now, I don't do a thing but drive missionsfrom the city to the spaceport.     Missions! You call driving a mile or so a      mission     ?     Tolliver pursed his lips and put on a shrewd expression.     Don't sneer at Ganymede, honey! he warned portentously. Many aman who did isn't here today. Take the fellow who used to drive thismission!     You can call me Betty. What happened to him?     I'll tell you some day, Tolliver promised darkly. This moon canstrike like a vicious animal.     Oh, they told me there was nothing alive on Ganymede!     I was thinking of the mountain slides, said the pilot. Not tomention volcanic puffballs that pop out through the frozen crust whereyou'd least expect. That's why I draw such high pay for driving anunarmored tractor.     You use armored vehicles? gasped the girl.     She was now sitting bolt upright in the swaying seat. Tolliverdeliberately dipped one track into an icy hollow. In the light gravity,the tractor responded with a weird, floating lurch.     Those slides, he continued. Ganymede's only about the size ofMercury, something like 3200 miles in diameter, so things get heaped upat steep angles. When the rock and ice are set to sliding, they comeat you practically horizontally. It doesn't need much start, and itbarrels on for a long way before there's enough friction to stop it. Ifyou're in the way—well, it's just too bad!       Say, that's pretty good!     he told himself.      What a liar you are,Tolliver!       He enlarged upon other dangers to be encountered on the satellite,taking care to impress the newcomer with the daredeviltry of JohnTolliver, driver of missions across the menacing wastes between domeand port.     In the end, he displayed conclusive evidence in the form of the weeklypaycheck he had received that morning. It did not, naturally, indicatehe was drawing the salary of a space pilot. Betty looked thoughtful.     I'm retiring in six months if I'm still alive, he said bravely,edging the tractor into the airlock at their destination. Made mypile. No use pushing your luck too far.     His charge seemed noticeably subdued, but cleared her throat to requestthat Tolliver guide her to the office of the manager. She trailed alongas if with a burden of worry upon her mind, and the pilot's conscienceprickled.       I'll get hold of her after Jeffers is through and set her straight     ,he resolved.      It isn't really funny if the sucker is too ignorant toknow better.    Remembering his grudge against the manager, he took pleasure in walkingin without knocking.     Jeffers, he announced, this is ... just call her Betty.     The manager's jowled features twisted into an expression of welcome asjovial as that of a hungry crocodile.     Miss Koslow! he beamed, like a politician the day before the voting.It certainly is an honor to have you on Ganymede with us! That's all,Tolliver, you can go. Yes, indeed! Mr. Koslow—the president, that is:your father—sent a message about you. I repeat, it will be an honor toshow you the ropes. Did you want something else, Tolliver?     Never mind him, Mr. Jeffers, snapped the girl, in a tone new toTolliver. We won't be working together, I'm afraid. You've already hadenough rope.     Jeffers seemed to stagger standing still behind his desk. His looselips twitched uncertainly, and he looked questioningly to Tolliver. Thepilot stared at Betty, trying to recall pictures he had seen of theelder Koslow. He was also trying to remember some of the lies he hadtold en route from the spaceport.     Wh-wh-what do you mean, Miss Koslow? Jeffers stammered.     He darted a suspicious glare at Tolliver.     Mr. Jeffers, said the girl, I may look like just another spoiledlittle blonde, but the best part of this company will be mine someday.I was not allowed to reach twenty-two without learning something aboutholding on to it.     Tolliver blinked. He had taken her for three or four years older.Jeffers now ignored him, intent upon the girl.     Daddy gave me the title of tenth vice-president mostly as a joke, whenhe told me to find out what was wrong with operations on Ganymede.I have      some     authority, though. And you look like the source of thetrouble to me.     You can't prove anything, declared Jeffers hoarsely.     Oh, can't I? I've already seen certain evidence, and the rest won'tbe hard to find. Where are your books, Mr. Jeffers? You're as good asfired!     The manager dropped heavily to his chair. He stared unbelievingly atBetty, and Tolliver thought he muttered something about just landed.After a moment, the big man came out of his daze enough to stab anintercom button with his finger. He growled at someone on the other endto come in without a countdown.     Tolliver, hardly thinking about it, expected the someone to bea secretary, but it turned out to be three members of Jeffers'headquarters staff. He recognized one as Rawlins, a warehouse chief,and guessed that the other two might be his assistants. They were largeenough.     No stupid questions! Jeffers ordered. Lock these two up while Ithink!     Tolliver started for the door immediately, but was blocked off.     Where should we lock—? the fellow paused to ask.     Tolliver brought up a snappy uppercut to the man's chin, feeling thatit was a poor time to engage Jeffers in fruitless debate.     In the gravity of Ganymede, the man was knocked off balance as much ashe was hurt, and sprawled on the floor.     I      told     you no questions! bawled Jeffers.     The fallen hero, upon arising, had to content himself with grabbingBetty. The others were swarming over Tolliver. Jeffers came around hisdesk to assist.  Tolliver found himself dumped on the floor of an empty office in theadjoining warehouse building. It seemed to him that a long time hadbeen spent in carrying him there.     He heard an indignant yelp, and realized that the girl had been pitchedin with him. The snapping of a lock was followed by the tramp ofdeparting footsteps and then by silence.     After considering the idea a few minutes, Tolliver managed to sit up.     He had his wind back. But when he fingered the swelling lump behind hisleft ear, a sensation befuddled him momentarily.     I'm sorry about that, murmured Betty.     Tolliver grunted. Sorrow would not reduce the throbbing, nor was hein a mood to undertake an explanation of why Jeffers did not like himanyway.     I think perhaps you're going to have a shiner, remarked the girl.     Thanks for letting me know in time, said Tolliver.     The skin under his right eye did feel a trifle tight, but he could seewell enough. The abandoned and empty look of the office worried him.     What can we use to get out of here? he mused.     Why should we try? asked the girl. What can he do?     You'd be surprised. How did you catch on to him so soon?     Your paycheck, said Betty. As soon as I saw that ridiculous amount,it was obvious that there was gross mismanagement here. It had to beJeffers.     Tolliver groaned.     Then, on the way over here, he as good as admitted everything. Youdidn't hear him, I guess. Well, he seemed to be caught all unaware, andseemed to blame you for it.     Sure! grumbled the pilot. He thinks I told you he was grafting orsmuggling, or whatever he has going for him here. That's why I want toget out of here—before I find myself involved in some kind of fatalaccident!     What do you know about the crooked goings-on here? asked Betty aftera startled pause.     Nothing, retorted Tolliver. Except that there are some. There arerumors, and I had a halfway invitation to join in. I think he sellsthings to the mining colonies and makes a double profit for himself byclaiming the stuff lost in transit. You didn't think you scared himthat bad over a little slack managing?     The picture of Jeffers huddled with his partners in the headquartersbuilding, plotting the next move, brought Tolliver to his feet.     There was nothing in the unused office but an old table and half adozen plastic crates. He saw that the latter contained a mess ofdiscarded records.     Better than nothing at all, he muttered.     He ripped out a double handful of the forms, crumpled them into a pileat the doorway, and pulled out his cigarette lighter.     What do you think you're up to? asked Betty with some concern.     This plastic is tough, said Tolliver, but it will bend with enoughheat. If I can kick loose a hinge, maybe we can fool them yet!     He got a little fire going, and fed it judiciously with more papers.     You know, he reflected, it might be better for you to stay here.He can't do much about you, and you don't have any real proof just byyourself.     I'll come along with you, Tolliver, said the girl.     No, I don't think you'd better.     Why not?     Well ... after all, what would he dare do? Arranging an accident tothe daughter of the boss isn't something that he can pull off without alot of investigation. He'd be better off just running for it.     Let's not argue about it, said Betty, a trifle pale but lookingdetermined. I'm coming with you. Is that stuff getting soft yet?     Tolliver kicked at the edge of the door experimentally. It seemed togive slightly, so he knocked the burning papers aside and drove hisheel hard at the corner below the hinge.     The plastic yielded.     That's enough already, Tolliver, whispered the girl. We can crawlthrough!  Hardly sixty seconds later, he led her into a maze of stacked cratesin the warehouse proper. The building was not much longer than wide,for each of the structures in the colony had its own hemisphericalemergency dome of transparent plastic. They soon reached the other end.     I think there's a storeroom for spacesuits around here, mutteredTolliver.     Why do you want them?     Honey, I just don't think it will be so easy to lay hands on atractor. I bet Jeffers already phoned the garage and all the airlockswith some good lie that will keep me from getting through.     After a brief search, he located the spacesuits. Many, evidentlyintended for replacements, had never been unpacked, but there were adozen or so serviced and standing ready for emergencies. He showedBetty how to climb into one, and checked her seals and valves afterdonning a suit himself.     That switch under your chin, he said, touching helmets so she couldhear him. Leave it turned off.      Anybody     might be listening!     He led the way out a rear door of the warehouse. With the heavy knifethat was standard suit equipment, he deliberately slashed a four-footsquare section out of the dome. He motioned to Betty to step through,then trailed along with the plastic under his arm.     He caught up and touched helmets again.     Just act as if you're on business, he told her. For all anyone cansee, we might be inspecting the dome.     Where are you going? asked Betty.     Right through the wall, and then head for the nearest mine. Jefferscan't be running      everything     !     Is there any way to get to a TV? asked the girl. I ... uh ... Daddygave me a good number to call if I needed help.     How good?     Pretty official, as a matter of fact.     All right, Tolliver decided. We'll try the ship you just came in on.They might have finished refueling and left her empty.     They had to cross one open lane between buildings, and Tolliver wasvery conscious of moving figures in the distance; but no one seemed tolook their way.     Reaching the foot of the main dome over the establishment, he glancedfurtively about, then plunged his knife into the transparent material.     From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Betty make a startledgesture, but he had his work cut out for him. This was tougher than theinterior dome.     Finally, he managed to saw a ragged slit through which they couldsqueeze. There was room to walk between the inner and outer layer, sohe moved along a few yards. A little dust began to blow about wherethey had gone through. He touched helmets once more.     This time, he said, the air will really start to blow, so getthrough as fast as you can. If I can slap this piece of plastic overthe rip, it may stow down the loss of pressure enough to give us quitea lead before the alarms go off.     Through the faceplates, he saw the girl nod, wide-eyed.     As soon as he plunged the knife into the outer layer, he could seedusty, moist air puffing out into the near-vacuum of Ganymede'ssurface. Fumbling, he cut as fast as he could and shoved Betty throughthe small opening.     Squeezing through in his turn, he left one arm inside to spread theplastic sheet as best he could. The internal air pressure slapped itagainst the inside of the dome as if glued, although it immediatelyshowed an alarming tendency to balloon through the ruptured spot.       They'll find it, all right     , Tolliver reminded himself.      Don't be herewhen they do!       He grabbed Betty by the wrist of her spacesuit and headed for thenearest outcropping of rock.     It promptly developed that she had something to learn about running onice in such low gravity. Until they were out of direct line of sightfrom the settlement, Tolliver simply dragged her.     Then, when he decided that it was safe enough to pause and tell herhow to manage better, the sight of her outraged scowl through theface-plate made him think better of it.       By the time we reach the ship, she'll have learned     , he consoledhimself.  It was a long mile, even at the pace human muscles could achieve onGanymede. They took one short rest, during which Tolliver was forcedto explain away the dangers of slides and volcanic puffballs. Headmitted to having exaggerated slightly. In the end, they reached thespaceship.     There seemed to be no one about. The landing dome had been collapsedand stored, and the ship's airlock port was closed.     That's all right, Tolliver told the girl. We can get in with notrouble.     It was when he looked about to make sure that they were unobserved thathe caught a glimpse of motion back toward the city. He peered at thespot through the dim light. After a moment, he definitely recognizedthe outline of a tractor breasting a rise in the ground and tiltingdownward again.     In fact, we      have     to get in to stay out of trouble, he said to Betty.     He located the switch-cover in the hull, opened it and activated themechanism that swung open the airlock and extended the ladder.     It took him considerable scrambling to boost the girl up the ladder andinside, but he managed. They passed through the airlock, fretting atthe time required to seal, pump air and open the inner hatch; and thenTolliver led the way up another ladder to the control room. It was aclumsy trip in their spacesuits, but he wanted to save time.       In the control room, he shoved the girl into an acceleration seat,glanced at the gauges and showed her how to open her helmet.     Leave the suit on, he ordered, getting in the first word while shewas still shaking her head. It will help a little on the takeoff.     Takeoff! shrilled Betty. What do you think you're going to do? Ijust want to use the radio or TV!     That tractor will get here in a minute or two. They might cut yourconversation kind of short. Now shut up and let me look over thesedials!     He ran a practiced eye over the board, reading the condition of theship. It pleased him. Everything was ready for a takeoff into aneconomy orbit for Earth. He busied himself making a few adjustments,doing his best to ignore the protests from his partner in crime. Hewarned her the trip might be long.     I told you not to come, he said at last. Now sit back!     He sat down and pushed a button to start the igniting process.     In a moment, he could feel the rumble of the rockets through the deck,and then it was out of his hands for several minutes.     That wasn't so bad, Betty admitted some time later. Did you go inthe right direction?     Who knows? retorted Tolliver. There wasn't time to check      everything     . We'll worry about that after we make your call.     Oh! Betty looked helpless. It's in my pocket.     Tolliver sighed. In their weightless state, it was no easy task to pryher out of the spacesuit. He thought of inquiring if she needed anyfurther help, but reminded himself that this was the boss's daughter.When Betty produced a memo giving frequency and call sign, he set aboutmaking contact.     It took only a few minutes, as if the channel had been monitoredexpectantly, and the man who flickered into life on the screen wore auniform.     Space Patrol? whispered Tolliver incredulously.     That's right, said Betty. Uh ... Daddy made arrangements for me.     Tolliver held her in front of the screen so she would not float outof range of the scanner and microphone. As she spoke, he staredexasperatedly at a bulkhead, marveling at the influence of a man whocould arrange for a cruiser to escort his daughter to Ganymede andwondering what was behind it all.     When he heard Betty requesting assistance in arresting Jeffers andreporting the manager as the head of a ring of crooks, he began tosuspect. He also noticed certain peculiarities about the remarks of thePatrolman.  For one thing, though the officer seemed well acquainted with Betty, henever addressed her by the name of Koslow. For another, he accepted therequest as if he had been hanging in orbit merely until learning who togo down after.       They really sent her out to nail someone     , Tolliver realized.      Ofcourse, she stumbled onto Jeffers by plain dumb luck. But she had anidea of what to look for. How do I get into these things? She mighthave got me killed!       We do have one trouble, he heard Betty saying. This tractor driver,Tolliver, saved my neck by making the ship take off somehow, but hesays it's set for a six-month orbit, or economy flight. Whatever theycall it. I don't think he has any idea where we're headed.     Tolliver pulled her back, holding her in mid-air by the slack of hersweater.     Actually, I have a fine idea, he informed the officer coldly. Ihappen to be a qualified space pilot. Everything here is under control.If Miss Koslow thinks you should arrest Jeffers, you can call us lateron this channel.     Miss Koslow? repeated the spacer. Did she tell you—well, no matter!If you'll be okay, we'll attend to the other affair immediately.     He signed off promptly. The pilot faced Betty, who looked more offendedthan reassured at discovering his status.     This 'Miss Koslow' business, he said suspiciously. He sounded funnyabout that.     The girl grinned.     Relax, Tolliver, she told him. Did you really believe Daddy wouldsend his own little girl way out here to Ganymede to look for whoeverwas gypping him?     You ... you...?     Sure. The name's Betty Hanlon. I work for a private investigatingfirm. If old Koslow had a son to impersonate—     I'd be stuck for six months in this orbit with some brash young man,Tolliver finished for her. I guess it's better this way, he saidmeditatively a moment later.     Oh, come      on     ! Can't they get us back? How can you tell where we'regoing?     I know enough to check takeoff time. It was practically due anyhow, sowe'll float into the vicinity of Earth at about the right time to bepicked up.     He went on to explain something of the tremendous cost in fuelnecessary to make more than minor corrections to their course. Eventhough the Patrol ship could easily catch the slow freighter, bringingalong enough fuel to head back would be something else again.     We'll just have to ride it out, he said sympathetically. The ship isprovisioned according to law, and you were probably going back anyhow.     I didn't expect to so soon.     Yeah, you were pretty lucky. They'll think you're a marvel to crackthe case in about three hours on Ganymede.     Great! muttered Betty. What a lucky girl I am!     Yes, admitted Tolliver, there      are     problems. If you like, we mightget the captain of that Patrol ship to legalize the situation by TV.     I can see you're used to sweeping girls off their feet, she commentedsourly.     The main problem is whether you can cook.     Betty frowned at him.     I'm pretty good with a pistol, she offered, or going over crookedbooks. But cook? Sorry.     Well, one of us had better learn, and I'll have other things to do.     I'll think about it, promised the girl, staring thoughtfully at thedeck.     Tolliver anchored himself in a seat and grinned as he thought about ittoo.       After a while     , he promised himself,      I'll explain how I cut the fuelflow and see if she's detective enough to suspect that we're justorbiting Ganymede!    ","First, the story starts inside Jeffers’ office where the two argues. From the office window, the transparent domes of Ganymede’s can be seen. There is also a chair and a door which is the exit from the room. Then at the empty office next to the warehouse building, Tolliver wakes up. There is an old table and half a dozen plastic crates in the empty office. The plastic crates contain a mess of discarded records. There is also a doorway. The doorway is plastic and can be bended when applied heat. Outside of the room, there’s a storeroom, which has spacesuits inside them. Many of the spacesuits are unpacked while some are standing ready for emergencies. The control room has an acceleration seat. There is a board that has the condition of the ship. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>       Going straight meant crooked planning. He'd       never make it unless he somehow managed to       PICK A CRIME     By RICHARD R. SMITH     Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1958.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The girl was tall, wide-eyed and brunette. She had the right curves inthe right places and would have been beautiful if her nose had beensmaller, if her mouth had been larger and if her hair had been wavyinstead of straight.     Hank said you wanted to see me, she said when she stopped besideJoe's table.     Yeah. Joe nodded at the other chair. Have a seat. He reached into apocket, withdrew five ten-dollar bills and handed them to her. I wantyou to do a job for me. It'll only take a few minutes.     The girl counted the money, then placed it in her purse. Joe noticeda small counterfeit-detector inside the purse before she closed it.What's the job?     Tell you later. He gulped the remainder of his drink, almost pouringit down his throat.     Hey. You trying to make yourself sick?     Not sick. Drunk. Been trying to get drunk all afternoon. As theliquor settled in his stomach, he waited for the warm glow. But theglow didn't come ... the bartender had watered his drink again.     Trying to get drunk? the girl inquired. Are you crazy?     No. It's simple. If I get drunk, I can join the AAA and get free roomand board for a month while they give me a treatment.     It was easy enough to understand, he reflected, but a lot harder to do.The CPA robot bartenders saw to it that anyone got high if they wanted,but comparatively few got drunk. Each bartender could not only mixdrinks but could also judge by a man's actions and speech when he wason the verge of drunkenness. At the proper time—since drunkenness wasillegal—a bartender always watered the drinks.     Joe had tried dozens of times in dozens of bars to outsmart them, buthad always failed. And in all of New York's millions, there had beenonly a hundred cases of intoxication during the previous year.     The girl laughed. If you're that hard up, I don't know if I shouldtake this fifty or not. Why don't you go out and get a job likeeveryone else?     As an answer, Joe handed her his CPA ID card. She grunted when shesaw the large letters that indicated the owner had Dangerous CriminalTendencies.  When she handed the card back, Joe fought an impulse to tear it topieces. He'd done that once and gone through a mountain of red tape toget another—everyone was required by law to carry a CPA ID card andshow it upon request.     I'm sorry, the girl said. I didn't know you were a DCT.     And who'll hire a guy with criminal tendencies? You know the score.When you try to get a job, they ask to see your ID before they eventell you if there's an opening or not. If your CPA ID says you're aDCT, you're SOL and they tell you there's no openings. Oh, I've hadseveral jobs ... jobs like all DCTs get. I've been a garbage man,street-cleaner, ditch-digger—     On the other side of the room, the jukebox came to life with a roar anda group of teen-agers scrambled to the dance floor.     Feeling safe from hidden microphones because of the uproar, he leanedacross the table and whispered in the girl's ear, That's what Iwant to hire you for. I want you to help me commit a crime. If I getconvicted of a crime, I'll be able to get a good job!     The girl's lips formed a bright red circle. Say! You really got bigplans, don't you?     He smiled at her admiration. It      was     something big to plan a crime.A civilization weary of murder, robbery, kidnapping, counterfeiting,blackmail, rape, arson, and drunkenness had originated the CPA—CrimePrevention Association. There were no longer any prisons—CPA officialshad declared loudly and emphatically that their job was to preventcrime, not punish it. And prevent it they did, with thousands ofingenious crime-prevention devices and methods. They had made crimealmost impossible, and during the previous year, only a few hundred menin the whole country had been convicted of criminal acts.     No crime was ever punished. If a man was smart enough to killsomeone, for instance, he wasn't sent to prison to be punished; hewasn't punished at all. Instead, he was sent to a hospital where allcriminal tendencies were removed from his mind by psychologists, shocktreatments, encephalographic devices, a form of prefrontal lobotomy anda dozen other methods. An expensive operation, but since there were fewcriminals—only ten in New York during the past year—any city couldafford the CPA hospitals.     The CPA system was, actually, cheaper than previous methods becauseit did away with the damage caused by countless crimes; did away withprisons and their guards, large police forces, squad cars and weapons.     And, ironically, a man who      did     commit a crime was a sort of hero. Hewas a hero to the millions of men and women who had suppressed impulsesto kill someone, beat their mates, get drunk, or kick a dog. Not only ahero, but because of the CPA Treatment, he was—when he left one of theCPA hospitals—a thoroughly honest and hard-working individual ... aman who could be trusted with any responsibility, any amount of money.And therefore, an EX (a convicted criminal who received the treatmentwas commonly called an Ex because he was in the strictest sense of theword an Ex-criminal) ... an Ex was always offered the best jobs.     Well, the girl said. I'm honored. Really. But I got a date at ten.Let's get it over with. You said it'd only take a few minutes.     Okay. Let's go.  The girl followed him across the room, around tables, through a door,down a hall, through a back door and into the alley.     She followed him up the dark alley until he turned suddenly and rippedher blouse and skirt.     He surprised her completely, but when she recovered, she backed away,her body poised like a wrestler's. What's the big idea?     Scream, Joe said. Scream as loud as you can, and when the cops gethere, tell 'em I tried to rape you.     The plan was perfect, he told himself. Attempted rape was one of thefew things that was a crime merely because a man attempted it. A crimebecause it theoretically inflicted psychological injury upon theintended victim—and because millions of women voters had voted it acrime. On the other hand, attempted murder, robbery, kidnapping, etc.,were not crimes. They weren't crimes because the DCT didn't completethe act, and if he didn't complete the act, that meant simply that theCPA had once again functioned properly.     The girl shook her head vigorously. Sorry, buddy. Can't help you thatway. Why didn't you tell me what you wanted?     What's the matter? Joe complained. I'm not asking you to do anythingwrong.     You stupid jerk. What do you think this is—the Middle Ages? Don't youknow almost every woman knows how to defend herself? I'm a sergeant inthe WSDA!     Joe groaned. The WSDA—Women's Self-Defense Association—a branch ofthe CPA. The WSDA gave free instruction in judo and jujitsu, evendeveloped new techniques of wrestling and instructed only women inthose new techniques.     The girl was still shaking her head. Can't do it, buddy. I'd lose myrank if you were convicted of—     Do I have to      make     you scream? Joe inquired tiredly and advancedtoward the girl.     —and that rank carries a lot of weight. Hey!      Stop it!          Joe discovered to his dismay that the girl was telling the truth whenshe said she was a sergeant in the WSDA. He felt her hands on his body,and in the time it takes to blink twice, he was flying through the air.       The alley's concrete floor was hard—it had always been hard, but hebecame acutely aware of its lack of resiliency when his head struck it.There was a wonderful moment while the world was filled with beautifulstars and streaks of lightning through which he heard distant policesirens. But the wonderful moment didn't last long and darkness closedin on him.  When he awoke, a rough voice was saying, Okay. Snap out of it.     He opened his eyes and recognized the police commissioner's office. Itwould be hard not to recognize: the room was large, devoid of furnitureexcept for a desk and chairs, but the walls were lined with thecontrols of television screens, electronic calculators and a hundredother machines that formed New York's mechanical police force.     Commissioner Hendricks was a remarkable character. There was somethingwrong with his glands, and he was a huge, greasy bulk of a man withbushy eyebrows and a double chin. His steel-gray eyes showed somethingof his intelligence and he would have gone far in politics if fatehadn't made him so ugly, for more than half the voters who elected mento high political positions were women.     Anyone who knew Hendricks well liked him, for he was a friendly,likable person. But the millions of women voters who saw his face onposters and on their TV screens saw only the ugly face and heard onlythe harsh voice. The President of the United States was a capableman, but also a very handsome one, and the fact that a man who lookedsomething like a bulldog had been elected as New York's policecommissioner was a credit to Hendricks and millions of women voters.     Where's the girl? Joe asked.     I processed her while you were out cold. She left. Joe, you—     Okay, Joe said. I'll save you the trouble. I admit it. Attemptedrape. I confess.     Hendricks smiled. Sorry, Joe. You missed the boat again. He reachedout and turned a dial on his desk top. We had a microphone hidden inthat alley. We have a lot of microphones hidden in a lot of alleys.You'd be surprised at the number of conspiracies that take place inalleys!     Joe listened numbly to his voice as it came from one of the hundreds ofmachines on the walls,       Scream. Scream as loud as you can, and whenthe cops get here, tell 'em I tried to rape you.      And then the girl'svoice,       Sorry, buddy. Can't help—          He waved his hand. Okay. Shut it off. I confess to conspiracy.  Hendricks rose from behind the desk, walked leisurely to where Joe wasslouched in a chair. Give me your CPA ID.     Joe handed him the card with trembling fingers. He felt as if the worldhad collapsed beneath him. Conspiracy to commit a crime wasn't a crime.Anyone could conspire. And if the conspirators were prevented fromcommitting a crime, then that meant the CPA had functioned properlyonce again. That meant the CPA had once again      prevented     crime, andthe CPA didn't punish crimes or attempted crimes, and it didn't attemptto prevent crimes      by     punishment. If it did, that would be a violationof the New Civil Rights.     Hendricks crossed the room, deposited the card in a slot and punched abutton. The machine hummed and a new card appeared.     When Hendricks handed him the new card, Joe saw that the wordsDANGEROUS CRIMINAL TENDENCIES were now in red and larger than before.And, in slightly smaller print, the ID card stated that the owner was aDCT First Class.     You've graduated, Hendricks said coldly. You guys never learn, doyou? Now you're a DCT First Class instead of a Second Class. You knowwhat that means?     Hendricks leaned closer until Joe could feel his breath on his face.That means your case history will be turned over to the newspapers.You'll be the hobby of thousands of amateur cops. You know how itworks? It's like this. The Joneses are sitting around tomorrow nightand they're bored. Then Mr. Jones says, 'Let's go watch this JoeHarper.' So they look up your record—amateur cops always keep recordsof First Classes in scrapbooks—and they see that you stop frequentlyat Walt's Tavern.     So they go there and they sit and drink and watch you, trying notto let you know they're watching you. They watch you all night, justhoping you'll do something exciting, like trying to kill someone,so they can be the first ones to yell '      Police!     ' They'll watch youbecause it's exciting to be an amateur cop, and if they ever      did     prevent you from committing a crime, they'd get a nice reward andthey'd be famous.     Lay off, Joe said. I got a headache. That girl—     Hendricks leaned even closer and glared. You listen, Joe. This isinteresting. You see, it doesn't stop with Mr. and Mrs. Jones. There'sthousands of people like them. Years ago, they got their kicks fromreading about guys like you, but these days things are dull becauseit's rare when anyone commits a crime. So every time you walk downthe street, there'll be at least a dozen of 'em following you, and nomatter where you go, you can bet there'll be some of 'em sitting nextto you, standing next to you.     During the day, they'll take your picture with their spy cameras thatlook like buttons on their coats. At night, they'll peep at you throughyour keyhole. Your neighbors across the street will watch you throughbinoculars and—     Lay off!  Joe squirmed in the chair. He'd been lectured by Hendricks before andit was always an unpleasant experience. The huge man was like a talkingmachine once he got started, a machine that couldn't be stopped.     And the kids are the worst, Hendricks continued. They have JuniorCPA clubs. They keep records of hoodlums like you in little cardboardboxes. They'll stare at you on the street and stare at you throughrestaurant windows while you're eating meals. They'll follow you inpublic rest rooms and watch you out of the corners of their eyeswhile they wash their little hands, and almost every day when you lookback, you'll see a dozen freckle-faced little boys following you half ablock behind, giggling and gaping at you. They'll follow you until theday you die, because you're a freak!     Joe couldn't stand the breath in his face any longer. He rose and pacedthe floor.     And it doesn't end      there     , Joe. It goes on and on. You'll be theobject of every do-gooder and parlor psychologist. Strangers will stopyou on the street and say, 'I'd like to help you, friend.' Then they'llask you queer questions like, 'Did your father reject you when you werea child?' 'Do you like girls?' 'How does it feel to be a DCT FirstClass?' And then there'll be the strangers who hate DCTs. They'll stopyou on the street and insult you, call you names, spit on you and—     Okay, goddam it!      Stop it!          Hendricks stopped, wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchiefand lit a cigarette.     I'm doing you a favor, Joe. I'm trying to explain something you're toodumb to realize by yourself. We've taught everyone to hate crime andcriminals ... to      hate     them as nothing has ever been hated before.Today a criminal is a freak, an alien. Your life will be a living hellif you don't leave New York. You should go to some small town wherethere aren't many people, or be a hermit, or go to Iceland or—     Joe eyed the huge man suspiciously.       Favor     , did you say? The day youdo      me     a favor—     Hendricks shrugged his shoulders negligently. Not entirely a favor. Iwant to get rid of you. Usually I come up here and sit around and readbooks. But guys like you are a nuisance and take up my time.     I couldn't leave if I wanted to, Joe said. I'm flat broke. Thanks toyour CPA system, a DCT can't get a decent job.  Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time.     Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime.     Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself.     Umm.     Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't      have     tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and—     Go to those      head-shrinkers     ?     Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way.     Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you      make     me go?     Violation of Civil Rights.     Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime.     How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done.     In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself!     He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room.     Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime!     Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it:      John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St.       When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks.     Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything.  When Joe reached the street, he hurried toward the nearest subway. As achild, he had been frightened of the dark. As a man, he wasn't afraidof the dark itself, but the darkened city always made him feel illat ease. The uneasiness was, more than anything else, caused by hisown imagination. He hated the CPA and at night he couldn't shrug thefeeling that the CPA lurked in every shadow, watching him, waiting forhim to make a mistake.     Imagination or not, the CPA was almost everywhere a person went.Twenty-four hours a day, millions of microphones hidden in taverns,alleys, restaurants, subways and every other place imaginable waitedfor someone to say the wrong thing. Everything the microphones pickedup was routed to the CPA Brain, a monster electronic calculator.     If the words Let's see a movie were received in the Brain, theywere discarded. But if the words Let's roll this guy were received,the message was traced and a police helicopter would be at the scenein two minutes. And scattered all over the city were not only hiddenmicrophones, but hidden television cameras that relayed visual messagesto the Brain, and hidden machines that could detect a knife or a gun insomeone's pocket at forty yards.     Every place of business from the largest bank to the smallest grocerystore was absolutely impenetrable. No one had even tried to rob a placeof business for years.     Arson was next to impossible because of the heat-detectors—devicesplaced in every building that could detect, radarlike, any intensity ofheat above that caused by a cigarette lighter. Chemical research hadmade poisoning someone an impossibility. There were no drugs containingpoison, and while an ant-poison might kill ants, no concentrated amountof it would kill a human.     The FBI had always been a powerful organization, but under thesupervision of the CPA, it was a scientific colossus and to thinkof kidnapping someone or to contemplate the use of narcotics waspointless. A counterfeiter's career was always short-lived: every placeof business and millions of individuals had small counterfeit-detectorsthat could spot a fake and report it directly to the Brain.     And the percentage of crimes had dwindled even more with the appearanceof the robot police officers. Many a criminal in the past had gambledthat he could outshoot a pursuing policeman. But the robots weredifferent: they weren't flesh and blood. Bullets bounced off them andtheir aim was infallible.  It was like a fantastic dream come true. Only the dream wasn'tfantastic any more. With the huge atomic power plants scattered acrossthe country and supplying endless electrical power at ridiculouslylow prices, no endeavor that required power was fantastic. The powerrequired to operate the CPA devices cost each taxpayer an average offour dollars a year, and the invention, development and manufacture ofthe devices had cost even less.     And the CPA had attacked crime through society itself, striking atthe individual. In every city there were neon signs that blinkedsubliminally with the statement, CRIME IS FILTH. Listening to a radioor watching television, if a person heard station identification, heinvariably heard or saw just below perception the words CRIME IS FILTH.If he went for a walk or a ride, he saw the endless subliminal postersdeclaring CRIME IS FILTH, and if he read a magazine or newspaper healways found, in those little dead spaces where an editor couldn't fitanything else, the below-perception words CRIME IS FILTH.     It was monotonous and, after a while, a person looked at the words andheard them without thinking about them. And they were imprinted on hissubconscious over and over, year after year, until he knew that crimewas the same as filth and that criminals were filthy things.     Except men like Joe Harper. No system is perfect. Along with thousandsof other DCTs, Joe refused to believe it, and when he reached apartment204 at 2141 Orange Street, he felt as if he'd inherited a gold mine.     The hall was dimly lit, but when he stood before the door numbered 204,he could see that the wall on either side of it was      new     . That is,instead of being covered with dust, dirt and stains as the other wallswere, it was clean. The building was an old one, the hall was wide, andthe owner had obviously constructed a wall across the hall, creatinganother room. If the owner had reported the new room as required bylaw, it would have been wired with CPA burglarproof devices, butevidently he didn't want to pay for installation.     When Joe entered the cubbyhole, he had to stand to one side in order toclose the door behind him. The place was barely large enough for thebed, chair and bureau; it was a place where a man could fall down atnight and sleep, but where no normal man could live day after day.     Fearing that someone might detect him before he actually committed thecrime, Joe hurried to the bureau and searched it.  He broke out in a sweat when he found nothing but underwear and oldmagazines. If he stole underwear and magazines, it would still be acrime, but the newspapers would splash satirical headlines. Instead ofbeing respected as a successful criminal, he would be ridiculed.     He stopped sweating when he found a watch under a pile of underwear.The crystal was broken, one hand was missing and it wouldn't run,but—perfection itself—engraved on the back was the inscription,      ToJohn with Love     . His trial would be a clean-cut one: it would be easyfor the CPA to prove ownership and that a crime had been committed.     Chuckling with joy, he opened the window and shouted,       Thief! Police!Help!          He waited a few seconds and then ran. When he reached the street, apolice helicopter landed next to him. Strong metal arms seized him;cameras clicked and recorded the damning evidence.     When Joe was securely handcuffed to a seat inside the helicopter, themetal police officers rang doorbells. There was a reward for anyone whoreported a crime, but no one admitted shouting the warning.  He was having a nightmare when he heard the voice, Hey. Wake up. Hey!     He opened his eyes, saw Hendricks' ugly face and thought for a minutehe was still having the nightmare.     I just saw your doctor, Hendricks said. He says your treatment isover. You can go home now. I thought I'd give you a lift.     As Joe dressed, he searched his mind and tried to find some difference.     During the treatment, he had been unconscious or drugged, unable tothink. Now he could think clearly, but he could find no difference inhimself.     He felt more relaxed than he'd ever felt before, but that could be anafter-effect of all the sedatives he'd been given. And, he noticed whenhe looked in the mirror, he was paler. The treatment had taken monthsand he had, between operations, been locked in his room.     Hendricks was standing by the window. Joe stared at the massive back.Deliberately goading his mind, he discovered the biggest change:Before, the mere sight of the man had aroused an intense hatred. Now,even when he tried, he succeeded in arousing only a mild hatred.They had toned down his capacity to hate, but not done away with italtogether.     Come here and take a look at your public, said Hendricks.     Joe went to the window. Three stories below, a large crowd had gatheredon the hospital steps: a band, photographers, television trucks,cameramen and autograph hunters. He'd waited a long time for this day.But now—another change in him—     He put the emotion into words: I don't feel like a hero. Funny, but Idon't.     Hero! Hendricks laughed and, with his powerful lungs, it soundedlike a bull snorting. You think a successful criminal is a hero? Youstupid—     He laughed again and waved a hand at the crowd below them. You thinkthose people are down there because they admire what you did? They'redown there waiting for you because they're curious, because they'reglad the CPA caught you, and because they're glad you're an Ex. You'rean      ex     -criminal now, and because of your treatment, you'll never beable to commit another crime as long as you live. And that's the kindof guy they admire, so they want to see you, shake your hand and getyour autograph.     Joe didn't understand Hendricks completely, but the part he didunderstand he didn't believe. A crowd was waiting for him. He could seethe people with his own eyes. When he left the hospital, they'd cheerand shout and ask for his autograph. If he wasn't a hero,      what washe     ?  It took half an hour to get through the crowd. Cameras clicked allaround him, a hundred kids asked for his autograph, everyone talked atonce and cheered, smiled, laughed, patted him on the back and cheeredsome more.     Only one thing confused him during all the excitement: a white-hairedold lady with tears in her eyes said, Thank heaven it was only awatch. Thank heaven you didn't kill someone! God bless you, son. Andthen the old lady had handed him a box of fudge and left him in totalconfusion.     What she said didn't make sense. If he had killed someone ratherthan stealing a watch, he would be even more of a hero and the crowdwould have cheered even louder. He knew: he had stood outside the CPAhospitals many times and the crowds always cheered louder when anex-murderer came out.     In Hendricks' robot-chauffeured car, he ate the fudge and consoledhimself with the thought,      People are funny. Who can understand 'em?       Feeling happy for one of the few times in his life, he turned towardHendricks and said, Thanks for what you did. It turned out great. I'llbe able to get a good job now.     That's why I met you at the hospital, Hendricks said. I want toexplain some things. I've known you for a long time and I know you'respectacularly dumb. You can't figure out some things for yourself andI don't want you walking around the rest of your life thinking I didyou a favor.     Joe frowned. Few men had ever done him a favor and he had rarelythanked anyone for anything. And now ... after thanking the man who'ddone him the biggest favor of all, the man was denying it!     You robbed Gralewski's apartment, Hendricks said. Gralewski is a CPAemployee and he doesn't live in the apartment you robbed. The CPA paysthe rent for that one and he lives in another. We have a lot of placeslike that. You see, it gives us a way to get rid of saps like youbefore they do real damage. We use it as a last resort when a DCT FirstClass won't take the free psycho treatment or—     Well, it's still a favor.     Hendricks' face hardened. Favor? You wouldn't know a favor if youstumbled over one. I did it because it's standard procedure for yourtype of case. Anyone can—free of charge—have treatment by the bestpsychologists. Any DCT can stop being a DCT by simply asking for thetreatment and taking it. But you wouldn't do that. You wanted to commita crime, get caught and be a hero ... an      Ex     .  The car passed one of the CPA playgrounds. Boys and girls of all ageswere laughing, squealing with joy as they played games designed by CPApsychologists to relieve tension. And—despite the treatment, Joeshuddered when he saw the psychologists standing to one side, quietlywatching the children. The whole world was filled with CPA employeesand volunteer workers. Everywhere you went, it was there, quietlywatching you and analyzing you, and if you showed criminal tendencies,it watched you even more closely and analyzed you even more deeplyuntil it took you apart and put you back together again the way itwanted you to be.     Being an Ex, you'll get the kind of job you always wanted, Hendrickscontinued. You'll get a good-paying job, but you'll work for it.You'll work eight hours a day, work harder than you've ever workedbefore in your life, because every time you start to loaf, a voice inyour head is going to say,      Work! Work!     Exes always get good jobsbecause employers know they're good workers.     But during these next few days, you'll discover what being an Exis like. You see, Joe, the treatment can't possibly take all thecriminal tendencies out of a man. So the treatment does the next bestthing—you'll find a set of laws written in your mind. You might      want     to break one now and then, but you won't be able. I'll give you anillustration....     Joe's face reddened as Hendricks proceeded to call him a series ofnames. He wanted to smash the fat, grinning face, but the muscles inhis arm froze before it moved it an inch.     And worse than that, a brief pain ripped through his skull. A pain sointense that, had it lasted a second longer, he would have screamed inagony. And above the pain, a voice whispered in his head,      Unlawful tostrike someone except in self-defense     .     He opened his mouth to tell Hendricks exactly what he thought of him,the CPA, the whole world. But the words stayed in his throat, the painreturned, and the mental voice whispered,      Unlawful to curse     .     He had never heard how the treatment prevented an Ex from committing acrime. And now that he knew, it didn't seem fair. He decided to tellthe whole story to the newspapers as soon as he could. And as soon asthat decision formed in his mind, his body froze, the pain returned andthe voice,      Unlawful to divulge CPA procedure     .     See what I mean? Hendricks asked. A century ago, you would have beenlocked in a prison and taxpayers' money would have supported you untilthe day you died. With the CPA system, you're returned to society, auseful citizen, unable to commit the smallest crime. And you've got abig hand in your dirty little mind that's going to slap it every timeyou get the wrong kind of thought. It'll keep slapping you until youlearn. It might take weeks, months or years, but you'll learn sooneror later to not even think about doing anything wrong.  He lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring at the car's plush ceiling.It's a great system, isn't it, Joe? A true democracy. Even a jerk likeyou is free to do what he wants, as long as it's legal.     I think it's a lousy, filthy system. Joe's head was still tinglingwith pain and he felt suffocated. The CPA was everywhere, only now itwas also inside his head, telling him he couldn't do this, couldn't dothat. All his life it had been telling him he couldn't do things hewanted to do and      now     ....     Hendricks laughed. You'll change your opinion. We live in a clean,wonderful world, Joe. A world of happy, healthy people. Except forfreaks like yourself, criminals are—     Let me out! Joe grabbed at the door and was on the sidewalk, slammingthe door behind him before the car stopped completely.     He stared at the car as it pulled away from the curb and glided intothe stream of traffic again. He realized he was a prisoner ... aprisoner inside his own body ... made a prisoner by a world that hatedhim back.     He wanted to spit his contempt, but the increasingly familiar pain andvoice prevented him.     It was unlawful to spit on a sidewalk.   ","Joe is at a bar and hands a girl $50 to complete a task for him without telling her what it is yet. He makes small talk to the girl telling her that he is trying to get drunk but he can’t because his drinks are watered down by the CPA robot bartenders. Joe informs the girl that he is assigned a DCT (Dangerous Criminal Tendencies) designation on his CPA ID card. Joe leads the girl to an alley to move his plan into motion. His plan is for her to say that he attempted to rape her because attempted rape is a crime under CPA rules. The girl states that she does not want to go along with that plan because she will lose her rank in the Women’s Self-Defense Association, which is a branch of the CPA. Joe still persists and tries to make her scream. The girl in turn successfully defends herself against him and causes his head to strike the hard concrete floor. He loses consciousness of her actions. Joe wakes up in the police commissioner’s office. Joe’s plan does not work because the CPA had microphones monitoring the alley so they already know that the plan was not real. Joe then proceeds to confess to a conspiracy when presented with the evidence the CPA has gathered. As a result of these actions, Joe’s new designation on his CPA ID card has the words ‘Dangerous Criminal Tendencies’ in all caps and in a large, red font printed on his card. It also added that he was a DCT First Class owner. Hendricks lectures Joe about his new designation, but Joe does not care to hear him. The commissioner tries to convince Joe to leave New York or to use the free psychology service. Hendricks explains that he cannot think of a way to help Joe without committing a crime himself. In an unexpected move, Hendricks offers Joe a seemingly available victim and their address. Joe memorizes the available information and goes to the address to commit a crime. Joe enters the apartment and takes a watch. He then shouts outside a window that there is a thief. Joe proceeds to run down to the street and is caught by a police helicopter and handcuffed. Joe eventually wakes up after months of treatment in a hospital and is picked up by Hendricks. He goes through the large crowd waiting to meet him upon exiting the hospital and has an uneasy feeling about the interactions. He is confused by the reaction of the crowd. Hendrick says that it was a fake apartment that Joe went to and is one that the police use for special cases like his when a person refuses to find a solution. Joe becomes upset because he realizes that he has become a prisoner in his own body because of the treatment from the CPA and he has great contempt for the results. "
"What is the CPA and what does it do? </s>       Going straight meant crooked planning. He'd       never make it unless he somehow managed to       PICK A CRIME     By RICHARD R. SMITH     Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1958.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The girl was tall, wide-eyed and brunette. She had the right curves inthe right places and would have been beautiful if her nose had beensmaller, if her mouth had been larger and if her hair had been wavyinstead of straight.     Hank said you wanted to see me, she said when she stopped besideJoe's table.     Yeah. Joe nodded at the other chair. Have a seat. He reached into apocket, withdrew five ten-dollar bills and handed them to her. I wantyou to do a job for me. It'll only take a few minutes.     The girl counted the money, then placed it in her purse. Joe noticeda small counterfeit-detector inside the purse before she closed it.What's the job?     Tell you later. He gulped the remainder of his drink, almost pouringit down his throat.     Hey. You trying to make yourself sick?     Not sick. Drunk. Been trying to get drunk all afternoon. As theliquor settled in his stomach, he waited for the warm glow. But theglow didn't come ... the bartender had watered his drink again.     Trying to get drunk? the girl inquired. Are you crazy?     No. It's simple. If I get drunk, I can join the AAA and get free roomand board for a month while they give me a treatment.     It was easy enough to understand, he reflected, but a lot harder to do.The CPA robot bartenders saw to it that anyone got high if they wanted,but comparatively few got drunk. Each bartender could not only mixdrinks but could also judge by a man's actions and speech when he wason the verge of drunkenness. At the proper time—since drunkenness wasillegal—a bartender always watered the drinks.     Joe had tried dozens of times in dozens of bars to outsmart them, buthad always failed. And in all of New York's millions, there had beenonly a hundred cases of intoxication during the previous year.     The girl laughed. If you're that hard up, I don't know if I shouldtake this fifty or not. Why don't you go out and get a job likeeveryone else?     As an answer, Joe handed her his CPA ID card. She grunted when shesaw the large letters that indicated the owner had Dangerous CriminalTendencies.  When she handed the card back, Joe fought an impulse to tear it topieces. He'd done that once and gone through a mountain of red tape toget another—everyone was required by law to carry a CPA ID card andshow it upon request.     I'm sorry, the girl said. I didn't know you were a DCT.     And who'll hire a guy with criminal tendencies? You know the score.When you try to get a job, they ask to see your ID before they eventell you if there's an opening or not. If your CPA ID says you're aDCT, you're SOL and they tell you there's no openings. Oh, I've hadseveral jobs ... jobs like all DCTs get. I've been a garbage man,street-cleaner, ditch-digger—     On the other side of the room, the jukebox came to life with a roar anda group of teen-agers scrambled to the dance floor.     Feeling safe from hidden microphones because of the uproar, he leanedacross the table and whispered in the girl's ear, That's what Iwant to hire you for. I want you to help me commit a crime. If I getconvicted of a crime, I'll be able to get a good job!     The girl's lips formed a bright red circle. Say! You really got bigplans, don't you?     He smiled at her admiration. It      was     something big to plan a crime.A civilization weary of murder, robbery, kidnapping, counterfeiting,blackmail, rape, arson, and drunkenness had originated the CPA—CrimePrevention Association. There were no longer any prisons—CPA officialshad declared loudly and emphatically that their job was to preventcrime, not punish it. And prevent it they did, with thousands ofingenious crime-prevention devices and methods. They had made crimealmost impossible, and during the previous year, only a few hundred menin the whole country had been convicted of criminal acts.     No crime was ever punished. If a man was smart enough to killsomeone, for instance, he wasn't sent to prison to be punished; hewasn't punished at all. Instead, he was sent to a hospital where allcriminal tendencies were removed from his mind by psychologists, shocktreatments, encephalographic devices, a form of prefrontal lobotomy anda dozen other methods. An expensive operation, but since there were fewcriminals—only ten in New York during the past year—any city couldafford the CPA hospitals.     The CPA system was, actually, cheaper than previous methods becauseit did away with the damage caused by countless crimes; did away withprisons and their guards, large police forces, squad cars and weapons.     And, ironically, a man who      did     commit a crime was a sort of hero. Hewas a hero to the millions of men and women who had suppressed impulsesto kill someone, beat their mates, get drunk, or kick a dog. Not only ahero, but because of the CPA Treatment, he was—when he left one of theCPA hospitals—a thoroughly honest and hard-working individual ... aman who could be trusted with any responsibility, any amount of money.And therefore, an EX (a convicted criminal who received the treatmentwas commonly called an Ex because he was in the strictest sense of theword an Ex-criminal) ... an Ex was always offered the best jobs.     Well, the girl said. I'm honored. Really. But I got a date at ten.Let's get it over with. You said it'd only take a few minutes.     Okay. Let's go.  The girl followed him across the room, around tables, through a door,down a hall, through a back door and into the alley.     She followed him up the dark alley until he turned suddenly and rippedher blouse and skirt.     He surprised her completely, but when she recovered, she backed away,her body poised like a wrestler's. What's the big idea?     Scream, Joe said. Scream as loud as you can, and when the cops gethere, tell 'em I tried to rape you.     The plan was perfect, he told himself. Attempted rape was one of thefew things that was a crime merely because a man attempted it. A crimebecause it theoretically inflicted psychological injury upon theintended victim—and because millions of women voters had voted it acrime. On the other hand, attempted murder, robbery, kidnapping, etc.,were not crimes. They weren't crimes because the DCT didn't completethe act, and if he didn't complete the act, that meant simply that theCPA had once again functioned properly.     The girl shook her head vigorously. Sorry, buddy. Can't help you thatway. Why didn't you tell me what you wanted?     What's the matter? Joe complained. I'm not asking you to do anythingwrong.     You stupid jerk. What do you think this is—the Middle Ages? Don't youknow almost every woman knows how to defend herself? I'm a sergeant inthe WSDA!     Joe groaned. The WSDA—Women's Self-Defense Association—a branch ofthe CPA. The WSDA gave free instruction in judo and jujitsu, evendeveloped new techniques of wrestling and instructed only women inthose new techniques.     The girl was still shaking her head. Can't do it, buddy. I'd lose myrank if you were convicted of—     Do I have to      make     you scream? Joe inquired tiredly and advancedtoward the girl.     —and that rank carries a lot of weight. Hey!      Stop it!          Joe discovered to his dismay that the girl was telling the truth whenshe said she was a sergeant in the WSDA. He felt her hands on his body,and in the time it takes to blink twice, he was flying through the air.       The alley's concrete floor was hard—it had always been hard, but hebecame acutely aware of its lack of resiliency when his head struck it.There was a wonderful moment while the world was filled with beautifulstars and streaks of lightning through which he heard distant policesirens. But the wonderful moment didn't last long and darkness closedin on him.  When he awoke, a rough voice was saying, Okay. Snap out of it.     He opened his eyes and recognized the police commissioner's office. Itwould be hard not to recognize: the room was large, devoid of furnitureexcept for a desk and chairs, but the walls were lined with thecontrols of television screens, electronic calculators and a hundredother machines that formed New York's mechanical police force.     Commissioner Hendricks was a remarkable character. There was somethingwrong with his glands, and he was a huge, greasy bulk of a man withbushy eyebrows and a double chin. His steel-gray eyes showed somethingof his intelligence and he would have gone far in politics if fatehadn't made him so ugly, for more than half the voters who elected mento high political positions were women.     Anyone who knew Hendricks well liked him, for he was a friendly,likable person. But the millions of women voters who saw his face onposters and on their TV screens saw only the ugly face and heard onlythe harsh voice. The President of the United States was a capableman, but also a very handsome one, and the fact that a man who lookedsomething like a bulldog had been elected as New York's policecommissioner was a credit to Hendricks and millions of women voters.     Where's the girl? Joe asked.     I processed her while you were out cold. She left. Joe, you—     Okay, Joe said. I'll save you the trouble. I admit it. Attemptedrape. I confess.     Hendricks smiled. Sorry, Joe. You missed the boat again. He reachedout and turned a dial on his desk top. We had a microphone hidden inthat alley. We have a lot of microphones hidden in a lot of alleys.You'd be surprised at the number of conspiracies that take place inalleys!     Joe listened numbly to his voice as it came from one of the hundreds ofmachines on the walls,       Scream. Scream as loud as you can, and whenthe cops get here, tell 'em I tried to rape you.      And then the girl'svoice,       Sorry, buddy. Can't help—          He waved his hand. Okay. Shut it off. I confess to conspiracy.  Hendricks rose from behind the desk, walked leisurely to where Joe wasslouched in a chair. Give me your CPA ID.     Joe handed him the card with trembling fingers. He felt as if the worldhad collapsed beneath him. Conspiracy to commit a crime wasn't a crime.Anyone could conspire. And if the conspirators were prevented fromcommitting a crime, then that meant the CPA had functioned properlyonce again. That meant the CPA had once again      prevented     crime, andthe CPA didn't punish crimes or attempted crimes, and it didn't attemptto prevent crimes      by     punishment. If it did, that would be a violationof the New Civil Rights.     Hendricks crossed the room, deposited the card in a slot and punched abutton. The machine hummed and a new card appeared.     When Hendricks handed him the new card, Joe saw that the wordsDANGEROUS CRIMINAL TENDENCIES were now in red and larger than before.And, in slightly smaller print, the ID card stated that the owner was aDCT First Class.     You've graduated, Hendricks said coldly. You guys never learn, doyou? Now you're a DCT First Class instead of a Second Class. You knowwhat that means?     Hendricks leaned closer until Joe could feel his breath on his face.That means your case history will be turned over to the newspapers.You'll be the hobby of thousands of amateur cops. You know how itworks? It's like this. The Joneses are sitting around tomorrow nightand they're bored. Then Mr. Jones says, 'Let's go watch this JoeHarper.' So they look up your record—amateur cops always keep recordsof First Classes in scrapbooks—and they see that you stop frequentlyat Walt's Tavern.     So they go there and they sit and drink and watch you, trying notto let you know they're watching you. They watch you all night, justhoping you'll do something exciting, like trying to kill someone,so they can be the first ones to yell '      Police!     ' They'll watch youbecause it's exciting to be an amateur cop, and if they ever      did     prevent you from committing a crime, they'd get a nice reward andthey'd be famous.     Lay off, Joe said. I got a headache. That girl—     Hendricks leaned even closer and glared. You listen, Joe. This isinteresting. You see, it doesn't stop with Mr. and Mrs. Jones. There'sthousands of people like them. Years ago, they got their kicks fromreading about guys like you, but these days things are dull becauseit's rare when anyone commits a crime. So every time you walk downthe street, there'll be at least a dozen of 'em following you, and nomatter where you go, you can bet there'll be some of 'em sitting nextto you, standing next to you.     During the day, they'll take your picture with their spy cameras thatlook like buttons on their coats. At night, they'll peep at you throughyour keyhole. Your neighbors across the street will watch you throughbinoculars and—     Lay off!  Joe squirmed in the chair. He'd been lectured by Hendricks before andit was always an unpleasant experience. The huge man was like a talkingmachine once he got started, a machine that couldn't be stopped.     And the kids are the worst, Hendricks continued. They have JuniorCPA clubs. They keep records of hoodlums like you in little cardboardboxes. They'll stare at you on the street and stare at you throughrestaurant windows while you're eating meals. They'll follow you inpublic rest rooms and watch you out of the corners of their eyeswhile they wash their little hands, and almost every day when you lookback, you'll see a dozen freckle-faced little boys following you half ablock behind, giggling and gaping at you. They'll follow you until theday you die, because you're a freak!     Joe couldn't stand the breath in his face any longer. He rose and pacedthe floor.     And it doesn't end      there     , Joe. It goes on and on. You'll be theobject of every do-gooder and parlor psychologist. Strangers will stopyou on the street and say, 'I'd like to help you, friend.' Then they'llask you queer questions like, 'Did your father reject you when you werea child?' 'Do you like girls?' 'How does it feel to be a DCT FirstClass?' And then there'll be the strangers who hate DCTs. They'll stopyou on the street and insult you, call you names, spit on you and—     Okay, goddam it!      Stop it!          Hendricks stopped, wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchiefand lit a cigarette.     I'm doing you a favor, Joe. I'm trying to explain something you're toodumb to realize by yourself. We've taught everyone to hate crime andcriminals ... to      hate     them as nothing has ever been hated before.Today a criminal is a freak, an alien. Your life will be a living hellif you don't leave New York. You should go to some small town wherethere aren't many people, or be a hermit, or go to Iceland or—     Joe eyed the huge man suspiciously.       Favor     , did you say? The day youdo      me     a favor—     Hendricks shrugged his shoulders negligently. Not entirely a favor. Iwant to get rid of you. Usually I come up here and sit around and readbooks. But guys like you are a nuisance and take up my time.     I couldn't leave if I wanted to, Joe said. I'm flat broke. Thanks toyour CPA system, a DCT can't get a decent job.  Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time.     Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime.     Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself.     Umm.     Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't      have     tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and—     Go to those      head-shrinkers     ?     Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way.     Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you      make     me go?     Violation of Civil Rights.     Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime.     How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done.     In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself!     He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room.     Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime!     Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it:      John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St.       When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks.     Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything.  When Joe reached the street, he hurried toward the nearest subway. As achild, he had been frightened of the dark. As a man, he wasn't afraidof the dark itself, but the darkened city always made him feel illat ease. The uneasiness was, more than anything else, caused by hisown imagination. He hated the CPA and at night he couldn't shrug thefeeling that the CPA lurked in every shadow, watching him, waiting forhim to make a mistake.     Imagination or not, the CPA was almost everywhere a person went.Twenty-four hours a day, millions of microphones hidden in taverns,alleys, restaurants, subways and every other place imaginable waitedfor someone to say the wrong thing. Everything the microphones pickedup was routed to the CPA Brain, a monster electronic calculator.     If the words Let's see a movie were received in the Brain, theywere discarded. But if the words Let's roll this guy were received,the message was traced and a police helicopter would be at the scenein two minutes. And scattered all over the city were not only hiddenmicrophones, but hidden television cameras that relayed visual messagesto the Brain, and hidden machines that could detect a knife or a gun insomeone's pocket at forty yards.     Every place of business from the largest bank to the smallest grocerystore was absolutely impenetrable. No one had even tried to rob a placeof business for years.     Arson was next to impossible because of the heat-detectors—devicesplaced in every building that could detect, radarlike, any intensity ofheat above that caused by a cigarette lighter. Chemical research hadmade poisoning someone an impossibility. There were no drugs containingpoison, and while an ant-poison might kill ants, no concentrated amountof it would kill a human.     The FBI had always been a powerful organization, but under thesupervision of the CPA, it was a scientific colossus and to thinkof kidnapping someone or to contemplate the use of narcotics waspointless. A counterfeiter's career was always short-lived: every placeof business and millions of individuals had small counterfeit-detectorsthat could spot a fake and report it directly to the Brain.     And the percentage of crimes had dwindled even more with the appearanceof the robot police officers. Many a criminal in the past had gambledthat he could outshoot a pursuing policeman. But the robots weredifferent: they weren't flesh and blood. Bullets bounced off them andtheir aim was infallible.  It was like a fantastic dream come true. Only the dream wasn'tfantastic any more. With the huge atomic power plants scattered acrossthe country and supplying endless electrical power at ridiculouslylow prices, no endeavor that required power was fantastic. The powerrequired to operate the CPA devices cost each taxpayer an average offour dollars a year, and the invention, development and manufacture ofthe devices had cost even less.     And the CPA had attacked crime through society itself, striking atthe individual. In every city there were neon signs that blinkedsubliminally with the statement, CRIME IS FILTH. Listening to a radioor watching television, if a person heard station identification, heinvariably heard or saw just below perception the words CRIME IS FILTH.If he went for a walk or a ride, he saw the endless subliminal postersdeclaring CRIME IS FILTH, and if he read a magazine or newspaper healways found, in those little dead spaces where an editor couldn't fitanything else, the below-perception words CRIME IS FILTH.     It was monotonous and, after a while, a person looked at the words andheard them without thinking about them. And they were imprinted on hissubconscious over and over, year after year, until he knew that crimewas the same as filth and that criminals were filthy things.     Except men like Joe Harper. No system is perfect. Along with thousandsof other DCTs, Joe refused to believe it, and when he reached apartment204 at 2141 Orange Street, he felt as if he'd inherited a gold mine.     The hall was dimly lit, but when he stood before the door numbered 204,he could see that the wall on either side of it was      new     . That is,instead of being covered with dust, dirt and stains as the other wallswere, it was clean. The building was an old one, the hall was wide, andthe owner had obviously constructed a wall across the hall, creatinganother room. If the owner had reported the new room as required bylaw, it would have been wired with CPA burglarproof devices, butevidently he didn't want to pay for installation.     When Joe entered the cubbyhole, he had to stand to one side in order toclose the door behind him. The place was barely large enough for thebed, chair and bureau; it was a place where a man could fall down atnight and sleep, but where no normal man could live day after day.     Fearing that someone might detect him before he actually committed thecrime, Joe hurried to the bureau and searched it.  He broke out in a sweat when he found nothing but underwear and oldmagazines. If he stole underwear and magazines, it would still be acrime, but the newspapers would splash satirical headlines. Instead ofbeing respected as a successful criminal, he would be ridiculed.     He stopped sweating when he found a watch under a pile of underwear.The crystal was broken, one hand was missing and it wouldn't run,but—perfection itself—engraved on the back was the inscription,      ToJohn with Love     . His trial would be a clean-cut one: it would be easyfor the CPA to prove ownership and that a crime had been committed.     Chuckling with joy, he opened the window and shouted,       Thief! Police!Help!          He waited a few seconds and then ran. When he reached the street, apolice helicopter landed next to him. Strong metal arms seized him;cameras clicked and recorded the damning evidence.     When Joe was securely handcuffed to a seat inside the helicopter, themetal police officers rang doorbells. There was a reward for anyone whoreported a crime, but no one admitted shouting the warning.  He was having a nightmare when he heard the voice, Hey. Wake up. Hey!     He opened his eyes, saw Hendricks' ugly face and thought for a minutehe was still having the nightmare.     I just saw your doctor, Hendricks said. He says your treatment isover. You can go home now. I thought I'd give you a lift.     As Joe dressed, he searched his mind and tried to find some difference.     During the treatment, he had been unconscious or drugged, unable tothink. Now he could think clearly, but he could find no difference inhimself.     He felt more relaxed than he'd ever felt before, but that could be anafter-effect of all the sedatives he'd been given. And, he noticed whenhe looked in the mirror, he was paler. The treatment had taken monthsand he had, between operations, been locked in his room.     Hendricks was standing by the window. Joe stared at the massive back.Deliberately goading his mind, he discovered the biggest change:Before, the mere sight of the man had aroused an intense hatred. Now,even when he tried, he succeeded in arousing only a mild hatred.They had toned down his capacity to hate, but not done away with italtogether.     Come here and take a look at your public, said Hendricks.     Joe went to the window. Three stories below, a large crowd had gatheredon the hospital steps: a band, photographers, television trucks,cameramen and autograph hunters. He'd waited a long time for this day.But now—another change in him—     He put the emotion into words: I don't feel like a hero. Funny, but Idon't.     Hero! Hendricks laughed and, with his powerful lungs, it soundedlike a bull snorting. You think a successful criminal is a hero? Youstupid—     He laughed again and waved a hand at the crowd below them. You thinkthose people are down there because they admire what you did? They'redown there waiting for you because they're curious, because they'reglad the CPA caught you, and because they're glad you're an Ex. You'rean      ex     -criminal now, and because of your treatment, you'll never beable to commit another crime as long as you live. And that's the kindof guy they admire, so they want to see you, shake your hand and getyour autograph.     Joe didn't understand Hendricks completely, but the part he didunderstand he didn't believe. A crowd was waiting for him. He could seethe people with his own eyes. When he left the hospital, they'd cheerand shout and ask for his autograph. If he wasn't a hero,      what washe     ?  It took half an hour to get through the crowd. Cameras clicked allaround him, a hundred kids asked for his autograph, everyone talked atonce and cheered, smiled, laughed, patted him on the back and cheeredsome more.     Only one thing confused him during all the excitement: a white-hairedold lady with tears in her eyes said, Thank heaven it was only awatch. Thank heaven you didn't kill someone! God bless you, son. Andthen the old lady had handed him a box of fudge and left him in totalconfusion.     What she said didn't make sense. If he had killed someone ratherthan stealing a watch, he would be even more of a hero and the crowdwould have cheered even louder. He knew: he had stood outside the CPAhospitals many times and the crowds always cheered louder when anex-murderer came out.     In Hendricks' robot-chauffeured car, he ate the fudge and consoledhimself with the thought,      People are funny. Who can understand 'em?       Feeling happy for one of the few times in his life, he turned towardHendricks and said, Thanks for what you did. It turned out great. I'llbe able to get a good job now.     That's why I met you at the hospital, Hendricks said. I want toexplain some things. I've known you for a long time and I know you'respectacularly dumb. You can't figure out some things for yourself andI don't want you walking around the rest of your life thinking I didyou a favor.     Joe frowned. Few men had ever done him a favor and he had rarelythanked anyone for anything. And now ... after thanking the man who'ddone him the biggest favor of all, the man was denying it!     You robbed Gralewski's apartment, Hendricks said. Gralewski is a CPAemployee and he doesn't live in the apartment you robbed. The CPA paysthe rent for that one and he lives in another. We have a lot of placeslike that. You see, it gives us a way to get rid of saps like youbefore they do real damage. We use it as a last resort when a DCT FirstClass won't take the free psycho treatment or—     Well, it's still a favor.     Hendricks' face hardened. Favor? You wouldn't know a favor if youstumbled over one. I did it because it's standard procedure for yourtype of case. Anyone can—free of charge—have treatment by the bestpsychologists. Any DCT can stop being a DCT by simply asking for thetreatment and taking it. But you wouldn't do that. You wanted to commita crime, get caught and be a hero ... an      Ex     .  The car passed one of the CPA playgrounds. Boys and girls of all ageswere laughing, squealing with joy as they played games designed by CPApsychologists to relieve tension. And—despite the treatment, Joeshuddered when he saw the psychologists standing to one side, quietlywatching the children. The whole world was filled with CPA employeesand volunteer workers. Everywhere you went, it was there, quietlywatching you and analyzing you, and if you showed criminal tendencies,it watched you even more closely and analyzed you even more deeplyuntil it took you apart and put you back together again the way itwanted you to be.     Being an Ex, you'll get the kind of job you always wanted, Hendrickscontinued. You'll get a good-paying job, but you'll work for it.You'll work eight hours a day, work harder than you've ever workedbefore in your life, because every time you start to loaf, a voice inyour head is going to say,      Work! Work!     Exes always get good jobsbecause employers know they're good workers.     But during these next few days, you'll discover what being an Exis like. You see, Joe, the treatment can't possibly take all thecriminal tendencies out of a man. So the treatment does the next bestthing—you'll find a set of laws written in your mind. You might      want     to break one now and then, but you won't be able. I'll give you anillustration....     Joe's face reddened as Hendricks proceeded to call him a series ofnames. He wanted to smash the fat, grinning face, but the muscles inhis arm froze before it moved it an inch.     And worse than that, a brief pain ripped through his skull. A pain sointense that, had it lasted a second longer, he would have screamed inagony. And above the pain, a voice whispered in his head,      Unlawful tostrike someone except in self-defense     .     He opened his mouth to tell Hendricks exactly what he thought of him,the CPA, the whole world. But the words stayed in his throat, the painreturned, and the mental voice whispered,      Unlawful to curse     .     He had never heard how the treatment prevented an Ex from committing acrime. And now that he knew, it didn't seem fair. He decided to tellthe whole story to the newspapers as soon as he could. And as soon asthat decision formed in his mind, his body froze, the pain returned andthe voice,      Unlawful to divulge CPA procedure     .     See what I mean? Hendricks asked. A century ago, you would have beenlocked in a prison and taxpayers' money would have supported you untilthe day you died. With the CPA system, you're returned to society, auseful citizen, unable to commit the smallest crime. And you've got abig hand in your dirty little mind that's going to slap it every timeyou get the wrong kind of thought. It'll keep slapping you until youlearn. It might take weeks, months or years, but you'll learn sooneror later to not even think about doing anything wrong.  He lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring at the car's plush ceiling.It's a great system, isn't it, Joe? A true democracy. Even a jerk likeyou is free to do what he wants, as long as it's legal.     I think it's a lousy, filthy system. Joe's head was still tinglingwith pain and he felt suffocated. The CPA was everywhere, only now itwas also inside his head, telling him he couldn't do this, couldn't dothat. All his life it had been telling him he couldn't do things hewanted to do and      now     ....     Hendricks laughed. You'll change your opinion. We live in a clean,wonderful world, Joe. A world of happy, healthy people. Except forfreaks like yourself, criminals are—     Let me out! Joe grabbed at the door and was on the sidewalk, slammingthe door behind him before the car stopped completely.     He stared at the car as it pulled away from the curb and glided intothe stream of traffic again. He realized he was a prisoner ... aprisoner inside his own body ... made a prisoner by a world that hatedhim back.     He wanted to spit his contempt, but the increasingly familiar pain andvoice prevented him.     It was unlawful to spit on a sidewalk.   ","The CPA is meant to prevent crime and not punish crime. It stands for Crime Prevention Association. The CPA organization has made crime nearly impossible through various methods of surveillance and intelligence gathering. The crime was not punished by the CPA but addressed by sending the person to a hospital for expensive treatment to correct and remove the deviance from the person’s mind. A CPA ID card is required to be carried by everyone and when asked, a person has to present the ID card. Being drunk is illegal according to the rules of the CPA. "
"Why does Joe hire the girl? </s>       Going straight meant crooked planning. He'd       never make it unless he somehow managed to       PICK A CRIME     By RICHARD R. SMITH     Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1958.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The girl was tall, wide-eyed and brunette. She had the right curves inthe right places and would have been beautiful if her nose had beensmaller, if her mouth had been larger and if her hair had been wavyinstead of straight.     Hank said you wanted to see me, she said when she stopped besideJoe's table.     Yeah. Joe nodded at the other chair. Have a seat. He reached into apocket, withdrew five ten-dollar bills and handed them to her. I wantyou to do a job for me. It'll only take a few minutes.     The girl counted the money, then placed it in her purse. Joe noticeda small counterfeit-detector inside the purse before she closed it.What's the job?     Tell you later. He gulped the remainder of his drink, almost pouringit down his throat.     Hey. You trying to make yourself sick?     Not sick. Drunk. Been trying to get drunk all afternoon. As theliquor settled in his stomach, he waited for the warm glow. But theglow didn't come ... the bartender had watered his drink again.     Trying to get drunk? the girl inquired. Are you crazy?     No. It's simple. If I get drunk, I can join the AAA and get free roomand board for a month while they give me a treatment.     It was easy enough to understand, he reflected, but a lot harder to do.The CPA robot bartenders saw to it that anyone got high if they wanted,but comparatively few got drunk. Each bartender could not only mixdrinks but could also judge by a man's actions and speech when he wason the verge of drunkenness. At the proper time—since drunkenness wasillegal—a bartender always watered the drinks.     Joe had tried dozens of times in dozens of bars to outsmart them, buthad always failed. And in all of New York's millions, there had beenonly a hundred cases of intoxication during the previous year.     The girl laughed. If you're that hard up, I don't know if I shouldtake this fifty or not. Why don't you go out and get a job likeeveryone else?     As an answer, Joe handed her his CPA ID card. She grunted when shesaw the large letters that indicated the owner had Dangerous CriminalTendencies.  When she handed the card back, Joe fought an impulse to tear it topieces. He'd done that once and gone through a mountain of red tape toget another—everyone was required by law to carry a CPA ID card andshow it upon request.     I'm sorry, the girl said. I didn't know you were a DCT.     And who'll hire a guy with criminal tendencies? You know the score.When you try to get a job, they ask to see your ID before they eventell you if there's an opening or not. If your CPA ID says you're aDCT, you're SOL and they tell you there's no openings. Oh, I've hadseveral jobs ... jobs like all DCTs get. I've been a garbage man,street-cleaner, ditch-digger—     On the other side of the room, the jukebox came to life with a roar anda group of teen-agers scrambled to the dance floor.     Feeling safe from hidden microphones because of the uproar, he leanedacross the table and whispered in the girl's ear, That's what Iwant to hire you for. I want you to help me commit a crime. If I getconvicted of a crime, I'll be able to get a good job!     The girl's lips formed a bright red circle. Say! You really got bigplans, don't you?     He smiled at her admiration. It      was     something big to plan a crime.A civilization weary of murder, robbery, kidnapping, counterfeiting,blackmail, rape, arson, and drunkenness had originated the CPA—CrimePrevention Association. There were no longer any prisons—CPA officialshad declared loudly and emphatically that their job was to preventcrime, not punish it. And prevent it they did, with thousands ofingenious crime-prevention devices and methods. They had made crimealmost impossible, and during the previous year, only a few hundred menin the whole country had been convicted of criminal acts.     No crime was ever punished. If a man was smart enough to killsomeone, for instance, he wasn't sent to prison to be punished; hewasn't punished at all. Instead, he was sent to a hospital where allcriminal tendencies were removed from his mind by psychologists, shocktreatments, encephalographic devices, a form of prefrontal lobotomy anda dozen other methods. An expensive operation, but since there were fewcriminals—only ten in New York during the past year—any city couldafford the CPA hospitals.     The CPA system was, actually, cheaper than previous methods becauseit did away with the damage caused by countless crimes; did away withprisons and their guards, large police forces, squad cars and weapons.     And, ironically, a man who      did     commit a crime was a sort of hero. Hewas a hero to the millions of men and women who had suppressed impulsesto kill someone, beat their mates, get drunk, or kick a dog. Not only ahero, but because of the CPA Treatment, he was—when he left one of theCPA hospitals—a thoroughly honest and hard-working individual ... aman who could be trusted with any responsibility, any amount of money.And therefore, an EX (a convicted criminal who received the treatmentwas commonly called an Ex because he was in the strictest sense of theword an Ex-criminal) ... an Ex was always offered the best jobs.     Well, the girl said. I'm honored. Really. But I got a date at ten.Let's get it over with. You said it'd only take a few minutes.     Okay. Let's go.  The girl followed him across the room, around tables, through a door,down a hall, through a back door and into the alley.     She followed him up the dark alley until he turned suddenly and rippedher blouse and skirt.     He surprised her completely, but when she recovered, she backed away,her body poised like a wrestler's. What's the big idea?     Scream, Joe said. Scream as loud as you can, and when the cops gethere, tell 'em I tried to rape you.     The plan was perfect, he told himself. Attempted rape was one of thefew things that was a crime merely because a man attempted it. A crimebecause it theoretically inflicted psychological injury upon theintended victim—and because millions of women voters had voted it acrime. On the other hand, attempted murder, robbery, kidnapping, etc.,were not crimes. They weren't crimes because the DCT didn't completethe act, and if he didn't complete the act, that meant simply that theCPA had once again functioned properly.     The girl shook her head vigorously. Sorry, buddy. Can't help you thatway. Why didn't you tell me what you wanted?     What's the matter? Joe complained. I'm not asking you to do anythingwrong.     You stupid jerk. What do you think this is—the Middle Ages? Don't youknow almost every woman knows how to defend herself? I'm a sergeant inthe WSDA!     Joe groaned. The WSDA—Women's Self-Defense Association—a branch ofthe CPA. The WSDA gave free instruction in judo and jujitsu, evendeveloped new techniques of wrestling and instructed only women inthose new techniques.     The girl was still shaking her head. Can't do it, buddy. I'd lose myrank if you were convicted of—     Do I have to      make     you scream? Joe inquired tiredly and advancedtoward the girl.     —and that rank carries a lot of weight. Hey!      Stop it!          Joe discovered to his dismay that the girl was telling the truth whenshe said she was a sergeant in the WSDA. He felt her hands on his body,and in the time it takes to blink twice, he was flying through the air.       The alley's concrete floor was hard—it had always been hard, but hebecame acutely aware of its lack of resiliency when his head struck it.There was a wonderful moment while the world was filled with beautifulstars and streaks of lightning through which he heard distant policesirens. But the wonderful moment didn't last long and darkness closedin on him.  When he awoke, a rough voice was saying, Okay. Snap out of it.     He opened his eyes and recognized the police commissioner's office. Itwould be hard not to recognize: the room was large, devoid of furnitureexcept for a desk and chairs, but the walls were lined with thecontrols of television screens, electronic calculators and a hundredother machines that formed New York's mechanical police force.     Commissioner Hendricks was a remarkable character. There was somethingwrong with his glands, and he was a huge, greasy bulk of a man withbushy eyebrows and a double chin. His steel-gray eyes showed somethingof his intelligence and he would have gone far in politics if fatehadn't made him so ugly, for more than half the voters who elected mento high political positions were women.     Anyone who knew Hendricks well liked him, for he was a friendly,likable person. But the millions of women voters who saw his face onposters and on their TV screens saw only the ugly face and heard onlythe harsh voice. The President of the United States was a capableman, but also a very handsome one, and the fact that a man who lookedsomething like a bulldog had been elected as New York's policecommissioner was a credit to Hendricks and millions of women voters.     Where's the girl? Joe asked.     I processed her while you were out cold. She left. Joe, you—     Okay, Joe said. I'll save you the trouble. I admit it. Attemptedrape. I confess.     Hendricks smiled. Sorry, Joe. You missed the boat again. He reachedout and turned a dial on his desk top. We had a microphone hidden inthat alley. We have a lot of microphones hidden in a lot of alleys.You'd be surprised at the number of conspiracies that take place inalleys!     Joe listened numbly to his voice as it came from one of the hundreds ofmachines on the walls,       Scream. Scream as loud as you can, and whenthe cops get here, tell 'em I tried to rape you.      And then the girl'svoice,       Sorry, buddy. Can't help—          He waved his hand. Okay. Shut it off. I confess to conspiracy.  Hendricks rose from behind the desk, walked leisurely to where Joe wasslouched in a chair. Give me your CPA ID.     Joe handed him the card with trembling fingers. He felt as if the worldhad collapsed beneath him. Conspiracy to commit a crime wasn't a crime.Anyone could conspire. And if the conspirators were prevented fromcommitting a crime, then that meant the CPA had functioned properlyonce again. That meant the CPA had once again      prevented     crime, andthe CPA didn't punish crimes or attempted crimes, and it didn't attemptto prevent crimes      by     punishment. If it did, that would be a violationof the New Civil Rights.     Hendricks crossed the room, deposited the card in a slot and punched abutton. The machine hummed and a new card appeared.     When Hendricks handed him the new card, Joe saw that the wordsDANGEROUS CRIMINAL TENDENCIES were now in red and larger than before.And, in slightly smaller print, the ID card stated that the owner was aDCT First Class.     You've graduated, Hendricks said coldly. You guys never learn, doyou? Now you're a DCT First Class instead of a Second Class. You knowwhat that means?     Hendricks leaned closer until Joe could feel his breath on his face.That means your case history will be turned over to the newspapers.You'll be the hobby of thousands of amateur cops. You know how itworks? It's like this. The Joneses are sitting around tomorrow nightand they're bored. Then Mr. Jones says, 'Let's go watch this JoeHarper.' So they look up your record—amateur cops always keep recordsof First Classes in scrapbooks—and they see that you stop frequentlyat Walt's Tavern.     So they go there and they sit and drink and watch you, trying notto let you know they're watching you. They watch you all night, justhoping you'll do something exciting, like trying to kill someone,so they can be the first ones to yell '      Police!     ' They'll watch youbecause it's exciting to be an amateur cop, and if they ever      did     prevent you from committing a crime, they'd get a nice reward andthey'd be famous.     Lay off, Joe said. I got a headache. That girl—     Hendricks leaned even closer and glared. You listen, Joe. This isinteresting. You see, it doesn't stop with Mr. and Mrs. Jones. There'sthousands of people like them. Years ago, they got their kicks fromreading about guys like you, but these days things are dull becauseit's rare when anyone commits a crime. So every time you walk downthe street, there'll be at least a dozen of 'em following you, and nomatter where you go, you can bet there'll be some of 'em sitting nextto you, standing next to you.     During the day, they'll take your picture with their spy cameras thatlook like buttons on their coats. At night, they'll peep at you throughyour keyhole. Your neighbors across the street will watch you throughbinoculars and—     Lay off!  Joe squirmed in the chair. He'd been lectured by Hendricks before andit was always an unpleasant experience. The huge man was like a talkingmachine once he got started, a machine that couldn't be stopped.     And the kids are the worst, Hendricks continued. They have JuniorCPA clubs. They keep records of hoodlums like you in little cardboardboxes. They'll stare at you on the street and stare at you throughrestaurant windows while you're eating meals. They'll follow you inpublic rest rooms and watch you out of the corners of their eyeswhile they wash their little hands, and almost every day when you lookback, you'll see a dozen freckle-faced little boys following you half ablock behind, giggling and gaping at you. They'll follow you until theday you die, because you're a freak!     Joe couldn't stand the breath in his face any longer. He rose and pacedthe floor.     And it doesn't end      there     , Joe. It goes on and on. You'll be theobject of every do-gooder and parlor psychologist. Strangers will stopyou on the street and say, 'I'd like to help you, friend.' Then they'llask you queer questions like, 'Did your father reject you when you werea child?' 'Do you like girls?' 'How does it feel to be a DCT FirstClass?' And then there'll be the strangers who hate DCTs. They'll stopyou on the street and insult you, call you names, spit on you and—     Okay, goddam it!      Stop it!          Hendricks stopped, wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchiefand lit a cigarette.     I'm doing you a favor, Joe. I'm trying to explain something you're toodumb to realize by yourself. We've taught everyone to hate crime andcriminals ... to      hate     them as nothing has ever been hated before.Today a criminal is a freak, an alien. Your life will be a living hellif you don't leave New York. You should go to some small town wherethere aren't many people, or be a hermit, or go to Iceland or—     Joe eyed the huge man suspiciously.       Favor     , did you say? The day youdo      me     a favor—     Hendricks shrugged his shoulders negligently. Not entirely a favor. Iwant to get rid of you. Usually I come up here and sit around and readbooks. But guys like you are a nuisance and take up my time.     I couldn't leave if I wanted to, Joe said. I'm flat broke. Thanks toyour CPA system, a DCT can't get a decent job.  Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time.     Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime.     Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself.     Umm.     Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't      have     tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and—     Go to those      head-shrinkers     ?     Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way.     Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you      make     me go?     Violation of Civil Rights.     Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime.     How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done.     In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself!     He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room.     Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime!     Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it:      John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St.       When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks.     Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything.  When Joe reached the street, he hurried toward the nearest subway. As achild, he had been frightened of the dark. As a man, he wasn't afraidof the dark itself, but the darkened city always made him feel illat ease. The uneasiness was, more than anything else, caused by hisown imagination. He hated the CPA and at night he couldn't shrug thefeeling that the CPA lurked in every shadow, watching him, waiting forhim to make a mistake.     Imagination or not, the CPA was almost everywhere a person went.Twenty-four hours a day, millions of microphones hidden in taverns,alleys, restaurants, subways and every other place imaginable waitedfor someone to say the wrong thing. Everything the microphones pickedup was routed to the CPA Brain, a monster electronic calculator.     If the words Let's see a movie were received in the Brain, theywere discarded. But if the words Let's roll this guy were received,the message was traced and a police helicopter would be at the scenein two minutes. And scattered all over the city were not only hiddenmicrophones, but hidden television cameras that relayed visual messagesto the Brain, and hidden machines that could detect a knife or a gun insomeone's pocket at forty yards.     Every place of business from the largest bank to the smallest grocerystore was absolutely impenetrable. No one had even tried to rob a placeof business for years.     Arson was next to impossible because of the heat-detectors—devicesplaced in every building that could detect, radarlike, any intensity ofheat above that caused by a cigarette lighter. Chemical research hadmade poisoning someone an impossibility. There were no drugs containingpoison, and while an ant-poison might kill ants, no concentrated amountof it would kill a human.     The FBI had always been a powerful organization, but under thesupervision of the CPA, it was a scientific colossus and to thinkof kidnapping someone or to contemplate the use of narcotics waspointless. A counterfeiter's career was always short-lived: every placeof business and millions of individuals had small counterfeit-detectorsthat could spot a fake and report it directly to the Brain.     And the percentage of crimes had dwindled even more with the appearanceof the robot police officers. Many a criminal in the past had gambledthat he could outshoot a pursuing policeman. But the robots weredifferent: they weren't flesh and blood. Bullets bounced off them andtheir aim was infallible.  It was like a fantastic dream come true. Only the dream wasn'tfantastic any more. With the huge atomic power plants scattered acrossthe country and supplying endless electrical power at ridiculouslylow prices, no endeavor that required power was fantastic. The powerrequired to operate the CPA devices cost each taxpayer an average offour dollars a year, and the invention, development and manufacture ofthe devices had cost even less.     And the CPA had attacked crime through society itself, striking atthe individual. In every city there were neon signs that blinkedsubliminally with the statement, CRIME IS FILTH. Listening to a radioor watching television, if a person heard station identification, heinvariably heard or saw just below perception the words CRIME IS FILTH.If he went for a walk or a ride, he saw the endless subliminal postersdeclaring CRIME IS FILTH, and if he read a magazine or newspaper healways found, in those little dead spaces where an editor couldn't fitanything else, the below-perception words CRIME IS FILTH.     It was monotonous and, after a while, a person looked at the words andheard them without thinking about them. And they were imprinted on hissubconscious over and over, year after year, until he knew that crimewas the same as filth and that criminals were filthy things.     Except men like Joe Harper. No system is perfect. Along with thousandsof other DCTs, Joe refused to believe it, and when he reached apartment204 at 2141 Orange Street, he felt as if he'd inherited a gold mine.     The hall was dimly lit, but when he stood before the door numbered 204,he could see that the wall on either side of it was      new     . That is,instead of being covered with dust, dirt and stains as the other wallswere, it was clean. The building was an old one, the hall was wide, andthe owner had obviously constructed a wall across the hall, creatinganother room. If the owner had reported the new room as required bylaw, it would have been wired with CPA burglarproof devices, butevidently he didn't want to pay for installation.     When Joe entered the cubbyhole, he had to stand to one side in order toclose the door behind him. The place was barely large enough for thebed, chair and bureau; it was a place where a man could fall down atnight and sleep, but where no normal man could live day after day.     Fearing that someone might detect him before he actually committed thecrime, Joe hurried to the bureau and searched it.  He broke out in a sweat when he found nothing but underwear and oldmagazines. If he stole underwear and magazines, it would still be acrime, but the newspapers would splash satirical headlines. Instead ofbeing respected as a successful criminal, he would be ridiculed.     He stopped sweating when he found a watch under a pile of underwear.The crystal was broken, one hand was missing and it wouldn't run,but—perfection itself—engraved on the back was the inscription,      ToJohn with Love     . His trial would be a clean-cut one: it would be easyfor the CPA to prove ownership and that a crime had been committed.     Chuckling with joy, he opened the window and shouted,       Thief! Police!Help!          He waited a few seconds and then ran. When he reached the street, apolice helicopter landed next to him. Strong metal arms seized him;cameras clicked and recorded the damning evidence.     When Joe was securely handcuffed to a seat inside the helicopter, themetal police officers rang doorbells. There was a reward for anyone whoreported a crime, but no one admitted shouting the warning.  He was having a nightmare when he heard the voice, Hey. Wake up. Hey!     He opened his eyes, saw Hendricks' ugly face and thought for a minutehe was still having the nightmare.     I just saw your doctor, Hendricks said. He says your treatment isover. You can go home now. I thought I'd give you a lift.     As Joe dressed, he searched his mind and tried to find some difference.     During the treatment, he had been unconscious or drugged, unable tothink. Now he could think clearly, but he could find no difference inhimself.     He felt more relaxed than he'd ever felt before, but that could be anafter-effect of all the sedatives he'd been given. And, he noticed whenhe looked in the mirror, he was paler. The treatment had taken monthsand he had, between operations, been locked in his room.     Hendricks was standing by the window. Joe stared at the massive back.Deliberately goading his mind, he discovered the biggest change:Before, the mere sight of the man had aroused an intense hatred. Now,even when he tried, he succeeded in arousing only a mild hatred.They had toned down his capacity to hate, but not done away with italtogether.     Come here and take a look at your public, said Hendricks.     Joe went to the window. Three stories below, a large crowd had gatheredon the hospital steps: a band, photographers, television trucks,cameramen and autograph hunters. He'd waited a long time for this day.But now—another change in him—     He put the emotion into words: I don't feel like a hero. Funny, but Idon't.     Hero! Hendricks laughed and, with his powerful lungs, it soundedlike a bull snorting. You think a successful criminal is a hero? Youstupid—     He laughed again and waved a hand at the crowd below them. You thinkthose people are down there because they admire what you did? They'redown there waiting for you because they're curious, because they'reglad the CPA caught you, and because they're glad you're an Ex. You'rean      ex     -criminal now, and because of your treatment, you'll never beable to commit another crime as long as you live. And that's the kindof guy they admire, so they want to see you, shake your hand and getyour autograph.     Joe didn't understand Hendricks completely, but the part he didunderstand he didn't believe. A crowd was waiting for him. He could seethe people with his own eyes. When he left the hospital, they'd cheerand shout and ask for his autograph. If he wasn't a hero,      what washe     ?  It took half an hour to get through the crowd. Cameras clicked allaround him, a hundred kids asked for his autograph, everyone talked atonce and cheered, smiled, laughed, patted him on the back and cheeredsome more.     Only one thing confused him during all the excitement: a white-hairedold lady with tears in her eyes said, Thank heaven it was only awatch. Thank heaven you didn't kill someone! God bless you, son. Andthen the old lady had handed him a box of fudge and left him in totalconfusion.     What she said didn't make sense. If he had killed someone ratherthan stealing a watch, he would be even more of a hero and the crowdwould have cheered even louder. He knew: he had stood outside the CPAhospitals many times and the crowds always cheered louder when anex-murderer came out.     In Hendricks' robot-chauffeured car, he ate the fudge and consoledhimself with the thought,      People are funny. Who can understand 'em?       Feeling happy for one of the few times in his life, he turned towardHendricks and said, Thanks for what you did. It turned out great. I'llbe able to get a good job now.     That's why I met you at the hospital, Hendricks said. I want toexplain some things. I've known you for a long time and I know you'respectacularly dumb. You can't figure out some things for yourself andI don't want you walking around the rest of your life thinking I didyou a favor.     Joe frowned. Few men had ever done him a favor and he had rarelythanked anyone for anything. And now ... after thanking the man who'ddone him the biggest favor of all, the man was denying it!     You robbed Gralewski's apartment, Hendricks said. Gralewski is a CPAemployee and he doesn't live in the apartment you robbed. The CPA paysthe rent for that one and he lives in another. We have a lot of placeslike that. You see, it gives us a way to get rid of saps like youbefore they do real damage. We use it as a last resort when a DCT FirstClass won't take the free psycho treatment or—     Well, it's still a favor.     Hendricks' face hardened. Favor? You wouldn't know a favor if youstumbled over one. I did it because it's standard procedure for yourtype of case. Anyone can—free of charge—have treatment by the bestpsychologists. Any DCT can stop being a DCT by simply asking for thetreatment and taking it. But you wouldn't do that. You wanted to commita crime, get caught and be a hero ... an      Ex     .  The car passed one of the CPA playgrounds. Boys and girls of all ageswere laughing, squealing with joy as they played games designed by CPApsychologists to relieve tension. And—despite the treatment, Joeshuddered when he saw the psychologists standing to one side, quietlywatching the children. The whole world was filled with CPA employeesand volunteer workers. Everywhere you went, it was there, quietlywatching you and analyzing you, and if you showed criminal tendencies,it watched you even more closely and analyzed you even more deeplyuntil it took you apart and put you back together again the way itwanted you to be.     Being an Ex, you'll get the kind of job you always wanted, Hendrickscontinued. You'll get a good-paying job, but you'll work for it.You'll work eight hours a day, work harder than you've ever workedbefore in your life, because every time you start to loaf, a voice inyour head is going to say,      Work! Work!     Exes always get good jobsbecause employers know they're good workers.     But during these next few days, you'll discover what being an Exis like. You see, Joe, the treatment can't possibly take all thecriminal tendencies out of a man. So the treatment does the next bestthing—you'll find a set of laws written in your mind. You might      want     to break one now and then, but you won't be able. I'll give you anillustration....     Joe's face reddened as Hendricks proceeded to call him a series ofnames. He wanted to smash the fat, grinning face, but the muscles inhis arm froze before it moved it an inch.     And worse than that, a brief pain ripped through his skull. A pain sointense that, had it lasted a second longer, he would have screamed inagony. And above the pain, a voice whispered in his head,      Unlawful tostrike someone except in self-defense     .     He opened his mouth to tell Hendricks exactly what he thought of him,the CPA, the whole world. But the words stayed in his throat, the painreturned, and the mental voice whispered,      Unlawful to curse     .     He had never heard how the treatment prevented an Ex from committing acrime. And now that he knew, it didn't seem fair. He decided to tellthe whole story to the newspapers as soon as he could. And as soon asthat decision formed in his mind, his body froze, the pain returned andthe voice,      Unlawful to divulge CPA procedure     .     See what I mean? Hendricks asked. A century ago, you would have beenlocked in a prison and taxpayers' money would have supported you untilthe day you died. With the CPA system, you're returned to society, auseful citizen, unable to commit the smallest crime. And you've got abig hand in your dirty little mind that's going to slap it every timeyou get the wrong kind of thought. It'll keep slapping you until youlearn. It might take weeks, months or years, but you'll learn sooneror later to not even think about doing anything wrong.  He lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring at the car's plush ceiling.It's a great system, isn't it, Joe? A true democracy. Even a jerk likeyou is free to do what he wants, as long as it's legal.     I think it's a lousy, filthy system. Joe's head was still tinglingwith pain and he felt suffocated. The CPA was everywhere, only now itwas also inside his head, telling him he couldn't do this, couldn't dothat. All his life it had been telling him he couldn't do things hewanted to do and      now     ....     Hendricks laughed. You'll change your opinion. We live in a clean,wonderful world, Joe. A world of happy, healthy people. Except forfreaks like yourself, criminals are—     Let me out! Joe grabbed at the door and was on the sidewalk, slammingthe door behind him before the car stopped completely.     He stared at the car as it pulled away from the curb and glided intothe stream of traffic again. He realized he was a prisoner ... aprisoner inside his own body ... made a prisoner by a world that hatedhim back.     He wanted to spit his contempt, but the increasingly familiar pain andvoice prevented him.     It was unlawful to spit on a sidewalk.   ","Joe hires the girl because he wants to commit a crime and be caught by the CPA. He reasons that if he commits a crime and is caught he will be treated and then labelled as an “Ex” criminal. This designation would allow him to get whatever job he desired, an actual good job. An “Ex” criminal is treated as a type of hero because they are viewed as cured and incapable of ever committing a crime again, thus they are the most trustworthy person in society. Joe hires the girl to use her to pretend that he tried to rape her. "
"Describe the different levels of DCT and what effects they have on a person. </s>       Going straight meant crooked planning. He'd       never make it unless he somehow managed to       PICK A CRIME     By RICHARD R. SMITH     Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1958.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The girl was tall, wide-eyed and brunette. She had the right curves inthe right places and would have been beautiful if her nose had beensmaller, if her mouth had been larger and if her hair had been wavyinstead of straight.     Hank said you wanted to see me, she said when she stopped besideJoe's table.     Yeah. Joe nodded at the other chair. Have a seat. He reached into apocket, withdrew five ten-dollar bills and handed them to her. I wantyou to do a job for me. It'll only take a few minutes.     The girl counted the money, then placed it in her purse. Joe noticeda small counterfeit-detector inside the purse before she closed it.What's the job?     Tell you later. He gulped the remainder of his drink, almost pouringit down his throat.     Hey. You trying to make yourself sick?     Not sick. Drunk. Been trying to get drunk all afternoon. As theliquor settled in his stomach, he waited for the warm glow. But theglow didn't come ... the bartender had watered his drink again.     Trying to get drunk? the girl inquired. Are you crazy?     No. It's simple. If I get drunk, I can join the AAA and get free roomand board for a month while they give me a treatment.     It was easy enough to understand, he reflected, but a lot harder to do.The CPA robot bartenders saw to it that anyone got high if they wanted,but comparatively few got drunk. Each bartender could not only mixdrinks but could also judge by a man's actions and speech when he wason the verge of drunkenness. At the proper time—since drunkenness wasillegal—a bartender always watered the drinks.     Joe had tried dozens of times in dozens of bars to outsmart them, buthad always failed. And in all of New York's millions, there had beenonly a hundred cases of intoxication during the previous year.     The girl laughed. If you're that hard up, I don't know if I shouldtake this fifty or not. Why don't you go out and get a job likeeveryone else?     As an answer, Joe handed her his CPA ID card. She grunted when shesaw the large letters that indicated the owner had Dangerous CriminalTendencies.  When she handed the card back, Joe fought an impulse to tear it topieces. He'd done that once and gone through a mountain of red tape toget another—everyone was required by law to carry a CPA ID card andshow it upon request.     I'm sorry, the girl said. I didn't know you were a DCT.     And who'll hire a guy with criminal tendencies? You know the score.When you try to get a job, they ask to see your ID before they eventell you if there's an opening or not. If your CPA ID says you're aDCT, you're SOL and they tell you there's no openings. Oh, I've hadseveral jobs ... jobs like all DCTs get. I've been a garbage man,street-cleaner, ditch-digger—     On the other side of the room, the jukebox came to life with a roar anda group of teen-agers scrambled to the dance floor.     Feeling safe from hidden microphones because of the uproar, he leanedacross the table and whispered in the girl's ear, That's what Iwant to hire you for. I want you to help me commit a crime. If I getconvicted of a crime, I'll be able to get a good job!     The girl's lips formed a bright red circle. Say! You really got bigplans, don't you?     He smiled at her admiration. It      was     something big to plan a crime.A civilization weary of murder, robbery, kidnapping, counterfeiting,blackmail, rape, arson, and drunkenness had originated the CPA—CrimePrevention Association. There were no longer any prisons—CPA officialshad declared loudly and emphatically that their job was to preventcrime, not punish it. And prevent it they did, with thousands ofingenious crime-prevention devices and methods. They had made crimealmost impossible, and during the previous year, only a few hundred menin the whole country had been convicted of criminal acts.     No crime was ever punished. If a man was smart enough to killsomeone, for instance, he wasn't sent to prison to be punished; hewasn't punished at all. Instead, he was sent to a hospital where allcriminal tendencies were removed from his mind by psychologists, shocktreatments, encephalographic devices, a form of prefrontal lobotomy anda dozen other methods. An expensive operation, but since there were fewcriminals—only ten in New York during the past year—any city couldafford the CPA hospitals.     The CPA system was, actually, cheaper than previous methods becauseit did away with the damage caused by countless crimes; did away withprisons and their guards, large police forces, squad cars and weapons.     And, ironically, a man who      did     commit a crime was a sort of hero. Hewas a hero to the millions of men and women who had suppressed impulsesto kill someone, beat their mates, get drunk, or kick a dog. Not only ahero, but because of the CPA Treatment, he was—when he left one of theCPA hospitals—a thoroughly honest and hard-working individual ... aman who could be trusted with any responsibility, any amount of money.And therefore, an EX (a convicted criminal who received the treatmentwas commonly called an Ex because he was in the strictest sense of theword an Ex-criminal) ... an Ex was always offered the best jobs.     Well, the girl said. I'm honored. Really. But I got a date at ten.Let's get it over with. You said it'd only take a few minutes.     Okay. Let's go.  The girl followed him across the room, around tables, through a door,down a hall, through a back door and into the alley.     She followed him up the dark alley until he turned suddenly and rippedher blouse and skirt.     He surprised her completely, but when she recovered, she backed away,her body poised like a wrestler's. What's the big idea?     Scream, Joe said. Scream as loud as you can, and when the cops gethere, tell 'em I tried to rape you.     The plan was perfect, he told himself. Attempted rape was one of thefew things that was a crime merely because a man attempted it. A crimebecause it theoretically inflicted psychological injury upon theintended victim—and because millions of women voters had voted it acrime. On the other hand, attempted murder, robbery, kidnapping, etc.,were not crimes. They weren't crimes because the DCT didn't completethe act, and if he didn't complete the act, that meant simply that theCPA had once again functioned properly.     The girl shook her head vigorously. Sorry, buddy. Can't help you thatway. Why didn't you tell me what you wanted?     What's the matter? Joe complained. I'm not asking you to do anythingwrong.     You stupid jerk. What do you think this is—the Middle Ages? Don't youknow almost every woman knows how to defend herself? I'm a sergeant inthe WSDA!     Joe groaned. The WSDA—Women's Self-Defense Association—a branch ofthe CPA. The WSDA gave free instruction in judo and jujitsu, evendeveloped new techniques of wrestling and instructed only women inthose new techniques.     The girl was still shaking her head. Can't do it, buddy. I'd lose myrank if you were convicted of—     Do I have to      make     you scream? Joe inquired tiredly and advancedtoward the girl.     —and that rank carries a lot of weight. Hey!      Stop it!          Joe discovered to his dismay that the girl was telling the truth whenshe said she was a sergeant in the WSDA. He felt her hands on his body,and in the time it takes to blink twice, he was flying through the air.       The alley's concrete floor was hard—it had always been hard, but hebecame acutely aware of its lack of resiliency when his head struck it.There was a wonderful moment while the world was filled with beautifulstars and streaks of lightning through which he heard distant policesirens. But the wonderful moment didn't last long and darkness closedin on him.  When he awoke, a rough voice was saying, Okay. Snap out of it.     He opened his eyes and recognized the police commissioner's office. Itwould be hard not to recognize: the room was large, devoid of furnitureexcept for a desk and chairs, but the walls were lined with thecontrols of television screens, electronic calculators and a hundredother machines that formed New York's mechanical police force.     Commissioner Hendricks was a remarkable character. There was somethingwrong with his glands, and he was a huge, greasy bulk of a man withbushy eyebrows and a double chin. His steel-gray eyes showed somethingof his intelligence and he would have gone far in politics if fatehadn't made him so ugly, for more than half the voters who elected mento high political positions were women.     Anyone who knew Hendricks well liked him, for he was a friendly,likable person. But the millions of women voters who saw his face onposters and on their TV screens saw only the ugly face and heard onlythe harsh voice. The President of the United States was a capableman, but also a very handsome one, and the fact that a man who lookedsomething like a bulldog had been elected as New York's policecommissioner was a credit to Hendricks and millions of women voters.     Where's the girl? Joe asked.     I processed her while you were out cold. She left. Joe, you—     Okay, Joe said. I'll save you the trouble. I admit it. Attemptedrape. I confess.     Hendricks smiled. Sorry, Joe. You missed the boat again. He reachedout and turned a dial on his desk top. We had a microphone hidden inthat alley. We have a lot of microphones hidden in a lot of alleys.You'd be surprised at the number of conspiracies that take place inalleys!     Joe listened numbly to his voice as it came from one of the hundreds ofmachines on the walls,       Scream. Scream as loud as you can, and whenthe cops get here, tell 'em I tried to rape you.      And then the girl'svoice,       Sorry, buddy. Can't help—          He waved his hand. Okay. Shut it off. I confess to conspiracy.  Hendricks rose from behind the desk, walked leisurely to where Joe wasslouched in a chair. Give me your CPA ID.     Joe handed him the card with trembling fingers. He felt as if the worldhad collapsed beneath him. Conspiracy to commit a crime wasn't a crime.Anyone could conspire. And if the conspirators were prevented fromcommitting a crime, then that meant the CPA had functioned properlyonce again. That meant the CPA had once again      prevented     crime, andthe CPA didn't punish crimes or attempted crimes, and it didn't attemptto prevent crimes      by     punishment. If it did, that would be a violationof the New Civil Rights.     Hendricks crossed the room, deposited the card in a slot and punched abutton. The machine hummed and a new card appeared.     When Hendricks handed him the new card, Joe saw that the wordsDANGEROUS CRIMINAL TENDENCIES were now in red and larger than before.And, in slightly smaller print, the ID card stated that the owner was aDCT First Class.     You've graduated, Hendricks said coldly. You guys never learn, doyou? Now you're a DCT First Class instead of a Second Class. You knowwhat that means?     Hendricks leaned closer until Joe could feel his breath on his face.That means your case history will be turned over to the newspapers.You'll be the hobby of thousands of amateur cops. You know how itworks? It's like this. The Joneses are sitting around tomorrow nightand they're bored. Then Mr. Jones says, 'Let's go watch this JoeHarper.' So they look up your record—amateur cops always keep recordsof First Classes in scrapbooks—and they see that you stop frequentlyat Walt's Tavern.     So they go there and they sit and drink and watch you, trying notto let you know they're watching you. They watch you all night, justhoping you'll do something exciting, like trying to kill someone,so they can be the first ones to yell '      Police!     ' They'll watch youbecause it's exciting to be an amateur cop, and if they ever      did     prevent you from committing a crime, they'd get a nice reward andthey'd be famous.     Lay off, Joe said. I got a headache. That girl—     Hendricks leaned even closer and glared. You listen, Joe. This isinteresting. You see, it doesn't stop with Mr. and Mrs. Jones. There'sthousands of people like them. Years ago, they got their kicks fromreading about guys like you, but these days things are dull becauseit's rare when anyone commits a crime. So every time you walk downthe street, there'll be at least a dozen of 'em following you, and nomatter where you go, you can bet there'll be some of 'em sitting nextto you, standing next to you.     During the day, they'll take your picture with their spy cameras thatlook like buttons on their coats. At night, they'll peep at you throughyour keyhole. Your neighbors across the street will watch you throughbinoculars and—     Lay off!  Joe squirmed in the chair. He'd been lectured by Hendricks before andit was always an unpleasant experience. The huge man was like a talkingmachine once he got started, a machine that couldn't be stopped.     And the kids are the worst, Hendricks continued. They have JuniorCPA clubs. They keep records of hoodlums like you in little cardboardboxes. They'll stare at you on the street and stare at you throughrestaurant windows while you're eating meals. They'll follow you inpublic rest rooms and watch you out of the corners of their eyeswhile they wash their little hands, and almost every day when you lookback, you'll see a dozen freckle-faced little boys following you half ablock behind, giggling and gaping at you. They'll follow you until theday you die, because you're a freak!     Joe couldn't stand the breath in his face any longer. He rose and pacedthe floor.     And it doesn't end      there     , Joe. It goes on and on. You'll be theobject of every do-gooder and parlor psychologist. Strangers will stopyou on the street and say, 'I'd like to help you, friend.' Then they'llask you queer questions like, 'Did your father reject you when you werea child?' 'Do you like girls?' 'How does it feel to be a DCT FirstClass?' And then there'll be the strangers who hate DCTs. They'll stopyou on the street and insult you, call you names, spit on you and—     Okay, goddam it!      Stop it!          Hendricks stopped, wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchiefand lit a cigarette.     I'm doing you a favor, Joe. I'm trying to explain something you're toodumb to realize by yourself. We've taught everyone to hate crime andcriminals ... to      hate     them as nothing has ever been hated before.Today a criminal is a freak, an alien. Your life will be a living hellif you don't leave New York. You should go to some small town wherethere aren't many people, or be a hermit, or go to Iceland or—     Joe eyed the huge man suspiciously.       Favor     , did you say? The day youdo      me     a favor—     Hendricks shrugged his shoulders negligently. Not entirely a favor. Iwant to get rid of you. Usually I come up here and sit around and readbooks. But guys like you are a nuisance and take up my time.     I couldn't leave if I wanted to, Joe said. I'm flat broke. Thanks toyour CPA system, a DCT can't get a decent job.  Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time.     Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime.     Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself.     Umm.     Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't      have     tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and—     Go to those      head-shrinkers     ?     Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way.     Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you      make     me go?     Violation of Civil Rights.     Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime.     How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done.     In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself!     He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room.     Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime!     Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it:      John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St.       When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks.     Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything.  When Joe reached the street, he hurried toward the nearest subway. As achild, he had been frightened of the dark. As a man, he wasn't afraidof the dark itself, but the darkened city always made him feel illat ease. The uneasiness was, more than anything else, caused by hisown imagination. He hated the CPA and at night he couldn't shrug thefeeling that the CPA lurked in every shadow, watching him, waiting forhim to make a mistake.     Imagination or not, the CPA was almost everywhere a person went.Twenty-four hours a day, millions of microphones hidden in taverns,alleys, restaurants, subways and every other place imaginable waitedfor someone to say the wrong thing. Everything the microphones pickedup was routed to the CPA Brain, a monster electronic calculator.     If the words Let's see a movie were received in the Brain, theywere discarded. But if the words Let's roll this guy were received,the message was traced and a police helicopter would be at the scenein two minutes. And scattered all over the city were not only hiddenmicrophones, but hidden television cameras that relayed visual messagesto the Brain, and hidden machines that could detect a knife or a gun insomeone's pocket at forty yards.     Every place of business from the largest bank to the smallest grocerystore was absolutely impenetrable. No one had even tried to rob a placeof business for years.     Arson was next to impossible because of the heat-detectors—devicesplaced in every building that could detect, radarlike, any intensity ofheat above that caused by a cigarette lighter. Chemical research hadmade poisoning someone an impossibility. There were no drugs containingpoison, and while an ant-poison might kill ants, no concentrated amountof it would kill a human.     The FBI had always been a powerful organization, but under thesupervision of the CPA, it was a scientific colossus and to thinkof kidnapping someone or to contemplate the use of narcotics waspointless. A counterfeiter's career was always short-lived: every placeof business and millions of individuals had small counterfeit-detectorsthat could spot a fake and report it directly to the Brain.     And the percentage of crimes had dwindled even more with the appearanceof the robot police officers. Many a criminal in the past had gambledthat he could outshoot a pursuing policeman. But the robots weredifferent: they weren't flesh and blood. Bullets bounced off them andtheir aim was infallible.  It was like a fantastic dream come true. Only the dream wasn'tfantastic any more. With the huge atomic power plants scattered acrossthe country and supplying endless electrical power at ridiculouslylow prices, no endeavor that required power was fantastic. The powerrequired to operate the CPA devices cost each taxpayer an average offour dollars a year, and the invention, development and manufacture ofthe devices had cost even less.     And the CPA had attacked crime through society itself, striking atthe individual. In every city there were neon signs that blinkedsubliminally with the statement, CRIME IS FILTH. Listening to a radioor watching television, if a person heard station identification, heinvariably heard or saw just below perception the words CRIME IS FILTH.If he went for a walk or a ride, he saw the endless subliminal postersdeclaring CRIME IS FILTH, and if he read a magazine or newspaper healways found, in those little dead spaces where an editor couldn't fitanything else, the below-perception words CRIME IS FILTH.     It was monotonous and, after a while, a person looked at the words andheard them without thinking about them. And they were imprinted on hissubconscious over and over, year after year, until he knew that crimewas the same as filth and that criminals were filthy things.     Except men like Joe Harper. No system is perfect. Along with thousandsof other DCTs, Joe refused to believe it, and when he reached apartment204 at 2141 Orange Street, he felt as if he'd inherited a gold mine.     The hall was dimly lit, but when he stood before the door numbered 204,he could see that the wall on either side of it was      new     . That is,instead of being covered with dust, dirt and stains as the other wallswere, it was clean. The building was an old one, the hall was wide, andthe owner had obviously constructed a wall across the hall, creatinganother room. If the owner had reported the new room as required bylaw, it would have been wired with CPA burglarproof devices, butevidently he didn't want to pay for installation.     When Joe entered the cubbyhole, he had to stand to one side in order toclose the door behind him. The place was barely large enough for thebed, chair and bureau; it was a place where a man could fall down atnight and sleep, but where no normal man could live day after day.     Fearing that someone might detect him before he actually committed thecrime, Joe hurried to the bureau and searched it.  He broke out in a sweat when he found nothing but underwear and oldmagazines. If he stole underwear and magazines, it would still be acrime, but the newspapers would splash satirical headlines. Instead ofbeing respected as a successful criminal, he would be ridiculed.     He stopped sweating when he found a watch under a pile of underwear.The crystal was broken, one hand was missing and it wouldn't run,but—perfection itself—engraved on the back was the inscription,      ToJohn with Love     . His trial would be a clean-cut one: it would be easyfor the CPA to prove ownership and that a crime had been committed.     Chuckling with joy, he opened the window and shouted,       Thief! Police!Help!          He waited a few seconds and then ran. When he reached the street, apolice helicopter landed next to him. Strong metal arms seized him;cameras clicked and recorded the damning evidence.     When Joe was securely handcuffed to a seat inside the helicopter, themetal police officers rang doorbells. There was a reward for anyone whoreported a crime, but no one admitted shouting the warning.  He was having a nightmare when he heard the voice, Hey. Wake up. Hey!     He opened his eyes, saw Hendricks' ugly face and thought for a minutehe was still having the nightmare.     I just saw your doctor, Hendricks said. He says your treatment isover. You can go home now. I thought I'd give you a lift.     As Joe dressed, he searched his mind and tried to find some difference.     During the treatment, he had been unconscious or drugged, unable tothink. Now he could think clearly, but he could find no difference inhimself.     He felt more relaxed than he'd ever felt before, but that could be anafter-effect of all the sedatives he'd been given. And, he noticed whenhe looked in the mirror, he was paler. The treatment had taken monthsand he had, between operations, been locked in his room.     Hendricks was standing by the window. Joe stared at the massive back.Deliberately goading his mind, he discovered the biggest change:Before, the mere sight of the man had aroused an intense hatred. Now,even when he tried, he succeeded in arousing only a mild hatred.They had toned down his capacity to hate, but not done away with italtogether.     Come here and take a look at your public, said Hendricks.     Joe went to the window. Three stories below, a large crowd had gatheredon the hospital steps: a band, photographers, television trucks,cameramen and autograph hunters. He'd waited a long time for this day.But now—another change in him—     He put the emotion into words: I don't feel like a hero. Funny, but Idon't.     Hero! Hendricks laughed and, with his powerful lungs, it soundedlike a bull snorting. You think a successful criminal is a hero? Youstupid—     He laughed again and waved a hand at the crowd below them. You thinkthose people are down there because they admire what you did? They'redown there waiting for you because they're curious, because they'reglad the CPA caught you, and because they're glad you're an Ex. You'rean      ex     -criminal now, and because of your treatment, you'll never beable to commit another crime as long as you live. And that's the kindof guy they admire, so they want to see you, shake your hand and getyour autograph.     Joe didn't understand Hendricks completely, but the part he didunderstand he didn't believe. A crowd was waiting for him. He could seethe people with his own eyes. When he left the hospital, they'd cheerand shout and ask for his autograph. If he wasn't a hero,      what washe     ?  It took half an hour to get through the crowd. Cameras clicked allaround him, a hundred kids asked for his autograph, everyone talked atonce and cheered, smiled, laughed, patted him on the back and cheeredsome more.     Only one thing confused him during all the excitement: a white-hairedold lady with tears in her eyes said, Thank heaven it was only awatch. Thank heaven you didn't kill someone! God bless you, son. Andthen the old lady had handed him a box of fudge and left him in totalconfusion.     What she said didn't make sense. If he had killed someone ratherthan stealing a watch, he would be even more of a hero and the crowdwould have cheered even louder. He knew: he had stood outside the CPAhospitals many times and the crowds always cheered louder when anex-murderer came out.     In Hendricks' robot-chauffeured car, he ate the fudge and consoledhimself with the thought,      People are funny. Who can understand 'em?       Feeling happy for one of the few times in his life, he turned towardHendricks and said, Thanks for what you did. It turned out great. I'llbe able to get a good job now.     That's why I met you at the hospital, Hendricks said. I want toexplain some things. I've known you for a long time and I know you'respectacularly dumb. You can't figure out some things for yourself andI don't want you walking around the rest of your life thinking I didyou a favor.     Joe frowned. Few men had ever done him a favor and he had rarelythanked anyone for anything. And now ... after thanking the man who'ddone him the biggest favor of all, the man was denying it!     You robbed Gralewski's apartment, Hendricks said. Gralewski is a CPAemployee and he doesn't live in the apartment you robbed. The CPA paysthe rent for that one and he lives in another. We have a lot of placeslike that. You see, it gives us a way to get rid of saps like youbefore they do real damage. We use it as a last resort when a DCT FirstClass won't take the free psycho treatment or—     Well, it's still a favor.     Hendricks' face hardened. Favor? You wouldn't know a favor if youstumbled over one. I did it because it's standard procedure for yourtype of case. Anyone can—free of charge—have treatment by the bestpsychologists. Any DCT can stop being a DCT by simply asking for thetreatment and taking it. But you wouldn't do that. You wanted to commita crime, get caught and be a hero ... an      Ex     .  The car passed one of the CPA playgrounds. Boys and girls of all ageswere laughing, squealing with joy as they played games designed by CPApsychologists to relieve tension. And—despite the treatment, Joeshuddered when he saw the psychologists standing to one side, quietlywatching the children. The whole world was filled with CPA employeesand volunteer workers. Everywhere you went, it was there, quietlywatching you and analyzing you, and if you showed criminal tendencies,it watched you even more closely and analyzed you even more deeplyuntil it took you apart and put you back together again the way itwanted you to be.     Being an Ex, you'll get the kind of job you always wanted, Hendrickscontinued. You'll get a good-paying job, but you'll work for it.You'll work eight hours a day, work harder than you've ever workedbefore in your life, because every time you start to loaf, a voice inyour head is going to say,      Work! Work!     Exes always get good jobsbecause employers know they're good workers.     But during these next few days, you'll discover what being an Exis like. You see, Joe, the treatment can't possibly take all thecriminal tendencies out of a man. So the treatment does the next bestthing—you'll find a set of laws written in your mind. You might      want     to break one now and then, but you won't be able. I'll give you anillustration....     Joe's face reddened as Hendricks proceeded to call him a series ofnames. He wanted to smash the fat, grinning face, but the muscles inhis arm froze before it moved it an inch.     And worse than that, a brief pain ripped through his skull. A pain sointense that, had it lasted a second longer, he would have screamed inagony. And above the pain, a voice whispered in his head,      Unlawful tostrike someone except in self-defense     .     He opened his mouth to tell Hendricks exactly what he thought of him,the CPA, the whole world. But the words stayed in his throat, the painreturned, and the mental voice whispered,      Unlawful to curse     .     He had never heard how the treatment prevented an Ex from committing acrime. And now that he knew, it didn't seem fair. He decided to tellthe whole story to the newspapers as soon as he could. And as soon asthat decision formed in his mind, his body froze, the pain returned andthe voice,      Unlawful to divulge CPA procedure     .     See what I mean? Hendricks asked. A century ago, you would have beenlocked in a prison and taxpayers' money would have supported you untilthe day you died. With the CPA system, you're returned to society, auseful citizen, unable to commit the smallest crime. And you've got abig hand in your dirty little mind that's going to slap it every timeyou get the wrong kind of thought. It'll keep slapping you until youlearn. It might take weeks, months or years, but you'll learn sooneror later to not even think about doing anything wrong.  He lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring at the car's plush ceiling.It's a great system, isn't it, Joe? A true democracy. Even a jerk likeyou is free to do what he wants, as long as it's legal.     I think it's a lousy, filthy system. Joe's head was still tinglingwith pain and he felt suffocated. The CPA was everywhere, only now itwas also inside his head, telling him he couldn't do this, couldn't dothat. All his life it had been telling him he couldn't do things hewanted to do and      now     ....     Hendricks laughed. You'll change your opinion. We live in a clean,wonderful world, Joe. A world of happy, healthy people. Except forfreaks like yourself, criminals are—     Let me out! Joe grabbed at the door and was on the sidewalk, slammingthe door behind him before the car stopped completely.     He stared at the car as it pulled away from the curb and glided intothe stream of traffic again. He realized he was a prisoner ... aprisoner inside his own body ... made a prisoner by a world that hatedhim back.     He wanted to spit his contempt, but the increasingly familiar pain andvoice prevented him.     It was unlawful to spit on a sidewalk.   ","DCT affects a lot of a person’s social life and work abilities. To inquire about a job opening, a person has to show their ID. Establishments are not likely to hire a person with a DCT designation unless it is for a garbage truck job, a street-cleaner positioner, or other less desirable work options. They do not leave a person in a socially favorable view as people judge those with DCT designation poorly. A DCT First Class designation means that the person’s case will be made public. People are interested in crime because it is a complete rarity in current society. The commissioner says that people will follow him wherever he goes and just watches him because they want to be the first one to call for the police when he commits a crime. A person with a first class designation will not have any privacy when out and about. "
"What is the setting of the story? </s>       Going straight meant crooked planning. He'd       never make it unless he somehow managed to       PICK A CRIME     By RICHARD R. SMITH     Illustrated by DICK FRANCIS     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1958.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The girl was tall, wide-eyed and brunette. She had the right curves inthe right places and would have been beautiful if her nose had beensmaller, if her mouth had been larger and if her hair had been wavyinstead of straight.     Hank said you wanted to see me, she said when she stopped besideJoe's table.     Yeah. Joe nodded at the other chair. Have a seat. He reached into apocket, withdrew five ten-dollar bills and handed them to her. I wantyou to do a job for me. It'll only take a few minutes.     The girl counted the money, then placed it in her purse. Joe noticeda small counterfeit-detector inside the purse before she closed it.What's the job?     Tell you later. He gulped the remainder of his drink, almost pouringit down his throat.     Hey. You trying to make yourself sick?     Not sick. Drunk. Been trying to get drunk all afternoon. As theliquor settled in his stomach, he waited for the warm glow. But theglow didn't come ... the bartender had watered his drink again.     Trying to get drunk? the girl inquired. Are you crazy?     No. It's simple. If I get drunk, I can join the AAA and get free roomand board for a month while they give me a treatment.     It was easy enough to understand, he reflected, but a lot harder to do.The CPA robot bartenders saw to it that anyone got high if they wanted,but comparatively few got drunk. Each bartender could not only mixdrinks but could also judge by a man's actions and speech when he wason the verge of drunkenness. At the proper time—since drunkenness wasillegal—a bartender always watered the drinks.     Joe had tried dozens of times in dozens of bars to outsmart them, buthad always failed. And in all of New York's millions, there had beenonly a hundred cases of intoxication during the previous year.     The girl laughed. If you're that hard up, I don't know if I shouldtake this fifty or not. Why don't you go out and get a job likeeveryone else?     As an answer, Joe handed her his CPA ID card. She grunted when shesaw the large letters that indicated the owner had Dangerous CriminalTendencies.  When she handed the card back, Joe fought an impulse to tear it topieces. He'd done that once and gone through a mountain of red tape toget another—everyone was required by law to carry a CPA ID card andshow it upon request.     I'm sorry, the girl said. I didn't know you were a DCT.     And who'll hire a guy with criminal tendencies? You know the score.When you try to get a job, they ask to see your ID before they eventell you if there's an opening or not. If your CPA ID says you're aDCT, you're SOL and they tell you there's no openings. Oh, I've hadseveral jobs ... jobs like all DCTs get. I've been a garbage man,street-cleaner, ditch-digger—     On the other side of the room, the jukebox came to life with a roar anda group of teen-agers scrambled to the dance floor.     Feeling safe from hidden microphones because of the uproar, he leanedacross the table and whispered in the girl's ear, That's what Iwant to hire you for. I want you to help me commit a crime. If I getconvicted of a crime, I'll be able to get a good job!     The girl's lips formed a bright red circle. Say! You really got bigplans, don't you?     He smiled at her admiration. It      was     something big to plan a crime.A civilization weary of murder, robbery, kidnapping, counterfeiting,blackmail, rape, arson, and drunkenness had originated the CPA—CrimePrevention Association. There were no longer any prisons—CPA officialshad declared loudly and emphatically that their job was to preventcrime, not punish it. And prevent it they did, with thousands ofingenious crime-prevention devices and methods. They had made crimealmost impossible, and during the previous year, only a few hundred menin the whole country had been convicted of criminal acts.     No crime was ever punished. If a man was smart enough to killsomeone, for instance, he wasn't sent to prison to be punished; hewasn't punished at all. Instead, he was sent to a hospital where allcriminal tendencies were removed from his mind by psychologists, shocktreatments, encephalographic devices, a form of prefrontal lobotomy anda dozen other methods. An expensive operation, but since there were fewcriminals—only ten in New York during the past year—any city couldafford the CPA hospitals.     The CPA system was, actually, cheaper than previous methods becauseit did away with the damage caused by countless crimes; did away withprisons and their guards, large police forces, squad cars and weapons.     And, ironically, a man who      did     commit a crime was a sort of hero. Hewas a hero to the millions of men and women who had suppressed impulsesto kill someone, beat their mates, get drunk, or kick a dog. Not only ahero, but because of the CPA Treatment, he was—when he left one of theCPA hospitals—a thoroughly honest and hard-working individual ... aman who could be trusted with any responsibility, any amount of money.And therefore, an EX (a convicted criminal who received the treatmentwas commonly called an Ex because he was in the strictest sense of theword an Ex-criminal) ... an Ex was always offered the best jobs.     Well, the girl said. I'm honored. Really. But I got a date at ten.Let's get it over with. You said it'd only take a few minutes.     Okay. Let's go.  The girl followed him across the room, around tables, through a door,down a hall, through a back door and into the alley.     She followed him up the dark alley until he turned suddenly and rippedher blouse and skirt.     He surprised her completely, but when she recovered, she backed away,her body poised like a wrestler's. What's the big idea?     Scream, Joe said. Scream as loud as you can, and when the cops gethere, tell 'em I tried to rape you.     The plan was perfect, he told himself. Attempted rape was one of thefew things that was a crime merely because a man attempted it. A crimebecause it theoretically inflicted psychological injury upon theintended victim—and because millions of women voters had voted it acrime. On the other hand, attempted murder, robbery, kidnapping, etc.,were not crimes. They weren't crimes because the DCT didn't completethe act, and if he didn't complete the act, that meant simply that theCPA had once again functioned properly.     The girl shook her head vigorously. Sorry, buddy. Can't help you thatway. Why didn't you tell me what you wanted?     What's the matter? Joe complained. I'm not asking you to do anythingwrong.     You stupid jerk. What do you think this is—the Middle Ages? Don't youknow almost every woman knows how to defend herself? I'm a sergeant inthe WSDA!     Joe groaned. The WSDA—Women's Self-Defense Association—a branch ofthe CPA. The WSDA gave free instruction in judo and jujitsu, evendeveloped new techniques of wrestling and instructed only women inthose new techniques.     The girl was still shaking her head. Can't do it, buddy. I'd lose myrank if you were convicted of—     Do I have to      make     you scream? Joe inquired tiredly and advancedtoward the girl.     —and that rank carries a lot of weight. Hey!      Stop it!          Joe discovered to his dismay that the girl was telling the truth whenshe said she was a sergeant in the WSDA. He felt her hands on his body,and in the time it takes to blink twice, he was flying through the air.       The alley's concrete floor was hard—it had always been hard, but hebecame acutely aware of its lack of resiliency when his head struck it.There was a wonderful moment while the world was filled with beautifulstars and streaks of lightning through which he heard distant policesirens. But the wonderful moment didn't last long and darkness closedin on him.  When he awoke, a rough voice was saying, Okay. Snap out of it.     He opened his eyes and recognized the police commissioner's office. Itwould be hard not to recognize: the room was large, devoid of furnitureexcept for a desk and chairs, but the walls were lined with thecontrols of television screens, electronic calculators and a hundredother machines that formed New York's mechanical police force.     Commissioner Hendricks was a remarkable character. There was somethingwrong with his glands, and he was a huge, greasy bulk of a man withbushy eyebrows and a double chin. His steel-gray eyes showed somethingof his intelligence and he would have gone far in politics if fatehadn't made him so ugly, for more than half the voters who elected mento high political positions were women.     Anyone who knew Hendricks well liked him, for he was a friendly,likable person. But the millions of women voters who saw his face onposters and on their TV screens saw only the ugly face and heard onlythe harsh voice. The President of the United States was a capableman, but also a very handsome one, and the fact that a man who lookedsomething like a bulldog had been elected as New York's policecommissioner was a credit to Hendricks and millions of women voters.     Where's the girl? Joe asked.     I processed her while you were out cold. She left. Joe, you—     Okay, Joe said. I'll save you the trouble. I admit it. Attemptedrape. I confess.     Hendricks smiled. Sorry, Joe. You missed the boat again. He reachedout and turned a dial on his desk top. We had a microphone hidden inthat alley. We have a lot of microphones hidden in a lot of alleys.You'd be surprised at the number of conspiracies that take place inalleys!     Joe listened numbly to his voice as it came from one of the hundreds ofmachines on the walls,       Scream. Scream as loud as you can, and whenthe cops get here, tell 'em I tried to rape you.      And then the girl'svoice,       Sorry, buddy. Can't help—          He waved his hand. Okay. Shut it off. I confess to conspiracy.  Hendricks rose from behind the desk, walked leisurely to where Joe wasslouched in a chair. Give me your CPA ID.     Joe handed him the card with trembling fingers. He felt as if the worldhad collapsed beneath him. Conspiracy to commit a crime wasn't a crime.Anyone could conspire. And if the conspirators were prevented fromcommitting a crime, then that meant the CPA had functioned properlyonce again. That meant the CPA had once again      prevented     crime, andthe CPA didn't punish crimes or attempted crimes, and it didn't attemptto prevent crimes      by     punishment. If it did, that would be a violationof the New Civil Rights.     Hendricks crossed the room, deposited the card in a slot and punched abutton. The machine hummed and a new card appeared.     When Hendricks handed him the new card, Joe saw that the wordsDANGEROUS CRIMINAL TENDENCIES were now in red and larger than before.And, in slightly smaller print, the ID card stated that the owner was aDCT First Class.     You've graduated, Hendricks said coldly. You guys never learn, doyou? Now you're a DCT First Class instead of a Second Class. You knowwhat that means?     Hendricks leaned closer until Joe could feel his breath on his face.That means your case history will be turned over to the newspapers.You'll be the hobby of thousands of amateur cops. You know how itworks? It's like this. The Joneses are sitting around tomorrow nightand they're bored. Then Mr. Jones says, 'Let's go watch this JoeHarper.' So they look up your record—amateur cops always keep recordsof First Classes in scrapbooks—and they see that you stop frequentlyat Walt's Tavern.     So they go there and they sit and drink and watch you, trying notto let you know they're watching you. They watch you all night, justhoping you'll do something exciting, like trying to kill someone,so they can be the first ones to yell '      Police!     ' They'll watch youbecause it's exciting to be an amateur cop, and if they ever      did     prevent you from committing a crime, they'd get a nice reward andthey'd be famous.     Lay off, Joe said. I got a headache. That girl—     Hendricks leaned even closer and glared. You listen, Joe. This isinteresting. You see, it doesn't stop with Mr. and Mrs. Jones. There'sthousands of people like them. Years ago, they got their kicks fromreading about guys like you, but these days things are dull becauseit's rare when anyone commits a crime. So every time you walk downthe street, there'll be at least a dozen of 'em following you, and nomatter where you go, you can bet there'll be some of 'em sitting nextto you, standing next to you.     During the day, they'll take your picture with their spy cameras thatlook like buttons on their coats. At night, they'll peep at you throughyour keyhole. Your neighbors across the street will watch you throughbinoculars and—     Lay off!  Joe squirmed in the chair. He'd been lectured by Hendricks before andit was always an unpleasant experience. The huge man was like a talkingmachine once he got started, a machine that couldn't be stopped.     And the kids are the worst, Hendricks continued. They have JuniorCPA clubs. They keep records of hoodlums like you in little cardboardboxes. They'll stare at you on the street and stare at you throughrestaurant windows while you're eating meals. They'll follow you inpublic rest rooms and watch you out of the corners of their eyeswhile they wash their little hands, and almost every day when you lookback, you'll see a dozen freckle-faced little boys following you half ablock behind, giggling and gaping at you. They'll follow you until theday you die, because you're a freak!     Joe couldn't stand the breath in his face any longer. He rose and pacedthe floor.     And it doesn't end      there     , Joe. It goes on and on. You'll be theobject of every do-gooder and parlor psychologist. Strangers will stopyou on the street and say, 'I'd like to help you, friend.' Then they'llask you queer questions like, 'Did your father reject you when you werea child?' 'Do you like girls?' 'How does it feel to be a DCT FirstClass?' And then there'll be the strangers who hate DCTs. They'll stopyou on the street and insult you, call you names, spit on you and—     Okay, goddam it!      Stop it!          Hendricks stopped, wiped the sweat from his face with a handkerchiefand lit a cigarette.     I'm doing you a favor, Joe. I'm trying to explain something you're toodumb to realize by yourself. We've taught everyone to hate crime andcriminals ... to      hate     them as nothing has ever been hated before.Today a criminal is a freak, an alien. Your life will be a living hellif you don't leave New York. You should go to some small town wherethere aren't many people, or be a hermit, or go to Iceland or—     Joe eyed the huge man suspiciously.       Favor     , did you say? The day youdo      me     a favor—     Hendricks shrugged his shoulders negligently. Not entirely a favor. Iwant to get rid of you. Usually I come up here and sit around and readbooks. But guys like you are a nuisance and take up my time.     I couldn't leave if I wanted to, Joe said. I'm flat broke. Thanks toyour CPA system, a DCT can't get a decent job.  Hendricks reached into a pocket, withdrew several bills and extendedthem. I'll loan you some money. You can sign an IOU and pay me back alittle at a time.     Joe waved the money away. Listen, why don't you do me a favor? Whydon't you frame me? If I'm such a nuisance, pin a crime on me—anycrime.     Can't do it. Convicting a man of a crime he didn't commit is aviolation of Civil Rights and a crime in itself.     Umm.     Why don't you take the free psycho treatment? A man doesn't      have     tobe a DCT. With the free treatment, psychologists can remove all yourcriminal tendencies and—     Go to those      head-shrinkers     ?     Hendricks shrugged again. Have it your way.     Joe laughed. If your damned CPA is so all-powerful, why can't you      make     me go?     Violation of Civil Rights.     Damn it, there must be some way you can help me! We both want the samething. We both want to see me convicted of a crime.     How can I help you without committing a crime myself? Hendrickswalked to his desk, opened a drawer and removed a small black book.See this? It contains names and addresses of all the people in NewYork who aren't properly protected. Every week we find people whoaren't protected properly—blind spots in our protection devices. Assoon as we find them, we take steps to install anti-robbery devices,but this is a big city and sometimes it takes days to get the work done.     In the meantime, any one of these people could be robbed. But what canI do? I can't hold this book in front of your nose and say, 'Here, Joe,pick a name and go out and rob him.' He laughed nervously. If I didthat, I'd be committing a crime myself!     He placed the book on the desk top, took a handkerchief from a pocketagain and wiped sweat from his face. Excuse me a minute. I'm dying ofthirst. There's a water cooler in the next room.     Joe stared at the door to the adjoining office as it closed behind thebig man. Hendricks was—unbelievably—offering him a victim, offeringhim a crime!     Almost running to the desk, Joe opened the book, selected a name andaddress and memorized it:      John Gralewski, Apt. 204, 2141 Orange St.       When Hendricks came back, Joe said, Thanks.     Huh? Thanks for what? I didn't do anything.  When Joe reached the street, he hurried toward the nearest subway. As achild, he had been frightened of the dark. As a man, he wasn't afraidof the dark itself, but the darkened city always made him feel illat ease. The uneasiness was, more than anything else, caused by hisown imagination. He hated the CPA and at night he couldn't shrug thefeeling that the CPA lurked in every shadow, watching him, waiting forhim to make a mistake.     Imagination or not, the CPA was almost everywhere a person went.Twenty-four hours a day, millions of microphones hidden in taverns,alleys, restaurants, subways and every other place imaginable waitedfor someone to say the wrong thing. Everything the microphones pickedup was routed to the CPA Brain, a monster electronic calculator.     If the words Let's see a movie were received in the Brain, theywere discarded. But if the words Let's roll this guy were received,the message was traced and a police helicopter would be at the scenein two minutes. And scattered all over the city were not only hiddenmicrophones, but hidden television cameras that relayed visual messagesto the Brain, and hidden machines that could detect a knife or a gun insomeone's pocket at forty yards.     Every place of business from the largest bank to the smallest grocerystore was absolutely impenetrable. No one had even tried to rob a placeof business for years.     Arson was next to impossible because of the heat-detectors—devicesplaced in every building that could detect, radarlike, any intensity ofheat above that caused by a cigarette lighter. Chemical research hadmade poisoning someone an impossibility. There were no drugs containingpoison, and while an ant-poison might kill ants, no concentrated amountof it would kill a human.     The FBI had always been a powerful organization, but under thesupervision of the CPA, it was a scientific colossus and to thinkof kidnapping someone or to contemplate the use of narcotics waspointless. A counterfeiter's career was always short-lived: every placeof business and millions of individuals had small counterfeit-detectorsthat could spot a fake and report it directly to the Brain.     And the percentage of crimes had dwindled even more with the appearanceof the robot police officers. Many a criminal in the past had gambledthat he could outshoot a pursuing policeman. But the robots weredifferent: they weren't flesh and blood. Bullets bounced off them andtheir aim was infallible.  It was like a fantastic dream come true. Only the dream wasn'tfantastic any more. With the huge atomic power plants scattered acrossthe country and supplying endless electrical power at ridiculouslylow prices, no endeavor that required power was fantastic. The powerrequired to operate the CPA devices cost each taxpayer an average offour dollars a year, and the invention, development and manufacture ofthe devices had cost even less.     And the CPA had attacked crime through society itself, striking atthe individual. In every city there were neon signs that blinkedsubliminally with the statement, CRIME IS FILTH. Listening to a radioor watching television, if a person heard station identification, heinvariably heard or saw just below perception the words CRIME IS FILTH.If he went for a walk or a ride, he saw the endless subliminal postersdeclaring CRIME IS FILTH, and if he read a magazine or newspaper healways found, in those little dead spaces where an editor couldn't fitanything else, the below-perception words CRIME IS FILTH.     It was monotonous and, after a while, a person looked at the words andheard them without thinking about them. And they were imprinted on hissubconscious over and over, year after year, until he knew that crimewas the same as filth and that criminals were filthy things.     Except men like Joe Harper. No system is perfect. Along with thousandsof other DCTs, Joe refused to believe it, and when he reached apartment204 at 2141 Orange Street, he felt as if he'd inherited a gold mine.     The hall was dimly lit, but when he stood before the door numbered 204,he could see that the wall on either side of it was      new     . That is,instead of being covered with dust, dirt and stains as the other wallswere, it was clean. The building was an old one, the hall was wide, andthe owner had obviously constructed a wall across the hall, creatinganother room. If the owner had reported the new room as required bylaw, it would have been wired with CPA burglarproof devices, butevidently he didn't want to pay for installation.     When Joe entered the cubbyhole, he had to stand to one side in order toclose the door behind him. The place was barely large enough for thebed, chair and bureau; it was a place where a man could fall down atnight and sleep, but where no normal man could live day after day.     Fearing that someone might detect him before he actually committed thecrime, Joe hurried to the bureau and searched it.  He broke out in a sweat when he found nothing but underwear and oldmagazines. If he stole underwear and magazines, it would still be acrime, but the newspapers would splash satirical headlines. Instead ofbeing respected as a successful criminal, he would be ridiculed.     He stopped sweating when he found a watch under a pile of underwear.The crystal was broken, one hand was missing and it wouldn't run,but—perfection itself—engraved on the back was the inscription,      ToJohn with Love     . His trial would be a clean-cut one: it would be easyfor the CPA to prove ownership and that a crime had been committed.     Chuckling with joy, he opened the window and shouted,       Thief! Police!Help!          He waited a few seconds and then ran. When he reached the street, apolice helicopter landed next to him. Strong metal arms seized him;cameras clicked and recorded the damning evidence.     When Joe was securely handcuffed to a seat inside the helicopter, themetal police officers rang doorbells. There was a reward for anyone whoreported a crime, but no one admitted shouting the warning.  He was having a nightmare when he heard the voice, Hey. Wake up. Hey!     He opened his eyes, saw Hendricks' ugly face and thought for a minutehe was still having the nightmare.     I just saw your doctor, Hendricks said. He says your treatment isover. You can go home now. I thought I'd give you a lift.     As Joe dressed, he searched his mind and tried to find some difference.     During the treatment, he had been unconscious or drugged, unable tothink. Now he could think clearly, but he could find no difference inhimself.     He felt more relaxed than he'd ever felt before, but that could be anafter-effect of all the sedatives he'd been given. And, he noticed whenhe looked in the mirror, he was paler. The treatment had taken monthsand he had, between operations, been locked in his room.     Hendricks was standing by the window. Joe stared at the massive back.Deliberately goading his mind, he discovered the biggest change:Before, the mere sight of the man had aroused an intense hatred. Now,even when he tried, he succeeded in arousing only a mild hatred.They had toned down his capacity to hate, but not done away with italtogether.     Come here and take a look at your public, said Hendricks.     Joe went to the window. Three stories below, a large crowd had gatheredon the hospital steps: a band, photographers, television trucks,cameramen and autograph hunters. He'd waited a long time for this day.But now—another change in him—     He put the emotion into words: I don't feel like a hero. Funny, but Idon't.     Hero! Hendricks laughed and, with his powerful lungs, it soundedlike a bull snorting. You think a successful criminal is a hero? Youstupid—     He laughed again and waved a hand at the crowd below them. You thinkthose people are down there because they admire what you did? They'redown there waiting for you because they're curious, because they'reglad the CPA caught you, and because they're glad you're an Ex. You'rean      ex     -criminal now, and because of your treatment, you'll never beable to commit another crime as long as you live. And that's the kindof guy they admire, so they want to see you, shake your hand and getyour autograph.     Joe didn't understand Hendricks completely, but the part he didunderstand he didn't believe. A crowd was waiting for him. He could seethe people with his own eyes. When he left the hospital, they'd cheerand shout and ask for his autograph. If he wasn't a hero,      what washe     ?  It took half an hour to get through the crowd. Cameras clicked allaround him, a hundred kids asked for his autograph, everyone talked atonce and cheered, smiled, laughed, patted him on the back and cheeredsome more.     Only one thing confused him during all the excitement: a white-hairedold lady with tears in her eyes said, Thank heaven it was only awatch. Thank heaven you didn't kill someone! God bless you, son. Andthen the old lady had handed him a box of fudge and left him in totalconfusion.     What she said didn't make sense. If he had killed someone ratherthan stealing a watch, he would be even more of a hero and the crowdwould have cheered even louder. He knew: he had stood outside the CPAhospitals many times and the crowds always cheered louder when anex-murderer came out.     In Hendricks' robot-chauffeured car, he ate the fudge and consoledhimself with the thought,      People are funny. Who can understand 'em?       Feeling happy for one of the few times in his life, he turned towardHendricks and said, Thanks for what you did. It turned out great. I'llbe able to get a good job now.     That's why I met you at the hospital, Hendricks said. I want toexplain some things. I've known you for a long time and I know you'respectacularly dumb. You can't figure out some things for yourself andI don't want you walking around the rest of your life thinking I didyou a favor.     Joe frowned. Few men had ever done him a favor and he had rarelythanked anyone for anything. And now ... after thanking the man who'ddone him the biggest favor of all, the man was denying it!     You robbed Gralewski's apartment, Hendricks said. Gralewski is a CPAemployee and he doesn't live in the apartment you robbed. The CPA paysthe rent for that one and he lives in another. We have a lot of placeslike that. You see, it gives us a way to get rid of saps like youbefore they do real damage. We use it as a last resort when a DCT FirstClass won't take the free psycho treatment or—     Well, it's still a favor.     Hendricks' face hardened. Favor? You wouldn't know a favor if youstumbled over one. I did it because it's standard procedure for yourtype of case. Anyone can—free of charge—have treatment by the bestpsychologists. Any DCT can stop being a DCT by simply asking for thetreatment and taking it. But you wouldn't do that. You wanted to commita crime, get caught and be a hero ... an      Ex     .  The car passed one of the CPA playgrounds. Boys and girls of all ageswere laughing, squealing with joy as they played games designed by CPApsychologists to relieve tension. And—despite the treatment, Joeshuddered when he saw the psychologists standing to one side, quietlywatching the children. The whole world was filled with CPA employeesand volunteer workers. Everywhere you went, it was there, quietlywatching you and analyzing you, and if you showed criminal tendencies,it watched you even more closely and analyzed you even more deeplyuntil it took you apart and put you back together again the way itwanted you to be.     Being an Ex, you'll get the kind of job you always wanted, Hendrickscontinued. You'll get a good-paying job, but you'll work for it.You'll work eight hours a day, work harder than you've ever workedbefore in your life, because every time you start to loaf, a voice inyour head is going to say,      Work! Work!     Exes always get good jobsbecause employers know they're good workers.     But during these next few days, you'll discover what being an Exis like. You see, Joe, the treatment can't possibly take all thecriminal tendencies out of a man. So the treatment does the next bestthing—you'll find a set of laws written in your mind. You might      want     to break one now and then, but you won't be able. I'll give you anillustration....     Joe's face reddened as Hendricks proceeded to call him a series ofnames. He wanted to smash the fat, grinning face, but the muscles inhis arm froze before it moved it an inch.     And worse than that, a brief pain ripped through his skull. A pain sointense that, had it lasted a second longer, he would have screamed inagony. And above the pain, a voice whispered in his head,      Unlawful tostrike someone except in self-defense     .     He opened his mouth to tell Hendricks exactly what he thought of him,the CPA, the whole world. But the words stayed in his throat, the painreturned, and the mental voice whispered,      Unlawful to curse     .     He had never heard how the treatment prevented an Ex from committing acrime. And now that he knew, it didn't seem fair. He decided to tellthe whole story to the newspapers as soon as he could. And as soon asthat decision formed in his mind, his body froze, the pain returned andthe voice,      Unlawful to divulge CPA procedure     .     See what I mean? Hendricks asked. A century ago, you would have beenlocked in a prison and taxpayers' money would have supported you untilthe day you died. With the CPA system, you're returned to society, auseful citizen, unable to commit the smallest crime. And you've got abig hand in your dirty little mind that's going to slap it every timeyou get the wrong kind of thought. It'll keep slapping you until youlearn. It might take weeks, months or years, but you'll learn sooneror later to not even think about doing anything wrong.  He lit a cigarette and blew a smoke ring at the car's plush ceiling.It's a great system, isn't it, Joe? A true democracy. Even a jerk likeyou is free to do what he wants, as long as it's legal.     I think it's a lousy, filthy system. Joe's head was still tinglingwith pain and he felt suffocated. The CPA was everywhere, only now itwas also inside his head, telling him he couldn't do this, couldn't dothat. All his life it had been telling him he couldn't do things hewanted to do and      now     ....     Hendricks laughed. You'll change your opinion. We live in a clean,wonderful world, Joe. A world of happy, healthy people. Except forfreaks like yourself, criminals are—     Let me out! Joe grabbed at the door and was on the sidewalk, slammingthe door behind him before the car stopped completely.     He stared at the car as it pulled away from the curb and glided intothe stream of traffic again. He realized he was a prisoner ... aprisoner inside his own body ... made a prisoner by a world that hatedhim back.     He wanted to spit his contempt, but the increasingly familiar pain andvoice prevented him.     It was unlawful to spit on a sidewalk.   ","This story takes place in New York City. It begins in a bar with Joe drinking and attempting to get drunk on watered-down alcohol. A girl comes up to him to talk about what he is hiring her to do. The two leave the bar and go down a hall into an alleyway where Joe tries to enact his plan of fake committing a crime. When Joe wakes up after losing consciousness, he is in the police commissioner’s office. When Joe leaves the commissioner’s office, he goes to the subway and heads to John Gralewski’s apartment on Orange St. The apartment has a new wall that is clean compared to other walls caked with dirt and stains. He notices that the building is old with wide hallways. After Joe is caught by the police, he is taken to the hospital for his treatment that lasts months. When Joe wakes up, he sees that there is a crowd of people outside of the hospital waiting to meet him. Joe leaves the hospital in a car with Hendricks but becomes so upset that he eventually exits the car and stands on the sidewalk where he comes to his realization of his imprisonment in his own body. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     THE FROZEN PLANET     By Keith Laumer     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission.     Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on.     There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating.     Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force.     Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.     This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it.     Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.     A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil.     Magnan tapped the folder before him.     I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief.  All right, Mr. Councillor, Retief said. I'll play along; what's inthe folder?     Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.     First, he said. The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunateenough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegadeTerrestrials who've been advising the Soetti. He folded anotherfinger. Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out bythe Theory group. He wrestled a third finger down. Lastly; an UtterTop Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-accelerationfield into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have beenholding in reserve for just such a situation.     Is that all? Retief said. You've still got two fingers sticking up.     Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.     This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, thisinformation could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leavethis building.     I'll carry it, sealed, Retief said. That way nobody can sweat it outof me.     Magnan started to shake his head.     Well, he said. If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—     I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said. I remember anagent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard withcards and dice. Never played for money, though.     Umm, Magnan said. Don't make the error of personalizing thissituation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of thesebackwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow itsnatural course, as always.     When does this attack happen?     Less than four weeks.     That doesn't leave me much time.     I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far asAldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the restof the way.     That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?     Magnan looked sour. Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to putall our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you isnot misplaced.     This antiac conversion; how long does it take?     A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. TheJorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic ofsome sort.     Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the ticketsinside.     Less than four hours to departure time, he said. I'd better notstart any long books.     You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination, Magnansaid.     Retief stood up. If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon.     The allusion escapes me, Magnan said coldly. And one last word. TheSoetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don'tget yourself interned.     I'll tell you what, Retief said soberly. In a pinch, I'll mentionyour name.     You'll be traveling with Class X credentials, Magnan snapped. Theremust be nothing to connect you with the Corps.     They'll never guess, Retief said. I'll pose as a gentleman.     You'd better be getting started, Magnan said, shuffling papers.     You're right, Retief said. If I work at it, I might manage asnootful by takeoff. He went to the door. No objection to my checkingout a needler, is there?     Magnan looked up. I suppose not. What do you want with it?     Just a feeling I've got.     Please yourself.     Some day, Retief said, I may take you up on that.      II     Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on thecounter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legendALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY. A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouseand a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watchingRetief from the corner of his eye.     Retief glanced at him.     The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth andspat it on the floor.     Was there something? he said.     Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group, Retief said.Is it on schedule?     The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. Filledup. Try again in a couple of weeks.     What time does it leave?     I don't think—     Let's stick to facts, Retief said. Don't try to think. What time isit due out?     The clerk smiled pityingly. It's my lunch hour, he said. I'll beopen in an hour. He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.     If I have to come around this counter, Retief said, I'll feed thatthumb to you the hard way.     The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,closed his mouth and swallowed.     Like it says there, he said, jerking a thumb at the board. Lifts inan hour. But you won't be on it, he added.     Retief looked at him.     Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation, he said. He hookeda finger inside the sequined collar. All tourist reservations werecanceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line shipnext—     Which gate? Retief said.     For ... ah...?     For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said.     Well, the clerk said. Gate 19, he added quickly. But—     Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare signreading      To Gates 16-30     .     Another smart alec, the clerk said behind him.  Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found acovered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered manwith a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpledgray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.     Lessee your boarding pass, he muttered.     Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.     The guard blinked at it.     Whassat?     A gram confirming my space, Retief said. Your boy on the countersays he's out to lunch.     The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged backagainst the handrail.     On your way, bub, he said.     Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove aright into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled andwent to his knees.     You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneakedpast while you were resting your eyes. He picked up his bag, steppedover the man and went up the gangway into the ship.     A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.     Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son? Retief asked.     Up there. The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his wayalong the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of thefloor. It was expensive looking baggage.     Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood inthe open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid manclamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.     Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out. He rolled a cold eye at Retief ashe backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.     What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room? he barked. Never mind! Clearout of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting.     Too bad, Retief said. Finders keepers.     You nuts? The thick-necked man stared at Retief. I said it's Mr.Tony's room.     I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters.     We'll see about you, mister. The man turned and went out. Retiefsat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices inthe corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at anoversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.     All right, you. Out, he growled. Or have I got to have you thrownout?     Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped ahandle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heavedthe trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to thedoor.     Catch, he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against thefar wall of the corridor and burst.     Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. Theface of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.     Mister, you must be—     If you'll excuse me, Retief said, I want to catch a nap. He flippedthe door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.  Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.     Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, ablue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eyestared at Retief.     Is this the joker? he grated.     The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,That's him, sure.     I'm captain of this vessel, the first man said. You've got twominutes to haul your freight out of here, buster.     When you can spare the time from your other duties, Retief said,take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged ininterplanetary commerce.     A space lawyer. The captain turned. Throw him out, boys.     Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.     Go on, pitch him out, the captain snapped.     Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.     Don't try it, he said softly.     One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, andstepped forward, then hesitated.     Hey, he said. This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?     That's him, the thick-necked man called. Spilled Mr. Tony'spossessions right on the deck.     Deal me out, the bouncer said. He can stay put as long as he wantsto. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe.     You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain, Retief said.We're due to lift in twenty minutes.     The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. TheCaptain's voice prevailed.     —twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?     Close the door as you leave, Retief said.     The thick-necked man paused at the door. We'll see you when you comeout.      III     Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leanedagainst the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.     At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniformand with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of malepassengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasionalglances Retief's way.     A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyespeered out from under a white chef's cap.     Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?     Looks like it, old-timer, Retief said. Maybe I'd better go join theskipper. His party seems to be having all the fun.     Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there.     I see your point.     You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate.     Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backedup with mushrooms and garlic butter.     I'm Chip, the chef said. I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him Isaid so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,look at a man like he was a worm.     You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got theright idea on the Soetti, too, Retief said. He poured red wine into aglass. Here's to you.     Dern right, Chip said. Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.You like brandy in yer coffee?     Chip, you're a genius.     Like to see a feller eat, Chip said. I gotta go now. If you needanything, holler.     Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days toJorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was atemptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. Itwould be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.     Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska andcoffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tonyand his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.     As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered acrossthe room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, tooka cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lightedend in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.     The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.     You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad, the thug said in agrating voice. What's your game, hick?     Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.     I don't think I want my coffee, he said. He looked at the thug. Youdrink it.     The thug squinted at Retief. A wise hick, he began.     With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug'sface, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thugwent down.     Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.     You can take your playmates away now, Tony, he said. And don'tbother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough.     Mr. Tony found his voice.     Take him, Marbles! he growled.     The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out along-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.     Retief heard the panel open beside him.     Here you go, Mister, Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honedfrench knife lay on the sill.     Thanks, Chip, Retief said. I won't need it for these punks.     Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking himunder the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistolfrom his shoulder holster.     Aim that at me, and I'll kill you, Retief said.     Go on, burn him! Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,white-faced.     Put that away, you! he yelled. What kind of—     Shut up, Mr. Tony said. Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bumlater.     Not on this vessel, you won't, the captain said shakily. I got mycharter to consider.     Ram your charter, Hoany said harshly. You won't be needing it long.     Button your floppy mouth, damn you! Mr. Tony snapped. He looked atthe man on the floor. Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump theslob.     He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters cameup. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.     The panel opened.     I usta be about your size, when I was your age, Chip said. Youhandled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day.     How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip? Retief said.     Sure, Mister. Anything else?     I'll think of something, Retief said. This is shaping up into one ofthose long days.  They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin, Chip said.But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. Theywon't mess with me.     What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip? Retief asked.     They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some moresmoked turkey?     Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?     Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. Isure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I wasyer age.     I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen'sWorlds like?     One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' theJorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'his own cookin' like he does somebody else's.     That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain gotaboard for Jorgensen's?     Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever fewweeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.Don't know what we even run in there for.     Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?     To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. Youain't got another one of them cigars, have you?     Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship.     Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins. Chip puffedthe cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee andbrandy.     Them Sweaties is what I don't like, he said.     Retief looked at him questioningly.     You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like alobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled.     I've never had the pleasure, Retief said.     You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever tripout. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'.     There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.     I ain't superstitious ner nothin', Chip said. But I'll betriple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now.     Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavyknock shook the door.     They got to look you over, Chip whispered. Nosy damn Sweaties.     Unlock it, Chip. The chef opened the door.     Come in, damn you, he said.     A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-likefeet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-setcompound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.     Yo' papiss, the alien rasped.     Who's your friend, Captain? Retief said.     Never mind; just do like he tells you.     Yo' papiss, the alien said again.     Okay, Retief said. I've seen it. You can take it away now.       Don't horse around, the captain said. This fellow can get mean.     The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.     Quick, soft one.     Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, andI'm tempted to test it.     Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with thosesnappers.     Last chance, Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inchfrom Retief's eyes.     Show him your papers, you damned fool, the captain said hoarsely. Igot no control over Skaw.  The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the sameinstant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alienand drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbousknee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spatteringfrom the burst joint.     I told you he was brittle, Retief said. Next time you invite piratesaboard, don't bother to call.     Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us! the captain gasped, staringat the figure flopping on the floor.     Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat, Retief said. Tell him to passthe word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels inTerrestrial space.     Hey, Chip said. He's quit kicking.     The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned closeand sniffed.     He's dead. The captain stared at Retief. We're all dead men, hesaid. These Soetti got no mercy.     They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over.     They got no more emotions than a blue crab—     You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.We know their secret now.     What secret? I—     Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n, Chip said. Sweaties dieeasy; that's the secret.     Maybe you got a point, the captain said, looking at Retief. All theygot's a three-man scout. It could work.     He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead aliengingerly into the hall.     Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti, the captain said, looking backfrom the door. But I'll be back to see you later.     You don't scare us, Cap'n, Chip said. Him and Mr. Tony and all hisgoons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' theseSweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket.     You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in yourgetting involved in my problems.     They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That'swhere we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts.     They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers.     They don't scare me none. Chip picked up the tray. I'll scout arounda little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anythingabout that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't trynothin' close to port.     Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't doanything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now.     Chip looked at Retief. You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.You didn't come out here for fun, did you?     That, Retief said, would be a hard one to answer.      IV     Retief awoke at a tap on his door.     It's me, Mister. Chip.     Come on in.     The chef entered the room, locking the door.     You shoulda had that door locked. He stood by the door, listening,then turned to Retief.     You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?     That's right, Chip.     Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. TheSweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took theremains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they callMarbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin andtalked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and givesome orders to the Mate.     Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.     Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?     He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got agun?     A 2mm needler. Why?     The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We'reby-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute.     Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out ashort-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.     Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain'scabin?  This is it, Chip said softly. You want me to keep an eye on whocomes down the passage?     Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captainlooked up from his desk, then jumped up.     What do you think you're doing, busting in here?     I hear you're planning a course change, Captain.     You've got damn big ears.     I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's.     You do, huh? the captain sat down. I'm in command of this vessel,he said. I'm changing course for Alabaster.     I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster, Retief said. Sojust hold your course for Jorgensen's.     Not bloody likely.     Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try tochange course.     The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.     Power Section, this is the captain, he said. Retief reached acrossthe desk, gripped the captain's wrist.     Tell the mate to hold his present course, he said softly.     Let go my hand, buster, the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, heeased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed thedrawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.     You busted it, you—     And one to go, Retief said. Tell him.     I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!     You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alleyhoods.     You can't put it over, hick.     Tell him.     The captain groaned and picked up the mike. Captain to Power Section,he said. Hold your present course until you hear from me. He droppedthe mike and looked up at Retief.     It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You goingto sit here and bend my arm the whole time?     Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.     Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what'sgoing on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up witha sick friend.     Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery.     What are you going to do? the captain demanded.     Retief settled himself in a chair.     Instead of strangling you, as you deserve, he said, I'm going tostay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds.     The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.     Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feellike dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me.     Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.     If anything happens that I don't like, he said, I'll wake you up.With this.  ","Councillor Magnan dispatches Retief on a mission to deliver information to Jorgensen’s Worlds, notifying them that the aliens, the Soettis, are planning to attack them and to deliver a battle plan and the instructions for converting their anti-acceleration field into a powerful weapon to defend themselves. As a precaution, Retief checks out a needler to take with him. At the airport, he is told that the flight to Jorgensen’s World is fully booked and that he should try again in a couple of weeks; by then, the alien invasion will be over. Under pressure, the clerk tells Retief that the ship is booked for a VIP, and all tourist reservations are canceled. Retief goes to the gate for the flight and punches the ticket taker, forcing his way onto the airship. 	Retief makes his way to a room full of expensive luggage and is discovered by Mr. Tony, the man who has claimed the room. When Mr. Tony’s henchmen try to force Retief out of the room, he hefts a large trunk at them and then tosses all the luggage into the hallway. Next, the Captain appears and tries to throw Retief off the ship, but Retief claims the right of the passage under Section Three, Paragraph One of the Uniform Code. The henchmen and the Captain give up for now.	At dinner, the wait staff ignore Retief, but the chef, Chip, provides him with an excellent meal. Chip dislikes the Captain and Mr. Tony, but he knows they won’t replace him because of his excellent culinary skills. Chip befriends Retief and explains the situation to him. He doesn’t know exactly what the Captain and Mr. Tony are up to, but they make frequent trips to Jorgensen’s Worlds and cut off all tourist travel to the planet. They travel to Jorgensen’s Worlds every few weeks but never pick up any cargo. They allow the Soettis, the aliens who are planning an attack on the Worlds, to board the ships and inspect them because the Soettis are in control of the travel lanes to the planet.	When Skaw, a Soetti, demands Retief’s travel papers, Retief attacks him and kills him. The Captain is terrified that the Soettis will kill all of them, and Retief urges him to show some backbone. Retief knows the Soettis won’t make a big deal of the death because they don’t want to draw attention to themselves on the eve of their launch against the Worlds. 	Later, Chip informs Retief that the Captain has ordered a change of course to skip Jorgensen’s Worlds and travel on to Alabaster. Retief must reach the Jorgensen’s population ASAP with news of the impending alien attack, so he goes to the Captain’s cabin, catching him off guard, and makes him change the orders for the crew, keeping the ship on track to the Worlds. To prevent the Captain from changing the order, Retief stays with him in his cabin and uses the threat of his needler as a deterrent."
"Who are the Soettis, and what is their significance? </s>     THE FROZEN PLANET     By Keith Laumer     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission.     Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on.     There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating.     Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force.     Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.     This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it.     Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.     A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil.     Magnan tapped the folder before him.     I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief.  All right, Mr. Councillor, Retief said. I'll play along; what's inthe folder?     Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.     First, he said. The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunateenough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegadeTerrestrials who've been advising the Soetti. He folded anotherfinger. Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out bythe Theory group. He wrestled a third finger down. Lastly; an UtterTop Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-accelerationfield into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have beenholding in reserve for just such a situation.     Is that all? Retief said. You've still got two fingers sticking up.     Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.     This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, thisinformation could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leavethis building.     I'll carry it, sealed, Retief said. That way nobody can sweat it outof me.     Magnan started to shake his head.     Well, he said. If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—     I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said. I remember anagent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard withcards and dice. Never played for money, though.     Umm, Magnan said. Don't make the error of personalizing thissituation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of thesebackwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow itsnatural course, as always.     When does this attack happen?     Less than four weeks.     That doesn't leave me much time.     I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far asAldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the restof the way.     That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?     Magnan looked sour. Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to putall our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you isnot misplaced.     This antiac conversion; how long does it take?     A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. TheJorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic ofsome sort.     Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the ticketsinside.     Less than four hours to departure time, he said. I'd better notstart any long books.     You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination, Magnansaid.     Retief stood up. If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon.     The allusion escapes me, Magnan said coldly. And one last word. TheSoetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don'tget yourself interned.     I'll tell you what, Retief said soberly. In a pinch, I'll mentionyour name.     You'll be traveling with Class X credentials, Magnan snapped. Theremust be nothing to connect you with the Corps.     They'll never guess, Retief said. I'll pose as a gentleman.     You'd better be getting started, Magnan said, shuffling papers.     You're right, Retief said. If I work at it, I might manage asnootful by takeoff. He went to the door. No objection to my checkingout a needler, is there?     Magnan looked up. I suppose not. What do you want with it?     Just a feeling I've got.     Please yourself.     Some day, Retief said, I may take you up on that.      II     Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on thecounter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legendALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY. A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouseand a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watchingRetief from the corner of his eye.     Retief glanced at him.     The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth andspat it on the floor.     Was there something? he said.     Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group, Retief said.Is it on schedule?     The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. Filledup. Try again in a couple of weeks.     What time does it leave?     I don't think—     Let's stick to facts, Retief said. Don't try to think. What time isit due out?     The clerk smiled pityingly. It's my lunch hour, he said. I'll beopen in an hour. He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.     If I have to come around this counter, Retief said, I'll feed thatthumb to you the hard way.     The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,closed his mouth and swallowed.     Like it says there, he said, jerking a thumb at the board. Lifts inan hour. But you won't be on it, he added.     Retief looked at him.     Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation, he said. He hookeda finger inside the sequined collar. All tourist reservations werecanceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line shipnext—     Which gate? Retief said.     For ... ah...?     For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said.     Well, the clerk said. Gate 19, he added quickly. But—     Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare signreading      To Gates 16-30     .     Another smart alec, the clerk said behind him.  Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found acovered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered manwith a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpledgray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.     Lessee your boarding pass, he muttered.     Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.     The guard blinked at it.     Whassat?     A gram confirming my space, Retief said. Your boy on the countersays he's out to lunch.     The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged backagainst the handrail.     On your way, bub, he said.     Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove aright into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled andwent to his knees.     You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneakedpast while you were resting your eyes. He picked up his bag, steppedover the man and went up the gangway into the ship.     A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.     Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son? Retief asked.     Up there. The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his wayalong the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of thefloor. It was expensive looking baggage.     Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood inthe open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid manclamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.     Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out. He rolled a cold eye at Retief ashe backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.     What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room? he barked. Never mind! Clearout of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting.     Too bad, Retief said. Finders keepers.     You nuts? The thick-necked man stared at Retief. I said it's Mr.Tony's room.     I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters.     We'll see about you, mister. The man turned and went out. Retiefsat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices inthe corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at anoversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.     All right, you. Out, he growled. Or have I got to have you thrownout?     Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped ahandle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heavedthe trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to thedoor.     Catch, he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against thefar wall of the corridor and burst.     Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. Theface of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.     Mister, you must be—     If you'll excuse me, Retief said, I want to catch a nap. He flippedthe door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.  Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.     Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, ablue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eyestared at Retief.     Is this the joker? he grated.     The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,That's him, sure.     I'm captain of this vessel, the first man said. You've got twominutes to haul your freight out of here, buster.     When you can spare the time from your other duties, Retief said,take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged ininterplanetary commerce.     A space lawyer. The captain turned. Throw him out, boys.     Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.     Go on, pitch him out, the captain snapped.     Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.     Don't try it, he said softly.     One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, andstepped forward, then hesitated.     Hey, he said. This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?     That's him, the thick-necked man called. Spilled Mr. Tony'spossessions right on the deck.     Deal me out, the bouncer said. He can stay put as long as he wantsto. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe.     You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain, Retief said.We're due to lift in twenty minutes.     The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. TheCaptain's voice prevailed.     —twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?     Close the door as you leave, Retief said.     The thick-necked man paused at the door. We'll see you when you comeout.      III     Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leanedagainst the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.     At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniformand with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of malepassengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasionalglances Retief's way.     A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyespeered out from under a white chef's cap.     Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?     Looks like it, old-timer, Retief said. Maybe I'd better go join theskipper. His party seems to be having all the fun.     Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there.     I see your point.     You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate.     Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backedup with mushrooms and garlic butter.     I'm Chip, the chef said. I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him Isaid so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,look at a man like he was a worm.     You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got theright idea on the Soetti, too, Retief said. He poured red wine into aglass. Here's to you.     Dern right, Chip said. Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.You like brandy in yer coffee?     Chip, you're a genius.     Like to see a feller eat, Chip said. I gotta go now. If you needanything, holler.     Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days toJorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was atemptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. Itwould be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.     Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska andcoffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tonyand his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.     As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered acrossthe room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, tooka cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lightedend in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.     The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.     You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad, the thug said in agrating voice. What's your game, hick?     Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.     I don't think I want my coffee, he said. He looked at the thug. Youdrink it.     The thug squinted at Retief. A wise hick, he began.     With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug'sface, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thugwent down.     Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.     You can take your playmates away now, Tony, he said. And don'tbother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough.     Mr. Tony found his voice.     Take him, Marbles! he growled.     The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out along-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.     Retief heard the panel open beside him.     Here you go, Mister, Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honedfrench knife lay on the sill.     Thanks, Chip, Retief said. I won't need it for these punks.     Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking himunder the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistolfrom his shoulder holster.     Aim that at me, and I'll kill you, Retief said.     Go on, burn him! Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,white-faced.     Put that away, you! he yelled. What kind of—     Shut up, Mr. Tony said. Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bumlater.     Not on this vessel, you won't, the captain said shakily. I got mycharter to consider.     Ram your charter, Hoany said harshly. You won't be needing it long.     Button your floppy mouth, damn you! Mr. Tony snapped. He looked atthe man on the floor. Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump theslob.     He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters cameup. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.     The panel opened.     I usta be about your size, when I was your age, Chip said. Youhandled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day.     How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip? Retief said.     Sure, Mister. Anything else?     I'll think of something, Retief said. This is shaping up into one ofthose long days.  They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin, Chip said.But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. Theywon't mess with me.     What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip? Retief asked.     They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some moresmoked turkey?     Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?     Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. Isure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I wasyer age.     I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen'sWorlds like?     One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' theJorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'his own cookin' like he does somebody else's.     That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain gotaboard for Jorgensen's?     Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever fewweeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.Don't know what we even run in there for.     Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?     To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. Youain't got another one of them cigars, have you?     Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship.     Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins. Chip puffedthe cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee andbrandy.     Them Sweaties is what I don't like, he said.     Retief looked at him questioningly.     You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like alobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled.     I've never had the pleasure, Retief said.     You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever tripout. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'.     There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.     I ain't superstitious ner nothin', Chip said. But I'll betriple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now.     Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavyknock shook the door.     They got to look you over, Chip whispered. Nosy damn Sweaties.     Unlock it, Chip. The chef opened the door.     Come in, damn you, he said.     A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-likefeet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-setcompound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.     Yo' papiss, the alien rasped.     Who's your friend, Captain? Retief said.     Never mind; just do like he tells you.     Yo' papiss, the alien said again.     Okay, Retief said. I've seen it. You can take it away now.       Don't horse around, the captain said. This fellow can get mean.     The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.     Quick, soft one.     Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, andI'm tempted to test it.     Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with thosesnappers.     Last chance, Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inchfrom Retief's eyes.     Show him your papers, you damned fool, the captain said hoarsely. Igot no control over Skaw.  The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the sameinstant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alienand drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbousknee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spatteringfrom the burst joint.     I told you he was brittle, Retief said. Next time you invite piratesaboard, don't bother to call.     Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us! the captain gasped, staringat the figure flopping on the floor.     Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat, Retief said. Tell him to passthe word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels inTerrestrial space.     Hey, Chip said. He's quit kicking.     The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned closeand sniffed.     He's dead. The captain stared at Retief. We're all dead men, hesaid. These Soetti got no mercy.     They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over.     They got no more emotions than a blue crab—     You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.We know their secret now.     What secret? I—     Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n, Chip said. Sweaties dieeasy; that's the secret.     Maybe you got a point, the captain said, looking at Retief. All theygot's a three-man scout. It could work.     He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead aliengingerly into the hall.     Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti, the captain said, looking backfrom the door. But I'll be back to see you later.     You don't scare us, Cap'n, Chip said. Him and Mr. Tony and all hisgoons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' theseSweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket.     You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in yourgetting involved in my problems.     They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That'swhere we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts.     They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers.     They don't scare me none. Chip picked up the tray. I'll scout arounda little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anythingabout that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't trynothin' close to port.     Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't doanything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now.     Chip looked at Retief. You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.You didn't come out here for fun, did you?     That, Retief said, would be a hard one to answer.      IV     Retief awoke at a tap on his door.     It's me, Mister. Chip.     Come on in.     The chef entered the room, locking the door.     You shoulda had that door locked. He stood by the door, listening,then turned to Retief.     You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?     That's right, Chip.     Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. TheSweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took theremains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they callMarbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin andtalked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and givesome orders to the Mate.     Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.     Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?     He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got agun?     A 2mm needler. Why?     The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We'reby-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute.     Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out ashort-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.     Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain'scabin?  This is it, Chip said softly. You want me to keep an eye on whocomes down the passage?     Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captainlooked up from his desk, then jumped up.     What do you think you're doing, busting in here?     I hear you're planning a course change, Captain.     You've got damn big ears.     I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's.     You do, huh? the captain sat down. I'm in command of this vessel,he said. I'm changing course for Alabaster.     I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster, Retief said. Sojust hold your course for Jorgensen's.     Not bloody likely.     Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try tochange course.     The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.     Power Section, this is the captain, he said. Retief reached acrossthe desk, gripped the captain's wrist.     Tell the mate to hold his present course, he said softly.     Let go my hand, buster, the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, heeased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed thedrawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.     You busted it, you—     And one to go, Retief said. Tell him.     I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!     You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alleyhoods.     You can't put it over, hick.     Tell him.     The captain groaned and picked up the mike. Captain to Power Section,he said. Hold your present course until you hear from me. He droppedthe mike and looked up at Retief.     It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You goingto sit here and bend my arm the whole time?     Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.     Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what'sgoing on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up witha sick friend.     Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery.     What are you going to do? the captain demanded.     Retief settled himself in a chair.     Instead of strangling you, as you deserve, he said, I'm going tostay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds.     The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.     Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feellike dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me.     Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.     If anything happens that I don't like, he said, I'll wake you up.With this.  ","The Soettis are involved in some kind of illegal activity with the Captain and Mr. Tony. The Soettis, nicknamed Sweaties, by humans who dislike them, are an alien species who have been moving deep into the sector where the Jorgensen’s Worlds are located. The Soettis are unattractive creatures with skinny legs like a lobster’s and a big chest shaped somewhat like a turnip. They have rubbery heads, and you can see their pulse beating when they get upset. They have tiny arms with toothed pincers at the ends and threaten humans with them. These pincers are incredibly strong and can cut through steel. It has been learned that they are planning to seize Jorgensen’s Worlds by force, a move of open aggression against Terrestrial territory that cannot be overlooked. The headquarters where Retief works has obtained the Soetti War Plan from a defector of Terrestrials who have actually been providing advice to the Soettis, so the plan is for Retief to travel personally to Jorgensen’s Worlds to provide them with this information and also with the schematics that will enable them to convert their anti-acceleration field into a powerful weapon to protect the planets. Reaching the Jorgensen’s Worlds will be challenging because the Soettis are on patrol in the trade lanes where the airships travel to the Worlds. The Soettis look down on Terrestrials and try to assert themselves over them. The Soettis can speak English, so they can communicate with the Terrestrials.The Captain is afraid of the Soettis and worries that when Retief harms Skaw, the Soetties will kill all of the humans. Retief intends for Skaw to go back and tell the other Soettis that they can no longer enter the Terrestrials’ airships and search them. When Skaw dies, the Captain is certain they are done for, but Retief tells him to bluff and show guns when they return the body, and the Soettis will back down. Surprisingly, the Soettis don’t say anything about Skaw’s death, but Mr. Tony is furious. Retief thinks it is good to know that the Soettis are easy to kill."
"Describe Jorgensen’s Worlds and their significance. </s>     THE FROZEN PLANET     By Keith Laumer     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission.     Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on.     There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating.     Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force.     Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.     This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it.     Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.     A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil.     Magnan tapped the folder before him.     I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief.  All right, Mr. Councillor, Retief said. I'll play along; what's inthe folder?     Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.     First, he said. The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunateenough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegadeTerrestrials who've been advising the Soetti. He folded anotherfinger. Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out bythe Theory group. He wrestled a third finger down. Lastly; an UtterTop Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-accelerationfield into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have beenholding in reserve for just such a situation.     Is that all? Retief said. You've still got two fingers sticking up.     Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.     This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, thisinformation could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leavethis building.     I'll carry it, sealed, Retief said. That way nobody can sweat it outof me.     Magnan started to shake his head.     Well, he said. If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—     I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said. I remember anagent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard withcards and dice. Never played for money, though.     Umm, Magnan said. Don't make the error of personalizing thissituation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of thesebackwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow itsnatural course, as always.     When does this attack happen?     Less than four weeks.     That doesn't leave me much time.     I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far asAldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the restof the way.     That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?     Magnan looked sour. Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to putall our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you isnot misplaced.     This antiac conversion; how long does it take?     A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. TheJorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic ofsome sort.     Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the ticketsinside.     Less than four hours to departure time, he said. I'd better notstart any long books.     You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination, Magnansaid.     Retief stood up. If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon.     The allusion escapes me, Magnan said coldly. And one last word. TheSoetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don'tget yourself interned.     I'll tell you what, Retief said soberly. In a pinch, I'll mentionyour name.     You'll be traveling with Class X credentials, Magnan snapped. Theremust be nothing to connect you with the Corps.     They'll never guess, Retief said. I'll pose as a gentleman.     You'd better be getting started, Magnan said, shuffling papers.     You're right, Retief said. If I work at it, I might manage asnootful by takeoff. He went to the door. No objection to my checkingout a needler, is there?     Magnan looked up. I suppose not. What do you want with it?     Just a feeling I've got.     Please yourself.     Some day, Retief said, I may take you up on that.      II     Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on thecounter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legendALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY. A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouseand a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watchingRetief from the corner of his eye.     Retief glanced at him.     The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth andspat it on the floor.     Was there something? he said.     Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group, Retief said.Is it on schedule?     The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. Filledup. Try again in a couple of weeks.     What time does it leave?     I don't think—     Let's stick to facts, Retief said. Don't try to think. What time isit due out?     The clerk smiled pityingly. It's my lunch hour, he said. I'll beopen in an hour. He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.     If I have to come around this counter, Retief said, I'll feed thatthumb to you the hard way.     The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,closed his mouth and swallowed.     Like it says there, he said, jerking a thumb at the board. Lifts inan hour. But you won't be on it, he added.     Retief looked at him.     Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation, he said. He hookeda finger inside the sequined collar. All tourist reservations werecanceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line shipnext—     Which gate? Retief said.     For ... ah...?     For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said.     Well, the clerk said. Gate 19, he added quickly. But—     Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare signreading      To Gates 16-30     .     Another smart alec, the clerk said behind him.  Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found acovered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered manwith a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpledgray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.     Lessee your boarding pass, he muttered.     Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.     The guard blinked at it.     Whassat?     A gram confirming my space, Retief said. Your boy on the countersays he's out to lunch.     The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged backagainst the handrail.     On your way, bub, he said.     Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove aright into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled andwent to his knees.     You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneakedpast while you were resting your eyes. He picked up his bag, steppedover the man and went up the gangway into the ship.     A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.     Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son? Retief asked.     Up there. The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his wayalong the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of thefloor. It was expensive looking baggage.     Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood inthe open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid manclamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.     Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out. He rolled a cold eye at Retief ashe backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.     What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room? he barked. Never mind! Clearout of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting.     Too bad, Retief said. Finders keepers.     You nuts? The thick-necked man stared at Retief. I said it's Mr.Tony's room.     I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters.     We'll see about you, mister. The man turned and went out. Retiefsat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices inthe corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at anoversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.     All right, you. Out, he growled. Or have I got to have you thrownout?     Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped ahandle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heavedthe trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to thedoor.     Catch, he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against thefar wall of the corridor and burst.     Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. Theface of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.     Mister, you must be—     If you'll excuse me, Retief said, I want to catch a nap. He flippedthe door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.  Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.     Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, ablue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eyestared at Retief.     Is this the joker? he grated.     The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,That's him, sure.     I'm captain of this vessel, the first man said. You've got twominutes to haul your freight out of here, buster.     When you can spare the time from your other duties, Retief said,take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged ininterplanetary commerce.     A space lawyer. The captain turned. Throw him out, boys.     Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.     Go on, pitch him out, the captain snapped.     Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.     Don't try it, he said softly.     One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, andstepped forward, then hesitated.     Hey, he said. This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?     That's him, the thick-necked man called. Spilled Mr. Tony'spossessions right on the deck.     Deal me out, the bouncer said. He can stay put as long as he wantsto. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe.     You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain, Retief said.We're due to lift in twenty minutes.     The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. TheCaptain's voice prevailed.     —twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?     Close the door as you leave, Retief said.     The thick-necked man paused at the door. We'll see you when you comeout.      III     Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leanedagainst the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.     At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniformand with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of malepassengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasionalglances Retief's way.     A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyespeered out from under a white chef's cap.     Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?     Looks like it, old-timer, Retief said. Maybe I'd better go join theskipper. His party seems to be having all the fun.     Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there.     I see your point.     You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate.     Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backedup with mushrooms and garlic butter.     I'm Chip, the chef said. I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him Isaid so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,look at a man like he was a worm.     You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got theright idea on the Soetti, too, Retief said. He poured red wine into aglass. Here's to you.     Dern right, Chip said. Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.You like brandy in yer coffee?     Chip, you're a genius.     Like to see a feller eat, Chip said. I gotta go now. If you needanything, holler.     Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days toJorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was atemptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. Itwould be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.     Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska andcoffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tonyand his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.     As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered acrossthe room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, tooka cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lightedend in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.     The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.     You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad, the thug said in agrating voice. What's your game, hick?     Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.     I don't think I want my coffee, he said. He looked at the thug. Youdrink it.     The thug squinted at Retief. A wise hick, he began.     With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug'sface, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thugwent down.     Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.     You can take your playmates away now, Tony, he said. And don'tbother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough.     Mr. Tony found his voice.     Take him, Marbles! he growled.     The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out along-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.     Retief heard the panel open beside him.     Here you go, Mister, Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honedfrench knife lay on the sill.     Thanks, Chip, Retief said. I won't need it for these punks.     Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking himunder the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistolfrom his shoulder holster.     Aim that at me, and I'll kill you, Retief said.     Go on, burn him! Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,white-faced.     Put that away, you! he yelled. What kind of—     Shut up, Mr. Tony said. Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bumlater.     Not on this vessel, you won't, the captain said shakily. I got mycharter to consider.     Ram your charter, Hoany said harshly. You won't be needing it long.     Button your floppy mouth, damn you! Mr. Tony snapped. He looked atthe man on the floor. Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump theslob.     He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters cameup. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.     The panel opened.     I usta be about your size, when I was your age, Chip said. Youhandled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day.     How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip? Retief said.     Sure, Mister. Anything else?     I'll think of something, Retief said. This is shaping up into one ofthose long days.  They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin, Chip said.But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. Theywon't mess with me.     What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip? Retief asked.     They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some moresmoked turkey?     Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?     Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. Isure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I wasyer age.     I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen'sWorlds like?     One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' theJorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'his own cookin' like he does somebody else's.     That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain gotaboard for Jorgensen's?     Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever fewweeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.Don't know what we even run in there for.     Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?     To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. Youain't got another one of them cigars, have you?     Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship.     Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins. Chip puffedthe cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee andbrandy.     Them Sweaties is what I don't like, he said.     Retief looked at him questioningly.     You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like alobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled.     I've never had the pleasure, Retief said.     You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever tripout. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'.     There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.     I ain't superstitious ner nothin', Chip said. But I'll betriple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now.     Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavyknock shook the door.     They got to look you over, Chip whispered. Nosy damn Sweaties.     Unlock it, Chip. The chef opened the door.     Come in, damn you, he said.     A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-likefeet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-setcompound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.     Yo' papiss, the alien rasped.     Who's your friend, Captain? Retief said.     Never mind; just do like he tells you.     Yo' papiss, the alien said again.     Okay, Retief said. I've seen it. You can take it away now.       Don't horse around, the captain said. This fellow can get mean.     The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.     Quick, soft one.     Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, andI'm tempted to test it.     Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with thosesnappers.     Last chance, Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inchfrom Retief's eyes.     Show him your papers, you damned fool, the captain said hoarsely. Igot no control over Skaw.  The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the sameinstant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alienand drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbousknee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spatteringfrom the burst joint.     I told you he was brittle, Retief said. Next time you invite piratesaboard, don't bother to call.     Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us! the captain gasped, staringat the figure flopping on the floor.     Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat, Retief said. Tell him to passthe word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels inTerrestrial space.     Hey, Chip said. He's quit kicking.     The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned closeand sniffed.     He's dead. The captain stared at Retief. We're all dead men, hesaid. These Soetti got no mercy.     They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over.     They got no more emotions than a blue crab—     You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.We know their secret now.     What secret? I—     Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n, Chip said. Sweaties dieeasy; that's the secret.     Maybe you got a point, the captain said, looking at Retief. All theygot's a three-man scout. It could work.     He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead aliengingerly into the hall.     Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti, the captain said, looking backfrom the door. But I'll be back to see you later.     You don't scare us, Cap'n, Chip said. Him and Mr. Tony and all hisgoons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' theseSweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket.     You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in yourgetting involved in my problems.     They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That'swhere we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts.     They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers.     They don't scare me none. Chip picked up the tray. I'll scout arounda little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anythingabout that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't trynothin' close to port.     Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't doanything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now.     Chip looked at Retief. You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.You didn't come out here for fun, did you?     That, Retief said, would be a hard one to answer.      IV     Retief awoke at a tap on his door.     It's me, Mister. Chip.     Come on in.     The chef entered the room, locking the door.     You shoulda had that door locked. He stood by the door, listening,then turned to Retief.     You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?     That's right, Chip.     Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. TheSweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took theremains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they callMarbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin andtalked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and givesome orders to the Mate.     Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.     Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?     He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got agun?     A 2mm needler. Why?     The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We'reby-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute.     Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out ashort-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.     Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain'scabin?  This is it, Chip said softly. You want me to keep an eye on whocomes down the passage?     Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captainlooked up from his desk, then jumped up.     What do you think you're doing, busting in here?     I hear you're planning a course change, Captain.     You've got damn big ears.     I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's.     You do, huh? the captain sat down. I'm in command of this vessel,he said. I'm changing course for Alabaster.     I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster, Retief said. Sojust hold your course for Jorgensen's.     Not bloody likely.     Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try tochange course.     The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.     Power Section, this is the captain, he said. Retief reached acrossthe desk, gripped the captain's wrist.     Tell the mate to hold his present course, he said softly.     Let go my hand, buster, the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, heeased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed thedrawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.     You busted it, you—     And one to go, Retief said. Tell him.     I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!     You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alleyhoods.     You can't put it over, hick.     Tell him.     The captain groaned and picked up the mike. Captain to Power Section,he said. Hold your present course until you hear from me. He droppedthe mike and looked up at Retief.     It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You goingto sit here and bend my arm the whole time?     Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.     Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what'sgoing on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up witha sick friend.     Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery.     What are you going to do? the captain demanded.     Retief settled himself in a chair.     Instead of strangling you, as you deserve, he said, I'm going tostay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds.     The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.     Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feellike dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me.     Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.     If anything happens that I don't like, he said, I'll wake you up.With this.  ","Jorgensen’s Worlds are a group of four planets, or actually two double planets, and are located close to an unimportant star known as DRI-G 33987. These planets are freezing cold and are undeveloped and mostly populated with farmers and traders. They have a small amount of industry, just enough to support their merchant fleet. However, the governing body in this sector of space has received word that an alien race, the Soetti, has plans to seize Jorgensen’s Worlds. The governing body isn’t going to sit by and let the aliens take over Terrestrial-occupied territory. Retief is on a mission to deliver information to Jorgensen’s Worlds that will enable them to defend themselves from the alien attack, providing them with the Soettis War Plan, a battle plan for the planets, and the schematics that will enable them, in a matter of minutes, to convert their anti-acceleration fields into a powerful weapon. Reaching Jorgensen’s Worlds will be challenging because the Soetti are patroling the trade lanes to the planet. Their successful defense against the Soetti hinges on Retief’s reaching the planets in time for them to make the conversions before the aliens' attack."
"Who is Chip, and what is his significance? </s>     THE FROZEN PLANET     By Keith Laumer     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission.     Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on.     There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating.     Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force.     Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.     This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it.     Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.     A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil.     Magnan tapped the folder before him.     I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief.  All right, Mr. Councillor, Retief said. I'll play along; what's inthe folder?     Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.     First, he said. The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunateenough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegadeTerrestrials who've been advising the Soetti. He folded anotherfinger. Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out bythe Theory group. He wrestled a third finger down. Lastly; an UtterTop Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-accelerationfield into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have beenholding in reserve for just such a situation.     Is that all? Retief said. You've still got two fingers sticking up.     Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.     This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, thisinformation could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leavethis building.     I'll carry it, sealed, Retief said. That way nobody can sweat it outof me.     Magnan started to shake his head.     Well, he said. If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—     I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said. I remember anagent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard withcards and dice. Never played for money, though.     Umm, Magnan said. Don't make the error of personalizing thissituation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of thesebackwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow itsnatural course, as always.     When does this attack happen?     Less than four weeks.     That doesn't leave me much time.     I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far asAldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the restof the way.     That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?     Magnan looked sour. Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to putall our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you isnot misplaced.     This antiac conversion; how long does it take?     A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. TheJorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic ofsome sort.     Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the ticketsinside.     Less than four hours to departure time, he said. I'd better notstart any long books.     You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination, Magnansaid.     Retief stood up. If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon.     The allusion escapes me, Magnan said coldly. And one last word. TheSoetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don'tget yourself interned.     I'll tell you what, Retief said soberly. In a pinch, I'll mentionyour name.     You'll be traveling with Class X credentials, Magnan snapped. Theremust be nothing to connect you with the Corps.     They'll never guess, Retief said. I'll pose as a gentleman.     You'd better be getting started, Magnan said, shuffling papers.     You're right, Retief said. If I work at it, I might manage asnootful by takeoff. He went to the door. No objection to my checkingout a needler, is there?     Magnan looked up. I suppose not. What do you want with it?     Just a feeling I've got.     Please yourself.     Some day, Retief said, I may take you up on that.      II     Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on thecounter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legendALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY. A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouseand a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watchingRetief from the corner of his eye.     Retief glanced at him.     The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth andspat it on the floor.     Was there something? he said.     Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group, Retief said.Is it on schedule?     The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. Filledup. Try again in a couple of weeks.     What time does it leave?     I don't think—     Let's stick to facts, Retief said. Don't try to think. What time isit due out?     The clerk smiled pityingly. It's my lunch hour, he said. I'll beopen in an hour. He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.     If I have to come around this counter, Retief said, I'll feed thatthumb to you the hard way.     The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,closed his mouth and swallowed.     Like it says there, he said, jerking a thumb at the board. Lifts inan hour. But you won't be on it, he added.     Retief looked at him.     Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation, he said. He hookeda finger inside the sequined collar. All tourist reservations werecanceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line shipnext—     Which gate? Retief said.     For ... ah...?     For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said.     Well, the clerk said. Gate 19, he added quickly. But—     Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare signreading      To Gates 16-30     .     Another smart alec, the clerk said behind him.  Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found acovered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered manwith a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpledgray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.     Lessee your boarding pass, he muttered.     Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.     The guard blinked at it.     Whassat?     A gram confirming my space, Retief said. Your boy on the countersays he's out to lunch.     The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged backagainst the handrail.     On your way, bub, he said.     Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove aright into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled andwent to his knees.     You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneakedpast while you were resting your eyes. He picked up his bag, steppedover the man and went up the gangway into the ship.     A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.     Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son? Retief asked.     Up there. The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his wayalong the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of thefloor. It was expensive looking baggage.     Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood inthe open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid manclamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.     Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out. He rolled a cold eye at Retief ashe backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.     What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room? he barked. Never mind! Clearout of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting.     Too bad, Retief said. Finders keepers.     You nuts? The thick-necked man stared at Retief. I said it's Mr.Tony's room.     I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters.     We'll see about you, mister. The man turned and went out. Retiefsat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices inthe corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at anoversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.     All right, you. Out, he growled. Or have I got to have you thrownout?     Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped ahandle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heavedthe trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to thedoor.     Catch, he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against thefar wall of the corridor and burst.     Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. Theface of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.     Mister, you must be—     If you'll excuse me, Retief said, I want to catch a nap. He flippedthe door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.  Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.     Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, ablue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eyestared at Retief.     Is this the joker? he grated.     The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,That's him, sure.     I'm captain of this vessel, the first man said. You've got twominutes to haul your freight out of here, buster.     When you can spare the time from your other duties, Retief said,take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged ininterplanetary commerce.     A space lawyer. The captain turned. Throw him out, boys.     Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.     Go on, pitch him out, the captain snapped.     Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.     Don't try it, he said softly.     One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, andstepped forward, then hesitated.     Hey, he said. This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?     That's him, the thick-necked man called. Spilled Mr. Tony'spossessions right on the deck.     Deal me out, the bouncer said. He can stay put as long as he wantsto. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe.     You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain, Retief said.We're due to lift in twenty minutes.     The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. TheCaptain's voice prevailed.     —twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?     Close the door as you leave, Retief said.     The thick-necked man paused at the door. We'll see you when you comeout.      III     Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leanedagainst the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.     At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniformand with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of malepassengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasionalglances Retief's way.     A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyespeered out from under a white chef's cap.     Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?     Looks like it, old-timer, Retief said. Maybe I'd better go join theskipper. His party seems to be having all the fun.     Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there.     I see your point.     You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate.     Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backedup with mushrooms and garlic butter.     I'm Chip, the chef said. I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him Isaid so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,look at a man like he was a worm.     You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got theright idea on the Soetti, too, Retief said. He poured red wine into aglass. Here's to you.     Dern right, Chip said. Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.You like brandy in yer coffee?     Chip, you're a genius.     Like to see a feller eat, Chip said. I gotta go now. If you needanything, holler.     Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days toJorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was atemptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. Itwould be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.     Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska andcoffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tonyand his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.     As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered acrossthe room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, tooka cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lightedend in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.     The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.     You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad, the thug said in agrating voice. What's your game, hick?     Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.     I don't think I want my coffee, he said. He looked at the thug. Youdrink it.     The thug squinted at Retief. A wise hick, he began.     With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug'sface, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thugwent down.     Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.     You can take your playmates away now, Tony, he said. And don'tbother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough.     Mr. Tony found his voice.     Take him, Marbles! he growled.     The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out along-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.     Retief heard the panel open beside him.     Here you go, Mister, Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honedfrench knife lay on the sill.     Thanks, Chip, Retief said. I won't need it for these punks.     Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking himunder the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistolfrom his shoulder holster.     Aim that at me, and I'll kill you, Retief said.     Go on, burn him! Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,white-faced.     Put that away, you! he yelled. What kind of—     Shut up, Mr. Tony said. Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bumlater.     Not on this vessel, you won't, the captain said shakily. I got mycharter to consider.     Ram your charter, Hoany said harshly. You won't be needing it long.     Button your floppy mouth, damn you! Mr. Tony snapped. He looked atthe man on the floor. Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump theslob.     He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters cameup. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.     The panel opened.     I usta be about your size, when I was your age, Chip said. Youhandled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day.     How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip? Retief said.     Sure, Mister. Anything else?     I'll think of something, Retief said. This is shaping up into one ofthose long days.  They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin, Chip said.But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. Theywon't mess with me.     What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip? Retief asked.     They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some moresmoked turkey?     Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?     Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. Isure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I wasyer age.     I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen'sWorlds like?     One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' theJorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'his own cookin' like he does somebody else's.     That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain gotaboard for Jorgensen's?     Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever fewweeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.Don't know what we even run in there for.     Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?     To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. Youain't got another one of them cigars, have you?     Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship.     Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins. Chip puffedthe cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee andbrandy.     Them Sweaties is what I don't like, he said.     Retief looked at him questioningly.     You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like alobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled.     I've never had the pleasure, Retief said.     You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever tripout. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'.     There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.     I ain't superstitious ner nothin', Chip said. But I'll betriple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now.     Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavyknock shook the door.     They got to look you over, Chip whispered. Nosy damn Sweaties.     Unlock it, Chip. The chef opened the door.     Come in, damn you, he said.     A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-likefeet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-setcompound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.     Yo' papiss, the alien rasped.     Who's your friend, Captain? Retief said.     Never mind; just do like he tells you.     Yo' papiss, the alien said again.     Okay, Retief said. I've seen it. You can take it away now.       Don't horse around, the captain said. This fellow can get mean.     The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.     Quick, soft one.     Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, andI'm tempted to test it.     Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with thosesnappers.     Last chance, Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inchfrom Retief's eyes.     Show him your papers, you damned fool, the captain said hoarsely. Igot no control over Skaw.  The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the sameinstant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alienand drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbousknee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spatteringfrom the burst joint.     I told you he was brittle, Retief said. Next time you invite piratesaboard, don't bother to call.     Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us! the captain gasped, staringat the figure flopping on the floor.     Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat, Retief said. Tell him to passthe word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels inTerrestrial space.     Hey, Chip said. He's quit kicking.     The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned closeand sniffed.     He's dead. The captain stared at Retief. We're all dead men, hesaid. These Soetti got no mercy.     They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over.     They got no more emotions than a blue crab—     You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.We know their secret now.     What secret? I—     Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n, Chip said. Sweaties dieeasy; that's the secret.     Maybe you got a point, the captain said, looking at Retief. All theygot's a three-man scout. It could work.     He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead aliengingerly into the hall.     Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti, the captain said, looking backfrom the door. But I'll be back to see you later.     You don't scare us, Cap'n, Chip said. Him and Mr. Tony and all hisgoons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' theseSweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket.     You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in yourgetting involved in my problems.     They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That'swhere we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts.     They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers.     They don't scare me none. Chip picked up the tray. I'll scout arounda little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anythingabout that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't trynothin' close to port.     Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't doanything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now.     Chip looked at Retief. You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.You didn't come out here for fun, did you?     That, Retief said, would be a hard one to answer.      IV     Retief awoke at a tap on his door.     It's me, Mister. Chip.     Come on in.     The chef entered the room, locking the door.     You shoulda had that door locked. He stood by the door, listening,then turned to Retief.     You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?     That's right, Chip.     Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. TheSweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took theremains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they callMarbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin andtalked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and givesome orders to the Mate.     Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.     Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?     He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got agun?     A 2mm needler. Why?     The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We'reby-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute.     Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out ashort-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.     Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain'scabin?  This is it, Chip said softly. You want me to keep an eye on whocomes down the passage?     Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captainlooked up from his desk, then jumped up.     What do you think you're doing, busting in here?     I hear you're planning a course change, Captain.     You've got damn big ears.     I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's.     You do, huh? the captain sat down. I'm in command of this vessel,he said. I'm changing course for Alabaster.     I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster, Retief said. Sojust hold your course for Jorgensen's.     Not bloody likely.     Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try tochange course.     The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.     Power Section, this is the captain, he said. Retief reached acrossthe desk, gripped the captain's wrist.     Tell the mate to hold his present course, he said softly.     Let go my hand, buster, the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, heeased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed thedrawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.     You busted it, you—     And one to go, Retief said. Tell him.     I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!     You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alleyhoods.     You can't put it over, hick.     Tell him.     The captain groaned and picked up the mike. Captain to Power Section,he said. Hold your present course until you hear from me. He droppedthe mike and looked up at Retief.     It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You goingto sit here and bend my arm the whole time?     Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.     Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what'sgoing on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up witha sick friend.     Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery.     What are you going to do? the captain demanded.     Retief settled himself in a chair.     Instead of strangling you, as you deserve, he said, I'm going tostay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds.     The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.     Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feellike dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me.     Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.     If anything happens that I don't like, he said, I'll wake you up.With this.  ","Chip is the chef on the airship that is traveling to Jorgensen’s Worlds. His role as chef enables him to have contact with the Captain, crew, and passengers, which makes him extremely valuable to Retief. In addition, he likes Retief since he stands up to Mr. Tony and the Captain, neither of whom Chip can stand. When the serving staff ignore Retief, Chip serves Retief and later continues serving him meals in his room. When Retief is threatened by one of Mr. Tony’s goons wielding a knife, Chip passes a knife from the kitchen to Retief to defend himself. Most importantly, Chip shares his wealth of knowledge with Retief and assists him. Chip informs Retief that Mr. Tony and the Captain are involved in some kind of crooked business deal with each other, adding that there haven’t been any tourist to Jorgensen’s Worlds for the last six to eight months. He also tells Retief about the Soettis boarding the ship and searching it. At the end of the story when Retief is holding the Captain in his cabin to prevent him from changing the orders and bypassing Jorgensen’s Worlds, Chip keeps an eye on what is going on with the rest of the passengers to report back to Retief. Without Chip’s help, Retief might not have been as successful in thwarting the Captain and Mr. Tony’s plan to bypass Jorgensen’s Worlds."
"What is the relationship between the Captain and Mr. Tony? </s>     THE FROZEN PLANET     By Keith Laumer     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      It is rather unusual, Magnan said, to assign an officer of your rankto courier duty, but this is an unusual mission.     Retief sat relaxed and said nothing. Just before the silence grewawkward, Magnan went on.     There are four planets in the group, he said. Two double planets,all rather close to an unimportant star listed as DRI-G 33987. They'recalled Jorgensen's Worlds, and in themselves are of no importancewhatever. However, they lie deep in the sector into which the Soettihave been penetrating.     Now— Magnan leaned forward and lowered his voice—we have learnedthat the Soetti plan a bold step forward. Since they've met noopposition so far in their infiltration of Terrestrial space, theyintend to seize Jorgensen's Worlds by force.     Magnan leaned back, waiting for Retief's reaction. Retief drewcarefully on his cigar and looked at Magnan. Magnan frowned.     This is open aggression, Retief, he said, in case I haven't mademyself clear. Aggression on Terrestrial-occupied territory by an alienspecies. Obviously, we can't allow it.     Magnan drew a large folder from his desk.     A show of resistance at this point is necessary. Unfortunately,Jorgensen's Worlds are technologically undeveloped areas. They'refarmers or traders. Their industry is limited to a minor role intheir economy—enough to support the merchant fleet, no more. The warpotential, by conventional standards, is nil.     Magnan tapped the folder before him.     I have here, he said solemnly, information which will change thatpicture completely. He leaned back and blinked at Retief.  All right, Mr. Councillor, Retief said. I'll play along; what's inthe folder?     Magnan spread his fingers, folded one down.     First, he said. The Soetti War Plan—in detail. We were fortunateenough to make contact with a defector from a party of renegadeTerrestrials who've been advising the Soetti. He folded anotherfinger. Next, a battle plan for the Jorgensen's people, worked out bythe Theory group. He wrestled a third finger down. Lastly; an UtterTop Secret schematic for conversion of a standard anti-accelerationfield into a potent weapon—a development our systems people have beenholding in reserve for just such a situation.     Is that all? Retief said. You've still got two fingers sticking up.     Magnan looked at the fingers and put them away.     This is no occasion for flippancy, Retief. In the wrong hands, thisinformation could be catastrophic. You'll memorize it before you leavethis building.     I'll carry it, sealed, Retief said. That way nobody can sweat it outof me.     Magnan started to shake his head.     Well, he said. If it's trapped for destruction, I suppose—     I've heard of these Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said. I remember anagent, a big blond fellow, very quick on the uptake. A wizard withcards and dice. Never played for money, though.     Umm, Magnan said. Don't make the error of personalizing thissituation, Retief. Overall policy calls for a defense of thesebackwater worlds. Otherwise the Corps would allow history to follow itsnatural course, as always.     When does this attack happen?     Less than four weeks.     That doesn't leave me much time.     I have your itinerary here. Your accommodations are clear as far asAldo Cerise. You'll have to rely on your ingenuity to get you the restof the way.     That's a pretty rough trip, Mr. Councillor. Suppose I don't make it?     Magnan looked sour. Someone at a policy-making level has chosen to putall our eggs in one basket, Retief. I hope their confidence in you isnot misplaced.     This antiac conversion; how long does it take?     A skilled electronics crew can do the job in a matter of minutes. TheJorgensens can handle it very nicely; every other man is a mechanic ofsome sort.     Retief opened the envelope Magnan handed him and looked at the ticketsinside.     Less than four hours to departure time, he said. I'd better notstart any long books.     You'd better waste no time getting over to Indoctrination, Magnansaid.     Retief stood up. If I hurry, maybe I can catch the cartoon.     The allusion escapes me, Magnan said coldly. And one last word. TheSoetti are patrolling the trade lanes into Jorgensen's Worlds; don'tget yourself interned.     I'll tell you what, Retief said soberly. In a pinch, I'll mentionyour name.     You'll be traveling with Class X credentials, Magnan snapped. Theremust be nothing to connect you with the Corps.     They'll never guess, Retief said. I'll pose as a gentleman.     You'd better be getting started, Magnan said, shuffling papers.     You're right, Retief said. If I work at it, I might manage asnootful by takeoff. He went to the door. No objection to my checkingout a needler, is there?     Magnan looked up. I suppose not. What do you want with it?     Just a feeling I've got.     Please yourself.     Some day, Retief said, I may take you up on that.      II     Retief put down the heavy travel-battered suitcase and leaned on thecounter, studying the schedules chalked on the board under the legendALDO CERISE—INTERPLANETARY. A thin clerk in a faded sequined blouseand a plastic snakeskin cummerbund groomed his fingernails, watchingRetief from the corner of his eye.     Retief glanced at him.     The clerk nipped off a ragged corner with rabbitlike front teeth andspat it on the floor.     Was there something? he said.     Two twenty-eight, due out today for the Jorgensen group, Retief said.Is it on schedule?     The clerk sampled the inside of his right cheek, eyed Retief. Filledup. Try again in a couple of weeks.     What time does it leave?     I don't think—     Let's stick to facts, Retief said. Don't try to think. What time isit due out?     The clerk smiled pityingly. It's my lunch hour, he said. I'll beopen in an hour. He held up a thumb nail, frowned at it.     If I have to come around this counter, Retief said, I'll feed thatthumb to you the hard way.     The clerk looked up and opened his mouth. Then he caught Retief's eye,closed his mouth and swallowed.     Like it says there, he said, jerking a thumb at the board. Lifts inan hour. But you won't be on it, he added.     Retief looked at him.     Some ... ah ... VIP's required accommodation, he said. He hookeda finger inside the sequined collar. All tourist reservations werecanceled. You'll have to try to get space on the Four-Planet Line shipnext—     Which gate? Retief said.     For ... ah...?     For the two twenty-eight for Jorgensen's Worlds, Retief said.     Well, the clerk said. Gate 19, he added quickly. But—     Retief picked up his suitcase and walked away toward the glare signreading      To Gates 16-30     .     Another smart alec, the clerk said behind him.  Retief followed the signs, threaded his way through crowds, found acovered ramp with the number 228 posted over it. A heavy-shouldered manwith a scarred jawline and small eyes was slouching there in a rumpledgray uniform. He put out a hand as Retief started past him.     Lessee your boarding pass, he muttered.     Retief pulled a paper from an inside pocket, handed it over.     The guard blinked at it.     Whassat?     A gram confirming my space, Retief said. Your boy on the countersays he's out to lunch.     The guard crumpled the gram, dropped it on the floor and lounged backagainst the handrail.     On your way, bub, he said.     Retief put his suitcase carefully on the floor, took a step and drove aright into the guard's midriff. He stepped aside as the man doubled andwent to his knees.     You were wide open, ugly. I couldn't resist. Tell your boss I sneakedpast while you were resting your eyes. He picked up his bag, steppedover the man and went up the gangway into the ship.     A cabin boy in stained whites came along the corridor.     Which way to cabin fifty-seven, son? Retief asked.     Up there. The boy jerked his head and hurried on. Retief made his wayalong the narrow hall, found signs, followed them to cabin fifty-seven.The door was open. Inside, baggage was piled in the center of thefloor. It was expensive looking baggage.     Retief put his bag down. He turned at a sound behind him. A tall,florid man with an expensive coat belted over a massive paunch stood inthe open door, looking at Retief. Retief looked back. The florid manclamped his jaws together, turned to speak over his shoulder.     Somebody in the cabin. Get 'em out. He rolled a cold eye at Retief ashe backed out of the room. A short, thick-necked man appeared.     What are you doing in Mr. Tony's room? he barked. Never mind! Clearout of here, fellow! You're keeping Mr. Tony waiting.     Too bad, Retief said. Finders keepers.     You nuts? The thick-necked man stared at Retief. I said it's Mr.Tony's room.     I don't know Mr. Tony. He'll have to bull his way into other quarters.     We'll see about you, mister. The man turned and went out. Retiefsat on the bunk and lit a cigar. There was a sound of voices inthe corridor. Two burly baggage-smashers appeared, straining at anoversized trunk. They maneuvered it through the door, lowered it,glanced at Retief and went out. The thick-necked man returned.     All right, you. Out, he growled. Or have I got to have you thrownout?     Retief rose and clamped the cigar between his teeth. He gripped ahandle of the brass-bound trunk in each hand, bent his knees and heavedthe trunk up to chest level, then raised it overhead. He turned to thedoor.     Catch, he said between clenched teeth. The trunk slammed against thefar wall of the corridor and burst.     Retief turned to the baggage on the floor, tossed it into the hall. Theface of the thick-necked man appeared cautiously around the door jamb.     Mister, you must be—     If you'll excuse me, Retief said, I want to catch a nap. He flippedthe door shut, pulled off his shoes and stretched out on the bed.  Five minutes passed before the door rattled and burst open.     Retief looked up. A gaunt leathery-skinned man wearing white ducks, ablue turtleneck sweater and a peaked cap tilted raffishly over one eyestared at Retief.     Is this the joker? he grated.     The thick-necked man edged past him, looked at Retief and snorted,That's him, sure.     I'm captain of this vessel, the first man said. You've got twominutes to haul your freight out of here, buster.     When you can spare the time from your other duties, Retief said,take a look at Section Three, Paragraph One, of the Uniform Code.That spells out the law on confirmed space on vessels engaged ininterplanetary commerce.     A space lawyer. The captain turned. Throw him out, boys.     Two big men edged into the cabin, looking at Retief.     Go on, pitch him out, the captain snapped.     Retief put his cigar in an ashtray, and swung his feet off the bunk.     Don't try it, he said softly.     One of the two wiped his nose on a sleeve, spat on his right palm, andstepped forward, then hesitated.     Hey, he said. This the guy tossed the trunk off the wall?     That's him, the thick-necked man called. Spilled Mr. Tony'spossessions right on the deck.     Deal me out, the bouncer said. He can stay put as long as he wantsto. I signed on to move cargo. Let's go, Moe.     You'd better be getting back to the bridge, Captain, Retief said.We're due to lift in twenty minutes.     The thick-necked man and the Captain both shouted at once. TheCaptain's voice prevailed.     —twenty minutes ... uniform Code ... gonna do?     Close the door as you leave, Retief said.     The thick-necked man paused at the door. We'll see you when you comeout.      III     Four waiters passed Retief's table without stopping. A fifth leanedagainst the wall nearby, a menu under his arm.     At a table across the room, the Captain, now wearing a dress uniformand with his thin red hair neatly parted, sat with a table of malepassengers. He talked loudly and laughed frequently, casting occasionalglances Retief's way.     A panel opened in the wall behind Retief's chair. Bright blue eyespeered out from under a white chef's cap.     Givin' you the cold shoulder, heh, Mister?     Looks like it, old-timer, Retief said. Maybe I'd better go join theskipper. His party seems to be having all the fun.     Feller has to be mighty careless who he eats with to set over there.     I see your point.     You set right where you're at, Mister. I'll rustle you up a plate.     Five minutes later, Retief cut into a thirty-two ounce Delmonico backedup with mushrooms and garlic butter.     I'm Chip, the chef said. I don't like the Cap'n. You can tell him Isaid so. Don't like his friends, either. Don't like them dern Sweaties,look at a man like he was a worm.     You've got the right idea on frying a steak, Chip. And you've got theright idea on the Soetti, too, Retief said. He poured red wine into aglass. Here's to you.     Dern right, Chip said. Dunno who ever thought up broiling 'em.Steaks, that is. I got a Baked Alaska coming up in here for dessert.You like brandy in yer coffee?     Chip, you're a genius.     Like to see a feller eat, Chip said. I gotta go now. If you needanything, holler.     Retief ate slowly. Time always dragged on shipboard. Four days toJorgensen's Worlds. Then, if Magnan's information was correct,there would be four days to prepare for the Soetti attack. It was atemptation to scan the tapes built into the handle of his suitcase. Itwould be good to know what Jorgensen's Worlds would be up against.     Retief finished the steak, and the chef passed out the baked Alaska andcoffee. Most of the other passengers had left the dining room. Mr. Tonyand his retainers still sat at the Captain's table.     As Retief watched, four men arose from the table and sauntered acrossthe room. The first in line, a stony-faced thug with a broken ear, tooka cigar from his mouth as he reached the table. He dipped the lightedend in Retief's coffee, looked at it, and dropped it on the tablecloth.     The others came up, Mr. Tony trailing.     You must want to get to Jorgensen's pretty bad, the thug said in agrating voice. What's your game, hick?     Retief looked at the coffee cup, picked it up.     I don't think I want my coffee, he said. He looked at the thug. Youdrink it.     The thug squinted at Retief. A wise hick, he began.     With a flick of the wrist, Retief tossed the coffee into the thug'sface, then stood and slammed a straight right to the chin. The thugwent down.     Retief looked at Mr. Tony, still standing open-mouthed.     You can take your playmates away now, Tony, he said. And don'tbother to come around yourself. You're not funny enough.     Mr. Tony found his voice.     Take him, Marbles! he growled.     The thick-necked man slipped a hand inside his tunic and brought out along-bladed knife. He licked his lips and moved in.     Retief heard the panel open beside him.     Here you go, Mister, Chip said. Retief darted a glance; a well-honedfrench knife lay on the sill.     Thanks, Chip, Retief said. I won't need it for these punks.     Thick-neck lunged and Retief hit him square in the face, knocking himunder the table. The other man stepped back, fumbling a power pistolfrom his shoulder holster.     Aim that at me, and I'll kill you, Retief said.     Go on, burn him! Mr. Tony shouted. Behind him, the captain appeared,white-faced.     Put that away, you! he yelled. What kind of—     Shut up, Mr. Tony said. Put it away, Hoany. We'll fix this bumlater.     Not on this vessel, you won't, the captain said shakily. I got mycharter to consider.     Ram your charter, Hoany said harshly. You won't be needing it long.     Button your floppy mouth, damn you! Mr. Tony snapped. He looked atthe man on the floor. Get Marbles out of here. I ought to dump theslob.     He turned and walked away. The captain signaled and two waiters cameup. Retief watched as they carted the casualty from the dining room.     The panel opened.     I usta be about your size, when I was your age, Chip said. Youhandled them pansies right. I wouldn't give 'em the time o' day.     How about a fresh cup of coffee, Chip? Retief said.     Sure, Mister. Anything else?     I'll think of something, Retief said. This is shaping up into one ofthose long days.  They don't like me bringing yer meals to you in yer cabin, Chip said.But the cap'n knows I'm the best cook in the Merchant Service. Theywon't mess with me.     What has Mr. Tony got on the captain, Chip? Retief asked.     They're in some kind o' crooked business together. You want some moresmoked turkey?     Sure. What have they got against my going to Jorgensen's Worlds?     Dunno. Hasn't been no tourists got in there fer six or eight months. Isure like a feller that can put it away. I was a big eater when I wasyer age.     I'll bet you can still handle it, Old Timer. What are Jorgensen'sWorlds like?     One of 'em's cold as hell and three of 'em's colder. Most o' theJorgies live on Svea; that's the least froze up. Man don't enjoy eatin'his own cookin' like he does somebody else's.     That's where I'm lucky, Chip. What kind of cargo's the captain gotaboard for Jorgensen's?     Derned if I know. In and out o' there like a grasshopper, ever fewweeks. Don't never pick up no cargo. No tourists any more, like I says.Don't know what we even run in there for.     Where are the passengers we have aboard headed?     To Alabaster. That's nine days' run in-sector from Jorgensen's. Youain't got another one of them cigars, have you?     Have one, Chip. I guess I was lucky to get space on this ship.     Plenty o' space, Mister. We got a dozen empty cabins. Chip puffedthe cigar alight, then cleared away the dishes, poured out coffee andbrandy.     Them Sweaties is what I don't like, he said.     Retief looked at him questioningly.     You never seen a Sweaty? Ugly lookin' devils. Skinny legs, like alobster; big chest, shaped like the top of a turnip; rubbery lookin'head. You can see the pulse beatin' when they get riled.     I've never had the pleasure, Retief said.     You prob'ly have it perty soon. Them devils board us nigh ever tripout. Act like they was the Customs Patrol or somethin'.     There was a distant clang, and a faint tremor ran through the floor.     I ain't superstitious ner nothin', Chip said. But I'll betriple-damned if that ain't them boarding us now.     Ten minutes passed before bootsteps sounded outside the door,accompanied by a clicking patter. The doorknob rattled, then a heavyknock shook the door.     They got to look you over, Chip whispered. Nosy damn Sweaties.     Unlock it, Chip. The chef opened the door.     Come in, damn you, he said.     A tall and grotesque creature minced into the room, tiny hoof-likefeet tapping on the floor. A flaring metal helmet shaded the deep-setcompound eyes, and a loose mantle flapped around the knobbed knees.Behind the alien, the captain hovered nervously.     Yo' papiss, the alien rasped.     Who's your friend, Captain? Retief said.     Never mind; just do like he tells you.     Yo' papiss, the alien said again.     Okay, Retief said. I've seen it. You can take it away now.       Don't horse around, the captain said. This fellow can get mean.     The alien brought two tiny arms out from the concealment of the mantle,clicked toothed pincers under Retief's nose.     Quick, soft one.     Captain, tell your friend to keep its distance. It looks brittle, andI'm tempted to test it.     Don't start anything with Skaw; he can clip through steel with thosesnappers.     Last chance, Retief said. Skaw stood poised, open pincers an inchfrom Retief's eyes.     Show him your papers, you damned fool, the captain said hoarsely. Igot no control over Skaw.  The alien clicked both pincers with a sharp report, and in the sameinstant Retief half-turned to the left, leaned away from the alienand drove his right foot against the slender leg above the bulbousknee-joint. Skaw screeched and floundered, greenish fluid spatteringfrom the burst joint.     I told you he was brittle, Retief said. Next time you invite piratesaboard, don't bother to call.     Jesus, what did you do! They'll kill us! the captain gasped, staringat the figure flopping on the floor.     Cart poor old Skaw back to his boat, Retief said. Tell him to passthe word. No more illegal entry and search of Terrestrial vessels inTerrestrial space.     Hey, Chip said. He's quit kicking.     The captain bent over Skaw, gingerly rolled him over. He leaned closeand sniffed.     He's dead. The captain stared at Retief. We're all dead men, hesaid. These Soetti got no mercy.     They won't need it. Tell 'em to sheer off; their fun is over.     They got no more emotions than a blue crab—     You bluff easily, Captain. Show a few guns as you hand the body back.We know their secret now.     What secret? I—     Don't be no dumber than you got to, Cap'n, Chip said. Sweaties dieeasy; that's the secret.     Maybe you got a point, the captain said, looking at Retief. All theygot's a three-man scout. It could work.     He went out, came back with two crewmen. They hauled the dead aliengingerly into the hall.     Maybe I can run a bluff on the Soetti, the captain said, looking backfrom the door. But I'll be back to see you later.     You don't scare us, Cap'n, Chip said. Him and Mr. Tony and all hisgoons. You hit 'em where they live, that time. They're pals o' theseSweaties. Runnin' some kind o' crooked racket.     You'd better take the captain's advice, Chip. There's no point in yourgetting involved in my problems.     They'd of killed you before now, Mister, if they had any guts. That'swhere we got it over these monkeys. They got no guts.     They act scared, Chip. Scared men are killers.     They don't scare me none. Chip picked up the tray. I'll scout arounda little and see what's goin' on. If the Sweaties figure to do anythingabout that Skaw feller they'll have to move fast; they won't trynothin' close to port.     Don't worry, Chip. I have reason to be pretty sure they won't doanything to attract a lot of attention in this sector just now.     Chip looked at Retief. You ain't no tourist, Mister. I know that much.You didn't come out here for fun, did you?     That, Retief said, would be a hard one to answer.      IV     Retief awoke at a tap on his door.     It's me, Mister. Chip.     Come on in.     The chef entered the room, locking the door.     You shoulda had that door locked. He stood by the door, listening,then turned to Retief.     You want to get to Jorgensen's perty bad, don't you, Mister?     That's right, Chip.     Mr. Tony give the captain a real hard time about old Skaw. TheSweaties didn't say nothin'. Didn't even act surprised, just took theremains and pushed off. But Mr. Tony and that other crook they callMarbles, they was fit to be tied. Took the cap'n in his cabin andtalked loud at him fer half a hour. Then the cap'n come out and givesome orders to the Mate.     Retief sat up and reached for a cigar.     Mr. Tony and Skaw were pals, eh?     He hated Skaw's guts. But with him it was business. Mister, you got agun?     A 2mm needler. Why?     The orders cap'n give was to change course fer Alabaster. We'reby-passin' Jorgensen's Worlds. We'll feel the course change any minute.     Retief lit the cigar, reached under the mattress and took out ashort-barreled pistol. He dropped it in his pocket, looked at Chip.     Maybe it was a good thought, at that. Which way to the Captain'scabin?  This is it, Chip said softly. You want me to keep an eye on whocomes down the passage?     Retief nodded, opened the door and stepped into the cabin. The captainlooked up from his desk, then jumped up.     What do you think you're doing, busting in here?     I hear you're planning a course change, Captain.     You've got damn big ears.     I think we'd better call in at Jorgensen's.     You do, huh? the captain sat down. I'm in command of this vessel,he said. I'm changing course for Alabaster.     I wouldn't find it convenient to go to Alabaster, Retief said. Sojust hold your course for Jorgensen's.     Not bloody likely.     Your use of the word 'bloody' is interesting, Captain. Don't try tochange course.     The captain reached for the mike on his desk, pressed the key.     Power Section, this is the captain, he said. Retief reached acrossthe desk, gripped the captain's wrist.     Tell the mate to hold his present course, he said softly.     Let go my hand, buster, the captain snarled. Eyes on Retief's, heeased a drawer open with his left hand, reached in. Retief kneed thedrawer. The captain yelped and dropped the mike.     You busted it, you—     And one to go, Retief said. Tell him.     I'm an officer of the Merchant Service!     You're a cheapjack who's sold his bridge to a pack of back-alleyhoods.     You can't put it over, hick.     Tell him.     The captain groaned and picked up the mike. Captain to Power Section,he said. Hold your present course until you hear from me. He droppedthe mike and looked up at Retief.     It's eighteen hours yet before we pick up Jorgensen Control. You goingto sit here and bend my arm the whole time?     Retief released the captain's wrist and turned to the door.     Chip, I'm locking the door. You circulate around, let me know what'sgoing on. Bring me a pot of coffee every so often. I'm sitting up witha sick friend.     Right, Mister. Keep an eye on that jasper; he's slippery.     What are you going to do? the captain demanded.     Retief settled himself in a chair.     Instead of strangling you, as you deserve, he said, I'm going tostay here and help you hold your course for Jorgensen's Worlds.     The captain looked at Retief. He laughed, a short bark.     Then I'll just stretch out and have a little nap, farmer. If you feellike dozing off sometime during the next eighteen hours, don't mind me.     Retief took out the needler and put it on the desk before him.     If anything happens that I don't like, he said, I'll wake you up.With this.  ","Mr. Tony is a tall, florid man with expensive clothes and a massive paunch. He is also used to getting his way. The Captain and Mr. Tony are involved in an illegal deal with the Soettis, so the two men are business associates, although they don’t much like each other. Together, they have cut off all tourism to Jorgensen’s Worlds for the past six to eight months; the airlines won’t provide any bookings for passengers; however, the Captain’s airship has at least a dozen empty rooms. Mr. Tony has several henchmen working for him who do his “dirty business” of roughhandling anyone who interferes with Mr. Tony’s business. Whatever their business is, it involves frequent trips to Jorgensen’s Worlds without taking any cargo there. Mr. Tony seems to hold power over the Captain.	The Captain is a thin, leathery-skinned man who wears white ducks, a blue turtleneck, and a peaked cap that he tilts rakishly over one eye. He isn’t a very strong person or leader. He tries to get Mr. Tony’s men to throw Retief off the ship, but they refuse to do so when Retief warns them not to try and when they realize he is the person who picked up Mr. Tony’s trunk and threw it. The Captain has ordered Retief to get off the ship but backs down when the men refuse to touch Retief. He apparently tells the wait staff in the restaurant to refuse service to Retief because they all ignore him. And when the Captain warns Mr. Tony’s henchmen not to shoot Retief on his airship because it could threaten his charter, one of them talks back and tells him he won’t need it for long. Retief has the distinct impression that Mr. Tony has something on the Captain that forces the Captain to cooperate with him and places him at a lower level than Mr. Tony.  "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     THE MADMAN FROM EARTH     BY KEITH LAUMER     You don't have to be crazy to be an earth     diplomat—but on Groac it sure helps!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The Consul for the Terrestrial States, Retief said, presents hiscompliments, et cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the GroacianAutonomy, and with reference to the Ministry's invitation to attend arecital of interpretive grimacing, has the honor to express regret thathe will be unable—     You can't turn this invitation down, Administrative Assistant Meuhlsaid flatly. I'll make that 'accepts with pleasure'.     Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke.     Miss Meuhl, he said, in the past couple of weeks I've sat throughsix light-concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and god knows howmany assorted folk-art festivals. I've been tied up every off-dutyhour since I got here—     You can't offend the Groaci, Miss Meuhl said sharply. Consul Whafflewould never have been so rude.     Whaffle left here three months ago, Retief said, leaving me incharge.     Well, Miss Meuhl said, snapping off the dictyper. I'm sure I don'tknow what excuse I can give the Minister.     Never mind the excuses, Retief said. Just tell him I won't bethere. He stood up.     Are you leaving the office? Miss Meuhl adjusted her glasses. I havesome important letters here for your signature.     I don't recall dictating any letters today, Miss Meuhl, Retief said,pulling on a light cape.  I wrote them for you. They're just as Consul Whaffle would have wantedthem.     Did you write all Whaffle's letters for him, Miss Meuhl?     Consul Whaffle was an extremely busy man, Miss Meuhl said stiffly.He had complete confidence in me.     Since I'm cutting out the culture from now on, Retief said, I won'tbe so busy.     Well! Miss Meuhl said. May I ask where you'll be if something comesup?     I'm going over to the Foreign Office Archives.     Miss Meuhl blinked behind thick lenses. Whatever for?     Retief looked thoughtfully at Miss Meuhl. You've been here on Groacfor four years, Miss Meuhl. What was behind the coup d'etat that putthe present government in power?     I'm sure I haven't pried into—     What about that Terrestrial cruiser? The one that disappeared out thisway about ten years back?     Mr. Retief, those are just the sort of questions we      avoid     with theGroaci. I certainly hope you're not thinking of openly intruding—     Why?     The Groaci are a very sensitive race. They don't welcome outworldersraking up things. They've been gracious enough to let us live downthe fact that Terrestrials subjected them to deep humiliation on oneoccasion.     You mean when they came looking for the cruiser?     I, for one, am ashamed of the high-handed tactics that were employed,grilling these innocent people as though they were criminals. We trynever to reopen that wound, Mr. Retief.     They never found the cruiser, did they?     Certainly not on Groac.     Retief nodded. Thanks, Miss Meuhl, he said. I'll be back beforeyou close the office. Miss Meuhl's face was set in lines of grimdisapproval as he closed the door.  The pale-featured Groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressedbleat.     Not to enter the Archives, he said in his faint voice. The denial ofpermission. The deep regret of the Archivist.     The importance of my task here, Retief said, enunciating the glottaldialect with difficulty. My interest in local history.     The impossibility of access to outworlders. To depart quietly.     The necessity that I enter.     The specific instructions of the Archivist. The Groacian's voice roseto a whisper. To insist no longer. To give up this idea!     OK, Skinny, I know when I'm licked, Retief said in Terran. To keepyour nose clean.     Outside, Retief stood for a moment looking across at the deeply carvedwindowless stucco facades lining the street, then started off in thedirection of the Terrestrial Consulate General. The few Groacians onthe street eyed him furtively, veered to avoid him as he passed. Flimsyhigh-wheeled ground cars puffed silently along the resilient pavement.The air was clean and cool.     At the office, Miss Meuhl would be waiting with another list ofcomplaints.     Retief studied the carving over the open doorways along the street.An elaborate one picked out in pinkish paint seemed to indicate theGroacian equivalent of a bar. Retief went in.     A Groacian bartender was dispensing clay pots of alcoholic drink fromthe bar-pit at the center of the room. He looked at Retief and froze inmid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot.     To enjoy a cooling drink, Retief said in Groacian, squatting down atthe edge of the pit. To sample a true Groacian beverage.     To not enjoy my poor offerings, the Groacian mumbled. A pain in thedigestive sacs; to express regret.     To not worry, Retief said, irritated. To pour it out and let medecide whether I like it.     To be grappled in by peace-keepers for poisoning of—foreigners. Thebarkeep looked around for support, found none. The Groaci customers,eyes elsewhere, were drifting away.     To get the lead out, Retief said, placing a thick gold-piece in thedish provided. To shake a tentacle.     The procuring of a cage, a thin voice called from the sidelines. Thedisplaying of a freak.  Retief turned. A tall Groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gestureof contempt. From his bluish throat coloration, it was apparent thecreature was drunk.     To choke in your upper sac, the bartender hissed, extending his eyestoward the drunk. To keep silent, litter-mate of drones.     To swallow your own poison, dispenser of vileness, the drunkwhispered. To find a proper cage for this zoo-piece. He waveredtoward Retief. To show this one in the streets, like all freaks.     Seen a lot of freaks like me, have you? Retief asked, interestedly.     To speak intelligibly, malodorous outworlder, the drunk said. Thebarkeep whispered something, and two customers came up to the drunk,took his arms and helped him to the door.     To get a cage! the drunk shrilled. To keep the animals in their ownstinking place.     I've changed my mind, Retief said to the bartender. To be gratefulas hell, but to have to hurry off now. He followed the drunk out thedoor. The other Groaci released him, hurried back inside. Retief lookedat the weaving alien.     To begone, freak, the Groacian whispered.     To be pals, Retief said. To be kind to dumb animals.     To have you hauled away to a stockyard, ill-odored foreign livestock.     To not be angry, fragrant native, Retief said. To permit me to chumwith you.     To flee before I take a cane to you!     To have a drink together—     To not endure such insolence! The Groacian advanced toward Retief.Retief backed away.     To hold hands, Retief said. To be palsy-walsy—     The Groacian reached for him, missed. A passer-by stepped around him,head down, scuttled away. Retief backed into the opening to a narrowcrossway and offered further verbal familiarities to the drunken local,who followed, furious. Retief backed, rounded a corner into a narrowalley-like passage, deserted, silent ... except for the followingGroacian.     Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacianfell on his back. Retief stood over him. The downed native half-rose;Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed.     To not be going anywhere for a few minutes, Retief said. To stayright here and have a nice long talk.      II     There you are! Miss Meuhl said, eyeing Retief over her lenses. Thereare two gentlemen waiting to see you. Groacian gentlemen.     Government men, I imagine. Word travels fast. Retief pulled off hiscape. This saves me the trouble of paying another call at the ForeignMinistry.     What have you been doing? They seem very upset, I don't mind tellingyou.     I'm sure you don't. Come along. And bring an official recorder.     Two Groaci wearing heavy eye-shields and elaborate crest ornamentsindicative of rank rose as Retief entered the room. Neither offered acourteous snap of the mandibles, Retief noted. They were mad, all right.     I am Fith, of the Terrestrial Desk, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Mr.Consul, the taller Groacian said, in lisping Terran. May I presentShluh, of the Internal Police?     Sit down, gentlemen, Retief said. They resumed their seats. MissMeuhl hovered nervously, then sat on the edge of a comfortless chair.     Oh, it's such a pleasure— she began.     Never mind that, Retief said. These gentlemen didn't come here tosip tea today.     So true, Fith said. Frankly, I have had a most disturbing report,Mr. Consul. I shall ask Shluh to recount it. He nodded to the policechief.     One hour ago, The Groacian said, a Groacian national was broughtto hospital suffering from serious contusions. Questioning of thisindividual revealed that he had been set upon and beaten by aforeigner. A Terrestrial, to be precise. Investigation by my departmentindicates that the description of the culprit closely matches that ofthe Terrestrial Consul.     Miss Meuhl gasped audibly.     Have you ever heard, Retief said, looking steadily at Fith, of aTerrestrial cruiser, the      ISV Terrific     , which dropped from sight inthis sector nine years ago?     Really! Miss Meuhl exclaimed, rising. I wash my hands—     Just keep that recorder going, Retief snapped.     I'll not be a party—     You'll do as you're told, Miss Meuhl, Retief said quietly. I'mtelling you to make an official sealed record of this conversation.     Miss Meuhl sat down.     Fith puffed out his throat indignantly. You reopen an old wound,Mr. Consul. It reminds us of certain illegal treatment at Terrestrialhands—     Hogwash, Retief said. That tune went over with my predecessors, butit hits a sour note with me.     All our efforts, Miss Meuhl said, to live down that terribleepisode! And you—     Terrible? I understand that a Terrestrial task force stood off Groacand sent a delegation down to ask questions. They got some funnyanswers, and stayed on to dig around a little. After a week they left.Somewhat annoying to the Groaci, maybe—at the most. If they wereinnocent.     IF! Miss Meuhl burst out.     If, indeed! Fith said, his weak voice trembling. I must protestyour—  Save the protests, Fith. You have some explaining to do. And I don'tthink your story will be good enough.     It is for you to explain! This person who was beaten—     Not beaten. Just rapped a few times to loosen his memory.     Then you admit—     It worked, too. He remembered lots of things, once he put his mind toit.     Fith rose; Shluh followed suit.     I shall ask for your immediate recall, Mr. Consul. Were it not foryour diplomatic immunity, I should do more—     Why did the government fall, Fith? It was just after the task forcepaid its visit, and before the arrival of the first Terrestrialdiplomatic mission.     This is an internal matter! Fith cried, in his faint Groacian voice.The new regime has shown itself most amiable to you Terrestrials. Ithas outdone itself—     —to keep the Terrestrial consul and his staff in the dark, Retiefsaid. And the same goes for the few terrestrial businessmen you'vevisaed. This continual round of culture; no social contacts outside thediplomatic circle; no travel permits to visit out-lying districts, oryour satellite—     Enough! Fith's mandibles quivered in distress. I can talk no more ofthis matter—     You'll talk to me, or there'll be a task force here in five days to dothe talking, Retief said.     You can't! Miss Meuhl gasped.     Retief turned a steady look on Miss Meuhl. She closed her mouth. TheGroaci sat down.     Answer me this one, Retief said, looking at Shluh. A few yearsback—about nine, I think—there was a little parade held here. Somecurious looking creatures were captured. After being securely caged,they were exhibited to the gentle Groaci public. Hauled through thestreets. Very educational, no doubt. A highly cultural show.     Funny thing about these animals. They wore clothes. They seemed tocommunicate with each other. Altogether it was a very amusing exhibit.     Tell me, Shluh, what happened to those six Terrestrials after theparade was over?  Fith made a choked noise and spoke rapidly to Shluh in Groacian. Shluhretracted his eyes, shrank down in his chair. Miss Meuhl opened hermouth, closed it and blinked rapidly.     How did they die? Retief snapped. Did you murder them, cut theirthroats, shoot them or bury them alive? What amusing end did you figureout for them? Research, maybe? Cut them open to see what made themyell....     No! Fith gasped. I must correct this terrible false impression atonce.     False impression, hell, Retief said. They were Terrans! A simplenarco-interrogation would get that out of any Groacian who saw theparade.     Yes, Fith said weakly. It is true, they were Terrestrials. But therewas no killing.     They're alive?     Alas, no. They ... died.     Miss Meuhl yelped faintly.     I see, Retief said. They died.     We tried to keep them alive, of course. But we did not know whatfoods—     Didn't take the trouble to find out, either, did you?     They fell ill, Fith said. One by one....     We'll deal with that question later, Retief said. Right now, I wantmore information. Where did you get them? Where did you hide the ship?What happened to the rest of the crew? Did they 'fall ill' before thebig parade?     There were no more! Absolutely, I assure you!     Killed in the crash landing?     No crash landing. The ship descended intact, east of the city. The ...Terrestrials ... were unharmed. Naturally, we feared them. They werestrange to us. We had never before seen such beings.     Stepped off the ship with guns blazing, did they?     Guns? No, no guns—     They raised their hands, didn't they? Asked for help. You helped them;helped them to death.     How could we know? Fith moaned.     How could you know a flotilla would show up in a few months lookingfor them, you mean? That was a shock, wasn't it? I'll bet you had abrisk time of it hiding the ship, and shutting everybody up. A closecall, eh?     We were afraid, Shluh said. We are a simple people. We feared thestrange creatures from the alien craft. We did not kill them, but wefelt it was as well they ... did not survive. Then, when the warshipscame, we realized our error. But we feared to speak. We purged ourguilty leaders, concealed what had happened, and ... offered ourfriendship. We invited the opening of diplomatic relations. We madea blunder, it is true, a great blunder. But we have tried to makeamends....     Where is the ship?     The ship?     What did you do with it? It was too big to just walk off and forget.Where is it?     The two Groacians exchanged looks.     We wish to show our contrition, Fith said. We will show you theship.     Miss Meuhl, Retief said. If I don't come back in a reasonable lengthof time, transmit that recording to Regional Headquarters, sealed. Hestood, looked at the Groaci.     Let's go, he said.  Retief stooped under the heavy timbers shoring the entry to the cavern.He peered into the gloom at the curving flank of the space-burned hull.     Any lights in here? he asked.     A Groacian threw a switch. A weak bluish glow sprang up.     Retief walked along the raised wooden catwalk, studying the ship. Emptyemplacements gaped below lensless scanner eyes. Littered decking wasvisible within the half-open entry port. Near the bow the words 'IVSTerrific B7 New Terra' were lettered in bright chrome duralloy.     How did you get it in here? Retief asked.     It was hauled here from the landing point, some nine miles distant,Fith said, his voice thinner than ever. This is a natural crevasse.The vessel was lowered into it and roofed over.     How did you shield it so the detectors didn't pick it up?     All here is high-grade iron ore, Fith said, waving a member. Greatveins of almost pure metal.     Retief grunted. Let's go inside.     Shluh came forward with a hand-lamp. The party entered the ship.     Retief clambered up a narrow companionway, glanced around the interiorof the control compartment. Dust was thick on the deck, the stanchionswhere acceleration couches had been mounted, the empty instrumentpanels, the litter of sheared bolts, scraps of wire and paper. A thinfrosting of rust dulled the exposed metal where cutting torches hadsliced away heavy shielding. There was a faint odor of stale bedding.     The cargo compartment— Shluh began.     I've seen enough, Retief said.     Silently, the Groacians led the way back out through the tunnel andinto the late afternoon sunshine. As they climbed the slope to thesteam car, Fith came to Retief's side.     Indeed, I hope that this will be the end of this unfortunate affair,he said. Now that all has been fully and honestly shown—     You can skip all that, Retief said. You're nine years late. Thecrew was still alive when the task force called, I imagine. You killedthem—or let them die—rather than take the chance of admitting whatyou'd done.     We were at fault, Fith said abjectly. Now we wish only friendship.     The      Terrific     was a heavy cruiser, about twenty thousand tons.Retief looked grimly at the slender Foreign Office official. Where isshe, Fith? I won't settle for a hundred-ton lifeboat.  Fith erected his eye stalks so violently that one eye-shield fell off.     I know nothing of ... of.... He stopped. His throat vibrated rapidlyas he struggled for calm.     My government can entertain no further accusations, Mr. Consul,he said at last. I have been completely candid with you, I haveoverlooked your probing into matters not properly within your sphere ofresponsibility. My patience is at an end.     Where is that ship? Retief rapped out. You never learn, do you?You're still convinced you can hide the whole thing and forget it. I'mtelling you you can't.     We return to the city now, Fith said. I can do no more.     You can and you will, Fith, Retief said. I intend to get to thetruth of this matter.     Fith spoke to Shluh in rapid Groacian. The police chief gestured to hisfour armed constables. They moved to ring Retief in.     Retief eyed Fith. Don't try it, he said. You'll just get yourself indeeper.     Fith clacked his mandibles angrily, eye stalks canted aggressivelytoward the Terrestrial.     Out of deference to your diplomatic status, Terrestrial, I shallignore your insulting remarks, Fith said in his reedy voice. Let usnow return to the city.     Retief looked at the four policemen. I see your point, he said.     Fith followed him into the car, sat rigidly at the far end of the seat.     I advise you to remain very close to your consulate, Fith said. Iadvise you to dismiss these fancies from your mind, and to enjoy thecultural aspects of life at Groac. Especially, I should not venture outof the city, or appear overly curious about matters of concern only tothe Groacian government.     In the front seat, Shluh looked straight ahead. The loosely-sprungvehicle bobbed and swayed along the narrow highway. Retief listened tothe rhythmic puffing of the motor and said nothing.      III     Miss Meuhl, Retief said, I want you to listen carefully to what I'mgoing to tell you. I have to move rapidly now, to catch the Groaci offguard.     I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Meuhl snapped,her eyes sharp behind the heavy lenses.     If you'll listen, you may find out, Retief said. I have no timeto waste, Miss Meuhl. They won't be expecting an immediate move—Ihope—and that may give me the latitude I need.     You're still determined to make an issue of that incident! MissMeuhl snorted. I really can hardly blame the Groaci. They are not asophisticated race; they had never before met aliens.     You're ready to forgive a great deal, Miss Meuhl. But it's not whathappened nine years ago I'm concerned with. It's what's happening now.I've told you that it was only a lifeboat the Groaci have hidden out.Don't you understand the implication? That vessel couldn't have comefar. The cruiser itself must be somewhere near by. I want to knowwhere!     The Groaci don't know. They're a very cultured, gentle people. You cando irreparable harm to the reputation of Terrestrials if you insist—     That's my decision, Retief said. I have a job to do and we'rewasting time. He crossed the room to his desk, opened a drawer andtook out a slim-barreled needler.     This office is being watched. Not very efficiently, if I know theGroaci. I think I can get past them all right.     Where are you going with ... that? Miss Meuhl stared at the needler.What in the world—     The Groaci won't waste any time destroying every piece of paper intheir files relating to this thing. I have to get what I need beforeit's too late. If I wait for an official Inquiry Commission, they'llfind nothing but blank smiles.     You're out of your mind! Miss Meuhl stood up, quivering withindignation. You're like a ... a....     You and I are in a tight spot, Miss Meuhl. The logical next move forthe Groaci is to dispose of both of us. We're the only ones who knowwhat happened. Fith almost did the job this afternoon, but I bluffedhim out—for the moment.     Miss Meuhl emitted a shrill laugh. Your fantasies are getting thebetter of you, she gasped. In danger, indeed! Disposing of me! I'venever heard anything so ridiculous.     Stay in this office. Close and safe-lock the door. You've got food andwater in the dispenser. I suggest you stock up, before they shut thesupply down. Don't let anyone in, on any pretext whatever. I'll keep intouch with you via hand-phone.     What are you planning to do?     If I don't make it back here, transmit the sealed record of thisafternoon's conversation, along with the information I've given you.Beam it through on a mayday priority. Then tell the Groaci what you'vedone and sit tight. I think you'll be all right. It won't be easy toblast in here and anyway, they won't make things worse by killing you.A force can be here in a week.     I'll do nothing of the sort! The Groaci are very fond of me! You ...Johnny-come-lately! Roughneck! Setting out to destroy—     Blame it on me if it will make you feel any better, Retief said, butdon't be fool enough to trust them. He pulled on a cape, opened thedoor.     I'll be back in a couple of hours, he said. Miss Meuhl stared afterhim silently as he closed the door.  It was an hour before dawn when Retief keyed the combination to thesafe-lock and stepped into the darkened consular office. He lookedtired.     Miss Meuhl, dozing in a chair, awoke with a start. She looked atRetief, rose and snapped on a light, turned to stare.     What in the world—Where have you been? What's happened to yourclothing?     I got a little dirty. Don't worry about it. Retief went to his desk,opened a drawer and replaced the needler.     Where have you been? Miss Meuhl demanded. I stayed here—     I'm glad you did, Retief said. I hope you piled up a supply of foodand water from the dispenser, too. We'll be holed up here for a week,at least. He jotted figures on a pad. Warm up the official sender. Ihave a long transmission for Regional Headquarters.     Are you going to tell me where you've been?     I have a message to get off first, Miss Meuhl, Retief said sharply.I've been to the Foreign Ministry, he added. I'll tell you all aboutit later.     At this hour? There's no one there....     Exactly.     Miss Meuhl gasped. You mean you broke in? You burgled the ForeignOffice?     That's right, Retief said calmly. Now—     This is absolutely the end! Miss Meuhl said. Thank heaven I'vealready—     Get that sender going, woman! Retief snapped. This is important.     I've already done so, Mr. Retief! Miss Meuhl said harshly. I've beenwaiting for you to come back here.... She turned to the communicator,flipped levers. The screen snapped aglow, and a wavering long-distanceimage appeared.     He's here now, Miss Meuhl said to the screen. She looked at Retieftriumphantly.     That's good, Retief said. I don't think the Groaci can knock us offthe air, but—     I have done my duty, Mr. Retief, Miss Meuhl said. I made a fullreport to Regional Headquarters last night, as soon as you left thisoffice. Any doubts I may have had as to the rightness of that decisionhave been completely dispelled by what you've just told me.     Retief looked at her levelly. You've been a busy girl, Miss Meuhl. Didyou mention the six Terrestrials who were killed here?     That had no bearing on the matter of your wild behavior! I must say,in all my years in the Corps, I've never encountered a personality lesssuited to diplomatic work.  The screen crackled, the ten-second transmission lag having elapsed.Mr. Retief, the face on the screen said, I am Counsellor Pardy,DSO-1, Deputy Under-secretary for the region. I have received areport on your conduct which makes it mandatory for me to relieve youadministratively, vice Miss Yolanda Meuhl, DAO-9. Pending the findingsof a Board of Inquiry, you will—     Retief reached out and snapped off the communicator. The triumphantlook faded from Miss Meuhl's face.     Why, what is the meaning—     If I'd listened any longer, I might have heard something I couldn'tignore. I can't afford that, at this moment. Listen, Miss Meuhl,Retief went on earnestly, I've found the missing cruiser.     You heard him relieve you!     I heard him say he was      going     to, Miss Meuhl. But until I've heardand acknowledged a verbal order, it has no force. If I'm wrong, he'llget my resignation. If I'm right, that suspension would be embarrassingall around.     You're defying lawful authority! I'm in charge here now. Miss Meuhlstepped to the local communicator.     I'm going to report this terrible thing to the Groaci at once, andoffer my profound—     Don't touch that screen, Retief said. You go sit in that cornerwhere I can keep an eye on you. I'm going to make a sealed tape fortransmission to Headquarters, along with a call for an armed taskforce. Then we'll settle down to wait.     Retief ignored Miss Meuhl's fury as he spoke into the recorder.     The local communicator chimed. Miss Meuhl jumped up, staring at it.     Go ahead, Retief said. Answer it.     A Groacian official appeared on the screen.     Yolanda Meuhl, he said without preamble, for the Foreign Minister ofthe Groacian Autonomy, I herewith accredit you as Terrestrial Consulto Groac, in accordance with the advices transmitted to my governmentdirect from the Terrestrial Headquarters. As consul, you are requestedto make available for questioning Mr. J. Retief, former consul, inconnection with the assault on two peace keepers and illegal entry intothe offices of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs.     Why, why, Miss Meuhl stammered. Yes, of course. And I do want toexpress my deepest regrets—  Retief rose, went to the communicator, assisted Miss Meuhl aside.     Listen carefully, Fith, he said. Your bluff has been called. Youdon't come in and we don't come out. Your camouflage worked for nineyears, but it's all over now. I suggest you keep your heads and resistthe temptation to make matters worse than they are.     Miss Meuhl, Fith said, a peace squad waits outside your consulate.It is clear you are in the hands of a dangerous lunatic. As always, theGroaci wish only friendship with the Terrestrials, but—     Don't bother, Retief said. You know what was in those files I lookedover this morning.     Retief turned at a sound behind him. Miss Meuhl was at the door,reaching for the safe-lock release....     Don't! Retief jumped—too late.     The door burst inward. A crowd of crested Groaci pressed into the room,pushed Miss Meuhl back, aimed scatter guns at Retief. Police ChiefShluh pushed forward.     Attempt no violence, Terrestrial, he said. I cannot promise torestrain my men.     You're violating Terrestrial territory, Shluh, Retief said steadily.I suggest you move back out the same way you came in.     I invited them here, Miss Meuhl spoke up. They are here at myexpress wish.     Are they? Are you sure you meant to go this far, Miss Meuhl? A squadof armed Groaci in the consulate?     You are the consul, Miss Yolanda Meuhl, Shluh said. Would it not bebest if we removed this deranged person to a place of safety?     You're making a serious mistake, Shluh, Retief said.     Yes, Miss Meuhl said. You're quite right, Mr. Shluh. Please escortMr. Retief to his quarters in this building—     I don't advise you to violate my diplomatic immunity, Fith, Retiefsaid.     As chief of mission, Miss Meuhl said quickly, I hereby waiveimmunity in the case of Mr. Retief.     Shluh produced a hand recorder. Kindly repeat your statement, Madam,officially, he said. I wish no question to arise later.     Don't be a fool, woman, Retief said. Don't you see what you'reletting yourself in for? This would be a hell of a good time for you tofigure out whose side you're on.     I'm on the side of common decency!     You've been taken in. These people are concealing—     You think all women are fools, don't you, Mr. Retief? She turned tothe police chief and spoke into the microphone he held up.     That's an illegal waiver, Retief said. I'm consul here, whateverrumors you've heard. This thing's coming out into the open, whateveryou do. Don't add violation of the Consulate to the list of Groacianatrocities.     Take the man, Shluh said.  ","Following the departure of Consul Whaffle, Retief has taken over as Consul for the Terrestrial States with the Terrestrial Consulate General on the planet Groac. His administrative assistant, Miss Yolanda Meuhl, wants him to attend Groacian cultural events, but Retief is more interested in addressing the nine-year-old mystery of the disappearance of a Terrestrial cruiser, the ISV Terrific--an event which was followed by a coup d'etat enacted by the current Groacian government. Much to Miss Meuhl's dismay, Retief shirks his cultural duties and makes his way to the Foreign Office Archives, whereupon he is promptly barred from entering by a pale-featured Archivist speaking in the throat-bladder vibrations of the native Groacians. Because of the Archivist's insistence that ""outworlders"" cannot access the archives, Retief begins walking back to the Consulate and stops at a bar for a drink. At the, a drunken Groacian approaches Retief and threatens to cage him and put him on display as a freak. The bartender orders the drunken Groacian out of the bar, and Retief follows him, ultimately beating him up for information. When Retief returns to the Consulate, Miss Meuhl informs him that two angry Groaci await him in his office. One is Fith, an employee of the Terrestrial Desk at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs; the other is Shluh, a representative of the Internal Police. They are there to investigate reports that Retief has assaulted a Groacian national--an accusation Retief ignores in order to launch into his own accusations that the Groaci were engaged in a cover-up of the whereabouts of the ISV Terrific. Miss Meuhl continually interjects, expresses horror at Retief's claims, and apologizes to the Groacians on behalf of the Terrestrial Consulate. Despite the persistent denials of the Groacians, Retief continues his accusations, suggesting the coup d'etat was an effort to silence government officials with knowledge of the truth of what happened to the cruiser and its crew. Then he reveals what he discovered from the drunken Groacian: The crew of the ISV Terrific had been caged and paraded through the streets of Groac and then neglected until they died. Fith and Shluh finally admit the truth and offer to show Retief the hidden cruiser in order to show their contrition. When Retief sees the ship, he once again accuses the Groacians of attempting to mislead him, saying that this is a lifeboat, and he demands to see the actual ship. Fith has had enough and threatens to arrest Retief, who yields and goes back to the Consulate. There, Miss Meuhl is at her wits end. Retief orders her to barricade herself inside the office while he goes to the Foreign Ministry to gather more evidence. When he returns, Miss Meuhl informs him she has reported him to Regional Headquarters, and Retief learns he has been relieved of his post. Soon after, the Groacians appoint Miss Meuhl to his position, and Fith and Shluh enter to arrest him."
"What is the setting of the story? </s>     THE MADMAN FROM EARTH     BY KEITH LAUMER     You don't have to be crazy to be an earth     diplomat—but on Groac it sure helps!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The Consul for the Terrestrial States, Retief said, presents hiscompliments, et cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the GroacianAutonomy, and with reference to the Ministry's invitation to attend arecital of interpretive grimacing, has the honor to express regret thathe will be unable—     You can't turn this invitation down, Administrative Assistant Meuhlsaid flatly. I'll make that 'accepts with pleasure'.     Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke.     Miss Meuhl, he said, in the past couple of weeks I've sat throughsix light-concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and god knows howmany assorted folk-art festivals. I've been tied up every off-dutyhour since I got here—     You can't offend the Groaci, Miss Meuhl said sharply. Consul Whafflewould never have been so rude.     Whaffle left here three months ago, Retief said, leaving me incharge.     Well, Miss Meuhl said, snapping off the dictyper. I'm sure I don'tknow what excuse I can give the Minister.     Never mind the excuses, Retief said. Just tell him I won't bethere. He stood up.     Are you leaving the office? Miss Meuhl adjusted her glasses. I havesome important letters here for your signature.     I don't recall dictating any letters today, Miss Meuhl, Retief said,pulling on a light cape.  I wrote them for you. They're just as Consul Whaffle would have wantedthem.     Did you write all Whaffle's letters for him, Miss Meuhl?     Consul Whaffle was an extremely busy man, Miss Meuhl said stiffly.He had complete confidence in me.     Since I'm cutting out the culture from now on, Retief said, I won'tbe so busy.     Well! Miss Meuhl said. May I ask where you'll be if something comesup?     I'm going over to the Foreign Office Archives.     Miss Meuhl blinked behind thick lenses. Whatever for?     Retief looked thoughtfully at Miss Meuhl. You've been here on Groacfor four years, Miss Meuhl. What was behind the coup d'etat that putthe present government in power?     I'm sure I haven't pried into—     What about that Terrestrial cruiser? The one that disappeared out thisway about ten years back?     Mr. Retief, those are just the sort of questions we      avoid     with theGroaci. I certainly hope you're not thinking of openly intruding—     Why?     The Groaci are a very sensitive race. They don't welcome outworldersraking up things. They've been gracious enough to let us live downthe fact that Terrestrials subjected them to deep humiliation on oneoccasion.     You mean when they came looking for the cruiser?     I, for one, am ashamed of the high-handed tactics that were employed,grilling these innocent people as though they were criminals. We trynever to reopen that wound, Mr. Retief.     They never found the cruiser, did they?     Certainly not on Groac.     Retief nodded. Thanks, Miss Meuhl, he said. I'll be back beforeyou close the office. Miss Meuhl's face was set in lines of grimdisapproval as he closed the door.  The pale-featured Groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressedbleat.     Not to enter the Archives, he said in his faint voice. The denial ofpermission. The deep regret of the Archivist.     The importance of my task here, Retief said, enunciating the glottaldialect with difficulty. My interest in local history.     The impossibility of access to outworlders. To depart quietly.     The necessity that I enter.     The specific instructions of the Archivist. The Groacian's voice roseto a whisper. To insist no longer. To give up this idea!     OK, Skinny, I know when I'm licked, Retief said in Terran. To keepyour nose clean.     Outside, Retief stood for a moment looking across at the deeply carvedwindowless stucco facades lining the street, then started off in thedirection of the Terrestrial Consulate General. The few Groacians onthe street eyed him furtively, veered to avoid him as he passed. Flimsyhigh-wheeled ground cars puffed silently along the resilient pavement.The air was clean and cool.     At the office, Miss Meuhl would be waiting with another list ofcomplaints.     Retief studied the carving over the open doorways along the street.An elaborate one picked out in pinkish paint seemed to indicate theGroacian equivalent of a bar. Retief went in.     A Groacian bartender was dispensing clay pots of alcoholic drink fromthe bar-pit at the center of the room. He looked at Retief and froze inmid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot.     To enjoy a cooling drink, Retief said in Groacian, squatting down atthe edge of the pit. To sample a true Groacian beverage.     To not enjoy my poor offerings, the Groacian mumbled. A pain in thedigestive sacs; to express regret.     To not worry, Retief said, irritated. To pour it out and let medecide whether I like it.     To be grappled in by peace-keepers for poisoning of—foreigners. Thebarkeep looked around for support, found none. The Groaci customers,eyes elsewhere, were drifting away.     To get the lead out, Retief said, placing a thick gold-piece in thedish provided. To shake a tentacle.     The procuring of a cage, a thin voice called from the sidelines. Thedisplaying of a freak.  Retief turned. A tall Groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gestureof contempt. From his bluish throat coloration, it was apparent thecreature was drunk.     To choke in your upper sac, the bartender hissed, extending his eyestoward the drunk. To keep silent, litter-mate of drones.     To swallow your own poison, dispenser of vileness, the drunkwhispered. To find a proper cage for this zoo-piece. He waveredtoward Retief. To show this one in the streets, like all freaks.     Seen a lot of freaks like me, have you? Retief asked, interestedly.     To speak intelligibly, malodorous outworlder, the drunk said. Thebarkeep whispered something, and two customers came up to the drunk,took his arms and helped him to the door.     To get a cage! the drunk shrilled. To keep the animals in their ownstinking place.     I've changed my mind, Retief said to the bartender. To be gratefulas hell, but to have to hurry off now. He followed the drunk out thedoor. The other Groaci released him, hurried back inside. Retief lookedat the weaving alien.     To begone, freak, the Groacian whispered.     To be pals, Retief said. To be kind to dumb animals.     To have you hauled away to a stockyard, ill-odored foreign livestock.     To not be angry, fragrant native, Retief said. To permit me to chumwith you.     To flee before I take a cane to you!     To have a drink together—     To not endure such insolence! The Groacian advanced toward Retief.Retief backed away.     To hold hands, Retief said. To be palsy-walsy—     The Groacian reached for him, missed. A passer-by stepped around him,head down, scuttled away. Retief backed into the opening to a narrowcrossway and offered further verbal familiarities to the drunken local,who followed, furious. Retief backed, rounded a corner into a narrowalley-like passage, deserted, silent ... except for the followingGroacian.     Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacianfell on his back. Retief stood over him. The downed native half-rose;Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed.     To not be going anywhere for a few minutes, Retief said. To stayright here and have a nice long talk.      II     There you are! Miss Meuhl said, eyeing Retief over her lenses. Thereare two gentlemen waiting to see you. Groacian gentlemen.     Government men, I imagine. Word travels fast. Retief pulled off hiscape. This saves me the trouble of paying another call at the ForeignMinistry.     What have you been doing? They seem very upset, I don't mind tellingyou.     I'm sure you don't. Come along. And bring an official recorder.     Two Groaci wearing heavy eye-shields and elaborate crest ornamentsindicative of rank rose as Retief entered the room. Neither offered acourteous snap of the mandibles, Retief noted. They were mad, all right.     I am Fith, of the Terrestrial Desk, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Mr.Consul, the taller Groacian said, in lisping Terran. May I presentShluh, of the Internal Police?     Sit down, gentlemen, Retief said. They resumed their seats. MissMeuhl hovered nervously, then sat on the edge of a comfortless chair.     Oh, it's such a pleasure— she began.     Never mind that, Retief said. These gentlemen didn't come here tosip tea today.     So true, Fith said. Frankly, I have had a most disturbing report,Mr. Consul. I shall ask Shluh to recount it. He nodded to the policechief.     One hour ago, The Groacian said, a Groacian national was broughtto hospital suffering from serious contusions. Questioning of thisindividual revealed that he had been set upon and beaten by aforeigner. A Terrestrial, to be precise. Investigation by my departmentindicates that the description of the culprit closely matches that ofthe Terrestrial Consul.     Miss Meuhl gasped audibly.     Have you ever heard, Retief said, looking steadily at Fith, of aTerrestrial cruiser, the      ISV Terrific     , which dropped from sight inthis sector nine years ago?     Really! Miss Meuhl exclaimed, rising. I wash my hands—     Just keep that recorder going, Retief snapped.     I'll not be a party—     You'll do as you're told, Miss Meuhl, Retief said quietly. I'mtelling you to make an official sealed record of this conversation.     Miss Meuhl sat down.     Fith puffed out his throat indignantly. You reopen an old wound,Mr. Consul. It reminds us of certain illegal treatment at Terrestrialhands—     Hogwash, Retief said. That tune went over with my predecessors, butit hits a sour note with me.     All our efforts, Miss Meuhl said, to live down that terribleepisode! And you—     Terrible? I understand that a Terrestrial task force stood off Groacand sent a delegation down to ask questions. They got some funnyanswers, and stayed on to dig around a little. After a week they left.Somewhat annoying to the Groaci, maybe—at the most. If they wereinnocent.     IF! Miss Meuhl burst out.     If, indeed! Fith said, his weak voice trembling. I must protestyour—  Save the protests, Fith. You have some explaining to do. And I don'tthink your story will be good enough.     It is for you to explain! This person who was beaten—     Not beaten. Just rapped a few times to loosen his memory.     Then you admit—     It worked, too. He remembered lots of things, once he put his mind toit.     Fith rose; Shluh followed suit.     I shall ask for your immediate recall, Mr. Consul. Were it not foryour diplomatic immunity, I should do more—     Why did the government fall, Fith? It was just after the task forcepaid its visit, and before the arrival of the first Terrestrialdiplomatic mission.     This is an internal matter! Fith cried, in his faint Groacian voice.The new regime has shown itself most amiable to you Terrestrials. Ithas outdone itself—     —to keep the Terrestrial consul and his staff in the dark, Retiefsaid. And the same goes for the few terrestrial businessmen you'vevisaed. This continual round of culture; no social contacts outside thediplomatic circle; no travel permits to visit out-lying districts, oryour satellite—     Enough! Fith's mandibles quivered in distress. I can talk no more ofthis matter—     You'll talk to me, or there'll be a task force here in five days to dothe talking, Retief said.     You can't! Miss Meuhl gasped.     Retief turned a steady look on Miss Meuhl. She closed her mouth. TheGroaci sat down.     Answer me this one, Retief said, looking at Shluh. A few yearsback—about nine, I think—there was a little parade held here. Somecurious looking creatures were captured. After being securely caged,they were exhibited to the gentle Groaci public. Hauled through thestreets. Very educational, no doubt. A highly cultural show.     Funny thing about these animals. They wore clothes. They seemed tocommunicate with each other. Altogether it was a very amusing exhibit.     Tell me, Shluh, what happened to those six Terrestrials after theparade was over?  Fith made a choked noise and spoke rapidly to Shluh in Groacian. Shluhretracted his eyes, shrank down in his chair. Miss Meuhl opened hermouth, closed it and blinked rapidly.     How did they die? Retief snapped. Did you murder them, cut theirthroats, shoot them or bury them alive? What amusing end did you figureout for them? Research, maybe? Cut them open to see what made themyell....     No! Fith gasped. I must correct this terrible false impression atonce.     False impression, hell, Retief said. They were Terrans! A simplenarco-interrogation would get that out of any Groacian who saw theparade.     Yes, Fith said weakly. It is true, they were Terrestrials. But therewas no killing.     They're alive?     Alas, no. They ... died.     Miss Meuhl yelped faintly.     I see, Retief said. They died.     We tried to keep them alive, of course. But we did not know whatfoods—     Didn't take the trouble to find out, either, did you?     They fell ill, Fith said. One by one....     We'll deal with that question later, Retief said. Right now, I wantmore information. Where did you get them? Where did you hide the ship?What happened to the rest of the crew? Did they 'fall ill' before thebig parade?     There were no more! Absolutely, I assure you!     Killed in the crash landing?     No crash landing. The ship descended intact, east of the city. The ...Terrestrials ... were unharmed. Naturally, we feared them. They werestrange to us. We had never before seen such beings.     Stepped off the ship with guns blazing, did they?     Guns? No, no guns—     They raised their hands, didn't they? Asked for help. You helped them;helped them to death.     How could we know? Fith moaned.     How could you know a flotilla would show up in a few months lookingfor them, you mean? That was a shock, wasn't it? I'll bet you had abrisk time of it hiding the ship, and shutting everybody up. A closecall, eh?     We were afraid, Shluh said. We are a simple people. We feared thestrange creatures from the alien craft. We did not kill them, but wefelt it was as well they ... did not survive. Then, when the warshipscame, we realized our error. But we feared to speak. We purged ourguilty leaders, concealed what had happened, and ... offered ourfriendship. We invited the opening of diplomatic relations. We madea blunder, it is true, a great blunder. But we have tried to makeamends....     Where is the ship?     The ship?     What did you do with it? It was too big to just walk off and forget.Where is it?     The two Groacians exchanged looks.     We wish to show our contrition, Fith said. We will show you theship.     Miss Meuhl, Retief said. If I don't come back in a reasonable lengthof time, transmit that recording to Regional Headquarters, sealed. Hestood, looked at the Groaci.     Let's go, he said.  Retief stooped under the heavy timbers shoring the entry to the cavern.He peered into the gloom at the curving flank of the space-burned hull.     Any lights in here? he asked.     A Groacian threw a switch. A weak bluish glow sprang up.     Retief walked along the raised wooden catwalk, studying the ship. Emptyemplacements gaped below lensless scanner eyes. Littered decking wasvisible within the half-open entry port. Near the bow the words 'IVSTerrific B7 New Terra' were lettered in bright chrome duralloy.     How did you get it in here? Retief asked.     It was hauled here from the landing point, some nine miles distant,Fith said, his voice thinner than ever. This is a natural crevasse.The vessel was lowered into it and roofed over.     How did you shield it so the detectors didn't pick it up?     All here is high-grade iron ore, Fith said, waving a member. Greatveins of almost pure metal.     Retief grunted. Let's go inside.     Shluh came forward with a hand-lamp. The party entered the ship.     Retief clambered up a narrow companionway, glanced around the interiorof the control compartment. Dust was thick on the deck, the stanchionswhere acceleration couches had been mounted, the empty instrumentpanels, the litter of sheared bolts, scraps of wire and paper. A thinfrosting of rust dulled the exposed metal where cutting torches hadsliced away heavy shielding. There was a faint odor of stale bedding.     The cargo compartment— Shluh began.     I've seen enough, Retief said.     Silently, the Groacians led the way back out through the tunnel andinto the late afternoon sunshine. As they climbed the slope to thesteam car, Fith came to Retief's side.     Indeed, I hope that this will be the end of this unfortunate affair,he said. Now that all has been fully and honestly shown—     You can skip all that, Retief said. You're nine years late. Thecrew was still alive when the task force called, I imagine. You killedthem—or let them die—rather than take the chance of admitting whatyou'd done.     We were at fault, Fith said abjectly. Now we wish only friendship.     The      Terrific     was a heavy cruiser, about twenty thousand tons.Retief looked grimly at the slender Foreign Office official. Where isshe, Fith? I won't settle for a hundred-ton lifeboat.  Fith erected his eye stalks so violently that one eye-shield fell off.     I know nothing of ... of.... He stopped. His throat vibrated rapidlyas he struggled for calm.     My government can entertain no further accusations, Mr. Consul,he said at last. I have been completely candid with you, I haveoverlooked your probing into matters not properly within your sphere ofresponsibility. My patience is at an end.     Where is that ship? Retief rapped out. You never learn, do you?You're still convinced you can hide the whole thing and forget it. I'mtelling you you can't.     We return to the city now, Fith said. I can do no more.     You can and you will, Fith, Retief said. I intend to get to thetruth of this matter.     Fith spoke to Shluh in rapid Groacian. The police chief gestured to hisfour armed constables. They moved to ring Retief in.     Retief eyed Fith. Don't try it, he said. You'll just get yourself indeeper.     Fith clacked his mandibles angrily, eye stalks canted aggressivelytoward the Terrestrial.     Out of deference to your diplomatic status, Terrestrial, I shallignore your insulting remarks, Fith said in his reedy voice. Let usnow return to the city.     Retief looked at the four policemen. I see your point, he said.     Fith followed him into the car, sat rigidly at the far end of the seat.     I advise you to remain very close to your consulate, Fith said. Iadvise you to dismiss these fancies from your mind, and to enjoy thecultural aspects of life at Groac. Especially, I should not venture outof the city, or appear overly curious about matters of concern only tothe Groacian government.     In the front seat, Shluh looked straight ahead. The loosely-sprungvehicle bobbed and swayed along the narrow highway. Retief listened tothe rhythmic puffing of the motor and said nothing.      III     Miss Meuhl, Retief said, I want you to listen carefully to what I'mgoing to tell you. I have to move rapidly now, to catch the Groaci offguard.     I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Meuhl snapped,her eyes sharp behind the heavy lenses.     If you'll listen, you may find out, Retief said. I have no timeto waste, Miss Meuhl. They won't be expecting an immediate move—Ihope—and that may give me the latitude I need.     You're still determined to make an issue of that incident! MissMeuhl snorted. I really can hardly blame the Groaci. They are not asophisticated race; they had never before met aliens.     You're ready to forgive a great deal, Miss Meuhl. But it's not whathappened nine years ago I'm concerned with. It's what's happening now.I've told you that it was only a lifeboat the Groaci have hidden out.Don't you understand the implication? That vessel couldn't have comefar. The cruiser itself must be somewhere near by. I want to knowwhere!     The Groaci don't know. They're a very cultured, gentle people. You cando irreparable harm to the reputation of Terrestrials if you insist—     That's my decision, Retief said. I have a job to do and we'rewasting time. He crossed the room to his desk, opened a drawer andtook out a slim-barreled needler.     This office is being watched. Not very efficiently, if I know theGroaci. I think I can get past them all right.     Where are you going with ... that? Miss Meuhl stared at the needler.What in the world—     The Groaci won't waste any time destroying every piece of paper intheir files relating to this thing. I have to get what I need beforeit's too late. If I wait for an official Inquiry Commission, they'llfind nothing but blank smiles.     You're out of your mind! Miss Meuhl stood up, quivering withindignation. You're like a ... a....     You and I are in a tight spot, Miss Meuhl. The logical next move forthe Groaci is to dispose of both of us. We're the only ones who knowwhat happened. Fith almost did the job this afternoon, but I bluffedhim out—for the moment.     Miss Meuhl emitted a shrill laugh. Your fantasies are getting thebetter of you, she gasped. In danger, indeed! Disposing of me! I'venever heard anything so ridiculous.     Stay in this office. Close and safe-lock the door. You've got food andwater in the dispenser. I suggest you stock up, before they shut thesupply down. Don't let anyone in, on any pretext whatever. I'll keep intouch with you via hand-phone.     What are you planning to do?     If I don't make it back here, transmit the sealed record of thisafternoon's conversation, along with the information I've given you.Beam it through on a mayday priority. Then tell the Groaci what you'vedone and sit tight. I think you'll be all right. It won't be easy toblast in here and anyway, they won't make things worse by killing you.A force can be here in a week.     I'll do nothing of the sort! The Groaci are very fond of me! You ...Johnny-come-lately! Roughneck! Setting out to destroy—     Blame it on me if it will make you feel any better, Retief said, butdon't be fool enough to trust them. He pulled on a cape, opened thedoor.     I'll be back in a couple of hours, he said. Miss Meuhl stared afterhim silently as he closed the door.  It was an hour before dawn when Retief keyed the combination to thesafe-lock and stepped into the darkened consular office. He lookedtired.     Miss Meuhl, dozing in a chair, awoke with a start. She looked atRetief, rose and snapped on a light, turned to stare.     What in the world—Where have you been? What's happened to yourclothing?     I got a little dirty. Don't worry about it. Retief went to his desk,opened a drawer and replaced the needler.     Where have you been? Miss Meuhl demanded. I stayed here—     I'm glad you did, Retief said. I hope you piled up a supply of foodand water from the dispenser, too. We'll be holed up here for a week,at least. He jotted figures on a pad. Warm up the official sender. Ihave a long transmission for Regional Headquarters.     Are you going to tell me where you've been?     I have a message to get off first, Miss Meuhl, Retief said sharply.I've been to the Foreign Ministry, he added. I'll tell you all aboutit later.     At this hour? There's no one there....     Exactly.     Miss Meuhl gasped. You mean you broke in? You burgled the ForeignOffice?     That's right, Retief said calmly. Now—     This is absolutely the end! Miss Meuhl said. Thank heaven I'vealready—     Get that sender going, woman! Retief snapped. This is important.     I've already done so, Mr. Retief! Miss Meuhl said harshly. I've beenwaiting for you to come back here.... She turned to the communicator,flipped levers. The screen snapped aglow, and a wavering long-distanceimage appeared.     He's here now, Miss Meuhl said to the screen. She looked at Retieftriumphantly.     That's good, Retief said. I don't think the Groaci can knock us offthe air, but—     I have done my duty, Mr. Retief, Miss Meuhl said. I made a fullreport to Regional Headquarters last night, as soon as you left thisoffice. Any doubts I may have had as to the rightness of that decisionhave been completely dispelled by what you've just told me.     Retief looked at her levelly. You've been a busy girl, Miss Meuhl. Didyou mention the six Terrestrials who were killed here?     That had no bearing on the matter of your wild behavior! I must say,in all my years in the Corps, I've never encountered a personality lesssuited to diplomatic work.  The screen crackled, the ten-second transmission lag having elapsed.Mr. Retief, the face on the screen said, I am Counsellor Pardy,DSO-1, Deputy Under-secretary for the region. I have received areport on your conduct which makes it mandatory for me to relieve youadministratively, vice Miss Yolanda Meuhl, DAO-9. Pending the findingsof a Board of Inquiry, you will—     Retief reached out and snapped off the communicator. The triumphantlook faded from Miss Meuhl's face.     Why, what is the meaning—     If I'd listened any longer, I might have heard something I couldn'tignore. I can't afford that, at this moment. Listen, Miss Meuhl,Retief went on earnestly, I've found the missing cruiser.     You heard him relieve you!     I heard him say he was      going     to, Miss Meuhl. But until I've heardand acknowledged a verbal order, it has no force. If I'm wrong, he'llget my resignation. If I'm right, that suspension would be embarrassingall around.     You're defying lawful authority! I'm in charge here now. Miss Meuhlstepped to the local communicator.     I'm going to report this terrible thing to the Groaci at once, andoffer my profound—     Don't touch that screen, Retief said. You go sit in that cornerwhere I can keep an eye on you. I'm going to make a sealed tape fortransmission to Headquarters, along with a call for an armed taskforce. Then we'll settle down to wait.     Retief ignored Miss Meuhl's fury as he spoke into the recorder.     The local communicator chimed. Miss Meuhl jumped up, staring at it.     Go ahead, Retief said. Answer it.     A Groacian official appeared on the screen.     Yolanda Meuhl, he said without preamble, for the Foreign Minister ofthe Groacian Autonomy, I herewith accredit you as Terrestrial Consulto Groac, in accordance with the advices transmitted to my governmentdirect from the Terrestrial Headquarters. As consul, you are requestedto make available for questioning Mr. J. Retief, former consul, inconnection with the assault on two peace keepers and illegal entry intothe offices of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs.     Why, why, Miss Meuhl stammered. Yes, of course. And I do want toexpress my deepest regrets—  Retief rose, went to the communicator, assisted Miss Meuhl aside.     Listen carefully, Fith, he said. Your bluff has been called. Youdon't come in and we don't come out. Your camouflage worked for nineyears, but it's all over now. I suggest you keep your heads and resistthe temptation to make matters worse than they are.     Miss Meuhl, Fith said, a peace squad waits outside your consulate.It is clear you are in the hands of a dangerous lunatic. As always, theGroaci wish only friendship with the Terrestrials, but—     Don't bother, Retief said. You know what was in those files I lookedover this morning.     Retief turned at a sound behind him. Miss Meuhl was at the door,reaching for the safe-lock release....     Don't! Retief jumped—too late.     The door burst inward. A crowd of crested Groaci pressed into the room,pushed Miss Meuhl back, aimed scatter guns at Retief. Police ChiefShluh pushed forward.     Attempt no violence, Terrestrial, he said. I cannot promise torestrain my men.     You're violating Terrestrial territory, Shluh, Retief said steadily.I suggest you move back out the same way you came in.     I invited them here, Miss Meuhl spoke up. They are here at myexpress wish.     Are they? Are you sure you meant to go this far, Miss Meuhl? A squadof armed Groaci in the consulate?     You are the consul, Miss Yolanda Meuhl, Shluh said. Would it not bebest if we removed this deranged person to a place of safety?     You're making a serious mistake, Shluh, Retief said.     Yes, Miss Meuhl said. You're quite right, Mr. Shluh. Please escortMr. Retief to his quarters in this building—     I don't advise you to violate my diplomatic immunity, Fith, Retiefsaid.     As chief of mission, Miss Meuhl said quickly, I hereby waiveimmunity in the case of Mr. Retief.     Shluh produced a hand recorder. Kindly repeat your statement, Madam,officially, he said. I wish no question to arise later.     Don't be a fool, woman, Retief said. Don't you see what you'reletting yourself in for? This would be a hell of a good time for you tofigure out whose side you're on.     I'm on the side of common decency!     You've been taken in. These people are concealing—     You think all women are fools, don't you, Mr. Retief? She turned tothe police chief and spoke into the microphone he held up.     That's an illegal waiver, Retief said. I'm consul here, whateverrumors you've heard. This thing's coming out into the open, whateveryou do. Don't add violation of the Consulate to the list of Groacianatrocities.     Take the man, Shluh said.  ","The story takes place on the planet Groac, which is populated by the native Groaci. The Groaci is a skinny, pale species with a throat-bladder that vibrates when speaking with a glottal dialect in an unusual syntax. They are a sensitive race, according to Miss Meuhl, and they hide their heads and hurry along at any sign of trouble. Consul Retief has an office in the Terrestrial Consulate General and attends cultural events such as light-concerts, chamber music, and folk-art festivals. Retief suggests that these events are mere distractions from more underhanded business happening on the planet, which explains why visas are handed out for only a few terrestrial businessmen, traveling to outlying districts is forbidden, and social contacts must be limited to the diplomatic circle. Groac also has a moon that foreigners cannot visit. In addition to the Consulate General, other important government agencies exist including the Foreign Office Archives, the Ministry of Culture of the Groacian Autonomy, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and the Internal Police (called ""peace-keepers""). Close to the Consulate General is the bar where Retief goes, seeking a cold drink and information. The bartender stands in the bar-pit and dispenses a Groacian beverage he insists is poisonous to foreigners due to its lead content. Retief brandishes a thick gold piece to act as a filter. Later, Fith and Shluh lead Retief to a crevasse nine miles from the supposed landing point of the ISV Terrific. Due to the large veins of high-grade iron ore, Terrestrial investigators had been unable to detect the cruiser's presence, which had been disguised by a roof of heavy timbers. Retief enters the cruiser via a narrow companionway and sees dust all over the deck, stanchions, instrument panels, sheared bolts, and scraps of wire and paper strewn about the control compartment. "
"Who are Fith and Shluh and what are their roles in the story? </s>     THE MADMAN FROM EARTH     BY KEITH LAUMER     You don't have to be crazy to be an earth     diplomat—but on Groac it sure helps!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The Consul for the Terrestrial States, Retief said, presents hiscompliments, et cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the GroacianAutonomy, and with reference to the Ministry's invitation to attend arecital of interpretive grimacing, has the honor to express regret thathe will be unable—     You can't turn this invitation down, Administrative Assistant Meuhlsaid flatly. I'll make that 'accepts with pleasure'.     Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke.     Miss Meuhl, he said, in the past couple of weeks I've sat throughsix light-concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and god knows howmany assorted folk-art festivals. I've been tied up every off-dutyhour since I got here—     You can't offend the Groaci, Miss Meuhl said sharply. Consul Whafflewould never have been so rude.     Whaffle left here three months ago, Retief said, leaving me incharge.     Well, Miss Meuhl said, snapping off the dictyper. I'm sure I don'tknow what excuse I can give the Minister.     Never mind the excuses, Retief said. Just tell him I won't bethere. He stood up.     Are you leaving the office? Miss Meuhl adjusted her glasses. I havesome important letters here for your signature.     I don't recall dictating any letters today, Miss Meuhl, Retief said,pulling on a light cape.  I wrote them for you. They're just as Consul Whaffle would have wantedthem.     Did you write all Whaffle's letters for him, Miss Meuhl?     Consul Whaffle was an extremely busy man, Miss Meuhl said stiffly.He had complete confidence in me.     Since I'm cutting out the culture from now on, Retief said, I won'tbe so busy.     Well! Miss Meuhl said. May I ask where you'll be if something comesup?     I'm going over to the Foreign Office Archives.     Miss Meuhl blinked behind thick lenses. Whatever for?     Retief looked thoughtfully at Miss Meuhl. You've been here on Groacfor four years, Miss Meuhl. What was behind the coup d'etat that putthe present government in power?     I'm sure I haven't pried into—     What about that Terrestrial cruiser? The one that disappeared out thisway about ten years back?     Mr. Retief, those are just the sort of questions we      avoid     with theGroaci. I certainly hope you're not thinking of openly intruding—     Why?     The Groaci are a very sensitive race. They don't welcome outworldersraking up things. They've been gracious enough to let us live downthe fact that Terrestrials subjected them to deep humiliation on oneoccasion.     You mean when they came looking for the cruiser?     I, for one, am ashamed of the high-handed tactics that were employed,grilling these innocent people as though they were criminals. We trynever to reopen that wound, Mr. Retief.     They never found the cruiser, did they?     Certainly not on Groac.     Retief nodded. Thanks, Miss Meuhl, he said. I'll be back beforeyou close the office. Miss Meuhl's face was set in lines of grimdisapproval as he closed the door.  The pale-featured Groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressedbleat.     Not to enter the Archives, he said in his faint voice. The denial ofpermission. The deep regret of the Archivist.     The importance of my task here, Retief said, enunciating the glottaldialect with difficulty. My interest in local history.     The impossibility of access to outworlders. To depart quietly.     The necessity that I enter.     The specific instructions of the Archivist. The Groacian's voice roseto a whisper. To insist no longer. To give up this idea!     OK, Skinny, I know when I'm licked, Retief said in Terran. To keepyour nose clean.     Outside, Retief stood for a moment looking across at the deeply carvedwindowless stucco facades lining the street, then started off in thedirection of the Terrestrial Consulate General. The few Groacians onthe street eyed him furtively, veered to avoid him as he passed. Flimsyhigh-wheeled ground cars puffed silently along the resilient pavement.The air was clean and cool.     At the office, Miss Meuhl would be waiting with another list ofcomplaints.     Retief studied the carving over the open doorways along the street.An elaborate one picked out in pinkish paint seemed to indicate theGroacian equivalent of a bar. Retief went in.     A Groacian bartender was dispensing clay pots of alcoholic drink fromthe bar-pit at the center of the room. He looked at Retief and froze inmid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot.     To enjoy a cooling drink, Retief said in Groacian, squatting down atthe edge of the pit. To sample a true Groacian beverage.     To not enjoy my poor offerings, the Groacian mumbled. A pain in thedigestive sacs; to express regret.     To not worry, Retief said, irritated. To pour it out and let medecide whether I like it.     To be grappled in by peace-keepers for poisoning of—foreigners. Thebarkeep looked around for support, found none. The Groaci customers,eyes elsewhere, were drifting away.     To get the lead out, Retief said, placing a thick gold-piece in thedish provided. To shake a tentacle.     The procuring of a cage, a thin voice called from the sidelines. Thedisplaying of a freak.  Retief turned. A tall Groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gestureof contempt. From his bluish throat coloration, it was apparent thecreature was drunk.     To choke in your upper sac, the bartender hissed, extending his eyestoward the drunk. To keep silent, litter-mate of drones.     To swallow your own poison, dispenser of vileness, the drunkwhispered. To find a proper cage for this zoo-piece. He waveredtoward Retief. To show this one in the streets, like all freaks.     Seen a lot of freaks like me, have you? Retief asked, interestedly.     To speak intelligibly, malodorous outworlder, the drunk said. Thebarkeep whispered something, and two customers came up to the drunk,took his arms and helped him to the door.     To get a cage! the drunk shrilled. To keep the animals in their ownstinking place.     I've changed my mind, Retief said to the bartender. To be gratefulas hell, but to have to hurry off now. He followed the drunk out thedoor. The other Groaci released him, hurried back inside. Retief lookedat the weaving alien.     To begone, freak, the Groacian whispered.     To be pals, Retief said. To be kind to dumb animals.     To have you hauled away to a stockyard, ill-odored foreign livestock.     To not be angry, fragrant native, Retief said. To permit me to chumwith you.     To flee before I take a cane to you!     To have a drink together—     To not endure such insolence! The Groacian advanced toward Retief.Retief backed away.     To hold hands, Retief said. To be palsy-walsy—     The Groacian reached for him, missed. A passer-by stepped around him,head down, scuttled away. Retief backed into the opening to a narrowcrossway and offered further verbal familiarities to the drunken local,who followed, furious. Retief backed, rounded a corner into a narrowalley-like passage, deserted, silent ... except for the followingGroacian.     Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacianfell on his back. Retief stood over him. The downed native half-rose;Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed.     To not be going anywhere for a few minutes, Retief said. To stayright here and have a nice long talk.      II     There you are! Miss Meuhl said, eyeing Retief over her lenses. Thereare two gentlemen waiting to see you. Groacian gentlemen.     Government men, I imagine. Word travels fast. Retief pulled off hiscape. This saves me the trouble of paying another call at the ForeignMinistry.     What have you been doing? They seem very upset, I don't mind tellingyou.     I'm sure you don't. Come along. And bring an official recorder.     Two Groaci wearing heavy eye-shields and elaborate crest ornamentsindicative of rank rose as Retief entered the room. Neither offered acourteous snap of the mandibles, Retief noted. They were mad, all right.     I am Fith, of the Terrestrial Desk, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Mr.Consul, the taller Groacian said, in lisping Terran. May I presentShluh, of the Internal Police?     Sit down, gentlemen, Retief said. They resumed their seats. MissMeuhl hovered nervously, then sat on the edge of a comfortless chair.     Oh, it's such a pleasure— she began.     Never mind that, Retief said. These gentlemen didn't come here tosip tea today.     So true, Fith said. Frankly, I have had a most disturbing report,Mr. Consul. I shall ask Shluh to recount it. He nodded to the policechief.     One hour ago, The Groacian said, a Groacian national was broughtto hospital suffering from serious contusions. Questioning of thisindividual revealed that he had been set upon and beaten by aforeigner. A Terrestrial, to be precise. Investigation by my departmentindicates that the description of the culprit closely matches that ofthe Terrestrial Consul.     Miss Meuhl gasped audibly.     Have you ever heard, Retief said, looking steadily at Fith, of aTerrestrial cruiser, the      ISV Terrific     , which dropped from sight inthis sector nine years ago?     Really! Miss Meuhl exclaimed, rising. I wash my hands—     Just keep that recorder going, Retief snapped.     I'll not be a party—     You'll do as you're told, Miss Meuhl, Retief said quietly. I'mtelling you to make an official sealed record of this conversation.     Miss Meuhl sat down.     Fith puffed out his throat indignantly. You reopen an old wound,Mr. Consul. It reminds us of certain illegal treatment at Terrestrialhands—     Hogwash, Retief said. That tune went over with my predecessors, butit hits a sour note with me.     All our efforts, Miss Meuhl said, to live down that terribleepisode! And you—     Terrible? I understand that a Terrestrial task force stood off Groacand sent a delegation down to ask questions. They got some funnyanswers, and stayed on to dig around a little. After a week they left.Somewhat annoying to the Groaci, maybe—at the most. If they wereinnocent.     IF! Miss Meuhl burst out.     If, indeed! Fith said, his weak voice trembling. I must protestyour—  Save the protests, Fith. You have some explaining to do. And I don'tthink your story will be good enough.     It is for you to explain! This person who was beaten—     Not beaten. Just rapped a few times to loosen his memory.     Then you admit—     It worked, too. He remembered lots of things, once he put his mind toit.     Fith rose; Shluh followed suit.     I shall ask for your immediate recall, Mr. Consul. Were it not foryour diplomatic immunity, I should do more—     Why did the government fall, Fith? It was just after the task forcepaid its visit, and before the arrival of the first Terrestrialdiplomatic mission.     This is an internal matter! Fith cried, in his faint Groacian voice.The new regime has shown itself most amiable to you Terrestrials. Ithas outdone itself—     —to keep the Terrestrial consul and his staff in the dark, Retiefsaid. And the same goes for the few terrestrial businessmen you'vevisaed. This continual round of culture; no social contacts outside thediplomatic circle; no travel permits to visit out-lying districts, oryour satellite—     Enough! Fith's mandibles quivered in distress. I can talk no more ofthis matter—     You'll talk to me, or there'll be a task force here in five days to dothe talking, Retief said.     You can't! Miss Meuhl gasped.     Retief turned a steady look on Miss Meuhl. She closed her mouth. TheGroaci sat down.     Answer me this one, Retief said, looking at Shluh. A few yearsback—about nine, I think—there was a little parade held here. Somecurious looking creatures were captured. After being securely caged,they were exhibited to the gentle Groaci public. Hauled through thestreets. Very educational, no doubt. A highly cultural show.     Funny thing about these animals. They wore clothes. They seemed tocommunicate with each other. Altogether it was a very amusing exhibit.     Tell me, Shluh, what happened to those six Terrestrials after theparade was over?  Fith made a choked noise and spoke rapidly to Shluh in Groacian. Shluhretracted his eyes, shrank down in his chair. Miss Meuhl opened hermouth, closed it and blinked rapidly.     How did they die? Retief snapped. Did you murder them, cut theirthroats, shoot them or bury them alive? What amusing end did you figureout for them? Research, maybe? Cut them open to see what made themyell....     No! Fith gasped. I must correct this terrible false impression atonce.     False impression, hell, Retief said. They were Terrans! A simplenarco-interrogation would get that out of any Groacian who saw theparade.     Yes, Fith said weakly. It is true, they were Terrestrials. But therewas no killing.     They're alive?     Alas, no. They ... died.     Miss Meuhl yelped faintly.     I see, Retief said. They died.     We tried to keep them alive, of course. But we did not know whatfoods—     Didn't take the trouble to find out, either, did you?     They fell ill, Fith said. One by one....     We'll deal with that question later, Retief said. Right now, I wantmore information. Where did you get them? Where did you hide the ship?What happened to the rest of the crew? Did they 'fall ill' before thebig parade?     There were no more! Absolutely, I assure you!     Killed in the crash landing?     No crash landing. The ship descended intact, east of the city. The ...Terrestrials ... were unharmed. Naturally, we feared them. They werestrange to us. We had never before seen such beings.     Stepped off the ship with guns blazing, did they?     Guns? No, no guns—     They raised their hands, didn't they? Asked for help. You helped them;helped them to death.     How could we know? Fith moaned.     How could you know a flotilla would show up in a few months lookingfor them, you mean? That was a shock, wasn't it? I'll bet you had abrisk time of it hiding the ship, and shutting everybody up. A closecall, eh?     We were afraid, Shluh said. We are a simple people. We feared thestrange creatures from the alien craft. We did not kill them, but wefelt it was as well they ... did not survive. Then, when the warshipscame, we realized our error. But we feared to speak. We purged ourguilty leaders, concealed what had happened, and ... offered ourfriendship. We invited the opening of diplomatic relations. We madea blunder, it is true, a great blunder. But we have tried to makeamends....     Where is the ship?     The ship?     What did you do with it? It was too big to just walk off and forget.Where is it?     The two Groacians exchanged looks.     We wish to show our contrition, Fith said. We will show you theship.     Miss Meuhl, Retief said. If I don't come back in a reasonable lengthof time, transmit that recording to Regional Headquarters, sealed. Hestood, looked at the Groaci.     Let's go, he said.  Retief stooped under the heavy timbers shoring the entry to the cavern.He peered into the gloom at the curving flank of the space-burned hull.     Any lights in here? he asked.     A Groacian threw a switch. A weak bluish glow sprang up.     Retief walked along the raised wooden catwalk, studying the ship. Emptyemplacements gaped below lensless scanner eyes. Littered decking wasvisible within the half-open entry port. Near the bow the words 'IVSTerrific B7 New Terra' were lettered in bright chrome duralloy.     How did you get it in here? Retief asked.     It was hauled here from the landing point, some nine miles distant,Fith said, his voice thinner than ever. This is a natural crevasse.The vessel was lowered into it and roofed over.     How did you shield it so the detectors didn't pick it up?     All here is high-grade iron ore, Fith said, waving a member. Greatveins of almost pure metal.     Retief grunted. Let's go inside.     Shluh came forward with a hand-lamp. The party entered the ship.     Retief clambered up a narrow companionway, glanced around the interiorof the control compartment. Dust was thick on the deck, the stanchionswhere acceleration couches had been mounted, the empty instrumentpanels, the litter of sheared bolts, scraps of wire and paper. A thinfrosting of rust dulled the exposed metal where cutting torches hadsliced away heavy shielding. There was a faint odor of stale bedding.     The cargo compartment— Shluh began.     I've seen enough, Retief said.     Silently, the Groacians led the way back out through the tunnel andinto the late afternoon sunshine. As they climbed the slope to thesteam car, Fith came to Retief's side.     Indeed, I hope that this will be the end of this unfortunate affair,he said. Now that all has been fully and honestly shown—     You can skip all that, Retief said. You're nine years late. Thecrew was still alive when the task force called, I imagine. You killedthem—or let them die—rather than take the chance of admitting whatyou'd done.     We were at fault, Fith said abjectly. Now we wish only friendship.     The      Terrific     was a heavy cruiser, about twenty thousand tons.Retief looked grimly at the slender Foreign Office official. Where isshe, Fith? I won't settle for a hundred-ton lifeboat.  Fith erected his eye stalks so violently that one eye-shield fell off.     I know nothing of ... of.... He stopped. His throat vibrated rapidlyas he struggled for calm.     My government can entertain no further accusations, Mr. Consul,he said at last. I have been completely candid with you, I haveoverlooked your probing into matters not properly within your sphere ofresponsibility. My patience is at an end.     Where is that ship? Retief rapped out. You never learn, do you?You're still convinced you can hide the whole thing and forget it. I'mtelling you you can't.     We return to the city now, Fith said. I can do no more.     You can and you will, Fith, Retief said. I intend to get to thetruth of this matter.     Fith spoke to Shluh in rapid Groacian. The police chief gestured to hisfour armed constables. They moved to ring Retief in.     Retief eyed Fith. Don't try it, he said. You'll just get yourself indeeper.     Fith clacked his mandibles angrily, eye stalks canted aggressivelytoward the Terrestrial.     Out of deference to your diplomatic status, Terrestrial, I shallignore your insulting remarks, Fith said in his reedy voice. Let usnow return to the city.     Retief looked at the four policemen. I see your point, he said.     Fith followed him into the car, sat rigidly at the far end of the seat.     I advise you to remain very close to your consulate, Fith said. Iadvise you to dismiss these fancies from your mind, and to enjoy thecultural aspects of life at Groac. Especially, I should not venture outof the city, or appear overly curious about matters of concern only tothe Groacian government.     In the front seat, Shluh looked straight ahead. The loosely-sprungvehicle bobbed and swayed along the narrow highway. Retief listened tothe rhythmic puffing of the motor and said nothing.      III     Miss Meuhl, Retief said, I want you to listen carefully to what I'mgoing to tell you. I have to move rapidly now, to catch the Groaci offguard.     I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Meuhl snapped,her eyes sharp behind the heavy lenses.     If you'll listen, you may find out, Retief said. I have no timeto waste, Miss Meuhl. They won't be expecting an immediate move—Ihope—and that may give me the latitude I need.     You're still determined to make an issue of that incident! MissMeuhl snorted. I really can hardly blame the Groaci. They are not asophisticated race; they had never before met aliens.     You're ready to forgive a great deal, Miss Meuhl. But it's not whathappened nine years ago I'm concerned with. It's what's happening now.I've told you that it was only a lifeboat the Groaci have hidden out.Don't you understand the implication? That vessel couldn't have comefar. The cruiser itself must be somewhere near by. I want to knowwhere!     The Groaci don't know. They're a very cultured, gentle people. You cando irreparable harm to the reputation of Terrestrials if you insist—     That's my decision, Retief said. I have a job to do and we'rewasting time. He crossed the room to his desk, opened a drawer andtook out a slim-barreled needler.     This office is being watched. Not very efficiently, if I know theGroaci. I think I can get past them all right.     Where are you going with ... that? Miss Meuhl stared at the needler.What in the world—     The Groaci won't waste any time destroying every piece of paper intheir files relating to this thing. I have to get what I need beforeit's too late. If I wait for an official Inquiry Commission, they'llfind nothing but blank smiles.     You're out of your mind! Miss Meuhl stood up, quivering withindignation. You're like a ... a....     You and I are in a tight spot, Miss Meuhl. The logical next move forthe Groaci is to dispose of both of us. We're the only ones who knowwhat happened. Fith almost did the job this afternoon, but I bluffedhim out—for the moment.     Miss Meuhl emitted a shrill laugh. Your fantasies are getting thebetter of you, she gasped. In danger, indeed! Disposing of me! I'venever heard anything so ridiculous.     Stay in this office. Close and safe-lock the door. You've got food andwater in the dispenser. I suggest you stock up, before they shut thesupply down. Don't let anyone in, on any pretext whatever. I'll keep intouch with you via hand-phone.     What are you planning to do?     If I don't make it back here, transmit the sealed record of thisafternoon's conversation, along with the information I've given you.Beam it through on a mayday priority. Then tell the Groaci what you'vedone and sit tight. I think you'll be all right. It won't be easy toblast in here and anyway, they won't make things worse by killing you.A force can be here in a week.     I'll do nothing of the sort! The Groaci are very fond of me! You ...Johnny-come-lately! Roughneck! Setting out to destroy—     Blame it on me if it will make you feel any better, Retief said, butdon't be fool enough to trust them. He pulled on a cape, opened thedoor.     I'll be back in a couple of hours, he said. Miss Meuhl stared afterhim silently as he closed the door.  It was an hour before dawn when Retief keyed the combination to thesafe-lock and stepped into the darkened consular office. He lookedtired.     Miss Meuhl, dozing in a chair, awoke with a start. She looked atRetief, rose and snapped on a light, turned to stare.     What in the world—Where have you been? What's happened to yourclothing?     I got a little dirty. Don't worry about it. Retief went to his desk,opened a drawer and replaced the needler.     Where have you been? Miss Meuhl demanded. I stayed here—     I'm glad you did, Retief said. I hope you piled up a supply of foodand water from the dispenser, too. We'll be holed up here for a week,at least. He jotted figures on a pad. Warm up the official sender. Ihave a long transmission for Regional Headquarters.     Are you going to tell me where you've been?     I have a message to get off first, Miss Meuhl, Retief said sharply.I've been to the Foreign Ministry, he added. I'll tell you all aboutit later.     At this hour? There's no one there....     Exactly.     Miss Meuhl gasped. You mean you broke in? You burgled the ForeignOffice?     That's right, Retief said calmly. Now—     This is absolutely the end! Miss Meuhl said. Thank heaven I'vealready—     Get that sender going, woman! Retief snapped. This is important.     I've already done so, Mr. Retief! Miss Meuhl said harshly. I've beenwaiting for you to come back here.... She turned to the communicator,flipped levers. The screen snapped aglow, and a wavering long-distanceimage appeared.     He's here now, Miss Meuhl said to the screen. She looked at Retieftriumphantly.     That's good, Retief said. I don't think the Groaci can knock us offthe air, but—     I have done my duty, Mr. Retief, Miss Meuhl said. I made a fullreport to Regional Headquarters last night, as soon as you left thisoffice. Any doubts I may have had as to the rightness of that decisionhave been completely dispelled by what you've just told me.     Retief looked at her levelly. You've been a busy girl, Miss Meuhl. Didyou mention the six Terrestrials who were killed here?     That had no bearing on the matter of your wild behavior! I must say,in all my years in the Corps, I've never encountered a personality lesssuited to diplomatic work.  The screen crackled, the ten-second transmission lag having elapsed.Mr. Retief, the face on the screen said, I am Counsellor Pardy,DSO-1, Deputy Under-secretary for the region. I have received areport on your conduct which makes it mandatory for me to relieve youadministratively, vice Miss Yolanda Meuhl, DAO-9. Pending the findingsof a Board of Inquiry, you will—     Retief reached out and snapped off the communicator. The triumphantlook faded from Miss Meuhl's face.     Why, what is the meaning—     If I'd listened any longer, I might have heard something I couldn'tignore. I can't afford that, at this moment. Listen, Miss Meuhl,Retief went on earnestly, I've found the missing cruiser.     You heard him relieve you!     I heard him say he was      going     to, Miss Meuhl. But until I've heardand acknowledged a verbal order, it has no force. If I'm wrong, he'llget my resignation. If I'm right, that suspension would be embarrassingall around.     You're defying lawful authority! I'm in charge here now. Miss Meuhlstepped to the local communicator.     I'm going to report this terrible thing to the Groaci at once, andoffer my profound—     Don't touch that screen, Retief said. You go sit in that cornerwhere I can keep an eye on you. I'm going to make a sealed tape fortransmission to Headquarters, along with a call for an armed taskforce. Then we'll settle down to wait.     Retief ignored Miss Meuhl's fury as he spoke into the recorder.     The local communicator chimed. Miss Meuhl jumped up, staring at it.     Go ahead, Retief said. Answer it.     A Groacian official appeared on the screen.     Yolanda Meuhl, he said without preamble, for the Foreign Minister ofthe Groacian Autonomy, I herewith accredit you as Terrestrial Consulto Groac, in accordance with the advices transmitted to my governmentdirect from the Terrestrial Headquarters. As consul, you are requestedto make available for questioning Mr. J. Retief, former consul, inconnection with the assault on two peace keepers and illegal entry intothe offices of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs.     Why, why, Miss Meuhl stammered. Yes, of course. And I do want toexpress my deepest regrets—  Retief rose, went to the communicator, assisted Miss Meuhl aside.     Listen carefully, Fith, he said. Your bluff has been called. Youdon't come in and we don't come out. Your camouflage worked for nineyears, but it's all over now. I suggest you keep your heads and resistthe temptation to make matters worse than they are.     Miss Meuhl, Fith said, a peace squad waits outside your consulate.It is clear you are in the hands of a dangerous lunatic. As always, theGroaci wish only friendship with the Terrestrials, but—     Don't bother, Retief said. You know what was in those files I lookedover this morning.     Retief turned at a sound behind him. Miss Meuhl was at the door,reaching for the safe-lock release....     Don't! Retief jumped—too late.     The door burst inward. A crowd of crested Groaci pressed into the room,pushed Miss Meuhl back, aimed scatter guns at Retief. Police ChiefShluh pushed forward.     Attempt no violence, Terrestrial, he said. I cannot promise torestrain my men.     You're violating Terrestrial territory, Shluh, Retief said steadily.I suggest you move back out the same way you came in.     I invited them here, Miss Meuhl spoke up. They are here at myexpress wish.     Are they? Are you sure you meant to go this far, Miss Meuhl? A squadof armed Groaci in the consulate?     You are the consul, Miss Yolanda Meuhl, Shluh said. Would it not bebest if we removed this deranged person to a place of safety?     You're making a serious mistake, Shluh, Retief said.     Yes, Miss Meuhl said. You're quite right, Mr. Shluh. Please escortMr. Retief to his quarters in this building—     I don't advise you to violate my diplomatic immunity, Fith, Retiefsaid.     As chief of mission, Miss Meuhl said quickly, I hereby waiveimmunity in the case of Mr. Retief.     Shluh produced a hand recorder. Kindly repeat your statement, Madam,officially, he said. I wish no question to arise later.     Don't be a fool, woman, Retief said. Don't you see what you'reletting yourself in for? This would be a hell of a good time for you tofigure out whose side you're on.     I'm on the side of common decency!     You've been taken in. These people are concealing—     You think all women are fools, don't you, Mr. Retief? She turned tothe police chief and spoke into the microphone he held up.     That's an illegal waiver, Retief said. I'm consul here, whateverrumors you've heard. This thing's coming out into the open, whateveryou do. Don't add violation of the Consulate to the list of Groacianatrocities.     Take the man, Shluh said.  ","Fith is a Groacian who works with the Terrestrial Desk at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. His associate, Shluh, is the police chief of the Internal Police. While both are Groacians, they speak to Retief in a lisping Terran and wear heavy eye-shields and elaborately-decorated crest ornaments indicating their rank. Fith does most of the talking as he attempts to convince Retief to cease his inquiries into the ISV Terrific, and Shluh is there primarily as a tool with which to threaten Retief. When the two Groacians first meet Retief, they accuse him of attacking a Groacian national, which Retief admits to, but he quickly reveals what the national confessed to him about the fate of ISV Terrific's crew. Although Miss Meuhl is sympathetic to the supposed sensitive nature of the Groaci, Retief distrusts them wholly, and when Fith and Shluh eventually confess to hiding the ISV Terrific, he further distrusts their sincerity of contrition and accuses them of showing him a lifeboat instead of the missing cruiser. This accusation infuriates Fith, who threatens to have Shluh's attending officers arrest Retief on the spot. Later, following Retief's break-in at the Foreign Ministry, Fith appoints Miss Meuh as Consul for the Terrestrial States and orders Shluh to arrest Retief."
"What is the significance of the ISV Terrific in the story? </s>     THE MADMAN FROM EARTH     BY KEITH LAUMER     You don't have to be crazy to be an earth     diplomat—but on Groac it sure helps!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The Consul for the Terrestrial States, Retief said, presents hiscompliments, et cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the GroacianAutonomy, and with reference to the Ministry's invitation to attend arecital of interpretive grimacing, has the honor to express regret thathe will be unable—     You can't turn this invitation down, Administrative Assistant Meuhlsaid flatly. I'll make that 'accepts with pleasure'.     Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke.     Miss Meuhl, he said, in the past couple of weeks I've sat throughsix light-concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and god knows howmany assorted folk-art festivals. I've been tied up every off-dutyhour since I got here—     You can't offend the Groaci, Miss Meuhl said sharply. Consul Whafflewould never have been so rude.     Whaffle left here three months ago, Retief said, leaving me incharge.     Well, Miss Meuhl said, snapping off the dictyper. I'm sure I don'tknow what excuse I can give the Minister.     Never mind the excuses, Retief said. Just tell him I won't bethere. He stood up.     Are you leaving the office? Miss Meuhl adjusted her glasses. I havesome important letters here for your signature.     I don't recall dictating any letters today, Miss Meuhl, Retief said,pulling on a light cape.  I wrote them for you. They're just as Consul Whaffle would have wantedthem.     Did you write all Whaffle's letters for him, Miss Meuhl?     Consul Whaffle was an extremely busy man, Miss Meuhl said stiffly.He had complete confidence in me.     Since I'm cutting out the culture from now on, Retief said, I won'tbe so busy.     Well! Miss Meuhl said. May I ask where you'll be if something comesup?     I'm going over to the Foreign Office Archives.     Miss Meuhl blinked behind thick lenses. Whatever for?     Retief looked thoughtfully at Miss Meuhl. You've been here on Groacfor four years, Miss Meuhl. What was behind the coup d'etat that putthe present government in power?     I'm sure I haven't pried into—     What about that Terrestrial cruiser? The one that disappeared out thisway about ten years back?     Mr. Retief, those are just the sort of questions we      avoid     with theGroaci. I certainly hope you're not thinking of openly intruding—     Why?     The Groaci are a very sensitive race. They don't welcome outworldersraking up things. They've been gracious enough to let us live downthe fact that Terrestrials subjected them to deep humiliation on oneoccasion.     You mean when they came looking for the cruiser?     I, for one, am ashamed of the high-handed tactics that were employed,grilling these innocent people as though they were criminals. We trynever to reopen that wound, Mr. Retief.     They never found the cruiser, did they?     Certainly not on Groac.     Retief nodded. Thanks, Miss Meuhl, he said. I'll be back beforeyou close the office. Miss Meuhl's face was set in lines of grimdisapproval as he closed the door.  The pale-featured Groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressedbleat.     Not to enter the Archives, he said in his faint voice. The denial ofpermission. The deep regret of the Archivist.     The importance of my task here, Retief said, enunciating the glottaldialect with difficulty. My interest in local history.     The impossibility of access to outworlders. To depart quietly.     The necessity that I enter.     The specific instructions of the Archivist. The Groacian's voice roseto a whisper. To insist no longer. To give up this idea!     OK, Skinny, I know when I'm licked, Retief said in Terran. To keepyour nose clean.     Outside, Retief stood for a moment looking across at the deeply carvedwindowless stucco facades lining the street, then started off in thedirection of the Terrestrial Consulate General. The few Groacians onthe street eyed him furtively, veered to avoid him as he passed. Flimsyhigh-wheeled ground cars puffed silently along the resilient pavement.The air was clean and cool.     At the office, Miss Meuhl would be waiting with another list ofcomplaints.     Retief studied the carving over the open doorways along the street.An elaborate one picked out in pinkish paint seemed to indicate theGroacian equivalent of a bar. Retief went in.     A Groacian bartender was dispensing clay pots of alcoholic drink fromthe bar-pit at the center of the room. He looked at Retief and froze inmid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot.     To enjoy a cooling drink, Retief said in Groacian, squatting down atthe edge of the pit. To sample a true Groacian beverage.     To not enjoy my poor offerings, the Groacian mumbled. A pain in thedigestive sacs; to express regret.     To not worry, Retief said, irritated. To pour it out and let medecide whether I like it.     To be grappled in by peace-keepers for poisoning of—foreigners. Thebarkeep looked around for support, found none. The Groaci customers,eyes elsewhere, were drifting away.     To get the lead out, Retief said, placing a thick gold-piece in thedish provided. To shake a tentacle.     The procuring of a cage, a thin voice called from the sidelines. Thedisplaying of a freak.  Retief turned. A tall Groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gestureof contempt. From his bluish throat coloration, it was apparent thecreature was drunk.     To choke in your upper sac, the bartender hissed, extending his eyestoward the drunk. To keep silent, litter-mate of drones.     To swallow your own poison, dispenser of vileness, the drunkwhispered. To find a proper cage for this zoo-piece. He waveredtoward Retief. To show this one in the streets, like all freaks.     Seen a lot of freaks like me, have you? Retief asked, interestedly.     To speak intelligibly, malodorous outworlder, the drunk said. Thebarkeep whispered something, and two customers came up to the drunk,took his arms and helped him to the door.     To get a cage! the drunk shrilled. To keep the animals in their ownstinking place.     I've changed my mind, Retief said to the bartender. To be gratefulas hell, but to have to hurry off now. He followed the drunk out thedoor. The other Groaci released him, hurried back inside. Retief lookedat the weaving alien.     To begone, freak, the Groacian whispered.     To be pals, Retief said. To be kind to dumb animals.     To have you hauled away to a stockyard, ill-odored foreign livestock.     To not be angry, fragrant native, Retief said. To permit me to chumwith you.     To flee before I take a cane to you!     To have a drink together—     To not endure such insolence! The Groacian advanced toward Retief.Retief backed away.     To hold hands, Retief said. To be palsy-walsy—     The Groacian reached for him, missed. A passer-by stepped around him,head down, scuttled away. Retief backed into the opening to a narrowcrossway and offered further verbal familiarities to the drunken local,who followed, furious. Retief backed, rounded a corner into a narrowalley-like passage, deserted, silent ... except for the followingGroacian.     Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacianfell on his back. Retief stood over him. The downed native half-rose;Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed.     To not be going anywhere for a few minutes, Retief said. To stayright here and have a nice long talk.      II     There you are! Miss Meuhl said, eyeing Retief over her lenses. Thereare two gentlemen waiting to see you. Groacian gentlemen.     Government men, I imagine. Word travels fast. Retief pulled off hiscape. This saves me the trouble of paying another call at the ForeignMinistry.     What have you been doing? They seem very upset, I don't mind tellingyou.     I'm sure you don't. Come along. And bring an official recorder.     Two Groaci wearing heavy eye-shields and elaborate crest ornamentsindicative of rank rose as Retief entered the room. Neither offered acourteous snap of the mandibles, Retief noted. They were mad, all right.     I am Fith, of the Terrestrial Desk, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Mr.Consul, the taller Groacian said, in lisping Terran. May I presentShluh, of the Internal Police?     Sit down, gentlemen, Retief said. They resumed their seats. MissMeuhl hovered nervously, then sat on the edge of a comfortless chair.     Oh, it's such a pleasure— she began.     Never mind that, Retief said. These gentlemen didn't come here tosip tea today.     So true, Fith said. Frankly, I have had a most disturbing report,Mr. Consul. I shall ask Shluh to recount it. He nodded to the policechief.     One hour ago, The Groacian said, a Groacian national was broughtto hospital suffering from serious contusions. Questioning of thisindividual revealed that he had been set upon and beaten by aforeigner. A Terrestrial, to be precise. Investigation by my departmentindicates that the description of the culprit closely matches that ofthe Terrestrial Consul.     Miss Meuhl gasped audibly.     Have you ever heard, Retief said, looking steadily at Fith, of aTerrestrial cruiser, the      ISV Terrific     , which dropped from sight inthis sector nine years ago?     Really! Miss Meuhl exclaimed, rising. I wash my hands—     Just keep that recorder going, Retief snapped.     I'll not be a party—     You'll do as you're told, Miss Meuhl, Retief said quietly. I'mtelling you to make an official sealed record of this conversation.     Miss Meuhl sat down.     Fith puffed out his throat indignantly. You reopen an old wound,Mr. Consul. It reminds us of certain illegal treatment at Terrestrialhands—     Hogwash, Retief said. That tune went over with my predecessors, butit hits a sour note with me.     All our efforts, Miss Meuhl said, to live down that terribleepisode! And you—     Terrible? I understand that a Terrestrial task force stood off Groacand sent a delegation down to ask questions. They got some funnyanswers, and stayed on to dig around a little. After a week they left.Somewhat annoying to the Groaci, maybe—at the most. If they wereinnocent.     IF! Miss Meuhl burst out.     If, indeed! Fith said, his weak voice trembling. I must protestyour—  Save the protests, Fith. You have some explaining to do. And I don'tthink your story will be good enough.     It is for you to explain! This person who was beaten—     Not beaten. Just rapped a few times to loosen his memory.     Then you admit—     It worked, too. He remembered lots of things, once he put his mind toit.     Fith rose; Shluh followed suit.     I shall ask for your immediate recall, Mr. Consul. Were it not foryour diplomatic immunity, I should do more—     Why did the government fall, Fith? It was just after the task forcepaid its visit, and before the arrival of the first Terrestrialdiplomatic mission.     This is an internal matter! Fith cried, in his faint Groacian voice.The new regime has shown itself most amiable to you Terrestrials. Ithas outdone itself—     —to keep the Terrestrial consul and his staff in the dark, Retiefsaid. And the same goes for the few terrestrial businessmen you'vevisaed. This continual round of culture; no social contacts outside thediplomatic circle; no travel permits to visit out-lying districts, oryour satellite—     Enough! Fith's mandibles quivered in distress. I can talk no more ofthis matter—     You'll talk to me, or there'll be a task force here in five days to dothe talking, Retief said.     You can't! Miss Meuhl gasped.     Retief turned a steady look on Miss Meuhl. She closed her mouth. TheGroaci sat down.     Answer me this one, Retief said, looking at Shluh. A few yearsback—about nine, I think—there was a little parade held here. Somecurious looking creatures were captured. After being securely caged,they were exhibited to the gentle Groaci public. Hauled through thestreets. Very educational, no doubt. A highly cultural show.     Funny thing about these animals. They wore clothes. They seemed tocommunicate with each other. Altogether it was a very amusing exhibit.     Tell me, Shluh, what happened to those six Terrestrials after theparade was over?  Fith made a choked noise and spoke rapidly to Shluh in Groacian. Shluhretracted his eyes, shrank down in his chair. Miss Meuhl opened hermouth, closed it and blinked rapidly.     How did they die? Retief snapped. Did you murder them, cut theirthroats, shoot them or bury them alive? What amusing end did you figureout for them? Research, maybe? Cut them open to see what made themyell....     No! Fith gasped. I must correct this terrible false impression atonce.     False impression, hell, Retief said. They were Terrans! A simplenarco-interrogation would get that out of any Groacian who saw theparade.     Yes, Fith said weakly. It is true, they were Terrestrials. But therewas no killing.     They're alive?     Alas, no. They ... died.     Miss Meuhl yelped faintly.     I see, Retief said. They died.     We tried to keep them alive, of course. But we did not know whatfoods—     Didn't take the trouble to find out, either, did you?     They fell ill, Fith said. One by one....     We'll deal with that question later, Retief said. Right now, I wantmore information. Where did you get them? Where did you hide the ship?What happened to the rest of the crew? Did they 'fall ill' before thebig parade?     There were no more! Absolutely, I assure you!     Killed in the crash landing?     No crash landing. The ship descended intact, east of the city. The ...Terrestrials ... were unharmed. Naturally, we feared them. They werestrange to us. We had never before seen such beings.     Stepped off the ship with guns blazing, did they?     Guns? No, no guns—     They raised their hands, didn't they? Asked for help. You helped them;helped them to death.     How could we know? Fith moaned.     How could you know a flotilla would show up in a few months lookingfor them, you mean? That was a shock, wasn't it? I'll bet you had abrisk time of it hiding the ship, and shutting everybody up. A closecall, eh?     We were afraid, Shluh said. We are a simple people. We feared thestrange creatures from the alien craft. We did not kill them, but wefelt it was as well they ... did not survive. Then, when the warshipscame, we realized our error. But we feared to speak. We purged ourguilty leaders, concealed what had happened, and ... offered ourfriendship. We invited the opening of diplomatic relations. We madea blunder, it is true, a great blunder. But we have tried to makeamends....     Where is the ship?     The ship?     What did you do with it? It was too big to just walk off and forget.Where is it?     The two Groacians exchanged looks.     We wish to show our contrition, Fith said. We will show you theship.     Miss Meuhl, Retief said. If I don't come back in a reasonable lengthof time, transmit that recording to Regional Headquarters, sealed. Hestood, looked at the Groaci.     Let's go, he said.  Retief stooped under the heavy timbers shoring the entry to the cavern.He peered into the gloom at the curving flank of the space-burned hull.     Any lights in here? he asked.     A Groacian threw a switch. A weak bluish glow sprang up.     Retief walked along the raised wooden catwalk, studying the ship. Emptyemplacements gaped below lensless scanner eyes. Littered decking wasvisible within the half-open entry port. Near the bow the words 'IVSTerrific B7 New Terra' were lettered in bright chrome duralloy.     How did you get it in here? Retief asked.     It was hauled here from the landing point, some nine miles distant,Fith said, his voice thinner than ever. This is a natural crevasse.The vessel was lowered into it and roofed over.     How did you shield it so the detectors didn't pick it up?     All here is high-grade iron ore, Fith said, waving a member. Greatveins of almost pure metal.     Retief grunted. Let's go inside.     Shluh came forward with a hand-lamp. The party entered the ship.     Retief clambered up a narrow companionway, glanced around the interiorof the control compartment. Dust was thick on the deck, the stanchionswhere acceleration couches had been mounted, the empty instrumentpanels, the litter of sheared bolts, scraps of wire and paper. A thinfrosting of rust dulled the exposed metal where cutting torches hadsliced away heavy shielding. There was a faint odor of stale bedding.     The cargo compartment— Shluh began.     I've seen enough, Retief said.     Silently, the Groacians led the way back out through the tunnel andinto the late afternoon sunshine. As they climbed the slope to thesteam car, Fith came to Retief's side.     Indeed, I hope that this will be the end of this unfortunate affair,he said. Now that all has been fully and honestly shown—     You can skip all that, Retief said. You're nine years late. Thecrew was still alive when the task force called, I imagine. You killedthem—or let them die—rather than take the chance of admitting whatyou'd done.     We were at fault, Fith said abjectly. Now we wish only friendship.     The      Terrific     was a heavy cruiser, about twenty thousand tons.Retief looked grimly at the slender Foreign Office official. Where isshe, Fith? I won't settle for a hundred-ton lifeboat.  Fith erected his eye stalks so violently that one eye-shield fell off.     I know nothing of ... of.... He stopped. His throat vibrated rapidlyas he struggled for calm.     My government can entertain no further accusations, Mr. Consul,he said at last. I have been completely candid with you, I haveoverlooked your probing into matters not properly within your sphere ofresponsibility. My patience is at an end.     Where is that ship? Retief rapped out. You never learn, do you?You're still convinced you can hide the whole thing and forget it. I'mtelling you you can't.     We return to the city now, Fith said. I can do no more.     You can and you will, Fith, Retief said. I intend to get to thetruth of this matter.     Fith spoke to Shluh in rapid Groacian. The police chief gestured to hisfour armed constables. They moved to ring Retief in.     Retief eyed Fith. Don't try it, he said. You'll just get yourself indeeper.     Fith clacked his mandibles angrily, eye stalks canted aggressivelytoward the Terrestrial.     Out of deference to your diplomatic status, Terrestrial, I shallignore your insulting remarks, Fith said in his reedy voice. Let usnow return to the city.     Retief looked at the four policemen. I see your point, he said.     Fith followed him into the car, sat rigidly at the far end of the seat.     I advise you to remain very close to your consulate, Fith said. Iadvise you to dismiss these fancies from your mind, and to enjoy thecultural aspects of life at Groac. Especially, I should not venture outof the city, or appear overly curious about matters of concern only tothe Groacian government.     In the front seat, Shluh looked straight ahead. The loosely-sprungvehicle bobbed and swayed along the narrow highway. Retief listened tothe rhythmic puffing of the motor and said nothing.      III     Miss Meuhl, Retief said, I want you to listen carefully to what I'mgoing to tell you. I have to move rapidly now, to catch the Groaci offguard.     I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Meuhl snapped,her eyes sharp behind the heavy lenses.     If you'll listen, you may find out, Retief said. I have no timeto waste, Miss Meuhl. They won't be expecting an immediate move—Ihope—and that may give me the latitude I need.     You're still determined to make an issue of that incident! MissMeuhl snorted. I really can hardly blame the Groaci. They are not asophisticated race; they had never before met aliens.     You're ready to forgive a great deal, Miss Meuhl. But it's not whathappened nine years ago I'm concerned with. It's what's happening now.I've told you that it was only a lifeboat the Groaci have hidden out.Don't you understand the implication? That vessel couldn't have comefar. The cruiser itself must be somewhere near by. I want to knowwhere!     The Groaci don't know. They're a very cultured, gentle people. You cando irreparable harm to the reputation of Terrestrials if you insist—     That's my decision, Retief said. I have a job to do and we'rewasting time. He crossed the room to his desk, opened a drawer andtook out a slim-barreled needler.     This office is being watched. Not very efficiently, if I know theGroaci. I think I can get past them all right.     Where are you going with ... that? Miss Meuhl stared at the needler.What in the world—     The Groaci won't waste any time destroying every piece of paper intheir files relating to this thing. I have to get what I need beforeit's too late. If I wait for an official Inquiry Commission, they'llfind nothing but blank smiles.     You're out of your mind! Miss Meuhl stood up, quivering withindignation. You're like a ... a....     You and I are in a tight spot, Miss Meuhl. The logical next move forthe Groaci is to dispose of both of us. We're the only ones who knowwhat happened. Fith almost did the job this afternoon, but I bluffedhim out—for the moment.     Miss Meuhl emitted a shrill laugh. Your fantasies are getting thebetter of you, she gasped. In danger, indeed! Disposing of me! I'venever heard anything so ridiculous.     Stay in this office. Close and safe-lock the door. You've got food andwater in the dispenser. I suggest you stock up, before they shut thesupply down. Don't let anyone in, on any pretext whatever. I'll keep intouch with you via hand-phone.     What are you planning to do?     If I don't make it back here, transmit the sealed record of thisafternoon's conversation, along with the information I've given you.Beam it through on a mayday priority. Then tell the Groaci what you'vedone and sit tight. I think you'll be all right. It won't be easy toblast in here and anyway, they won't make things worse by killing you.A force can be here in a week.     I'll do nothing of the sort! The Groaci are very fond of me! You ...Johnny-come-lately! Roughneck! Setting out to destroy—     Blame it on me if it will make you feel any better, Retief said, butdon't be fool enough to trust them. He pulled on a cape, opened thedoor.     I'll be back in a couple of hours, he said. Miss Meuhl stared afterhim silently as he closed the door.  It was an hour before dawn when Retief keyed the combination to thesafe-lock and stepped into the darkened consular office. He lookedtired.     Miss Meuhl, dozing in a chair, awoke with a start. She looked atRetief, rose and snapped on a light, turned to stare.     What in the world—Where have you been? What's happened to yourclothing?     I got a little dirty. Don't worry about it. Retief went to his desk,opened a drawer and replaced the needler.     Where have you been? Miss Meuhl demanded. I stayed here—     I'm glad you did, Retief said. I hope you piled up a supply of foodand water from the dispenser, too. We'll be holed up here for a week,at least. He jotted figures on a pad. Warm up the official sender. Ihave a long transmission for Regional Headquarters.     Are you going to tell me where you've been?     I have a message to get off first, Miss Meuhl, Retief said sharply.I've been to the Foreign Ministry, he added. I'll tell you all aboutit later.     At this hour? There's no one there....     Exactly.     Miss Meuhl gasped. You mean you broke in? You burgled the ForeignOffice?     That's right, Retief said calmly. Now—     This is absolutely the end! Miss Meuhl said. Thank heaven I'vealready—     Get that sender going, woman! Retief snapped. This is important.     I've already done so, Mr. Retief! Miss Meuhl said harshly. I've beenwaiting for you to come back here.... She turned to the communicator,flipped levers. The screen snapped aglow, and a wavering long-distanceimage appeared.     He's here now, Miss Meuhl said to the screen. She looked at Retieftriumphantly.     That's good, Retief said. I don't think the Groaci can knock us offthe air, but—     I have done my duty, Mr. Retief, Miss Meuhl said. I made a fullreport to Regional Headquarters last night, as soon as you left thisoffice. Any doubts I may have had as to the rightness of that decisionhave been completely dispelled by what you've just told me.     Retief looked at her levelly. You've been a busy girl, Miss Meuhl. Didyou mention the six Terrestrials who were killed here?     That had no bearing on the matter of your wild behavior! I must say,in all my years in the Corps, I've never encountered a personality lesssuited to diplomatic work.  The screen crackled, the ten-second transmission lag having elapsed.Mr. Retief, the face on the screen said, I am Counsellor Pardy,DSO-1, Deputy Under-secretary for the region. I have received areport on your conduct which makes it mandatory for me to relieve youadministratively, vice Miss Yolanda Meuhl, DAO-9. Pending the findingsof a Board of Inquiry, you will—     Retief reached out and snapped off the communicator. The triumphantlook faded from Miss Meuhl's face.     Why, what is the meaning—     If I'd listened any longer, I might have heard something I couldn'tignore. I can't afford that, at this moment. Listen, Miss Meuhl,Retief went on earnestly, I've found the missing cruiser.     You heard him relieve you!     I heard him say he was      going     to, Miss Meuhl. But until I've heardand acknowledged a verbal order, it has no force. If I'm wrong, he'llget my resignation. If I'm right, that suspension would be embarrassingall around.     You're defying lawful authority! I'm in charge here now. Miss Meuhlstepped to the local communicator.     I'm going to report this terrible thing to the Groaci at once, andoffer my profound—     Don't touch that screen, Retief said. You go sit in that cornerwhere I can keep an eye on you. I'm going to make a sealed tape fortransmission to Headquarters, along with a call for an armed taskforce. Then we'll settle down to wait.     Retief ignored Miss Meuhl's fury as he spoke into the recorder.     The local communicator chimed. Miss Meuhl jumped up, staring at it.     Go ahead, Retief said. Answer it.     A Groacian official appeared on the screen.     Yolanda Meuhl, he said without preamble, for the Foreign Minister ofthe Groacian Autonomy, I herewith accredit you as Terrestrial Consulto Groac, in accordance with the advices transmitted to my governmentdirect from the Terrestrial Headquarters. As consul, you are requestedto make available for questioning Mr. J. Retief, former consul, inconnection with the assault on two peace keepers and illegal entry intothe offices of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs.     Why, why, Miss Meuhl stammered. Yes, of course. And I do want toexpress my deepest regrets—  Retief rose, went to the communicator, assisted Miss Meuhl aside.     Listen carefully, Fith, he said. Your bluff has been called. Youdon't come in and we don't come out. Your camouflage worked for nineyears, but it's all over now. I suggest you keep your heads and resistthe temptation to make matters worse than they are.     Miss Meuhl, Fith said, a peace squad waits outside your consulate.It is clear you are in the hands of a dangerous lunatic. As always, theGroaci wish only friendship with the Terrestrials, but—     Don't bother, Retief said. You know what was in those files I lookedover this morning.     Retief turned at a sound behind him. Miss Meuhl was at the door,reaching for the safe-lock release....     Don't! Retief jumped—too late.     The door burst inward. A crowd of crested Groaci pressed into the room,pushed Miss Meuhl back, aimed scatter guns at Retief. Police ChiefShluh pushed forward.     Attempt no violence, Terrestrial, he said. I cannot promise torestrain my men.     You're violating Terrestrial territory, Shluh, Retief said steadily.I suggest you move back out the same way you came in.     I invited them here, Miss Meuhl spoke up. They are here at myexpress wish.     Are they? Are you sure you meant to go this far, Miss Meuhl? A squadof armed Groaci in the consulate?     You are the consul, Miss Yolanda Meuhl, Shluh said. Would it not bebest if we removed this deranged person to a place of safety?     You're making a serious mistake, Shluh, Retief said.     Yes, Miss Meuhl said. You're quite right, Mr. Shluh. Please escortMr. Retief to his quarters in this building—     I don't advise you to violate my diplomatic immunity, Fith, Retiefsaid.     As chief of mission, Miss Meuhl said quickly, I hereby waiveimmunity in the case of Mr. Retief.     Shluh produced a hand recorder. Kindly repeat your statement, Madam,officially, he said. I wish no question to arise later.     Don't be a fool, woman, Retief said. Don't you see what you'reletting yourself in for? This would be a hell of a good time for you tofigure out whose side you're on.     I'm on the side of common decency!     You've been taken in. These people are concealing—     You think all women are fools, don't you, Mr. Retief? She turned tothe police chief and spoke into the microphone he held up.     That's an illegal waiver, Retief said. I'm consul here, whateverrumors you've heard. This thing's coming out into the open, whateveryou do. Don't add violation of the Consulate to the list of Groacianatrocities.     Take the man, Shluh said.  ","The ISV Terrific, full name ISV Terrific B7 New Terra, was a Terrestrial cruiser gone missing nine years prior to the events of the story. The vessel landed on Groac and its crew was captured and paraded through the streets by the Groaci. The crew died of mysterious causes and the vessel was hidden in a cavern and undetectable by investigators thanks to large veins of high-grade iron ore under the planet's surface. After a Terrestrial investigation failed to uncover the cruiser, a Groacian coup d'etat replaced the government in the time before the establishment of the Terrestrial Consulate General. Fith and Shluh deny any wrongdoing related to the deaths of the crewmembers when Retief confronts them about the situation, insisting that the crew died because the Groaci were ignorant about the Terran diet. They do, however, admit that they hid the cruiser. When they lead Retief to the ship, he observes its state of disrepair: A thick layer of dust covers the deck, stanchions, acceleration couches, instrument panels, sheared bolts, and scraps of wire and paper strewn about the control compartment. Then, Retief accuses them of attempting to continue their deception by showing him a lifeboat instead of the actual cruiser. This enrages Fith. The disappearance of the ISV Terrific, the coup d'etat that followed, and the subsequent incompetent Terrestrial investigation had led Retief to conduct the investigation in the first place and ultimately reveal that the Groacians are trying to hide something more sinister."
"Who is Miss Meuhl and what is her role in the story? </s>     THE MADMAN FROM EARTH     BY KEITH LAUMER     You don't have to be crazy to be an earth     diplomat—but on Groac it sure helps!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      I     The Consul for the Terrestrial States, Retief said, presents hiscompliments, et cetera, to the Ministry of Culture of the GroacianAutonomy, and with reference to the Ministry's invitation to attend arecital of interpretive grimacing, has the honor to express regret thathe will be unable—     You can't turn this invitation down, Administrative Assistant Meuhlsaid flatly. I'll make that 'accepts with pleasure'.     Retief exhaled a plume of cigar smoke.     Miss Meuhl, he said, in the past couple of weeks I've sat throughsix light-concerts, four attempts at chamber music, and god knows howmany assorted folk-art festivals. I've been tied up every off-dutyhour since I got here—     You can't offend the Groaci, Miss Meuhl said sharply. Consul Whafflewould never have been so rude.     Whaffle left here three months ago, Retief said, leaving me incharge.     Well, Miss Meuhl said, snapping off the dictyper. I'm sure I don'tknow what excuse I can give the Minister.     Never mind the excuses, Retief said. Just tell him I won't bethere. He stood up.     Are you leaving the office? Miss Meuhl adjusted her glasses. I havesome important letters here for your signature.     I don't recall dictating any letters today, Miss Meuhl, Retief said,pulling on a light cape.  I wrote them for you. They're just as Consul Whaffle would have wantedthem.     Did you write all Whaffle's letters for him, Miss Meuhl?     Consul Whaffle was an extremely busy man, Miss Meuhl said stiffly.He had complete confidence in me.     Since I'm cutting out the culture from now on, Retief said, I won'tbe so busy.     Well! Miss Meuhl said. May I ask where you'll be if something comesup?     I'm going over to the Foreign Office Archives.     Miss Meuhl blinked behind thick lenses. Whatever for?     Retief looked thoughtfully at Miss Meuhl. You've been here on Groacfor four years, Miss Meuhl. What was behind the coup d'etat that putthe present government in power?     I'm sure I haven't pried into—     What about that Terrestrial cruiser? The one that disappeared out thisway about ten years back?     Mr. Retief, those are just the sort of questions we      avoid     with theGroaci. I certainly hope you're not thinking of openly intruding—     Why?     The Groaci are a very sensitive race. They don't welcome outworldersraking up things. They've been gracious enough to let us live downthe fact that Terrestrials subjected them to deep humiliation on oneoccasion.     You mean when they came looking for the cruiser?     I, for one, am ashamed of the high-handed tactics that were employed,grilling these innocent people as though they were criminals. We trynever to reopen that wound, Mr. Retief.     They never found the cruiser, did they?     Certainly not on Groac.     Retief nodded. Thanks, Miss Meuhl, he said. I'll be back beforeyou close the office. Miss Meuhl's face was set in lines of grimdisapproval as he closed the door.  The pale-featured Groacian vibrated his throat-bladder in a distressedbleat.     Not to enter the Archives, he said in his faint voice. The denial ofpermission. The deep regret of the Archivist.     The importance of my task here, Retief said, enunciating the glottaldialect with difficulty. My interest in local history.     The impossibility of access to outworlders. To depart quietly.     The necessity that I enter.     The specific instructions of the Archivist. The Groacian's voice roseto a whisper. To insist no longer. To give up this idea!     OK, Skinny, I know when I'm licked, Retief said in Terran. To keepyour nose clean.     Outside, Retief stood for a moment looking across at the deeply carvedwindowless stucco facades lining the street, then started off in thedirection of the Terrestrial Consulate General. The few Groacians onthe street eyed him furtively, veered to avoid him as he passed. Flimsyhigh-wheeled ground cars puffed silently along the resilient pavement.The air was clean and cool.     At the office, Miss Meuhl would be waiting with another list ofcomplaints.     Retief studied the carving over the open doorways along the street.An elaborate one picked out in pinkish paint seemed to indicate theGroacian equivalent of a bar. Retief went in.     A Groacian bartender was dispensing clay pots of alcoholic drink fromthe bar-pit at the center of the room. He looked at Retief and froze inmid-motion, a metal tube poised over a waiting pot.     To enjoy a cooling drink, Retief said in Groacian, squatting down atthe edge of the pit. To sample a true Groacian beverage.     To not enjoy my poor offerings, the Groacian mumbled. A pain in thedigestive sacs; to express regret.     To not worry, Retief said, irritated. To pour it out and let medecide whether I like it.     To be grappled in by peace-keepers for poisoning of—foreigners. Thebarkeep looked around for support, found none. The Groaci customers,eyes elsewhere, were drifting away.     To get the lead out, Retief said, placing a thick gold-piece in thedish provided. To shake a tentacle.     The procuring of a cage, a thin voice called from the sidelines. Thedisplaying of a freak.  Retief turned. A tall Groacian vibrated his mandibles in a gestureof contempt. From his bluish throat coloration, it was apparent thecreature was drunk.     To choke in your upper sac, the bartender hissed, extending his eyestoward the drunk. To keep silent, litter-mate of drones.     To swallow your own poison, dispenser of vileness, the drunkwhispered. To find a proper cage for this zoo-piece. He waveredtoward Retief. To show this one in the streets, like all freaks.     Seen a lot of freaks like me, have you? Retief asked, interestedly.     To speak intelligibly, malodorous outworlder, the drunk said. Thebarkeep whispered something, and two customers came up to the drunk,took his arms and helped him to the door.     To get a cage! the drunk shrilled. To keep the animals in their ownstinking place.     I've changed my mind, Retief said to the bartender. To be gratefulas hell, but to have to hurry off now. He followed the drunk out thedoor. The other Groaci released him, hurried back inside. Retief lookedat the weaving alien.     To begone, freak, the Groacian whispered.     To be pals, Retief said. To be kind to dumb animals.     To have you hauled away to a stockyard, ill-odored foreign livestock.     To not be angry, fragrant native, Retief said. To permit me to chumwith you.     To flee before I take a cane to you!     To have a drink together—     To not endure such insolence! The Groacian advanced toward Retief.Retief backed away.     To hold hands, Retief said. To be palsy-walsy—     The Groacian reached for him, missed. A passer-by stepped around him,head down, scuttled away. Retief backed into the opening to a narrowcrossway and offered further verbal familiarities to the drunken local,who followed, furious. Retief backed, rounded a corner into a narrowalley-like passage, deserted, silent ... except for the followingGroacian.     Retief stepped around him, seized his collar and yanked. The Groacianfell on his back. Retief stood over him. The downed native half-rose;Retief put a foot against his chest and pushed.     To not be going anywhere for a few minutes, Retief said. To stayright here and have a nice long talk.      II     There you are! Miss Meuhl said, eyeing Retief over her lenses. Thereare two gentlemen waiting to see you. Groacian gentlemen.     Government men, I imagine. Word travels fast. Retief pulled off hiscape. This saves me the trouble of paying another call at the ForeignMinistry.     What have you been doing? They seem very upset, I don't mind tellingyou.     I'm sure you don't. Come along. And bring an official recorder.     Two Groaci wearing heavy eye-shields and elaborate crest ornamentsindicative of rank rose as Retief entered the room. Neither offered acourteous snap of the mandibles, Retief noted. They were mad, all right.     I am Fith, of the Terrestrial Desk, Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Mr.Consul, the taller Groacian said, in lisping Terran. May I presentShluh, of the Internal Police?     Sit down, gentlemen, Retief said. They resumed their seats. MissMeuhl hovered nervously, then sat on the edge of a comfortless chair.     Oh, it's such a pleasure— she began.     Never mind that, Retief said. These gentlemen didn't come here tosip tea today.     So true, Fith said. Frankly, I have had a most disturbing report,Mr. Consul. I shall ask Shluh to recount it. He nodded to the policechief.     One hour ago, The Groacian said, a Groacian national was broughtto hospital suffering from serious contusions. Questioning of thisindividual revealed that he had been set upon and beaten by aforeigner. A Terrestrial, to be precise. Investigation by my departmentindicates that the description of the culprit closely matches that ofthe Terrestrial Consul.     Miss Meuhl gasped audibly.     Have you ever heard, Retief said, looking steadily at Fith, of aTerrestrial cruiser, the      ISV Terrific     , which dropped from sight inthis sector nine years ago?     Really! Miss Meuhl exclaimed, rising. I wash my hands—     Just keep that recorder going, Retief snapped.     I'll not be a party—     You'll do as you're told, Miss Meuhl, Retief said quietly. I'mtelling you to make an official sealed record of this conversation.     Miss Meuhl sat down.     Fith puffed out his throat indignantly. You reopen an old wound,Mr. Consul. It reminds us of certain illegal treatment at Terrestrialhands—     Hogwash, Retief said. That tune went over with my predecessors, butit hits a sour note with me.     All our efforts, Miss Meuhl said, to live down that terribleepisode! And you—     Terrible? I understand that a Terrestrial task force stood off Groacand sent a delegation down to ask questions. They got some funnyanswers, and stayed on to dig around a little. After a week they left.Somewhat annoying to the Groaci, maybe—at the most. If they wereinnocent.     IF! Miss Meuhl burst out.     If, indeed! Fith said, his weak voice trembling. I must protestyour—  Save the protests, Fith. You have some explaining to do. And I don'tthink your story will be good enough.     It is for you to explain! This person who was beaten—     Not beaten. Just rapped a few times to loosen his memory.     Then you admit—     It worked, too. He remembered lots of things, once he put his mind toit.     Fith rose; Shluh followed suit.     I shall ask for your immediate recall, Mr. Consul. Were it not foryour diplomatic immunity, I should do more—     Why did the government fall, Fith? It was just after the task forcepaid its visit, and before the arrival of the first Terrestrialdiplomatic mission.     This is an internal matter! Fith cried, in his faint Groacian voice.The new regime has shown itself most amiable to you Terrestrials. Ithas outdone itself—     —to keep the Terrestrial consul and his staff in the dark, Retiefsaid. And the same goes for the few terrestrial businessmen you'vevisaed. This continual round of culture; no social contacts outside thediplomatic circle; no travel permits to visit out-lying districts, oryour satellite—     Enough! Fith's mandibles quivered in distress. I can talk no more ofthis matter—     You'll talk to me, or there'll be a task force here in five days to dothe talking, Retief said.     You can't! Miss Meuhl gasped.     Retief turned a steady look on Miss Meuhl. She closed her mouth. TheGroaci sat down.     Answer me this one, Retief said, looking at Shluh. A few yearsback—about nine, I think—there was a little parade held here. Somecurious looking creatures were captured. After being securely caged,they were exhibited to the gentle Groaci public. Hauled through thestreets. Very educational, no doubt. A highly cultural show.     Funny thing about these animals. They wore clothes. They seemed tocommunicate with each other. Altogether it was a very amusing exhibit.     Tell me, Shluh, what happened to those six Terrestrials after theparade was over?  Fith made a choked noise and spoke rapidly to Shluh in Groacian. Shluhretracted his eyes, shrank down in his chair. Miss Meuhl opened hermouth, closed it and blinked rapidly.     How did they die? Retief snapped. Did you murder them, cut theirthroats, shoot them or bury them alive? What amusing end did you figureout for them? Research, maybe? Cut them open to see what made themyell....     No! Fith gasped. I must correct this terrible false impression atonce.     False impression, hell, Retief said. They were Terrans! A simplenarco-interrogation would get that out of any Groacian who saw theparade.     Yes, Fith said weakly. It is true, they were Terrestrials. But therewas no killing.     They're alive?     Alas, no. They ... died.     Miss Meuhl yelped faintly.     I see, Retief said. They died.     We tried to keep them alive, of course. But we did not know whatfoods—     Didn't take the trouble to find out, either, did you?     They fell ill, Fith said. One by one....     We'll deal with that question later, Retief said. Right now, I wantmore information. Where did you get them? Where did you hide the ship?What happened to the rest of the crew? Did they 'fall ill' before thebig parade?     There were no more! Absolutely, I assure you!     Killed in the crash landing?     No crash landing. The ship descended intact, east of the city. The ...Terrestrials ... were unharmed. Naturally, we feared them. They werestrange to us. We had never before seen such beings.     Stepped off the ship with guns blazing, did they?     Guns? No, no guns—     They raised their hands, didn't they? Asked for help. You helped them;helped them to death.     How could we know? Fith moaned.     How could you know a flotilla would show up in a few months lookingfor them, you mean? That was a shock, wasn't it? I'll bet you had abrisk time of it hiding the ship, and shutting everybody up. A closecall, eh?     We were afraid, Shluh said. We are a simple people. We feared thestrange creatures from the alien craft. We did not kill them, but wefelt it was as well they ... did not survive. Then, when the warshipscame, we realized our error. But we feared to speak. We purged ourguilty leaders, concealed what had happened, and ... offered ourfriendship. We invited the opening of diplomatic relations. We madea blunder, it is true, a great blunder. But we have tried to makeamends....     Where is the ship?     The ship?     What did you do with it? It was too big to just walk off and forget.Where is it?     The two Groacians exchanged looks.     We wish to show our contrition, Fith said. We will show you theship.     Miss Meuhl, Retief said. If I don't come back in a reasonable lengthof time, transmit that recording to Regional Headquarters, sealed. Hestood, looked at the Groaci.     Let's go, he said.  Retief stooped under the heavy timbers shoring the entry to the cavern.He peered into the gloom at the curving flank of the space-burned hull.     Any lights in here? he asked.     A Groacian threw a switch. A weak bluish glow sprang up.     Retief walked along the raised wooden catwalk, studying the ship. Emptyemplacements gaped below lensless scanner eyes. Littered decking wasvisible within the half-open entry port. Near the bow the words 'IVSTerrific B7 New Terra' were lettered in bright chrome duralloy.     How did you get it in here? Retief asked.     It was hauled here from the landing point, some nine miles distant,Fith said, his voice thinner than ever. This is a natural crevasse.The vessel was lowered into it and roofed over.     How did you shield it so the detectors didn't pick it up?     All here is high-grade iron ore, Fith said, waving a member. Greatveins of almost pure metal.     Retief grunted. Let's go inside.     Shluh came forward with a hand-lamp. The party entered the ship.     Retief clambered up a narrow companionway, glanced around the interiorof the control compartment. Dust was thick on the deck, the stanchionswhere acceleration couches had been mounted, the empty instrumentpanels, the litter of sheared bolts, scraps of wire and paper. A thinfrosting of rust dulled the exposed metal where cutting torches hadsliced away heavy shielding. There was a faint odor of stale bedding.     The cargo compartment— Shluh began.     I've seen enough, Retief said.     Silently, the Groacians led the way back out through the tunnel andinto the late afternoon sunshine. As they climbed the slope to thesteam car, Fith came to Retief's side.     Indeed, I hope that this will be the end of this unfortunate affair,he said. Now that all has been fully and honestly shown—     You can skip all that, Retief said. You're nine years late. Thecrew was still alive when the task force called, I imagine. You killedthem—or let them die—rather than take the chance of admitting whatyou'd done.     We were at fault, Fith said abjectly. Now we wish only friendship.     The      Terrific     was a heavy cruiser, about twenty thousand tons.Retief looked grimly at the slender Foreign Office official. Where isshe, Fith? I won't settle for a hundred-ton lifeboat.  Fith erected his eye stalks so violently that one eye-shield fell off.     I know nothing of ... of.... He stopped. His throat vibrated rapidlyas he struggled for calm.     My government can entertain no further accusations, Mr. Consul,he said at last. I have been completely candid with you, I haveoverlooked your probing into matters not properly within your sphere ofresponsibility. My patience is at an end.     Where is that ship? Retief rapped out. You never learn, do you?You're still convinced you can hide the whole thing and forget it. I'mtelling you you can't.     We return to the city now, Fith said. I can do no more.     You can and you will, Fith, Retief said. I intend to get to thetruth of this matter.     Fith spoke to Shluh in rapid Groacian. The police chief gestured to hisfour armed constables. They moved to ring Retief in.     Retief eyed Fith. Don't try it, he said. You'll just get yourself indeeper.     Fith clacked his mandibles angrily, eye stalks canted aggressivelytoward the Terrestrial.     Out of deference to your diplomatic status, Terrestrial, I shallignore your insulting remarks, Fith said in his reedy voice. Let usnow return to the city.     Retief looked at the four policemen. I see your point, he said.     Fith followed him into the car, sat rigidly at the far end of the seat.     I advise you to remain very close to your consulate, Fith said. Iadvise you to dismiss these fancies from your mind, and to enjoy thecultural aspects of life at Groac. Especially, I should not venture outof the city, or appear overly curious about matters of concern only tothe Groacian government.     In the front seat, Shluh looked straight ahead. The loosely-sprungvehicle bobbed and swayed along the narrow highway. Retief listened tothe rhythmic puffing of the motor and said nothing.      III     Miss Meuhl, Retief said, I want you to listen carefully to what I'mgoing to tell you. I have to move rapidly now, to catch the Groaci offguard.     I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Meuhl snapped,her eyes sharp behind the heavy lenses.     If you'll listen, you may find out, Retief said. I have no timeto waste, Miss Meuhl. They won't be expecting an immediate move—Ihope—and that may give me the latitude I need.     You're still determined to make an issue of that incident! MissMeuhl snorted. I really can hardly blame the Groaci. They are not asophisticated race; they had never before met aliens.     You're ready to forgive a great deal, Miss Meuhl. But it's not whathappened nine years ago I'm concerned with. It's what's happening now.I've told you that it was only a lifeboat the Groaci have hidden out.Don't you understand the implication? That vessel couldn't have comefar. The cruiser itself must be somewhere near by. I want to knowwhere!     The Groaci don't know. They're a very cultured, gentle people. You cando irreparable harm to the reputation of Terrestrials if you insist—     That's my decision, Retief said. I have a job to do and we'rewasting time. He crossed the room to his desk, opened a drawer andtook out a slim-barreled needler.     This office is being watched. Not very efficiently, if I know theGroaci. I think I can get past them all right.     Where are you going with ... that? Miss Meuhl stared at the needler.What in the world—     The Groaci won't waste any time destroying every piece of paper intheir files relating to this thing. I have to get what I need beforeit's too late. If I wait for an official Inquiry Commission, they'llfind nothing but blank smiles.     You're out of your mind! Miss Meuhl stood up, quivering withindignation. You're like a ... a....     You and I are in a tight spot, Miss Meuhl. The logical next move forthe Groaci is to dispose of both of us. We're the only ones who knowwhat happened. Fith almost did the job this afternoon, but I bluffedhim out—for the moment.     Miss Meuhl emitted a shrill laugh. Your fantasies are getting thebetter of you, she gasped. In danger, indeed! Disposing of me! I'venever heard anything so ridiculous.     Stay in this office. Close and safe-lock the door. You've got food andwater in the dispenser. I suggest you stock up, before they shut thesupply down. Don't let anyone in, on any pretext whatever. I'll keep intouch with you via hand-phone.     What are you planning to do?     If I don't make it back here, transmit the sealed record of thisafternoon's conversation, along with the information I've given you.Beam it through on a mayday priority. Then tell the Groaci what you'vedone and sit tight. I think you'll be all right. It won't be easy toblast in here and anyway, they won't make things worse by killing you.A force can be here in a week.     I'll do nothing of the sort! The Groaci are very fond of me! You ...Johnny-come-lately! Roughneck! Setting out to destroy—     Blame it on me if it will make you feel any better, Retief said, butdon't be fool enough to trust them. He pulled on a cape, opened thedoor.     I'll be back in a couple of hours, he said. Miss Meuhl stared afterhim silently as he closed the door.  It was an hour before dawn when Retief keyed the combination to thesafe-lock and stepped into the darkened consular office. He lookedtired.     Miss Meuhl, dozing in a chair, awoke with a start. She looked atRetief, rose and snapped on a light, turned to stare.     What in the world—Where have you been? What's happened to yourclothing?     I got a little dirty. Don't worry about it. Retief went to his desk,opened a drawer and replaced the needler.     Where have you been? Miss Meuhl demanded. I stayed here—     I'm glad you did, Retief said. I hope you piled up a supply of foodand water from the dispenser, too. We'll be holed up here for a week,at least. He jotted figures on a pad. Warm up the official sender. Ihave a long transmission for Regional Headquarters.     Are you going to tell me where you've been?     I have a message to get off first, Miss Meuhl, Retief said sharply.I've been to the Foreign Ministry, he added. I'll tell you all aboutit later.     At this hour? There's no one there....     Exactly.     Miss Meuhl gasped. You mean you broke in? You burgled the ForeignOffice?     That's right, Retief said calmly. Now—     This is absolutely the end! Miss Meuhl said. Thank heaven I'vealready—     Get that sender going, woman! Retief snapped. This is important.     I've already done so, Mr. Retief! Miss Meuhl said harshly. I've beenwaiting for you to come back here.... She turned to the communicator,flipped levers. The screen snapped aglow, and a wavering long-distanceimage appeared.     He's here now, Miss Meuhl said to the screen. She looked at Retieftriumphantly.     That's good, Retief said. I don't think the Groaci can knock us offthe air, but—     I have done my duty, Mr. Retief, Miss Meuhl said. I made a fullreport to Regional Headquarters last night, as soon as you left thisoffice. Any doubts I may have had as to the rightness of that decisionhave been completely dispelled by what you've just told me.     Retief looked at her levelly. You've been a busy girl, Miss Meuhl. Didyou mention the six Terrestrials who were killed here?     That had no bearing on the matter of your wild behavior! I must say,in all my years in the Corps, I've never encountered a personality lesssuited to diplomatic work.  The screen crackled, the ten-second transmission lag having elapsed.Mr. Retief, the face on the screen said, I am Counsellor Pardy,DSO-1, Deputy Under-secretary for the region. I have received areport on your conduct which makes it mandatory for me to relieve youadministratively, vice Miss Yolanda Meuhl, DAO-9. Pending the findingsof a Board of Inquiry, you will—     Retief reached out and snapped off the communicator. The triumphantlook faded from Miss Meuhl's face.     Why, what is the meaning—     If I'd listened any longer, I might have heard something I couldn'tignore. I can't afford that, at this moment. Listen, Miss Meuhl,Retief went on earnestly, I've found the missing cruiser.     You heard him relieve you!     I heard him say he was      going     to, Miss Meuhl. But until I've heardand acknowledged a verbal order, it has no force. If I'm wrong, he'llget my resignation. If I'm right, that suspension would be embarrassingall around.     You're defying lawful authority! I'm in charge here now. Miss Meuhlstepped to the local communicator.     I'm going to report this terrible thing to the Groaci at once, andoffer my profound—     Don't touch that screen, Retief said. You go sit in that cornerwhere I can keep an eye on you. I'm going to make a sealed tape fortransmission to Headquarters, along with a call for an armed taskforce. Then we'll settle down to wait.     Retief ignored Miss Meuhl's fury as he spoke into the recorder.     The local communicator chimed. Miss Meuhl jumped up, staring at it.     Go ahead, Retief said. Answer it.     A Groacian official appeared on the screen.     Yolanda Meuhl, he said without preamble, for the Foreign Minister ofthe Groacian Autonomy, I herewith accredit you as Terrestrial Consulto Groac, in accordance with the advices transmitted to my governmentdirect from the Terrestrial Headquarters. As consul, you are requestedto make available for questioning Mr. J. Retief, former consul, inconnection with the assault on two peace keepers and illegal entry intothe offices of the Ministry for Foreign Affairs.     Why, why, Miss Meuhl stammered. Yes, of course. And I do want toexpress my deepest regrets—  Retief rose, went to the communicator, assisted Miss Meuhl aside.     Listen carefully, Fith, he said. Your bluff has been called. Youdon't come in and we don't come out. Your camouflage worked for nineyears, but it's all over now. I suggest you keep your heads and resistthe temptation to make matters worse than they are.     Miss Meuhl, Fith said, a peace squad waits outside your consulate.It is clear you are in the hands of a dangerous lunatic. As always, theGroaci wish only friendship with the Terrestrials, but—     Don't bother, Retief said. You know what was in those files I lookedover this morning.     Retief turned at a sound behind him. Miss Meuhl was at the door,reaching for the safe-lock release....     Don't! Retief jumped—too late.     The door burst inward. A crowd of crested Groaci pressed into the room,pushed Miss Meuhl back, aimed scatter guns at Retief. Police ChiefShluh pushed forward.     Attempt no violence, Terrestrial, he said. I cannot promise torestrain my men.     You're violating Terrestrial territory, Shluh, Retief said steadily.I suggest you move back out the same way you came in.     I invited them here, Miss Meuhl spoke up. They are here at myexpress wish.     Are they? Are you sure you meant to go this far, Miss Meuhl? A squadof armed Groaci in the consulate?     You are the consul, Miss Yolanda Meuhl, Shluh said. Would it not bebest if we removed this deranged person to a place of safety?     You're making a serious mistake, Shluh, Retief said.     Yes, Miss Meuhl said. You're quite right, Mr. Shluh. Please escortMr. Retief to his quarters in this building—     I don't advise you to violate my diplomatic immunity, Fith, Retiefsaid.     As chief of mission, Miss Meuhl said quickly, I hereby waiveimmunity in the case of Mr. Retief.     Shluh produced a hand recorder. Kindly repeat your statement, Madam,officially, he said. I wish no question to arise later.     Don't be a fool, woman, Retief said. Don't you see what you'reletting yourself in for? This would be a hell of a good time for you tofigure out whose side you're on.     I'm on the side of common decency!     You've been taken in. These people are concealing—     You think all women are fools, don't you, Mr. Retief? She turned tothe police chief and spoke into the microphone he held up.     That's an illegal waiver, Retief said. I'm consul here, whateverrumors you've heard. This thing's coming out into the open, whateveryou do. Don't add violation of the Consulate to the list of Groacianatrocities.     Take the man, Shluh said.  ","Miss Yolanda Meuhl is the Administrative Assistant of The Consul for the Terrestrial States Retief, the replacement for Consul Whaffle who left the post three months prior. Miss Meuhl wears glasses, uses a dictyper, and takes her position at the Consulate extremely seriously. She faithfully executes her duties as an administrative assistant without question, which leads her to develop a blind trust in authority as well as the Groaci race, according to Retief.  Miss Meuhl considers the Groaci to be a sensitive race and defends them against Retief's constant accusations of misconduct. She threatens to report Retief to the Regional Headquarters when he continues to act against the guidelines set forth by the Corps. Her commitment to diplomatic relations ensures that she takes the side of the Groaci in nearly every matter; she even excuses when Fith and Shluh admit to hiding the Terrestrial cruiser. When Retief orders Miss Meuhl to lock herself inside the office while he goes to break into the Foreign Ministry, Miss Meuhl calls the Regional Headquarters and makes a full report of his actions. When he returns, Counsellor Pardy calls and relieves Retief of his post. Then, a Groacian official calls and appoints Miss Meuhl to the post vacated by Retief, which she accepts. She then allows the Groacian officials to enter the office in order to arrest Retief."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION     BY FREDERICK POHL     Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion     Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared.     As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prisoncell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no businessin it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jumpfrom Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCraywas ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there wereany, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightingswere made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuthangles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beaconstars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed thelocking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he haddone it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigeland Saiph ... it happened.     The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with acollection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapesand a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over somethingthat rocked under his feet and fell against something that clatteredhollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelleddangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, rightthrough his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touchedit.     McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out.     Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Notquite utter silence.     Somewhere, just at the threshold of his senses, there was somethinglike a voice. He could not quite hear it, but it was there. He sat asstill as he could, listening; it remained elusive.     Probably it was only an illusion.     But the room itself was hard fact. McCray swore violently and out loud.     It was crazy and impossible. There simply was no way for him to getfrom a warm, bright navigator's cubicle on      Starship Jodrell Bank     tothis damned, dark, dismal hole of a place where everything was out tohurt him and nothing explained what was going on. He cried aloud inexasperation: If I could only      see     !     He tripped and fell against something that was soft, slimy and, likebaker's dough, not at all resilient.     A flickering halo of pinkish light appeared. He sat up, startled. Hewas looking at something that resembled a suit of medieval armor.  It was, he saw in a moment, not armor but a spacesuit. But what was thelight? And what were these other things in the room?     Wherever he looked, the light danced along with his eyes. It was likehaving tunnel vision or wearing blinders. He could see what he waslooking at, but he could see nothing else. And the things he couldsee made no sense. A spacesuit, yes; he knew that he could constructa logical explanation for that with no trouble—maybe a subspacemeteorite striking the      Jodrell Bank     , an explosion, himself knockedout, brought here in a suit ... well, it was an explanation with moreholes than fabric, like a fisherman's net, but at least it was rational.     How to explain a set of Gibbon's      Decline and Fall of the RomanEmpire?     A space-ax? Or the old-fashioned child's rocking-chair, thechemistry set—or, most of all, the scrap of gaily printed fabricthat, when he picked it up, turned out to be a girl's scanty bathingsuit? It was slightly reassuring, McCray thought, to find that most ofthe objects were more or less familiar. Even the child's chair—why,he'd had one more or less like that himself, long before he was oldenough to go to school. But what were they doing here?     Not everything he saw was familiar. The walls of the room itself werestrange. They were not metal or plaster or knotty pine; they werenot papered, painted or overlaid with stucco. They seemed to be madeof some sort of hard organic compound, perhaps a sort of plastic orprocessed cellulose. It was hard to tell colors in the pinkish light.But they seemed to have none. They were neutral—the color of ageddriftwood or unbleached cloth.     Three of the walls were that way, and the floor and ceiling. The fourthwall was something else. Areas in it had the appearance of gratings;from them issued the pungent, distasteful halogen odor. They might beventilators, he thought; but if so the air they brought in was worsethan what he already had.     McCray was beginning to feel more confident. It was astonishing how alittle light made an impossible situation bearable, how quickly hiscourage flowed back when he could see again.     He stood still, thinking. Item, a short time ago—subjectively itseemed to be minutes—he had been aboard the      Jodrell Bank     withnothing more on his mind than completing his check-sighting and meetingone of the female passengers for coffee. Item, apart from beingshaken up and—he admitted it—scared damn near witless, he did notseem to be hurt. Item, wherever he was now, it became, not so much whathad happened to him, but what had happened to the ship?     He allowed that thought to seep into his mind. Suppose there had beenan accident to the      Jodrell Bank     .     He could, of course, be dead. All this could be the fantasies of acooling brain.     McCray grinned into the pink-lit darkness. The thought had somehowrefreshed him, like icewater between rounds, and with a clearing headhe remembered what a spacesuit was good for.     It held a radio.     He pressed the unsealing tabs, slipped his hand into the vacant chestof the suit and pulled out the hand mike. This is Herrell McCray, hesaid, calling the      Jodrell Bank     .     No response. He frowned. This is Herrell McCray, calling      JodrellBank     .     Herrell McCray, calling anybody, come in, please.     But there was no answer.     Thoughtfully he replaced the microphone. This was ultrawave radio,something more than a million times faster than light, with a rangemeasured, at least, in hundreds of light-years. If there was no answer,he was a good long way from anywhere.     Of course, the thing might not be operating.     He reached for the microphone again—     He cried aloud.     The pinkish lights went out. He was in the dark again, worse dark thanbefore.     For before the light had gone, McCray had seen what had escapedhis eyes before. The suit and the microphone were clear enough inthe pinkish glimmer; but the hand—his own hand, cupped to hold themicrophone—he had not seen at all. Nor his arm. Nor, in one fleetingmoment of study, his chest.     McCray could not see any part of his own body at all.      II     Someone else could.     Someone was watching Herrell McCray, with the clinical fascinationof a biochemist observing the wigglings of paramecia in a newantibiotic—and with the prayerful emotions of a starving, shipwrecked,sailor, watching the inward bobbing drift of a wave-born cask that      may     contain food.     Suppose you call him Hatcher (and suppose you call it a him.)Hatcher was not exactly male, because his race had no true males; butit did have females and he was certainly not that. Hatcher did not inany way look like a human being, but they had features in common.     If Hatcher and McCray had somehow managed to strike up an acquaintance,they might have got along very well. Hatcher, like McCray, was anadventurous soul, young, able, well-learned in the technical sciencesof his culture. Both enjoyed games—McCray baseball, poker andthree-dimensional chess; Hatcher a number of sports which defy humandescription. Both held positions of some importance—considering theirages—in the affairs of their respective worlds.     Physically they were nothing alike. Hatcher was a three-foot,hard-shelled sphere of jelly. He had arms and legs, but they werenot organically attached to himself. They were snakelike things whichobeyed the orders of his brain as well as your mind can make your toescurl; but they did not touch him directly. Indeed, they worked as wella yard or a quarter-mile away as they did when, rarely, they restedin the crevices they had been formed from in his skin. At greaterdistances they worked less well, for reasons irrelevant to the Law ofInverse Squares.     Hatcher's principal task at this moment was to run the probe teamwhich had McCray under observation, and he was more than a littleexcited. His members, disposed about the room where he had sent them onvarious errands, quivered and shook a little; yet they were the calmestlimbs in the room; the members of the other team workers were in astate of violent commotion.     The probe team had had a shock.     Paranormal powers, muttered Hatcher's second in command, and theothers mumbled agreement. Hatcher ordered silence, studying thespecimen from Earth.     After a long moment he turned his senses from the Earthman.Incredible—but it's true enough, he said. I'd better report. Watchhim, he added, but that was surely unnecessary. Their job was towatch McCray, and they would do their job; and even more, not one ofthem could have looked away to save his life from the spectacle ofa creature as odd and, from their point of view, hideously alien asHerrell McCray.  Hatcher hurried through the halls of the great buried structure inwhich he worked, toward the place where the supervising council of allprobes would be in permanent session. They admitted him at once.     Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report:     The subject recovered consciousness a short time ago and began toinspect his enclosure. His method of doing so was to put his ownmembers in physical contact with the various objects in the enclosure.After observing him do this for a time we concluded he might be unableto see and so we illuminated his field of vision for him.     This appeared to work well for a time. He seemed relativelyundisturbed. However, he then reverted to physical-contact,manipulating certain appurtenances of an artificial skin we hadprovided for him.     He then began to vibrate the atmosphere by means of resonating organsin his breathing passage.     Simultaneously, the object he was holding, attached to the artificialskin, was discovered to be generating paranormal forces.     The supervising council rocked with excitement. You're sure? demandedone of the councilmen.     Yes, sir. The staff is preparing a technical description of the forcesnow, but I can say that they are electromagnetic vibrations modulatinga carrier wave of very high speed, and in turn modulated by thevibrations of the atmosphere caused by the subject's own breathing.     Fantastic, breathed the councillor, in a tone of dawning hope. Howabout communicating with him, Hatcher? Any progress?     Well ... not much, sir. He suddenly panicked. We don't know why; butwe thought we'd better pull back and let him recover for a while.     The council conferred among itself for a moment, Hatcher waiting. Itwas not really a waste of time for him; with the organs he had left inthe probe-team room, he was in fairly close touch with what was goingon—knew that McCray was once again fumbling among the objects in thedark, knew that the team-members had tried illuminating the room forhim briefly and again produced the rising panic.     Still, Hatcher fretted. He wanted to get back.     Stop fidgeting, commanded the council leader abruptly. Hatcher, youare to establish communication at once.     But, sir.... Hatcher swung closer, his thick skin quivering slightly;he would have gestured if he had brought members with him to gesturewith. We've done everything we dare. We've made the place homeyfor him— actually, what he said was more like,      we've warmed thebiophysical nuances of his enclosure     —and tried to guess his needs;and we're frightening him half to death. We      can't     go faster. Thiscreature is in no way similar to us, you know. He relies on paranormalforces—heat, light, kinetic energy—for his life. His chemistry is notours, his processes of thought are not ours, his entire organism iscloser to the inanimate rocks of a sea-bottom than to ourselves.     Understood, Hatcher. In your first report you stated these creatureswere intelligent.     Yes, sir. But not in our way.     But in      a     way, and you must learn that way. I know. One lobster-clawshaped member drifted close to the councillor's body and raised itselfin an admonitory gesture. You want time. But we don't have time,Hatcher. Yours is not the only probe team working. The Central Massesteam has just turned in a most alarming report.     Have they secured a subject? Hatcher demanded jealously.     The councillor paused. Worse than that, Hatcher. I am afraid theirsubjects have secured one of them. One of them is missing.     There was a moment's silence. Frozen, Hatcher could only wait. Thecouncil room was like a tableau in a museum until the councillor spokeagain, each council member poised over his locus-point, his membersdrifting about him.     Finally the councillor said, I speak for all of us, I think. If theOld Ones have seized one of our probers our time margin is considerablynarrowed. Indeed, we may not have any time at all. You must doeverything you can to establish communication with your subject.     But the danger to the specimen— Hatcher protested automatically.     —is no greater, said the councillor, than the danger to every oneof us if we do not find allies      now     .  Hatcher returned to his laboratory gloomily.     It was just like the council to put the screws on; they had areputation for demanding results at any cost—even at the cost ofdestroying the only thing you had that would make results possible.     Hatcher did not like the idea of endangering the Earthman. It cannotbe said that he was emotionally involved; it was not pity or sympathythat caused him to regret the dangers in moving too fast towardcommunication. Not even Hatcher had quite got over the revoltingphysical differences between the Earthman and his own people. ButHatcher did not want him destroyed. It had been difficult enoughgetting him here.     Hatcher checked through the members that he had left with the rest ofhis team and discovered that there were no immediate emergencies, so hetook time to eat. In Hatcher's race this was accomplished in ways notentirely pleasant to Earthmen. A slit in the lower hemisphere of hisbody opened, like a purse, emitting a thin, pussy, fetid fluid whichHatcher caught and poured into a disposal trough at the side of theeating room. He then stuffed the slit with pulpy vegetation the textureof kelp; it closed, and his body was supplied with nourishment foranother day.     He returned quickly to the room.     His second in command was busy, but one of the other team workersreported—nothing new—and asked about Hatcher's appearance before thecouncil. Hatcher passed the question off. He considered telling hisstaff about the disappearance of the Central Masses team member, butdecided against it. He had not been told it was secret. On the otherhand, he had not been told it was not. Something of this importance wasnot lightly to be gossiped about. For endless generations the threatof the Old Ones had hung over his race, those queer, almost mythicalbeings from the Central Masses of the galaxy. One brush with them, inages past, had almost destroyed Hatcher's people. Only by running andhiding, bearing one of their planets with them and abandoning it—withits population—as a decoy, had they arrived at all.     Now they had detected mapping parties of the Old Ones dangerously nearthe spiral arm of the galaxy in which their planet was located, theyhad begun the Probe Teams to find some way of combating them, or offleeing again.     But it seemed that the Probe Teams themselves might be betraying theirexistence to their enemies—     Hatcher!     The call was urgent; he hurried to see what it was about. It was hissecond in command, very excited. What is it? Hatcher demanded.     Wait....     Hatcher was patient; he knew his assistant well. Obviously somethingwas about to happen. He took the moment to call his members back tohim for feeding; they dodged back to their niches on his skin, fittedthemselves into their vestigial slots, poured back their wastes intohis own circulation and ingested what they needed from the meal he hadjust taken.... Now! cried the assistant. Look!     At what passed among Hatcher's people for a viewing console an imagewas forming. Actually it was the assistant himself who formed it, not acathode trace or projected shadow; but it showed what it was meant toshow.     Hatcher was startled. Another one! And—is it a different species? Ormerely a different sex?     Study the probe for yourself, the assistant invited.     Hatcher studied him frostily; his patience was not, after all, endless.No matter, he said at last. Bring the other one in.     And then, in a completely different mood, We may need him badly. Wemay be in the process of killing our first one now.     Killing him, Hatcher?     Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away likepuppies dislodged from suck. Council's orders, he said. We've got togo into Stage Two of the project at once.      III     Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun,he had an inspiration.     The dark was absolute, but he remembered where the spacesuit had beenand groped his way to it and, yes, it had what all spacesuits had tohave. It had a light. He found the toggle that turned it on and pressedit.     Light. White, flaring, Earthly light, that showed everything—evenhimself.     God bless, he said, almost beside himself with joy. Whatever thatpinkish, dancing halo had been, it had thrown him into a panic; nowthat he could see his own hand again, he could blame the weird effectson some strange property of the light.     At the moment he heard the click that was the beginning of Stage Two.     He switched off the light and stood for a moment, listening.     For a second he thought he heard the far-off voice, quiet, calm andalmost hopeless, that he had sensed hours before; but then that wasgone. Something else was gone. Some faint mechanical sound that hadhardly registered at the time, but was not missing. And there was,perhaps, a nice new sound that had not been there before; a veryfaint, an almost inaudible elfin hiss.     McCray switched the light on and looked around. There seemed to be nochange.     And yet, surely, it was warmer in here.     He could see no difference; but perhaps, he thought, he could smellone. The unpleasant halogen odor from the grating was surely strongernow. He stood there, perplexed.     A tinny little voice from the helmet of the space suit said sharply,amazement in its tone, McCray, is that you? Where the devil are youcalling from?     He forgot smell, sound and temperature and leaped for the suit. Thisis Herrell McCray, he cried. I'm in a room of some sort, apparentlyon a planet of approximate Earth mass. I don't know—     McCray! cried the tiny voice in his ear. Where are you? This is      Jodrell Bank     calling. Answer, please!     I      am     answering, damn it, he roared. What took you so long?     Herrell McCray, droned the tiny voice in his ear, Herrell McCray,Herrell McCray, this is      Jodrell Bank     responding to your message,acknowledge please. Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray....     It kept on, and on.     McCray took a deep breath and thought. Something was wrong. Either theydidn't hear him, which meant the radio wasn't transmitting, or—no.That was not it; they      had     heard him, because they were responding.But it seemed to take them so long....     Abruptly his face went white. Took them so long! He cast back in hismind, questing for a fact, unable to face its implications. When wasit he called them? Two hours ago? Three?     Did that mean—did it      possibly     mean—that there was a lag of an houror two each way? Did it, for example, mean that at the speed of hissuit's pararadio, millions of times faster than light, it took      hours     to get a message to the ship and back?     And if so ... where in the name of heaven was he?  Herrell McCray was a navigator, which is to say, a man who has learnedto trust the evidence of mathematics and instrument readings beyond theguesses of his common sense. When      Jodrell Bank     , hurtling fasterthan light in its voyage between stars, made its regular positioncheck, common sense was a liar. Light bore false witness. The line ofsight was trustworthy directly forward and directly after—sometimesnot even then—and it took computers, sensing their data throughinstruments, to comprehend a star bearing and convert three fixes intoa position.     If the evidence of his radio contradicted common sense, common sensewas wrong. Perhaps it was impossible to believe what the radio'smessage implied; but it was not necessary to believe, only to act.     McCray thumbed down the transmitter button and gave a concise reportof his situation and his guesses. I don't know how I got here. Idon't know how long I've been gone, since I was unconscious for atime. However, if the transmission lag is a reliable indication— heswallowed and went on—I'd estimate I am something more than fivehundred light-years away from you at this moment. That's all I have tosay, except for one more word: Help.     He grinned sourly and released the button. The message was on its way,and it would be hours before he could have a reply. Therefore he had toconsider what to do next.     He mopped his brow. With the droning, repetitious call from the shipfinally quiet, the room was quiet again. And warm.     Very warm, he thought tardily; and more than that. The halogen stenchwas strong in his nostrils again.     Hurriedly McCray scrambled into the suit. By the time he was sealeddown he was coughing from the bottom of his lungs, deep, tearing raspsthat pained him, uncontrollable. Chlorine or fluorine, one of them wasin the air he had been breathing. He could not guess where it had comefrom; but it was ripping his lungs out.     He flushed the interior of the suit out with a reckless disregard forthe wastage of his air reserve, holding his breath as much as he could,daring only shallow gasps that made him retch and gag. After a longtime he could breathe, though his eyes were spilling tears.     He could see the fumes in the room now. The heat was building up.     Automatically—now that he had put it on and so started itsservo-circuits operating—the suit was cooling him. This was adeep-space suit, regulation garb when going outside the pressure hullof an FTL ship. It was good up to at least five hundred degrees in thinair, perhaps three or four hundred in dense. In thin air or in space itwas the elastic joints and couplings that depolymerized when the heatgrew too great; in dense air, with conduction pouring energy in fasterthan the cooling coils could suck it out and hurl it away, it was therefrigerating equipment that broke down.     McCray had no way of knowing just how hot it was going to get. Nor,for that matter, had the suit been designed to operate in a corrosivemedium.     All in all it was time for him to do something.  Among the debris on the floor, he remembered, was a five-foot space-ax,tungsten-steel blade and springy aluminum shaft.     McCray caught it up and headed for the door. It felt good in hisgauntlets, a rewarding weight; any weapon straightens the back of theman who holds it, and McCray was grateful for this one. With somethingconcrete to do he could postpone questioning. Never mind why he hadbeen brought here; never mind how. Never mind what he would, or could,do next; all those questions could recede into the background of hismind while he swung the ax and battered his way out of this poisonedoven.         Crash-clang!     The double jolt ran up the shaft of the ax, through hisgauntlets and into his arm; but he was making progress, he could seethe plastic—or whatever it was—of the door. It was chipping out. Noteasily, very reluctantly; but flaking out in chips that left a whitepowdery residue.     At this rate, he thought grimly, he would be an hour getting throughit. Did he have an hour?     But it did not take an hour. One blow was luckier than the rest; itmust have snapped the lock mechanism. The door shook and slid ajar.McCray got the thin of the blade into the crack and pried it wide.     He was in another room, maybe a hall, large and bare.     McCray put the broad of his back against the broken door and pressed itas nearly closed as he could; it might not keep the gas and heat out,but it would retard them.     The room was again unlighted—at least to McCray's eyes. There was noteven that pink pseudo-light that had baffled him; here was nothingbut the beam of his suit lamp. What it showed was cryptic. There wereevidences of use: shelves, boxy contraptions that might have beencupboards, crude level surfaces attached to the walls that might havebeen workbenches. Yet they were queerly contrived, for it was notpossible to guess from them much about the creatures who used them.Some were near the floor, some at waist height, some even suspendedfrom the ceiling itself. A man would need a ladder to work at thesebenches and McCray, staring, thought briefly of many-armed blind giantsor shapeless huge intelligent amoebae, and felt the skin prickle at theback of his neck.     He tapped half-heartedly at one of the closed cupboards, and was notsurprised when it proved as refractory as the door. Undoubtedly hecould batter it open, but it was not likely that much would be left ofits contents when he was through; and there was the question of time.     But his attention was diverted by a gleam from one of the benches.Metallic parts lay heaped in a pile. He poked at them with astiff-fingered gauntlet; they were oddly familiar. They were, hethought, very much like the parts of a bullet-gun.     In fact, they were. He could recognize barrel, chamber, trigger, evena couple of cartridges, neatly opened and the grains of powder stackedbeside them. It was an older, clumsier model than the kind he had seenin survival locker, on the      Jodrell Bank     —and abruptly wished he werecarrying now—but it was a pistol. Another trophy, like the strangeassortment in the other room? He could not guess. But the others hadbeen more familiar; they all have come from his own ship. He wasprepared to swear that nothing like this antique had been aboard.     The drone began again in his ear, as it had at five-minute intervalsall along:     Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, this is      Jodrell Bank     calling Herrell McCray....     And louder, blaring, then fading to normal volume as the AVC circuitstoned the signal down, another voice. A woman's voice, crying out inpanic and fear:       Jodrell Bank!     Where are you? Help!      IV     Hatcher's second in command said: He has got through the firstsurvival test. In fact, he broke his way out! What next?     Wait! Hatcher ordered sharply. He was watching the new specimen anda troublesome thought had occurred to him. The new one was female andseemed to be in pain; but it was not the pain that disturbed Hatcher,it was something far more immediate to his interests.     I think, he said slowly, that they are in contact.     His assistant vibrated startlement.     I know, Hatcher said, but watch. Do you see? He is going straighttoward her.     Hatcher, who was not human, did not possess truly human emotions; buthe did feel amazement when he was amazed, and fear when there wascause to be afraid. These specimens, obtained with so much difficulty,needed so badly, were his responsibility. He knew the issues involvedmuch better than any of his helpers. They could only be surprised atthe queer antics of the aliens with attached limbs and strange powers.Hatcher knew that this was not a freak show, but a matter of life anddeath. He said, musing:     This new one, I cannot communicate with her, but I get—almost—awhisper, now and then. The first one, the male, nothing. But thisfemale is perhaps not quite mute.     Then shall we abandon him and work with her, forgetting the first one?     Hatcher hesitated. No, he said at last. The male is responding well.Remember that when last this experiment was done every subject died; heis alive at least. But I am wondering. We can't quite communicate withthe female—     But?     But I'm not sure that others can't.  The woman's voice was at such close range that McCray's suit radio madea useful RDF set. He located her direction easily enough, shielding thetiny built-in antenna with the tungsten-steel blade of the ax, whileshe begged him to hurry. Her voice was heavily accented, with somewords in a language he did not recognize. She seemed to be in shock.     McCray was hardly surprised at that; he had been close enough to shockhimself. He tried to reassure her as he searched for a way out of thehall, but in the middle of a word her voice stopped.     He hesitated, hefting the ax, glancing back at the way he had come.There had to be a way out, even if it meant chopping through a wall.     When he turned around again there was a door. It was oddly shaped andunlike the door he had hewn through, but clearly a door all the same,and it was open.     McCray regarded it grimly. He went back in his memory with meticulouscare. Had he not looked at, this very spot a matter of moments before?He had. And had there been an open door then? There had not. Therehadn't been even a shadowy outline of the three-sided, uneven openingthat stood there now.     Still, it led in the proper direction. McCray added one moreinexplicable fact to his file and walked through. He was in anotherhall—or tunnel—rising quite steeply to the right. By his reckoning itwas the proper direction. He labored up it, sweating under the weightof the suit, and found another open door, this one round, and behindit—     Yes, there was the woman whose voice he had heard.     It was a woman, all right. The voice had been so strained that hehadn't been positive. Even now, short black hair might not have provedit, and she was lying face down but the waist and hips were a woman's,even though she wore a bulky, quilted suit of coveralls.     He knelt beside her and gently turned her face.     She was unconscious. Broad, dark face, with no make-up; she wasapparently in her late thirties. She appeared to be Chinese.     She breathed, a little raggedly but without visible discomfort; herface was relaxed as though she were sleeping. She did not rouse as hemoved her.     He realized she was breathing the air of the room they were in.     His instant first thought was that she was in danger of asphyxiation;","Herrell McCray is a navigator on the Starship Jodrell Bank heading for the colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine when he is inexplicably abducted from his ship. He finds himself staring around a dark, silent room full of indeterminate objects. He believes he hears a faint voice in the distance, and suddenly a pinkish light illuminates his path of vision. He sees many familiar objects including a spacesuit, a child's rocking chair, a girl's bathing suit, and more; he wonders how he got there and why such objects are there with him. Three of the room's walls are made of a hard, organic compound, and from grates comprising the fourth wall pours a pungent air. As McCray's confidence returns, he wonders what happened to the Starship Jodrell Bank and begins to wonder if he is dead. When he remembers spacesuits come with radios, he tries contacting the ship to no avail and realizes he must be many lightyears away. Then, with sudden horror, he realizes that he cannot see his own body, and the room goes dark again. Outside the room, an alien named ""Hatcher"" runs a probe team tasked with observing McCray and running experiments on him in order to develop an understanding of the human species. Their ""probes"" are mandibles that can attach and detach from their round, jelly-like bodies and run errands and conduct scientific research. Hatcher makes his way to the supervising council of all probes to report the team's findings that McCray displayed ""paranormal powers"" when using his radio to establish contact with his ship. The council urges Hatcher to continue his studies with haste because a member of The Central Masses probe team has been captured by the Old Ones, an ancient species hostile to Hatcher's people. His team must put McCray through a series of tests in order to help them potentially discover a way to defend themselves against the Old Ones. As Hatcher considers the best way to establish communication with McCray without causing him harm, his assistant alerts him to the presence of a female human on the viewing console. Hatcher orders the assistant to bring her in as they may need another human in case McCray dies. Hours after his initial transmission was sent to the ship, McCray receives a response from the ship. He dispatches another transmission and begins to notice the room getting hotter as the air grows more toxic. Hatcher has started the survival portion of the test. McCray uses an ax to break his way out of the room and enters another dark room full of desks he assumes are some kind of workspaces for his captors. Suddenly, he hears a woman's voice crying out for the Jodrell Bank and makes his way toward her. Hatcher and his assistant discuss whether to abandon McCray and focus on the female since she appears to be more susceptible to communication, but they ultimately decide against it. McCray eventually finds the woman through a series of doors and hallways."
"What is the setting of the story? </s>     THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION     BY FREDERICK POHL     Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion     Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared.     As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prisoncell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no businessin it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jumpfrom Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCraywas ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there wereany, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightingswere made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuthangles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beaconstars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed thelocking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he haddone it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigeland Saiph ... it happened.     The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with acollection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapesand a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over somethingthat rocked under his feet and fell against something that clatteredhollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelleddangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, rightthrough his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touchedit.     McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out.     Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Notquite utter silence.     Somewhere, just at the threshold of his senses, there was somethinglike a voice. He could not quite hear it, but it was there. He sat asstill as he could, listening; it remained elusive.     Probably it was only an illusion.     But the room itself was hard fact. McCray swore violently and out loud.     It was crazy and impossible. There simply was no way for him to getfrom a warm, bright navigator's cubicle on      Starship Jodrell Bank     tothis damned, dark, dismal hole of a place where everything was out tohurt him and nothing explained what was going on. He cried aloud inexasperation: If I could only      see     !     He tripped and fell against something that was soft, slimy and, likebaker's dough, not at all resilient.     A flickering halo of pinkish light appeared. He sat up, startled. Hewas looking at something that resembled a suit of medieval armor.  It was, he saw in a moment, not armor but a spacesuit. But what was thelight? And what were these other things in the room?     Wherever he looked, the light danced along with his eyes. It was likehaving tunnel vision or wearing blinders. He could see what he waslooking at, but he could see nothing else. And the things he couldsee made no sense. A spacesuit, yes; he knew that he could constructa logical explanation for that with no trouble—maybe a subspacemeteorite striking the      Jodrell Bank     , an explosion, himself knockedout, brought here in a suit ... well, it was an explanation with moreholes than fabric, like a fisherman's net, but at least it was rational.     How to explain a set of Gibbon's      Decline and Fall of the RomanEmpire?     A space-ax? Or the old-fashioned child's rocking-chair, thechemistry set—or, most of all, the scrap of gaily printed fabricthat, when he picked it up, turned out to be a girl's scanty bathingsuit? It was slightly reassuring, McCray thought, to find that most ofthe objects were more or less familiar. Even the child's chair—why,he'd had one more or less like that himself, long before he was oldenough to go to school. But what were they doing here?     Not everything he saw was familiar. The walls of the room itself werestrange. They were not metal or plaster or knotty pine; they werenot papered, painted or overlaid with stucco. They seemed to be madeof some sort of hard organic compound, perhaps a sort of plastic orprocessed cellulose. It was hard to tell colors in the pinkish light.But they seemed to have none. They were neutral—the color of ageddriftwood or unbleached cloth.     Three of the walls were that way, and the floor and ceiling. The fourthwall was something else. Areas in it had the appearance of gratings;from them issued the pungent, distasteful halogen odor. They might beventilators, he thought; but if so the air they brought in was worsethan what he already had.     McCray was beginning to feel more confident. It was astonishing how alittle light made an impossible situation bearable, how quickly hiscourage flowed back when he could see again.     He stood still, thinking. Item, a short time ago—subjectively itseemed to be minutes—he had been aboard the      Jodrell Bank     withnothing more on his mind than completing his check-sighting and meetingone of the female passengers for coffee. Item, apart from beingshaken up and—he admitted it—scared damn near witless, he did notseem to be hurt. Item, wherever he was now, it became, not so much whathad happened to him, but what had happened to the ship?     He allowed that thought to seep into his mind. Suppose there had beenan accident to the      Jodrell Bank     .     He could, of course, be dead. All this could be the fantasies of acooling brain.     McCray grinned into the pink-lit darkness. The thought had somehowrefreshed him, like icewater between rounds, and with a clearing headhe remembered what a spacesuit was good for.     It held a radio.     He pressed the unsealing tabs, slipped his hand into the vacant chestof the suit and pulled out the hand mike. This is Herrell McCray, hesaid, calling the      Jodrell Bank     .     No response. He frowned. This is Herrell McCray, calling      JodrellBank     .     Herrell McCray, calling anybody, come in, please.     But there was no answer.     Thoughtfully he replaced the microphone. This was ultrawave radio,something more than a million times faster than light, with a rangemeasured, at least, in hundreds of light-years. If there was no answer,he was a good long way from anywhere.     Of course, the thing might not be operating.     He reached for the microphone again—     He cried aloud.     The pinkish lights went out. He was in the dark again, worse dark thanbefore.     For before the light had gone, McCray had seen what had escapedhis eyes before. The suit and the microphone were clear enough inthe pinkish glimmer; but the hand—his own hand, cupped to hold themicrophone—he had not seen at all. Nor his arm. Nor, in one fleetingmoment of study, his chest.     McCray could not see any part of his own body at all.      II     Someone else could.     Someone was watching Herrell McCray, with the clinical fascinationof a biochemist observing the wigglings of paramecia in a newantibiotic—and with the prayerful emotions of a starving, shipwrecked,sailor, watching the inward bobbing drift of a wave-born cask that      may     contain food.     Suppose you call him Hatcher (and suppose you call it a him.)Hatcher was not exactly male, because his race had no true males; butit did have females and he was certainly not that. Hatcher did not inany way look like a human being, but they had features in common.     If Hatcher and McCray had somehow managed to strike up an acquaintance,they might have got along very well. Hatcher, like McCray, was anadventurous soul, young, able, well-learned in the technical sciencesof his culture. Both enjoyed games—McCray baseball, poker andthree-dimensional chess; Hatcher a number of sports which defy humandescription. Both held positions of some importance—considering theirages—in the affairs of their respective worlds.     Physically they were nothing alike. Hatcher was a three-foot,hard-shelled sphere of jelly. He had arms and legs, but they werenot organically attached to himself. They were snakelike things whichobeyed the orders of his brain as well as your mind can make your toescurl; but they did not touch him directly. Indeed, they worked as wella yard or a quarter-mile away as they did when, rarely, they restedin the crevices they had been formed from in his skin. At greaterdistances they worked less well, for reasons irrelevant to the Law ofInverse Squares.     Hatcher's principal task at this moment was to run the probe teamwhich had McCray under observation, and he was more than a littleexcited. His members, disposed about the room where he had sent them onvarious errands, quivered and shook a little; yet they were the calmestlimbs in the room; the members of the other team workers were in astate of violent commotion.     The probe team had had a shock.     Paranormal powers, muttered Hatcher's second in command, and theothers mumbled agreement. Hatcher ordered silence, studying thespecimen from Earth.     After a long moment he turned his senses from the Earthman.Incredible—but it's true enough, he said. I'd better report. Watchhim, he added, but that was surely unnecessary. Their job was towatch McCray, and they would do their job; and even more, not one ofthem could have looked away to save his life from the spectacle ofa creature as odd and, from their point of view, hideously alien asHerrell McCray.  Hatcher hurried through the halls of the great buried structure inwhich he worked, toward the place where the supervising council of allprobes would be in permanent session. They admitted him at once.     Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report:     The subject recovered consciousness a short time ago and began toinspect his enclosure. His method of doing so was to put his ownmembers in physical contact with the various objects in the enclosure.After observing him do this for a time we concluded he might be unableto see and so we illuminated his field of vision for him.     This appeared to work well for a time. He seemed relativelyundisturbed. However, he then reverted to physical-contact,manipulating certain appurtenances of an artificial skin we hadprovided for him.     He then began to vibrate the atmosphere by means of resonating organsin his breathing passage.     Simultaneously, the object he was holding, attached to the artificialskin, was discovered to be generating paranormal forces.     The supervising council rocked with excitement. You're sure? demandedone of the councilmen.     Yes, sir. The staff is preparing a technical description of the forcesnow, but I can say that they are electromagnetic vibrations modulatinga carrier wave of very high speed, and in turn modulated by thevibrations of the atmosphere caused by the subject's own breathing.     Fantastic, breathed the councillor, in a tone of dawning hope. Howabout communicating with him, Hatcher? Any progress?     Well ... not much, sir. He suddenly panicked. We don't know why; butwe thought we'd better pull back and let him recover for a while.     The council conferred among itself for a moment, Hatcher waiting. Itwas not really a waste of time for him; with the organs he had left inthe probe-team room, he was in fairly close touch with what was goingon—knew that McCray was once again fumbling among the objects in thedark, knew that the team-members had tried illuminating the room forhim briefly and again produced the rising panic.     Still, Hatcher fretted. He wanted to get back.     Stop fidgeting, commanded the council leader abruptly. Hatcher, youare to establish communication at once.     But, sir.... Hatcher swung closer, his thick skin quivering slightly;he would have gestured if he had brought members with him to gesturewith. We've done everything we dare. We've made the place homeyfor him— actually, what he said was more like,      we've warmed thebiophysical nuances of his enclosure     —and tried to guess his needs;and we're frightening him half to death. We      can't     go faster. Thiscreature is in no way similar to us, you know. He relies on paranormalforces—heat, light, kinetic energy—for his life. His chemistry is notours, his processes of thought are not ours, his entire organism iscloser to the inanimate rocks of a sea-bottom than to ourselves.     Understood, Hatcher. In your first report you stated these creatureswere intelligent.     Yes, sir. But not in our way.     But in      a     way, and you must learn that way. I know. One lobster-clawshaped member drifted close to the councillor's body and raised itselfin an admonitory gesture. You want time. But we don't have time,Hatcher. Yours is not the only probe team working. The Central Massesteam has just turned in a most alarming report.     Have they secured a subject? Hatcher demanded jealously.     The councillor paused. Worse than that, Hatcher. I am afraid theirsubjects have secured one of them. One of them is missing.     There was a moment's silence. Frozen, Hatcher could only wait. Thecouncil room was like a tableau in a museum until the councillor spokeagain, each council member poised over his locus-point, his membersdrifting about him.     Finally the councillor said, I speak for all of us, I think. If theOld Ones have seized one of our probers our time margin is considerablynarrowed. Indeed, we may not have any time at all. You must doeverything you can to establish communication with your subject.     But the danger to the specimen— Hatcher protested automatically.     —is no greater, said the councillor, than the danger to every oneof us if we do not find allies      now     .  Hatcher returned to his laboratory gloomily.     It was just like the council to put the screws on; they had areputation for demanding results at any cost—even at the cost ofdestroying the only thing you had that would make results possible.     Hatcher did not like the idea of endangering the Earthman. It cannotbe said that he was emotionally involved; it was not pity or sympathythat caused him to regret the dangers in moving too fast towardcommunication. Not even Hatcher had quite got over the revoltingphysical differences between the Earthman and his own people. ButHatcher did not want him destroyed. It had been difficult enoughgetting him here.     Hatcher checked through the members that he had left with the rest ofhis team and discovered that there were no immediate emergencies, so hetook time to eat. In Hatcher's race this was accomplished in ways notentirely pleasant to Earthmen. A slit in the lower hemisphere of hisbody opened, like a purse, emitting a thin, pussy, fetid fluid whichHatcher caught and poured into a disposal trough at the side of theeating room. He then stuffed the slit with pulpy vegetation the textureof kelp; it closed, and his body was supplied with nourishment foranother day.     He returned quickly to the room.     His second in command was busy, but one of the other team workersreported—nothing new—and asked about Hatcher's appearance before thecouncil. Hatcher passed the question off. He considered telling hisstaff about the disappearance of the Central Masses team member, butdecided against it. He had not been told it was secret. On the otherhand, he had not been told it was not. Something of this importance wasnot lightly to be gossiped about. For endless generations the threatof the Old Ones had hung over his race, those queer, almost mythicalbeings from the Central Masses of the galaxy. One brush with them, inages past, had almost destroyed Hatcher's people. Only by running andhiding, bearing one of their planets with them and abandoning it—withits population—as a decoy, had they arrived at all.     Now they had detected mapping parties of the Old Ones dangerously nearthe spiral arm of the galaxy in which their planet was located, theyhad begun the Probe Teams to find some way of combating them, or offleeing again.     But it seemed that the Probe Teams themselves might be betraying theirexistence to their enemies—     Hatcher!     The call was urgent; he hurried to see what it was about. It was hissecond in command, very excited. What is it? Hatcher demanded.     Wait....     Hatcher was patient; he knew his assistant well. Obviously somethingwas about to happen. He took the moment to call his members back tohim for feeding; they dodged back to their niches on his skin, fittedthemselves into their vestigial slots, poured back their wastes intohis own circulation and ingested what they needed from the meal he hadjust taken.... Now! cried the assistant. Look!     At what passed among Hatcher's people for a viewing console an imagewas forming. Actually it was the assistant himself who formed it, not acathode trace or projected shadow; but it showed what it was meant toshow.     Hatcher was startled. Another one! And—is it a different species? Ormerely a different sex?     Study the probe for yourself, the assistant invited.     Hatcher studied him frostily; his patience was not, after all, endless.No matter, he said at last. Bring the other one in.     And then, in a completely different mood, We may need him badly. Wemay be in the process of killing our first one now.     Killing him, Hatcher?     Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away likepuppies dislodged from suck. Council's orders, he said. We've got togo into Stage Two of the project at once.      III     Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun,he had an inspiration.     The dark was absolute, but he remembered where the spacesuit had beenand groped his way to it and, yes, it had what all spacesuits had tohave. It had a light. He found the toggle that turned it on and pressedit.     Light. White, flaring, Earthly light, that showed everything—evenhimself.     God bless, he said, almost beside himself with joy. Whatever thatpinkish, dancing halo had been, it had thrown him into a panic; nowthat he could see his own hand again, he could blame the weird effectson some strange property of the light.     At the moment he heard the click that was the beginning of Stage Two.     He switched off the light and stood for a moment, listening.     For a second he thought he heard the far-off voice, quiet, calm andalmost hopeless, that he had sensed hours before; but then that wasgone. Something else was gone. Some faint mechanical sound that hadhardly registered at the time, but was not missing. And there was,perhaps, a nice new sound that had not been there before; a veryfaint, an almost inaudible elfin hiss.     McCray switched the light on and looked around. There seemed to be nochange.     And yet, surely, it was warmer in here.     He could see no difference; but perhaps, he thought, he could smellone. The unpleasant halogen odor from the grating was surely strongernow. He stood there, perplexed.     A tinny little voice from the helmet of the space suit said sharply,amazement in its tone, McCray, is that you? Where the devil are youcalling from?     He forgot smell, sound and temperature and leaped for the suit. Thisis Herrell McCray, he cried. I'm in a room of some sort, apparentlyon a planet of approximate Earth mass. I don't know—     McCray! cried the tiny voice in his ear. Where are you? This is      Jodrell Bank     calling. Answer, please!     I      am     answering, damn it, he roared. What took you so long?     Herrell McCray, droned the tiny voice in his ear, Herrell McCray,Herrell McCray, this is      Jodrell Bank     responding to your message,acknowledge please. Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray....     It kept on, and on.     McCray took a deep breath and thought. Something was wrong. Either theydidn't hear him, which meant the radio wasn't transmitting, or—no.That was not it; they      had     heard him, because they were responding.But it seemed to take them so long....     Abruptly his face went white. Took them so long! He cast back in hismind, questing for a fact, unable to face its implications. When wasit he called them? Two hours ago? Three?     Did that mean—did it      possibly     mean—that there was a lag of an houror two each way? Did it, for example, mean that at the speed of hissuit's pararadio, millions of times faster than light, it took      hours     to get a message to the ship and back?     And if so ... where in the name of heaven was he?  Herrell McCray was a navigator, which is to say, a man who has learnedto trust the evidence of mathematics and instrument readings beyond theguesses of his common sense. When      Jodrell Bank     , hurtling fasterthan light in its voyage between stars, made its regular positioncheck, common sense was a liar. Light bore false witness. The line ofsight was trustworthy directly forward and directly after—sometimesnot even then—and it took computers, sensing their data throughinstruments, to comprehend a star bearing and convert three fixes intoa position.     If the evidence of his radio contradicted common sense, common sensewas wrong. Perhaps it was impossible to believe what the radio'smessage implied; but it was not necessary to believe, only to act.     McCray thumbed down the transmitter button and gave a concise reportof his situation and his guesses. I don't know how I got here. Idon't know how long I've been gone, since I was unconscious for atime. However, if the transmission lag is a reliable indication— heswallowed and went on—I'd estimate I am something more than fivehundred light-years away from you at this moment. That's all I have tosay, except for one more word: Help.     He grinned sourly and released the button. The message was on its way,and it would be hours before he could have a reply. Therefore he had toconsider what to do next.     He mopped his brow. With the droning, repetitious call from the shipfinally quiet, the room was quiet again. And warm.     Very warm, he thought tardily; and more than that. The halogen stenchwas strong in his nostrils again.     Hurriedly McCray scrambled into the suit. By the time he was sealeddown he was coughing from the bottom of his lungs, deep, tearing raspsthat pained him, uncontrollable. Chlorine or fluorine, one of them wasin the air he had been breathing. He could not guess where it had comefrom; but it was ripping his lungs out.     He flushed the interior of the suit out with a reckless disregard forthe wastage of his air reserve, holding his breath as much as he could,daring only shallow gasps that made him retch and gag. After a longtime he could breathe, though his eyes were spilling tears.     He could see the fumes in the room now. The heat was building up.     Automatically—now that he had put it on and so started itsservo-circuits operating—the suit was cooling him. This was adeep-space suit, regulation garb when going outside the pressure hullof an FTL ship. It was good up to at least five hundred degrees in thinair, perhaps three or four hundred in dense. In thin air or in space itwas the elastic joints and couplings that depolymerized when the heatgrew too great; in dense air, with conduction pouring energy in fasterthan the cooling coils could suck it out and hurl it away, it was therefrigerating equipment that broke down.     McCray had no way of knowing just how hot it was going to get. Nor,for that matter, had the suit been designed to operate in a corrosivemedium.     All in all it was time for him to do something.  Among the debris on the floor, he remembered, was a five-foot space-ax,tungsten-steel blade and springy aluminum shaft.     McCray caught it up and headed for the door. It felt good in hisgauntlets, a rewarding weight; any weapon straightens the back of theman who holds it, and McCray was grateful for this one. With somethingconcrete to do he could postpone questioning. Never mind why he hadbeen brought here; never mind how. Never mind what he would, or could,do next; all those questions could recede into the background of hismind while he swung the ax and battered his way out of this poisonedoven.         Crash-clang!     The double jolt ran up the shaft of the ax, through hisgauntlets and into his arm; but he was making progress, he could seethe plastic—or whatever it was—of the door. It was chipping out. Noteasily, very reluctantly; but flaking out in chips that left a whitepowdery residue.     At this rate, he thought grimly, he would be an hour getting throughit. Did he have an hour?     But it did not take an hour. One blow was luckier than the rest; itmust have snapped the lock mechanism. The door shook and slid ajar.McCray got the thin of the blade into the crack and pried it wide.     He was in another room, maybe a hall, large and bare.     McCray put the broad of his back against the broken door and pressed itas nearly closed as he could; it might not keep the gas and heat out,but it would retard them.     The room was again unlighted—at least to McCray's eyes. There was noteven that pink pseudo-light that had baffled him; here was nothingbut the beam of his suit lamp. What it showed was cryptic. There wereevidences of use: shelves, boxy contraptions that might have beencupboards, crude level surfaces attached to the walls that might havebeen workbenches. Yet they were queerly contrived, for it was notpossible to guess from them much about the creatures who used them.Some were near the floor, some at waist height, some even suspendedfrom the ceiling itself. A man would need a ladder to work at thesebenches and McCray, staring, thought briefly of many-armed blind giantsor shapeless huge intelligent amoebae, and felt the skin prickle at theback of his neck.     He tapped half-heartedly at one of the closed cupboards, and was notsurprised when it proved as refractory as the door. Undoubtedly hecould batter it open, but it was not likely that much would be left ofits contents when he was through; and there was the question of time.     But his attention was diverted by a gleam from one of the benches.Metallic parts lay heaped in a pile. He poked at them with astiff-fingered gauntlet; they were oddly familiar. They were, hethought, very much like the parts of a bullet-gun.     In fact, they were. He could recognize barrel, chamber, trigger, evena couple of cartridges, neatly opened and the grains of powder stackedbeside them. It was an older, clumsier model than the kind he had seenin survival locker, on the      Jodrell Bank     —and abruptly wished he werecarrying now—but it was a pistol. Another trophy, like the strangeassortment in the other room? He could not guess. But the others hadbeen more familiar; they all have come from his own ship. He wasprepared to swear that nothing like this antique had been aboard.     The drone began again in his ear, as it had at five-minute intervalsall along:     Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, this is      Jodrell Bank     calling Herrell McCray....     And louder, blaring, then fading to normal volume as the AVC circuitstoned the signal down, another voice. A woman's voice, crying out inpanic and fear:       Jodrell Bank!     Where are you? Help!      IV     Hatcher's second in command said: He has got through the firstsurvival test. In fact, he broke his way out! What next?     Wait! Hatcher ordered sharply. He was watching the new specimen anda troublesome thought had occurred to him. The new one was female andseemed to be in pain; but it was not the pain that disturbed Hatcher,it was something far more immediate to his interests.     I think, he said slowly, that they are in contact.     His assistant vibrated startlement.     I know, Hatcher said, but watch. Do you see? He is going straighttoward her.     Hatcher, who was not human, did not possess truly human emotions; buthe did feel amazement when he was amazed, and fear when there wascause to be afraid. These specimens, obtained with so much difficulty,needed so badly, were his responsibility. He knew the issues involvedmuch better than any of his helpers. They could only be surprised atthe queer antics of the aliens with attached limbs and strange powers.Hatcher knew that this was not a freak show, but a matter of life anddeath. He said, musing:     This new one, I cannot communicate with her, but I get—almost—awhisper, now and then. The first one, the male, nothing. But thisfemale is perhaps not quite mute.     Then shall we abandon him and work with her, forgetting the first one?     Hatcher hesitated. No, he said at last. The male is responding well.Remember that when last this experiment was done every subject died; heis alive at least. But I am wondering. We can't quite communicate withthe female—     But?     But I'm not sure that others can't.  The woman's voice was at such close range that McCray's suit radio madea useful RDF set. He located her direction easily enough, shielding thetiny built-in antenna with the tungsten-steel blade of the ax, whileshe begged him to hurry. Her voice was heavily accented, with somewords in a language he did not recognize. She seemed to be in shock.     McCray was hardly surprised at that; he had been close enough to shockhimself. He tried to reassure her as he searched for a way out of thehall, but in the middle of a word her voice stopped.     He hesitated, hefting the ax, glancing back at the way he had come.There had to be a way out, even if it meant chopping through a wall.     When he turned around again there was a door. It was oddly shaped andunlike the door he had hewn through, but clearly a door all the same,and it was open.     McCray regarded it grimly. He went back in his memory with meticulouscare. Had he not looked at, this very spot a matter of moments before?He had. And had there been an open door then? There had not. Therehadn't been even a shadowy outline of the three-sided, uneven openingthat stood there now.     Still, it led in the proper direction. McCray added one moreinexplicable fact to his file and walked through. He was in anotherhall—or tunnel—rising quite steeply to the right. By his reckoning itwas the proper direction. He labored up it, sweating under the weightof the suit, and found another open door, this one round, and behindit—     Yes, there was the woman whose voice he had heard.     It was a woman, all right. The voice had been so strained that hehadn't been positive. Even now, short black hair might not have provedit, and she was lying face down but the waist and hips were a woman's,even though she wore a bulky, quilted suit of coveralls.     He knelt beside her and gently turned her face.     She was unconscious. Broad, dark face, with no make-up; she wasapparently in her late thirties. She appeared to be Chinese.     She breathed, a little raggedly but without visible discomfort; herface was relaxed as though she were sleeping. She did not rouse as hemoved her.     He realized she was breathing the air of the room they were in.     His instant first thought was that she was in danger of asphyxiation;","The story begins sometime during the Starship Jodrell Bank's Long Jump from Earth to the colonies surrounding Betegeuses Nine as it passes by Betelgeuse, Rigel, and Saiph. The rest of the action takes place in an unknown area of space within a ""great buried structure"" that is a massive labyrinth of dark rooms and hallways with unusual doors that seem to shift and change after passing through them. This is where Hatcher and his probe team observe McCray in his enclosure, which is no bigger than a prison cell, dark, and full of vaguely familiar objects: a spacesuit, a child's rocking chair, a chemistry set, a girl's bathing suit, an ax. Three of the walls are made of a hard, organic compound and the fourth is covered in grates from which a halogen-smelling air pours out into the room. Although everything is dark, Hatcher occasionally triggers a pinkish, halo-like light that allows McCray to examine his surroundings. Elsewhere in the structure is a place where the supervising council of all probes stays in permanent session, monitoring the work of all probe teams including the team at The Central Masses. When McCray breaks out of his initial enclosure, he finds himself in another dark room, large and bare. Using the beam from his suit lamp, he sees shelves, cupboard-like contraptions, and level surfaces that appeared to be waist-high workbenches attached to the walls and ceiling. He finds a gun on one of the benches. After finding the gun, he realizes the door he came through is gone; instead, there is an uneven, three-sided door he enters to find the unconscious woman on the other side."
"Who is Hatcher and what is his role in the story? </s>     THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION     BY FREDERICK POHL     Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion     Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared.     As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prisoncell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no businessin it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jumpfrom Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCraywas ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there wereany, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightingswere made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuthangles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beaconstars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed thelocking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he haddone it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigeland Saiph ... it happened.     The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with acollection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapesand a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over somethingthat rocked under his feet and fell against something that clatteredhollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelleddangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, rightthrough his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touchedit.     McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out.     Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Notquite utter silence.     Somewhere, just at the threshold of his senses, there was somethinglike a voice. He could not quite hear it, but it was there. He sat asstill as he could, listening; it remained elusive.     Probably it was only an illusion.     But the room itself was hard fact. McCray swore violently and out loud.     It was crazy and impossible. There simply was no way for him to getfrom a warm, bright navigator's cubicle on      Starship Jodrell Bank     tothis damned, dark, dismal hole of a place where everything was out tohurt him and nothing explained what was going on. He cried aloud inexasperation: If I could only      see     !     He tripped and fell against something that was soft, slimy and, likebaker's dough, not at all resilient.     A flickering halo of pinkish light appeared. He sat up, startled. Hewas looking at something that resembled a suit of medieval armor.  It was, he saw in a moment, not armor but a spacesuit. But what was thelight? And what were these other things in the room?     Wherever he looked, the light danced along with his eyes. It was likehaving tunnel vision or wearing blinders. He could see what he waslooking at, but he could see nothing else. And the things he couldsee made no sense. A spacesuit, yes; he knew that he could constructa logical explanation for that with no trouble—maybe a subspacemeteorite striking the      Jodrell Bank     , an explosion, himself knockedout, brought here in a suit ... well, it was an explanation with moreholes than fabric, like a fisherman's net, but at least it was rational.     How to explain a set of Gibbon's      Decline and Fall of the RomanEmpire?     A space-ax? Or the old-fashioned child's rocking-chair, thechemistry set—or, most of all, the scrap of gaily printed fabricthat, when he picked it up, turned out to be a girl's scanty bathingsuit? It was slightly reassuring, McCray thought, to find that most ofthe objects were more or less familiar. Even the child's chair—why,he'd had one more or less like that himself, long before he was oldenough to go to school. But what were they doing here?     Not everything he saw was familiar. The walls of the room itself werestrange. They were not metal or plaster or knotty pine; they werenot papered, painted or overlaid with stucco. They seemed to be madeof some sort of hard organic compound, perhaps a sort of plastic orprocessed cellulose. It was hard to tell colors in the pinkish light.But they seemed to have none. They were neutral—the color of ageddriftwood or unbleached cloth.     Three of the walls were that way, and the floor and ceiling. The fourthwall was something else. Areas in it had the appearance of gratings;from them issued the pungent, distasteful halogen odor. They might beventilators, he thought; but if so the air they brought in was worsethan what he already had.     McCray was beginning to feel more confident. It was astonishing how alittle light made an impossible situation bearable, how quickly hiscourage flowed back when he could see again.     He stood still, thinking. Item, a short time ago—subjectively itseemed to be minutes—he had been aboard the      Jodrell Bank     withnothing more on his mind than completing his check-sighting and meetingone of the female passengers for coffee. Item, apart from beingshaken up and—he admitted it—scared damn near witless, he did notseem to be hurt. Item, wherever he was now, it became, not so much whathad happened to him, but what had happened to the ship?     He allowed that thought to seep into his mind. Suppose there had beenan accident to the      Jodrell Bank     .     He could, of course, be dead. All this could be the fantasies of acooling brain.     McCray grinned into the pink-lit darkness. The thought had somehowrefreshed him, like icewater between rounds, and with a clearing headhe remembered what a spacesuit was good for.     It held a radio.     He pressed the unsealing tabs, slipped his hand into the vacant chestof the suit and pulled out the hand mike. This is Herrell McCray, hesaid, calling the      Jodrell Bank     .     No response. He frowned. This is Herrell McCray, calling      JodrellBank     .     Herrell McCray, calling anybody, come in, please.     But there was no answer.     Thoughtfully he replaced the microphone. This was ultrawave radio,something more than a million times faster than light, with a rangemeasured, at least, in hundreds of light-years. If there was no answer,he was a good long way from anywhere.     Of course, the thing might not be operating.     He reached for the microphone again—     He cried aloud.     The pinkish lights went out. He was in the dark again, worse dark thanbefore.     For before the light had gone, McCray had seen what had escapedhis eyes before. The suit and the microphone were clear enough inthe pinkish glimmer; but the hand—his own hand, cupped to hold themicrophone—he had not seen at all. Nor his arm. Nor, in one fleetingmoment of study, his chest.     McCray could not see any part of his own body at all.      II     Someone else could.     Someone was watching Herrell McCray, with the clinical fascinationof a biochemist observing the wigglings of paramecia in a newantibiotic—and with the prayerful emotions of a starving, shipwrecked,sailor, watching the inward bobbing drift of a wave-born cask that      may     contain food.     Suppose you call him Hatcher (and suppose you call it a him.)Hatcher was not exactly male, because his race had no true males; butit did have females and he was certainly not that. Hatcher did not inany way look like a human being, but they had features in common.     If Hatcher and McCray had somehow managed to strike up an acquaintance,they might have got along very well. Hatcher, like McCray, was anadventurous soul, young, able, well-learned in the technical sciencesof his culture. Both enjoyed games—McCray baseball, poker andthree-dimensional chess; Hatcher a number of sports which defy humandescription. Both held positions of some importance—considering theirages—in the affairs of their respective worlds.     Physically they were nothing alike. Hatcher was a three-foot,hard-shelled sphere of jelly. He had arms and legs, but they werenot organically attached to himself. They were snakelike things whichobeyed the orders of his brain as well as your mind can make your toescurl; but they did not touch him directly. Indeed, they worked as wella yard or a quarter-mile away as they did when, rarely, they restedin the crevices they had been formed from in his skin. At greaterdistances they worked less well, for reasons irrelevant to the Law ofInverse Squares.     Hatcher's principal task at this moment was to run the probe teamwhich had McCray under observation, and he was more than a littleexcited. His members, disposed about the room where he had sent them onvarious errands, quivered and shook a little; yet they were the calmestlimbs in the room; the members of the other team workers were in astate of violent commotion.     The probe team had had a shock.     Paranormal powers, muttered Hatcher's second in command, and theothers mumbled agreement. Hatcher ordered silence, studying thespecimen from Earth.     After a long moment he turned his senses from the Earthman.Incredible—but it's true enough, he said. I'd better report. Watchhim, he added, but that was surely unnecessary. Their job was towatch McCray, and they would do their job; and even more, not one ofthem could have looked away to save his life from the spectacle ofa creature as odd and, from their point of view, hideously alien asHerrell McCray.  Hatcher hurried through the halls of the great buried structure inwhich he worked, toward the place where the supervising council of allprobes would be in permanent session. They admitted him at once.     Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report:     The subject recovered consciousness a short time ago and began toinspect his enclosure. His method of doing so was to put his ownmembers in physical contact with the various objects in the enclosure.After observing him do this for a time we concluded he might be unableto see and so we illuminated his field of vision for him.     This appeared to work well for a time. He seemed relativelyundisturbed. However, he then reverted to physical-contact,manipulating certain appurtenances of an artificial skin we hadprovided for him.     He then began to vibrate the atmosphere by means of resonating organsin his breathing passage.     Simultaneously, the object he was holding, attached to the artificialskin, was discovered to be generating paranormal forces.     The supervising council rocked with excitement. You're sure? demandedone of the councilmen.     Yes, sir. The staff is preparing a technical description of the forcesnow, but I can say that they are electromagnetic vibrations modulatinga carrier wave of very high speed, and in turn modulated by thevibrations of the atmosphere caused by the subject's own breathing.     Fantastic, breathed the councillor, in a tone of dawning hope. Howabout communicating with him, Hatcher? Any progress?     Well ... not much, sir. He suddenly panicked. We don't know why; butwe thought we'd better pull back and let him recover for a while.     The council conferred among itself for a moment, Hatcher waiting. Itwas not really a waste of time for him; with the organs he had left inthe probe-team room, he was in fairly close touch with what was goingon—knew that McCray was once again fumbling among the objects in thedark, knew that the team-members had tried illuminating the room forhim briefly and again produced the rising panic.     Still, Hatcher fretted. He wanted to get back.     Stop fidgeting, commanded the council leader abruptly. Hatcher, youare to establish communication at once.     But, sir.... Hatcher swung closer, his thick skin quivering slightly;he would have gestured if he had brought members with him to gesturewith. We've done everything we dare. We've made the place homeyfor him— actually, what he said was more like,      we've warmed thebiophysical nuances of his enclosure     —and tried to guess his needs;and we're frightening him half to death. We      can't     go faster. Thiscreature is in no way similar to us, you know. He relies on paranormalforces—heat, light, kinetic energy—for his life. His chemistry is notours, his processes of thought are not ours, his entire organism iscloser to the inanimate rocks of a sea-bottom than to ourselves.     Understood, Hatcher. In your first report you stated these creatureswere intelligent.     Yes, sir. But not in our way.     But in      a     way, and you must learn that way. I know. One lobster-clawshaped member drifted close to the councillor's body and raised itselfin an admonitory gesture. You want time. But we don't have time,Hatcher. Yours is not the only probe team working. The Central Massesteam has just turned in a most alarming report.     Have they secured a subject? Hatcher demanded jealously.     The councillor paused. Worse than that, Hatcher. I am afraid theirsubjects have secured one of them. One of them is missing.     There was a moment's silence. Frozen, Hatcher could only wait. Thecouncil room was like a tableau in a museum until the councillor spokeagain, each council member poised over his locus-point, his membersdrifting about him.     Finally the councillor said, I speak for all of us, I think. If theOld Ones have seized one of our probers our time margin is considerablynarrowed. Indeed, we may not have any time at all. You must doeverything you can to establish communication with your subject.     But the danger to the specimen— Hatcher protested automatically.     —is no greater, said the councillor, than the danger to every oneof us if we do not find allies      now     .  Hatcher returned to his laboratory gloomily.     It was just like the council to put the screws on; they had areputation for demanding results at any cost—even at the cost ofdestroying the only thing you had that would make results possible.     Hatcher did not like the idea of endangering the Earthman. It cannotbe said that he was emotionally involved; it was not pity or sympathythat caused him to regret the dangers in moving too fast towardcommunication. Not even Hatcher had quite got over the revoltingphysical differences between the Earthman and his own people. ButHatcher did not want him destroyed. It had been difficult enoughgetting him here.     Hatcher checked through the members that he had left with the rest ofhis team and discovered that there were no immediate emergencies, so hetook time to eat. In Hatcher's race this was accomplished in ways notentirely pleasant to Earthmen. A slit in the lower hemisphere of hisbody opened, like a purse, emitting a thin, pussy, fetid fluid whichHatcher caught and poured into a disposal trough at the side of theeating room. He then stuffed the slit with pulpy vegetation the textureof kelp; it closed, and his body was supplied with nourishment foranother day.     He returned quickly to the room.     His second in command was busy, but one of the other team workersreported—nothing new—and asked about Hatcher's appearance before thecouncil. Hatcher passed the question off. He considered telling hisstaff about the disappearance of the Central Masses team member, butdecided against it. He had not been told it was secret. On the otherhand, he had not been told it was not. Something of this importance wasnot lightly to be gossiped about. For endless generations the threatof the Old Ones had hung over his race, those queer, almost mythicalbeings from the Central Masses of the galaxy. One brush with them, inages past, had almost destroyed Hatcher's people. Only by running andhiding, bearing one of their planets with them and abandoning it—withits population—as a decoy, had they arrived at all.     Now they had detected mapping parties of the Old Ones dangerously nearthe spiral arm of the galaxy in which their planet was located, theyhad begun the Probe Teams to find some way of combating them, or offleeing again.     But it seemed that the Probe Teams themselves might be betraying theirexistence to their enemies—     Hatcher!     The call was urgent; he hurried to see what it was about. It was hissecond in command, very excited. What is it? Hatcher demanded.     Wait....     Hatcher was patient; he knew his assistant well. Obviously somethingwas about to happen. He took the moment to call his members back tohim for feeding; they dodged back to their niches on his skin, fittedthemselves into their vestigial slots, poured back their wastes intohis own circulation and ingested what they needed from the meal he hadjust taken.... Now! cried the assistant. Look!     At what passed among Hatcher's people for a viewing console an imagewas forming. Actually it was the assistant himself who formed it, not acathode trace or projected shadow; but it showed what it was meant toshow.     Hatcher was startled. Another one! And—is it a different species? Ormerely a different sex?     Study the probe for yourself, the assistant invited.     Hatcher studied him frostily; his patience was not, after all, endless.No matter, he said at last. Bring the other one in.     And then, in a completely different mood, We may need him badly. Wemay be in the process of killing our first one now.     Killing him, Hatcher?     Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away likepuppies dislodged from suck. Council's orders, he said. We've got togo into Stage Two of the project at once.      III     Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun,he had an inspiration.     The dark was absolute, but he remembered where the spacesuit had beenand groped his way to it and, yes, it had what all spacesuits had tohave. It had a light. He found the toggle that turned it on and pressedit.     Light. White, flaring, Earthly light, that showed everything—evenhimself.     God bless, he said, almost beside himself with joy. Whatever thatpinkish, dancing halo had been, it had thrown him into a panic; nowthat he could see his own hand again, he could blame the weird effectson some strange property of the light.     At the moment he heard the click that was the beginning of Stage Two.     He switched off the light and stood for a moment, listening.     For a second he thought he heard the far-off voice, quiet, calm andalmost hopeless, that he had sensed hours before; but then that wasgone. Something else was gone. Some faint mechanical sound that hadhardly registered at the time, but was not missing. And there was,perhaps, a nice new sound that had not been there before; a veryfaint, an almost inaudible elfin hiss.     McCray switched the light on and looked around. There seemed to be nochange.     And yet, surely, it was warmer in here.     He could see no difference; but perhaps, he thought, he could smellone. The unpleasant halogen odor from the grating was surely strongernow. He stood there, perplexed.     A tinny little voice from the helmet of the space suit said sharply,amazement in its tone, McCray, is that you? Where the devil are youcalling from?     He forgot smell, sound and temperature and leaped for the suit. Thisis Herrell McCray, he cried. I'm in a room of some sort, apparentlyon a planet of approximate Earth mass. I don't know—     McCray! cried the tiny voice in his ear. Where are you? This is      Jodrell Bank     calling. Answer, please!     I      am     answering, damn it, he roared. What took you so long?     Herrell McCray, droned the tiny voice in his ear, Herrell McCray,Herrell McCray, this is      Jodrell Bank     responding to your message,acknowledge please. Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray....     It kept on, and on.     McCray took a deep breath and thought. Something was wrong. Either theydidn't hear him, which meant the radio wasn't transmitting, or—no.That was not it; they      had     heard him, because they were responding.But it seemed to take them so long....     Abruptly his face went white. Took them so long! He cast back in hismind, questing for a fact, unable to face its implications. When wasit he called them? Two hours ago? Three?     Did that mean—did it      possibly     mean—that there was a lag of an houror two each way? Did it, for example, mean that at the speed of hissuit's pararadio, millions of times faster than light, it took      hours     to get a message to the ship and back?     And if so ... where in the name of heaven was he?  Herrell McCray was a navigator, which is to say, a man who has learnedto trust the evidence of mathematics and instrument readings beyond theguesses of his common sense. When      Jodrell Bank     , hurtling fasterthan light in its voyage between stars, made its regular positioncheck, common sense was a liar. Light bore false witness. The line ofsight was trustworthy directly forward and directly after—sometimesnot even then—and it took computers, sensing their data throughinstruments, to comprehend a star bearing and convert three fixes intoa position.     If the evidence of his radio contradicted common sense, common sensewas wrong. Perhaps it was impossible to believe what the radio'smessage implied; but it was not necessary to believe, only to act.     McCray thumbed down the transmitter button and gave a concise reportof his situation and his guesses. I don't know how I got here. Idon't know how long I've been gone, since I was unconscious for atime. However, if the transmission lag is a reliable indication— heswallowed and went on—I'd estimate I am something more than fivehundred light-years away from you at this moment. That's all I have tosay, except for one more word: Help.     He grinned sourly and released the button. The message was on its way,and it would be hours before he could have a reply. Therefore he had toconsider what to do next.     He mopped his brow. With the droning, repetitious call from the shipfinally quiet, the room was quiet again. And warm.     Very warm, he thought tardily; and more than that. The halogen stenchwas strong in his nostrils again.     Hurriedly McCray scrambled into the suit. By the time he was sealeddown he was coughing from the bottom of his lungs, deep, tearing raspsthat pained him, uncontrollable. Chlorine or fluorine, one of them wasin the air he had been breathing. He could not guess where it had comefrom; but it was ripping his lungs out.     He flushed the interior of the suit out with a reckless disregard forthe wastage of his air reserve, holding his breath as much as he could,daring only shallow gasps that made him retch and gag. After a longtime he could breathe, though his eyes were spilling tears.     He could see the fumes in the room now. The heat was building up.     Automatically—now that he had put it on and so started itsservo-circuits operating—the suit was cooling him. This was adeep-space suit, regulation garb when going outside the pressure hullof an FTL ship. It was good up to at least five hundred degrees in thinair, perhaps three or four hundred in dense. In thin air or in space itwas the elastic joints and couplings that depolymerized when the heatgrew too great; in dense air, with conduction pouring energy in fasterthan the cooling coils could suck it out and hurl it away, it was therefrigerating equipment that broke down.     McCray had no way of knowing just how hot it was going to get. Nor,for that matter, had the suit been designed to operate in a corrosivemedium.     All in all it was time for him to do something.  Among the debris on the floor, he remembered, was a five-foot space-ax,tungsten-steel blade and springy aluminum shaft.     McCray caught it up and headed for the door. It felt good in hisgauntlets, a rewarding weight; any weapon straightens the back of theman who holds it, and McCray was grateful for this one. With somethingconcrete to do he could postpone questioning. Never mind why he hadbeen brought here; never mind how. Never mind what he would, or could,do next; all those questions could recede into the background of hismind while he swung the ax and battered his way out of this poisonedoven.         Crash-clang!     The double jolt ran up the shaft of the ax, through hisgauntlets and into his arm; but he was making progress, he could seethe plastic—or whatever it was—of the door. It was chipping out. Noteasily, very reluctantly; but flaking out in chips that left a whitepowdery residue.     At this rate, he thought grimly, he would be an hour getting throughit. Did he have an hour?     But it did not take an hour. One blow was luckier than the rest; itmust have snapped the lock mechanism. The door shook and slid ajar.McCray got the thin of the blade into the crack and pried it wide.     He was in another room, maybe a hall, large and bare.     McCray put the broad of his back against the broken door and pressed itas nearly closed as he could; it might not keep the gas and heat out,but it would retard them.     The room was again unlighted—at least to McCray's eyes. There was noteven that pink pseudo-light that had baffled him; here was nothingbut the beam of his suit lamp. What it showed was cryptic. There wereevidences of use: shelves, boxy contraptions that might have beencupboards, crude level surfaces attached to the walls that might havebeen workbenches. Yet they were queerly contrived, for it was notpossible to guess from them much about the creatures who used them.Some were near the floor, some at waist height, some even suspendedfrom the ceiling itself. A man would need a ladder to work at thesebenches and McCray, staring, thought briefly of many-armed blind giantsor shapeless huge intelligent amoebae, and felt the skin prickle at theback of his neck.     He tapped half-heartedly at one of the closed cupboards, and was notsurprised when it proved as refractory as the door. Undoubtedly hecould batter it open, but it was not likely that much would be left ofits contents when he was through; and there was the question of time.     But his attention was diverted by a gleam from one of the benches.Metallic parts lay heaped in a pile. He poked at them with astiff-fingered gauntlet; they were oddly familiar. They were, hethought, very much like the parts of a bullet-gun.     In fact, they were. He could recognize barrel, chamber, trigger, evena couple of cartridges, neatly opened and the grains of powder stackedbeside them. It was an older, clumsier model than the kind he had seenin survival locker, on the      Jodrell Bank     —and abruptly wished he werecarrying now—but it was a pistol. Another trophy, like the strangeassortment in the other room? He could not guess. But the others hadbeen more familiar; they all have come from his own ship. He wasprepared to swear that nothing like this antique had been aboard.     The drone began again in his ear, as it had at five-minute intervalsall along:     Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, this is      Jodrell Bank     calling Herrell McCray....     And louder, blaring, then fading to normal volume as the AVC circuitstoned the signal down, another voice. A woman's voice, crying out inpanic and fear:       Jodrell Bank!     Where are you? Help!      IV     Hatcher's second in command said: He has got through the firstsurvival test. In fact, he broke his way out! What next?     Wait! Hatcher ordered sharply. He was watching the new specimen anda troublesome thought had occurred to him. The new one was female andseemed to be in pain; but it was not the pain that disturbed Hatcher,it was something far more immediate to his interests.     I think, he said slowly, that they are in contact.     His assistant vibrated startlement.     I know, Hatcher said, but watch. Do you see? He is going straighttoward her.     Hatcher, who was not human, did not possess truly human emotions; buthe did feel amazement when he was amazed, and fear when there wascause to be afraid. These specimens, obtained with so much difficulty,needed so badly, were his responsibility. He knew the issues involvedmuch better than any of his helpers. They could only be surprised atthe queer antics of the aliens with attached limbs and strange powers.Hatcher knew that this was not a freak show, but a matter of life anddeath. He said, musing:     This new one, I cannot communicate with her, but I get—almost—awhisper, now and then. The first one, the male, nothing. But thisfemale is perhaps not quite mute.     Then shall we abandon him and work with her, forgetting the first one?     Hatcher hesitated. No, he said at last. The male is responding well.Remember that when last this experiment was done every subject died; heis alive at least. But I am wondering. We can't quite communicate withthe female—     But?     But I'm not sure that others can't.  The woman's voice was at such close range that McCray's suit radio madea useful RDF set. He located her direction easily enough, shielding thetiny built-in antenna with the tungsten-steel blade of the ax, whileshe begged him to hurry. Her voice was heavily accented, with somewords in a language he did not recognize. She seemed to be in shock.     McCray was hardly surprised at that; he had been close enough to shockhimself. He tried to reassure her as he searched for a way out of thehall, but in the middle of a word her voice stopped.     He hesitated, hefting the ax, glancing back at the way he had come.There had to be a way out, even if it meant chopping through a wall.     When he turned around again there was a door. It was oddly shaped andunlike the door he had hewn through, but clearly a door all the same,and it was open.     McCray regarded it grimly. He went back in his memory with meticulouscare. Had he not looked at, this very spot a matter of moments before?He had. And had there been an open door then? There had not. Therehadn't been even a shadowy outline of the three-sided, uneven openingthat stood there now.     Still, it led in the proper direction. McCray added one moreinexplicable fact to his file and walked through. He was in anotherhall—or tunnel—rising quite steeply to the right. By his reckoning itwas the proper direction. He labored up it, sweating under the weightof the suit, and found another open door, this one round, and behindit—     Yes, there was the woman whose voice he had heard.     It was a woman, all right. The voice had been so strained that hehadn't been positive. Even now, short black hair might not have provedit, and she was lying face down but the waist and hips were a woman's,even though she wore a bulky, quilted suit of coveralls.     He knelt beside her and gently turned her face.     She was unconscious. Broad, dark face, with no make-up; she wasapparently in her late thirties. She appeared to be Chinese.     She breathed, a little raggedly but without visible discomfort; herface was relaxed as though she were sleeping. She did not rouse as hemoved her.     He realized she was breathing the air of the room they were in.     His instant first thought was that she was in danger of asphyxiation;","Hatcher is an alien of an unnamed race. He cannot be described as male because his race ""had no true males."" He is three feet tall with a hard-shelled, circular body of jelly. His arms and legs are snakelike mandibles that can detach from his body, and he can control them with his brain from vast distances, although their effectiveness diminishes the further they travel from Hatcher's body. When they return to Hatcher's body, they rest in crevices in his skin. When he feeds, a slit appears at the bottom of his body and emits a thin, fetid fluid Hatcher throws away; he then places a nutrient-filled, kelp-like vegetable in the slit for sustenance. Hatcher is young, adventurous, scientifically gifted, knowledgeable, and enjoys playing sports. Although he does not feel the equivalent of human empathy, he also doesn't want harm to befall McCray and feels responsible for his proper care. Hatcher manages the probe team that observes McCray throughout the story, and he reports on McCray's behavior and his use of ""paranormal powers"" to the supervising council. Hatcher worries about hurrying to establish communication with McCray because he believes it will harm and perhaps even kill him, and later he wonders if communication is even possible at all with humans (later, he notes he is able to establish a minor level of communication with the female but wonders if others might be able to communicate with her). When Hatcher makes his report to the supervising council, they inform him of the return of the Old Ones, who have captured a member of The Central Masses Probe Team. He questions whether or not to tell his crew considering he was never explicitly told not to by the council. In many ways, Hatcher and McCray are similar although Hatcher is generally disgusted by the human body."
"What is the significance of the probes in the story? </s>     THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION     BY FREDERICK POHL     Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion     Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared.     As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prisoncell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no businessin it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jumpfrom Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCraywas ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there wereany, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightingswere made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuthangles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beaconstars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed thelocking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he haddone it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigeland Saiph ... it happened.     The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with acollection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapesand a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over somethingthat rocked under his feet and fell against something that clatteredhollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelleddangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, rightthrough his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touchedit.     McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out.     Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Notquite utter silence.     Somewhere, just at the threshold of his senses, there was somethinglike a voice. He could not quite hear it, but it was there. He sat asstill as he could, listening; it remained elusive.     Probably it was only an illusion.     But the room itself was hard fact. McCray swore violently and out loud.     It was crazy and impossible. There simply was no way for him to getfrom a warm, bright navigator's cubicle on      Starship Jodrell Bank     tothis damned, dark, dismal hole of a place where everything was out tohurt him and nothing explained what was going on. He cried aloud inexasperation: If I could only      see     !     He tripped and fell against something that was soft, slimy and, likebaker's dough, not at all resilient.     A flickering halo of pinkish light appeared. He sat up, startled. Hewas looking at something that resembled a suit of medieval armor.  It was, he saw in a moment, not armor but a spacesuit. But what was thelight? And what were these other things in the room?     Wherever he looked, the light danced along with his eyes. It was likehaving tunnel vision or wearing blinders. He could see what he waslooking at, but he could see nothing else. And the things he couldsee made no sense. A spacesuit, yes; he knew that he could constructa logical explanation for that with no trouble—maybe a subspacemeteorite striking the      Jodrell Bank     , an explosion, himself knockedout, brought here in a suit ... well, it was an explanation with moreholes than fabric, like a fisherman's net, but at least it was rational.     How to explain a set of Gibbon's      Decline and Fall of the RomanEmpire?     A space-ax? Or the old-fashioned child's rocking-chair, thechemistry set—or, most of all, the scrap of gaily printed fabricthat, when he picked it up, turned out to be a girl's scanty bathingsuit? It was slightly reassuring, McCray thought, to find that most ofthe objects were more or less familiar. Even the child's chair—why,he'd had one more or less like that himself, long before he was oldenough to go to school. But what were they doing here?     Not everything he saw was familiar. The walls of the room itself werestrange. They were not metal or plaster or knotty pine; they werenot papered, painted or overlaid with stucco. They seemed to be madeof some sort of hard organic compound, perhaps a sort of plastic orprocessed cellulose. It was hard to tell colors in the pinkish light.But they seemed to have none. They were neutral—the color of ageddriftwood or unbleached cloth.     Three of the walls were that way, and the floor and ceiling. The fourthwall was something else. Areas in it had the appearance of gratings;from them issued the pungent, distasteful halogen odor. They might beventilators, he thought; but if so the air they brought in was worsethan what he already had.     McCray was beginning to feel more confident. It was astonishing how alittle light made an impossible situation bearable, how quickly hiscourage flowed back when he could see again.     He stood still, thinking. Item, a short time ago—subjectively itseemed to be minutes—he had been aboard the      Jodrell Bank     withnothing more on his mind than completing his check-sighting and meetingone of the female passengers for coffee. Item, apart from beingshaken up and—he admitted it—scared damn near witless, he did notseem to be hurt. Item, wherever he was now, it became, not so much whathad happened to him, but what had happened to the ship?     He allowed that thought to seep into his mind. Suppose there had beenan accident to the      Jodrell Bank     .     He could, of course, be dead. All this could be the fantasies of acooling brain.     McCray grinned into the pink-lit darkness. The thought had somehowrefreshed him, like icewater between rounds, and with a clearing headhe remembered what a spacesuit was good for.     It held a radio.     He pressed the unsealing tabs, slipped his hand into the vacant chestof the suit and pulled out the hand mike. This is Herrell McCray, hesaid, calling the      Jodrell Bank     .     No response. He frowned. This is Herrell McCray, calling      JodrellBank     .     Herrell McCray, calling anybody, come in, please.     But there was no answer.     Thoughtfully he replaced the microphone. This was ultrawave radio,something more than a million times faster than light, with a rangemeasured, at least, in hundreds of light-years. If there was no answer,he was a good long way from anywhere.     Of course, the thing might not be operating.     He reached for the microphone again—     He cried aloud.     The pinkish lights went out. He was in the dark again, worse dark thanbefore.     For before the light had gone, McCray had seen what had escapedhis eyes before. The suit and the microphone were clear enough inthe pinkish glimmer; but the hand—his own hand, cupped to hold themicrophone—he had not seen at all. Nor his arm. Nor, in one fleetingmoment of study, his chest.     McCray could not see any part of his own body at all.      II     Someone else could.     Someone was watching Herrell McCray, with the clinical fascinationof a biochemist observing the wigglings of paramecia in a newantibiotic—and with the prayerful emotions of a starving, shipwrecked,sailor, watching the inward bobbing drift of a wave-born cask that      may     contain food.     Suppose you call him Hatcher (and suppose you call it a him.)Hatcher was not exactly male, because his race had no true males; butit did have females and he was certainly not that. Hatcher did not inany way look like a human being, but they had features in common.     If Hatcher and McCray had somehow managed to strike up an acquaintance,they might have got along very well. Hatcher, like McCray, was anadventurous soul, young, able, well-learned in the technical sciencesof his culture. Both enjoyed games—McCray baseball, poker andthree-dimensional chess; Hatcher a number of sports which defy humandescription. Both held positions of some importance—considering theirages—in the affairs of their respective worlds.     Physically they were nothing alike. Hatcher was a three-foot,hard-shelled sphere of jelly. He had arms and legs, but they werenot organically attached to himself. They were snakelike things whichobeyed the orders of his brain as well as your mind can make your toescurl; but they did not touch him directly. Indeed, they worked as wella yard or a quarter-mile away as they did when, rarely, they restedin the crevices they had been formed from in his skin. At greaterdistances they worked less well, for reasons irrelevant to the Law ofInverse Squares.     Hatcher's principal task at this moment was to run the probe teamwhich had McCray under observation, and he was more than a littleexcited. His members, disposed about the room where he had sent them onvarious errands, quivered and shook a little; yet they were the calmestlimbs in the room; the members of the other team workers were in astate of violent commotion.     The probe team had had a shock.     Paranormal powers, muttered Hatcher's second in command, and theothers mumbled agreement. Hatcher ordered silence, studying thespecimen from Earth.     After a long moment he turned his senses from the Earthman.Incredible—but it's true enough, he said. I'd better report. Watchhim, he added, but that was surely unnecessary. Their job was towatch McCray, and they would do their job; and even more, not one ofthem could have looked away to save his life from the spectacle ofa creature as odd and, from their point of view, hideously alien asHerrell McCray.  Hatcher hurried through the halls of the great buried structure inwhich he worked, toward the place where the supervising council of allprobes would be in permanent session. They admitted him at once.     Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report:     The subject recovered consciousness a short time ago and began toinspect his enclosure. His method of doing so was to put his ownmembers in physical contact with the various objects in the enclosure.After observing him do this for a time we concluded he might be unableto see and so we illuminated his field of vision for him.     This appeared to work well for a time. He seemed relativelyundisturbed. However, he then reverted to physical-contact,manipulating certain appurtenances of an artificial skin we hadprovided for him.     He then began to vibrate the atmosphere by means of resonating organsin his breathing passage.     Simultaneously, the object he was holding, attached to the artificialskin, was discovered to be generating paranormal forces.     The supervising council rocked with excitement. You're sure? demandedone of the councilmen.     Yes, sir. The staff is preparing a technical description of the forcesnow, but I can say that they are electromagnetic vibrations modulatinga carrier wave of very high speed, and in turn modulated by thevibrations of the atmosphere caused by the subject's own breathing.     Fantastic, breathed the councillor, in a tone of dawning hope. Howabout communicating with him, Hatcher? Any progress?     Well ... not much, sir. He suddenly panicked. We don't know why; butwe thought we'd better pull back and let him recover for a while.     The council conferred among itself for a moment, Hatcher waiting. Itwas not really a waste of time for him; with the organs he had left inthe probe-team room, he was in fairly close touch with what was goingon—knew that McCray was once again fumbling among the objects in thedark, knew that the team-members had tried illuminating the room forhim briefly and again produced the rising panic.     Still, Hatcher fretted. He wanted to get back.     Stop fidgeting, commanded the council leader abruptly. Hatcher, youare to establish communication at once.     But, sir.... Hatcher swung closer, his thick skin quivering slightly;he would have gestured if he had brought members with him to gesturewith. We've done everything we dare. We've made the place homeyfor him— actually, what he said was more like,      we've warmed thebiophysical nuances of his enclosure     —and tried to guess his needs;and we're frightening him half to death. We      can't     go faster. Thiscreature is in no way similar to us, you know. He relies on paranormalforces—heat, light, kinetic energy—for his life. His chemistry is notours, his processes of thought are not ours, his entire organism iscloser to the inanimate rocks of a sea-bottom than to ourselves.     Understood, Hatcher. In your first report you stated these creatureswere intelligent.     Yes, sir. But not in our way.     But in      a     way, and you must learn that way. I know. One lobster-clawshaped member drifted close to the councillor's body and raised itselfin an admonitory gesture. You want time. But we don't have time,Hatcher. Yours is not the only probe team working. The Central Massesteam has just turned in a most alarming report.     Have they secured a subject? Hatcher demanded jealously.     The councillor paused. Worse than that, Hatcher. I am afraid theirsubjects have secured one of them. One of them is missing.     There was a moment's silence. Frozen, Hatcher could only wait. Thecouncil room was like a tableau in a museum until the councillor spokeagain, each council member poised over his locus-point, his membersdrifting about him.     Finally the councillor said, I speak for all of us, I think. If theOld Ones have seized one of our probers our time margin is considerablynarrowed. Indeed, we may not have any time at all. You must doeverything you can to establish communication with your subject.     But the danger to the specimen— Hatcher protested automatically.     —is no greater, said the councillor, than the danger to every oneof us if we do not find allies      now     .  Hatcher returned to his laboratory gloomily.     It was just like the council to put the screws on; they had areputation for demanding results at any cost—even at the cost ofdestroying the only thing you had that would make results possible.     Hatcher did not like the idea of endangering the Earthman. It cannotbe said that he was emotionally involved; it was not pity or sympathythat caused him to regret the dangers in moving too fast towardcommunication. Not even Hatcher had quite got over the revoltingphysical differences between the Earthman and his own people. ButHatcher did not want him destroyed. It had been difficult enoughgetting him here.     Hatcher checked through the members that he had left with the rest ofhis team and discovered that there were no immediate emergencies, so hetook time to eat. In Hatcher's race this was accomplished in ways notentirely pleasant to Earthmen. A slit in the lower hemisphere of hisbody opened, like a purse, emitting a thin, pussy, fetid fluid whichHatcher caught and poured into a disposal trough at the side of theeating room. He then stuffed the slit with pulpy vegetation the textureof kelp; it closed, and his body was supplied with nourishment foranother day.     He returned quickly to the room.     His second in command was busy, but one of the other team workersreported—nothing new—and asked about Hatcher's appearance before thecouncil. Hatcher passed the question off. He considered telling hisstaff about the disappearance of the Central Masses team member, butdecided against it. He had not been told it was secret. On the otherhand, he had not been told it was not. Something of this importance wasnot lightly to be gossiped about. For endless generations the threatof the Old Ones had hung over his race, those queer, almost mythicalbeings from the Central Masses of the galaxy. One brush with them, inages past, had almost destroyed Hatcher's people. Only by running andhiding, bearing one of their planets with them and abandoning it—withits population—as a decoy, had they arrived at all.     Now they had detected mapping parties of the Old Ones dangerously nearthe spiral arm of the galaxy in which their planet was located, theyhad begun the Probe Teams to find some way of combating them, or offleeing again.     But it seemed that the Probe Teams themselves might be betraying theirexistence to their enemies—     Hatcher!     The call was urgent; he hurried to see what it was about. It was hissecond in command, very excited. What is it? Hatcher demanded.     Wait....     Hatcher was patient; he knew his assistant well. Obviously somethingwas about to happen. He took the moment to call his members back tohim for feeding; they dodged back to their niches on his skin, fittedthemselves into their vestigial slots, poured back their wastes intohis own circulation and ingested what they needed from the meal he hadjust taken.... Now! cried the assistant. Look!     At what passed among Hatcher's people for a viewing console an imagewas forming. Actually it was the assistant himself who formed it, not acathode trace or projected shadow; but it showed what it was meant toshow.     Hatcher was startled. Another one! And—is it a different species? Ormerely a different sex?     Study the probe for yourself, the assistant invited.     Hatcher studied him frostily; his patience was not, after all, endless.No matter, he said at last. Bring the other one in.     And then, in a completely different mood, We may need him badly. Wemay be in the process of killing our first one now.     Killing him, Hatcher?     Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away likepuppies dislodged from suck. Council's orders, he said. We've got togo into Stage Two of the project at once.      III     Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun,he had an inspiration.     The dark was absolute, but he remembered where the spacesuit had beenand groped his way to it and, yes, it had what all spacesuits had tohave. It had a light. He found the toggle that turned it on and pressedit.     Light. White, flaring, Earthly light, that showed everything—evenhimself.     God bless, he said, almost beside himself with joy. Whatever thatpinkish, dancing halo had been, it had thrown him into a panic; nowthat he could see his own hand again, he could blame the weird effectson some strange property of the light.     At the moment he heard the click that was the beginning of Stage Two.     He switched off the light and stood for a moment, listening.     For a second he thought he heard the far-off voice, quiet, calm andalmost hopeless, that he had sensed hours before; but then that wasgone. Something else was gone. Some faint mechanical sound that hadhardly registered at the time, but was not missing. And there was,perhaps, a nice new sound that had not been there before; a veryfaint, an almost inaudible elfin hiss.     McCray switched the light on and looked around. There seemed to be nochange.     And yet, surely, it was warmer in here.     He could see no difference; but perhaps, he thought, he could smellone. The unpleasant halogen odor from the grating was surely strongernow. He stood there, perplexed.     A tinny little voice from the helmet of the space suit said sharply,amazement in its tone, McCray, is that you? Where the devil are youcalling from?     He forgot smell, sound and temperature and leaped for the suit. Thisis Herrell McCray, he cried. I'm in a room of some sort, apparentlyon a planet of approximate Earth mass. I don't know—     McCray! cried the tiny voice in his ear. Where are you? This is      Jodrell Bank     calling. Answer, please!     I      am     answering, damn it, he roared. What took you so long?     Herrell McCray, droned the tiny voice in his ear, Herrell McCray,Herrell McCray, this is      Jodrell Bank     responding to your message,acknowledge please. Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray....     It kept on, and on.     McCray took a deep breath and thought. Something was wrong. Either theydidn't hear him, which meant the radio wasn't transmitting, or—no.That was not it; they      had     heard him, because they were responding.But it seemed to take them so long....     Abruptly his face went white. Took them so long! He cast back in hismind, questing for a fact, unable to face its implications. When wasit he called them? Two hours ago? Three?     Did that mean—did it      possibly     mean—that there was a lag of an houror two each way? Did it, for example, mean that at the speed of hissuit's pararadio, millions of times faster than light, it took      hours     to get a message to the ship and back?     And if so ... where in the name of heaven was he?  Herrell McCray was a navigator, which is to say, a man who has learnedto trust the evidence of mathematics and instrument readings beyond theguesses of his common sense. When      Jodrell Bank     , hurtling fasterthan light in its voyage between stars, made its regular positioncheck, common sense was a liar. Light bore false witness. The line ofsight was trustworthy directly forward and directly after—sometimesnot even then—and it took computers, sensing their data throughinstruments, to comprehend a star bearing and convert three fixes intoa position.     If the evidence of his radio contradicted common sense, common sensewas wrong. Perhaps it was impossible to believe what the radio'smessage implied; but it was not necessary to believe, only to act.     McCray thumbed down the transmitter button and gave a concise reportof his situation and his guesses. I don't know how I got here. Idon't know how long I've been gone, since I was unconscious for atime. However, if the transmission lag is a reliable indication— heswallowed and went on—I'd estimate I am something more than fivehundred light-years away from you at this moment. That's all I have tosay, except for one more word: Help.     He grinned sourly and released the button. The message was on its way,and it would be hours before he could have a reply. Therefore he had toconsider what to do next.     He mopped his brow. With the droning, repetitious call from the shipfinally quiet, the room was quiet again. And warm.     Very warm, he thought tardily; and more than that. The halogen stenchwas strong in his nostrils again.     Hurriedly McCray scrambled into the suit. By the time he was sealeddown he was coughing from the bottom of his lungs, deep, tearing raspsthat pained him, uncontrollable. Chlorine or fluorine, one of them wasin the air he had been breathing. He could not guess where it had comefrom; but it was ripping his lungs out.     He flushed the interior of the suit out with a reckless disregard forthe wastage of his air reserve, holding his breath as much as he could,daring only shallow gasps that made him retch and gag. After a longtime he could breathe, though his eyes were spilling tears.     He could see the fumes in the room now. The heat was building up.     Automatically—now that he had put it on and so started itsservo-circuits operating—the suit was cooling him. This was adeep-space suit, regulation garb when going outside the pressure hullof an FTL ship. It was good up to at least five hundred degrees in thinair, perhaps three or four hundred in dense. In thin air or in space itwas the elastic joints and couplings that depolymerized when the heatgrew too great; in dense air, with conduction pouring energy in fasterthan the cooling coils could suck it out and hurl it away, it was therefrigerating equipment that broke down.     McCray had no way of knowing just how hot it was going to get. Nor,for that matter, had the suit been designed to operate in a corrosivemedium.     All in all it was time for him to do something.  Among the debris on the floor, he remembered, was a five-foot space-ax,tungsten-steel blade and springy aluminum shaft.     McCray caught it up and headed for the door. It felt good in hisgauntlets, a rewarding weight; any weapon straightens the back of theman who holds it, and McCray was grateful for this one. With somethingconcrete to do he could postpone questioning. Never mind why he hadbeen brought here; never mind how. Never mind what he would, or could,do next; all those questions could recede into the background of hismind while he swung the ax and battered his way out of this poisonedoven.         Crash-clang!     The double jolt ran up the shaft of the ax, through hisgauntlets and into his arm; but he was making progress, he could seethe plastic—or whatever it was—of the door. It was chipping out. Noteasily, very reluctantly; but flaking out in chips that left a whitepowdery residue.     At this rate, he thought grimly, he would be an hour getting throughit. Did he have an hour?     But it did not take an hour. One blow was luckier than the rest; itmust have snapped the lock mechanism. The door shook and slid ajar.McCray got the thin of the blade into the crack and pried it wide.     He was in another room, maybe a hall, large and bare.     McCray put the broad of his back against the broken door and pressed itas nearly closed as he could; it might not keep the gas and heat out,but it would retard them.     The room was again unlighted—at least to McCray's eyes. There was noteven that pink pseudo-light that had baffled him; here was nothingbut the beam of his suit lamp. What it showed was cryptic. There wereevidences of use: shelves, boxy contraptions that might have beencupboards, crude level surfaces attached to the walls that might havebeen workbenches. Yet they were queerly contrived, for it was notpossible to guess from them much about the creatures who used them.Some were near the floor, some at waist height, some even suspendedfrom the ceiling itself. A man would need a ladder to work at thesebenches and McCray, staring, thought briefly of many-armed blind giantsor shapeless huge intelligent amoebae, and felt the skin prickle at theback of his neck.     He tapped half-heartedly at one of the closed cupboards, and was notsurprised when it proved as refractory as the door. Undoubtedly hecould batter it open, but it was not likely that much would be left ofits contents when he was through; and there was the question of time.     But his attention was diverted by a gleam from one of the benches.Metallic parts lay heaped in a pile. He poked at them with astiff-fingered gauntlet; they were oddly familiar. They were, hethought, very much like the parts of a bullet-gun.     In fact, they were. He could recognize barrel, chamber, trigger, evena couple of cartridges, neatly opened and the grains of powder stackedbeside them. It was an older, clumsier model than the kind he had seenin survival locker, on the      Jodrell Bank     —and abruptly wished he werecarrying now—but it was a pistol. Another trophy, like the strangeassortment in the other room? He could not guess. But the others hadbeen more familiar; they all have come from his own ship. He wasprepared to swear that nothing like this antique had been aboard.     The drone began again in his ear, as it had at five-minute intervalsall along:     Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, this is      Jodrell Bank     calling Herrell McCray....     And louder, blaring, then fading to normal volume as the AVC circuitstoned the signal down, another voice. A woman's voice, crying out inpanic and fear:       Jodrell Bank!     Where are you? Help!      IV     Hatcher's second in command said: He has got through the firstsurvival test. In fact, he broke his way out! What next?     Wait! Hatcher ordered sharply. He was watching the new specimen anda troublesome thought had occurred to him. The new one was female andseemed to be in pain; but it was not the pain that disturbed Hatcher,it was something far more immediate to his interests.     I think, he said slowly, that they are in contact.     His assistant vibrated startlement.     I know, Hatcher said, but watch. Do you see? He is going straighttoward her.     Hatcher, who was not human, did not possess truly human emotions; buthe did feel amazement when he was amazed, and fear when there wascause to be afraid. These specimens, obtained with so much difficulty,needed so badly, were his responsibility. He knew the issues involvedmuch better than any of his helpers. They could only be surprised atthe queer antics of the aliens with attached limbs and strange powers.Hatcher knew that this was not a freak show, but a matter of life anddeath. He said, musing:     This new one, I cannot communicate with her, but I get—almost—awhisper, now and then. The first one, the male, nothing. But thisfemale is perhaps not quite mute.     Then shall we abandon him and work with her, forgetting the first one?     Hatcher hesitated. No, he said at last. The male is responding well.Remember that when last this experiment was done every subject died; heis alive at least. But I am wondering. We can't quite communicate withthe female—     But?     But I'm not sure that others can't.  The woman's voice was at such close range that McCray's suit radio madea useful RDF set. He located her direction easily enough, shielding thetiny built-in antenna with the tungsten-steel blade of the ax, whileshe begged him to hurry. Her voice was heavily accented, with somewords in a language he did not recognize. She seemed to be in shock.     McCray was hardly surprised at that; he had been close enough to shockhimself. He tried to reassure her as he searched for a way out of thehall, but in the middle of a word her voice stopped.     He hesitated, hefting the ax, glancing back at the way he had come.There had to be a way out, even if it meant chopping through a wall.     When he turned around again there was a door. It was oddly shaped andunlike the door he had hewn through, but clearly a door all the same,and it was open.     McCray regarded it grimly. He went back in his memory with meticulouscare. Had he not looked at, this very spot a matter of moments before?He had. And had there been an open door then? There had not. Therehadn't been even a shadowy outline of the three-sided, uneven openingthat stood there now.     Still, it led in the proper direction. McCray added one moreinexplicable fact to his file and walked through. He was in anotherhall—or tunnel—rising quite steeply to the right. By his reckoning itwas the proper direction. He labored up it, sweating under the weightof the suit, and found another open door, this one round, and behindit—     Yes, there was the woman whose voice he had heard.     It was a woman, all right. The voice had been so strained that hehadn't been positive. Even now, short black hair might not have provedit, and she was lying face down but the waist and hips were a woman's,even though she wore a bulky, quilted suit of coveralls.     He knelt beside her and gently turned her face.     She was unconscious. Broad, dark face, with no make-up; she wasapparently in her late thirties. She appeared to be Chinese.     She breathed, a little raggedly but without visible discomfort; herface was relaxed as though she were sleeping. She did not rouse as hemoved her.     He realized she was breathing the air of the room they were in.     His instant first thought was that she was in danger of asphyxiation;","Physically speaking, the probes refer to the snakelike mandibles that form the arms and legs of the alien race to which Hatcher belongs. These mandibles are able to detach themselves and travel vast distances away from the body, conducting experiments and running errands controlled remotely by the brain. When they return to the body, they settle into little grooves formed in the skin at the base of the globular host body. Hatcher manages the probe team responsible for observing McCray and running him through a series of tests. The supervising council oversees operations of all the various Probe Teams throughout the universe; the ultimate goal of all Probe Teams is to discover a way in which to defend their race against the hostile Old Ones who have recently resurfaced and captured a team member from The Central Masses Probe Team."
"Who is Herrell McCray and what happens to him in the story? </s>     THE FIVE HELLS OF ORION     BY FREDERICK POHL     Out in the great gas cloud of the Orion     Nebula McCray found an ally—and a foe!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1963.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      His name was Herrell McCray and he was scared.     As best he could tell, he was in a sort of room no bigger than a prisoncell. Perhaps it was a prison cell. Whatever it was, he had no businessin it; for five minutes before he had been spaceborne, on the Long Jumpfrom Earth to the thriving colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. McCraywas ship's navigator, plotting course corrections—not that there wereany, ever; but the reason there were none was that the check-sightingswere made every hour of the long flight. He had read off the azimuthangles from the computer sights, automatically locked on their beaconstars, and found them correct; then out of long habit confirmed thelocking mechanism visually. It was only a personal quaintness; he haddone it a thousand times. And while he was looking at Betelgeuse, Rigeland Saiph ... it happened.     The room was totally dark, and it seemed to be furnished with acollection of hard, sharp, sticky and knobby objects of various shapesand a number of inconvenient sizes. McCray tripped over somethingthat rocked under his feet and fell against something that clatteredhollowly. He picked himself up, braced against something that smelleddangerously of halogen compounds, and scratched his shoulder, rightthrough his space-tunic, against something that vibrated as he touchedit.     McCray had no idea where he was, and no way to find out.     Not only was he in darkness, but in utter silence as well. No. Notquite utter silence.     Somewhere, just at the threshold of his senses, there was somethinglike a voice. He could not quite hear it, but it was there. He sat asstill as he could, listening; it remained elusive.     Probably it was only an illusion.     But the room itself was hard fact. McCray swore violently and out loud.     It was crazy and impossible. There simply was no way for him to getfrom a warm, bright navigator's cubicle on      Starship Jodrell Bank     tothis damned, dark, dismal hole of a place where everything was out tohurt him and nothing explained what was going on. He cried aloud inexasperation: If I could only      see     !     He tripped and fell against something that was soft, slimy and, likebaker's dough, not at all resilient.     A flickering halo of pinkish light appeared. He sat up, startled. Hewas looking at something that resembled a suit of medieval armor.  It was, he saw in a moment, not armor but a spacesuit. But what was thelight? And what were these other things in the room?     Wherever he looked, the light danced along with his eyes. It was likehaving tunnel vision or wearing blinders. He could see what he waslooking at, but he could see nothing else. And the things he couldsee made no sense. A spacesuit, yes; he knew that he could constructa logical explanation for that with no trouble—maybe a subspacemeteorite striking the      Jodrell Bank     , an explosion, himself knockedout, brought here in a suit ... well, it was an explanation with moreholes than fabric, like a fisherman's net, but at least it was rational.     How to explain a set of Gibbon's      Decline and Fall of the RomanEmpire?     A space-ax? Or the old-fashioned child's rocking-chair, thechemistry set—or, most of all, the scrap of gaily printed fabricthat, when he picked it up, turned out to be a girl's scanty bathingsuit? It was slightly reassuring, McCray thought, to find that most ofthe objects were more or less familiar. Even the child's chair—why,he'd had one more or less like that himself, long before he was oldenough to go to school. But what were they doing here?     Not everything he saw was familiar. The walls of the room itself werestrange. They were not metal or plaster or knotty pine; they werenot papered, painted or overlaid with stucco. They seemed to be madeof some sort of hard organic compound, perhaps a sort of plastic orprocessed cellulose. It was hard to tell colors in the pinkish light.But they seemed to have none. They were neutral—the color of ageddriftwood or unbleached cloth.     Three of the walls were that way, and the floor and ceiling. The fourthwall was something else. Areas in it had the appearance of gratings;from them issued the pungent, distasteful halogen odor. They might beventilators, he thought; but if so the air they brought in was worsethan what he already had.     McCray was beginning to feel more confident. It was astonishing how alittle light made an impossible situation bearable, how quickly hiscourage flowed back when he could see again.     He stood still, thinking. Item, a short time ago—subjectively itseemed to be minutes—he had been aboard the      Jodrell Bank     withnothing more on his mind than completing his check-sighting and meetingone of the female passengers for coffee. Item, apart from beingshaken up and—he admitted it—scared damn near witless, he did notseem to be hurt. Item, wherever he was now, it became, not so much whathad happened to him, but what had happened to the ship?     He allowed that thought to seep into his mind. Suppose there had beenan accident to the      Jodrell Bank     .     He could, of course, be dead. All this could be the fantasies of acooling brain.     McCray grinned into the pink-lit darkness. The thought had somehowrefreshed him, like icewater between rounds, and with a clearing headhe remembered what a spacesuit was good for.     It held a radio.     He pressed the unsealing tabs, slipped his hand into the vacant chestof the suit and pulled out the hand mike. This is Herrell McCray, hesaid, calling the      Jodrell Bank     .     No response. He frowned. This is Herrell McCray, calling      JodrellBank     .     Herrell McCray, calling anybody, come in, please.     But there was no answer.     Thoughtfully he replaced the microphone. This was ultrawave radio,something more than a million times faster than light, with a rangemeasured, at least, in hundreds of light-years. If there was no answer,he was a good long way from anywhere.     Of course, the thing might not be operating.     He reached for the microphone again—     He cried aloud.     The pinkish lights went out. He was in the dark again, worse dark thanbefore.     For before the light had gone, McCray had seen what had escapedhis eyes before. The suit and the microphone were clear enough inthe pinkish glimmer; but the hand—his own hand, cupped to hold themicrophone—he had not seen at all. Nor his arm. Nor, in one fleetingmoment of study, his chest.     McCray could not see any part of his own body at all.      II     Someone else could.     Someone was watching Herrell McCray, with the clinical fascinationof a biochemist observing the wigglings of paramecia in a newantibiotic—and with the prayerful emotions of a starving, shipwrecked,sailor, watching the inward bobbing drift of a wave-born cask that      may     contain food.     Suppose you call him Hatcher (and suppose you call it a him.)Hatcher was not exactly male, because his race had no true males; butit did have females and he was certainly not that. Hatcher did not inany way look like a human being, but they had features in common.     If Hatcher and McCray had somehow managed to strike up an acquaintance,they might have got along very well. Hatcher, like McCray, was anadventurous soul, young, able, well-learned in the technical sciencesof his culture. Both enjoyed games—McCray baseball, poker andthree-dimensional chess; Hatcher a number of sports which defy humandescription. Both held positions of some importance—considering theirages—in the affairs of their respective worlds.     Physically they were nothing alike. Hatcher was a three-foot,hard-shelled sphere of jelly. He had arms and legs, but they werenot organically attached to himself. They were snakelike things whichobeyed the orders of his brain as well as your mind can make your toescurl; but they did not touch him directly. Indeed, they worked as wella yard or a quarter-mile away as they did when, rarely, they restedin the crevices they had been formed from in his skin. At greaterdistances they worked less well, for reasons irrelevant to the Law ofInverse Squares.     Hatcher's principal task at this moment was to run the probe teamwhich had McCray under observation, and he was more than a littleexcited. His members, disposed about the room where he had sent them onvarious errands, quivered and shook a little; yet they were the calmestlimbs in the room; the members of the other team workers were in astate of violent commotion.     The probe team had had a shock.     Paranormal powers, muttered Hatcher's second in command, and theothers mumbled agreement. Hatcher ordered silence, studying thespecimen from Earth.     After a long moment he turned his senses from the Earthman.Incredible—but it's true enough, he said. I'd better report. Watchhim, he added, but that was surely unnecessary. Their job was towatch McCray, and they would do their job; and even more, not one ofthem could have looked away to save his life from the spectacle ofa creature as odd and, from their point of view, hideously alien asHerrell McCray.  Hatcher hurried through the halls of the great buried structure inwhich he worked, toward the place where the supervising council of allprobes would be in permanent session. They admitted him at once.     Hatcher identified himself and gave a quick, concise report:     The subject recovered consciousness a short time ago and began toinspect his enclosure. His method of doing so was to put his ownmembers in physical contact with the various objects in the enclosure.After observing him do this for a time we concluded he might be unableto see and so we illuminated his field of vision for him.     This appeared to work well for a time. He seemed relativelyundisturbed. However, he then reverted to physical-contact,manipulating certain appurtenances of an artificial skin we hadprovided for him.     He then began to vibrate the atmosphere by means of resonating organsin his breathing passage.     Simultaneously, the object he was holding, attached to the artificialskin, was discovered to be generating paranormal forces.     The supervising council rocked with excitement. You're sure? demandedone of the councilmen.     Yes, sir. The staff is preparing a technical description of the forcesnow, but I can say that they are electromagnetic vibrations modulatinga carrier wave of very high speed, and in turn modulated by thevibrations of the atmosphere caused by the subject's own breathing.     Fantastic, breathed the councillor, in a tone of dawning hope. Howabout communicating with him, Hatcher? Any progress?     Well ... not much, sir. He suddenly panicked. We don't know why; butwe thought we'd better pull back and let him recover for a while.     The council conferred among itself for a moment, Hatcher waiting. Itwas not really a waste of time for him; with the organs he had left inthe probe-team room, he was in fairly close touch with what was goingon—knew that McCray was once again fumbling among the objects in thedark, knew that the team-members had tried illuminating the room forhim briefly and again produced the rising panic.     Still, Hatcher fretted. He wanted to get back.     Stop fidgeting, commanded the council leader abruptly. Hatcher, youare to establish communication at once.     But, sir.... Hatcher swung closer, his thick skin quivering slightly;he would have gestured if he had brought members with him to gesturewith. We've done everything we dare. We've made the place homeyfor him— actually, what he said was more like,      we've warmed thebiophysical nuances of his enclosure     —and tried to guess his needs;and we're frightening him half to death. We      can't     go faster. Thiscreature is in no way similar to us, you know. He relies on paranormalforces—heat, light, kinetic energy—for his life. His chemistry is notours, his processes of thought are not ours, his entire organism iscloser to the inanimate rocks of a sea-bottom than to ourselves.     Understood, Hatcher. In your first report you stated these creatureswere intelligent.     Yes, sir. But not in our way.     But in      a     way, and you must learn that way. I know. One lobster-clawshaped member drifted close to the councillor's body and raised itselfin an admonitory gesture. You want time. But we don't have time,Hatcher. Yours is not the only probe team working. The Central Massesteam has just turned in a most alarming report.     Have they secured a subject? Hatcher demanded jealously.     The councillor paused. Worse than that, Hatcher. I am afraid theirsubjects have secured one of them. One of them is missing.     There was a moment's silence. Frozen, Hatcher could only wait. Thecouncil room was like a tableau in a museum until the councillor spokeagain, each council member poised over his locus-point, his membersdrifting about him.     Finally the councillor said, I speak for all of us, I think. If theOld Ones have seized one of our probers our time margin is considerablynarrowed. Indeed, we may not have any time at all. You must doeverything you can to establish communication with your subject.     But the danger to the specimen— Hatcher protested automatically.     —is no greater, said the councillor, than the danger to every oneof us if we do not find allies      now     .  Hatcher returned to his laboratory gloomily.     It was just like the council to put the screws on; they had areputation for demanding results at any cost—even at the cost ofdestroying the only thing you had that would make results possible.     Hatcher did not like the idea of endangering the Earthman. It cannotbe said that he was emotionally involved; it was not pity or sympathythat caused him to regret the dangers in moving too fast towardcommunication. Not even Hatcher had quite got over the revoltingphysical differences between the Earthman and his own people. ButHatcher did not want him destroyed. It had been difficult enoughgetting him here.     Hatcher checked through the members that he had left with the rest ofhis team and discovered that there were no immediate emergencies, so hetook time to eat. In Hatcher's race this was accomplished in ways notentirely pleasant to Earthmen. A slit in the lower hemisphere of hisbody opened, like a purse, emitting a thin, pussy, fetid fluid whichHatcher caught and poured into a disposal trough at the side of theeating room. He then stuffed the slit with pulpy vegetation the textureof kelp; it closed, and his body was supplied with nourishment foranother day.     He returned quickly to the room.     His second in command was busy, but one of the other team workersreported—nothing new—and asked about Hatcher's appearance before thecouncil. Hatcher passed the question off. He considered telling hisstaff about the disappearance of the Central Masses team member, butdecided against it. He had not been told it was secret. On the otherhand, he had not been told it was not. Something of this importance wasnot lightly to be gossiped about. For endless generations the threatof the Old Ones had hung over his race, those queer, almost mythicalbeings from the Central Masses of the galaxy. One brush with them, inages past, had almost destroyed Hatcher's people. Only by running andhiding, bearing one of their planets with them and abandoning it—withits population—as a decoy, had they arrived at all.     Now they had detected mapping parties of the Old Ones dangerously nearthe spiral arm of the galaxy in which their planet was located, theyhad begun the Probe Teams to find some way of combating them, or offleeing again.     But it seemed that the Probe Teams themselves might be betraying theirexistence to their enemies—     Hatcher!     The call was urgent; he hurried to see what it was about. It was hissecond in command, very excited. What is it? Hatcher demanded.     Wait....     Hatcher was patient; he knew his assistant well. Obviously somethingwas about to happen. He took the moment to call his members back tohim for feeding; they dodged back to their niches on his skin, fittedthemselves into their vestigial slots, poured back their wastes intohis own circulation and ingested what they needed from the meal he hadjust taken.... Now! cried the assistant. Look!     At what passed among Hatcher's people for a viewing console an imagewas forming. Actually it was the assistant himself who formed it, not acathode trace or projected shadow; but it showed what it was meant toshow.     Hatcher was startled. Another one! And—is it a different species? Ormerely a different sex?     Study the probe for yourself, the assistant invited.     Hatcher studied him frostily; his patience was not, after all, endless.No matter, he said at last. Bring the other one in.     And then, in a completely different mood, We may need him badly. Wemay be in the process of killing our first one now.     Killing him, Hatcher?     Hatcher rose and shook himself, his mindless members floating away likepuppies dislodged from suck. Council's orders, he said. We've got togo into Stage Two of the project at once.      III     Before Stage Two began, or before Herrell McCray realized it had begun,he had an inspiration.     The dark was absolute, but he remembered where the spacesuit had beenand groped his way to it and, yes, it had what all spacesuits had tohave. It had a light. He found the toggle that turned it on and pressedit.     Light. White, flaring, Earthly light, that showed everything—evenhimself.     God bless, he said, almost beside himself with joy. Whatever thatpinkish, dancing halo had been, it had thrown him into a panic; nowthat he could see his own hand again, he could blame the weird effectson some strange property of the light.     At the moment he heard the click that was the beginning of Stage Two.     He switched off the light and stood for a moment, listening.     For a second he thought he heard the far-off voice, quiet, calm andalmost hopeless, that he had sensed hours before; but then that wasgone. Something else was gone. Some faint mechanical sound that hadhardly registered at the time, but was not missing. And there was,perhaps, a nice new sound that had not been there before; a veryfaint, an almost inaudible elfin hiss.     McCray switched the light on and looked around. There seemed to be nochange.     And yet, surely, it was warmer in here.     He could see no difference; but perhaps, he thought, he could smellone. The unpleasant halogen odor from the grating was surely strongernow. He stood there, perplexed.     A tinny little voice from the helmet of the space suit said sharply,amazement in its tone, McCray, is that you? Where the devil are youcalling from?     He forgot smell, sound and temperature and leaped for the suit. Thisis Herrell McCray, he cried. I'm in a room of some sort, apparentlyon a planet of approximate Earth mass. I don't know—     McCray! cried the tiny voice in his ear. Where are you? This is      Jodrell Bank     calling. Answer, please!     I      am     answering, damn it, he roared. What took you so long?     Herrell McCray, droned the tiny voice in his ear, Herrell McCray,Herrell McCray, this is      Jodrell Bank     responding to your message,acknowledge please. Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray....     It kept on, and on.     McCray took a deep breath and thought. Something was wrong. Either theydidn't hear him, which meant the radio wasn't transmitting, or—no.That was not it; they      had     heard him, because they were responding.But it seemed to take them so long....     Abruptly his face went white. Took them so long! He cast back in hismind, questing for a fact, unable to face its implications. When wasit he called them? Two hours ago? Three?     Did that mean—did it      possibly     mean—that there was a lag of an houror two each way? Did it, for example, mean that at the speed of hissuit's pararadio, millions of times faster than light, it took      hours     to get a message to the ship and back?     And if so ... where in the name of heaven was he?  Herrell McCray was a navigator, which is to say, a man who has learnedto trust the evidence of mathematics and instrument readings beyond theguesses of his common sense. When      Jodrell Bank     , hurtling fasterthan light in its voyage between stars, made its regular positioncheck, common sense was a liar. Light bore false witness. The line ofsight was trustworthy directly forward and directly after—sometimesnot even then—and it took computers, sensing their data throughinstruments, to comprehend a star bearing and convert three fixes intoa position.     If the evidence of his radio contradicted common sense, common sensewas wrong. Perhaps it was impossible to believe what the radio'smessage implied; but it was not necessary to believe, only to act.     McCray thumbed down the transmitter button and gave a concise reportof his situation and his guesses. I don't know how I got here. Idon't know how long I've been gone, since I was unconscious for atime. However, if the transmission lag is a reliable indication— heswallowed and went on—I'd estimate I am something more than fivehundred light-years away from you at this moment. That's all I have tosay, except for one more word: Help.     He grinned sourly and released the button. The message was on its way,and it would be hours before he could have a reply. Therefore he had toconsider what to do next.     He mopped his brow. With the droning, repetitious call from the shipfinally quiet, the room was quiet again. And warm.     Very warm, he thought tardily; and more than that. The halogen stenchwas strong in his nostrils again.     Hurriedly McCray scrambled into the suit. By the time he was sealeddown he was coughing from the bottom of his lungs, deep, tearing raspsthat pained him, uncontrollable. Chlorine or fluorine, one of them wasin the air he had been breathing. He could not guess where it had comefrom; but it was ripping his lungs out.     He flushed the interior of the suit out with a reckless disregard forthe wastage of his air reserve, holding his breath as much as he could,daring only shallow gasps that made him retch and gag. After a longtime he could breathe, though his eyes were spilling tears.     He could see the fumes in the room now. The heat was building up.     Automatically—now that he had put it on and so started itsservo-circuits operating—the suit was cooling him. This was adeep-space suit, regulation garb when going outside the pressure hullof an FTL ship. It was good up to at least five hundred degrees in thinair, perhaps three or four hundred in dense. In thin air or in space itwas the elastic joints and couplings that depolymerized when the heatgrew too great; in dense air, with conduction pouring energy in fasterthan the cooling coils could suck it out and hurl it away, it was therefrigerating equipment that broke down.     McCray had no way of knowing just how hot it was going to get. Nor,for that matter, had the suit been designed to operate in a corrosivemedium.     All in all it was time for him to do something.  Among the debris on the floor, he remembered, was a five-foot space-ax,tungsten-steel blade and springy aluminum shaft.     McCray caught it up and headed for the door. It felt good in hisgauntlets, a rewarding weight; any weapon straightens the back of theman who holds it, and McCray was grateful for this one. With somethingconcrete to do he could postpone questioning. Never mind why he hadbeen brought here; never mind how. Never mind what he would, or could,do next; all those questions could recede into the background of hismind while he swung the ax and battered his way out of this poisonedoven.         Crash-clang!     The double jolt ran up the shaft of the ax, through hisgauntlets and into his arm; but he was making progress, he could seethe plastic—or whatever it was—of the door. It was chipping out. Noteasily, very reluctantly; but flaking out in chips that left a whitepowdery residue.     At this rate, he thought grimly, he would be an hour getting throughit. Did he have an hour?     But it did not take an hour. One blow was luckier than the rest; itmust have snapped the lock mechanism. The door shook and slid ajar.McCray got the thin of the blade into the crack and pried it wide.     He was in another room, maybe a hall, large and bare.     McCray put the broad of his back against the broken door and pressed itas nearly closed as he could; it might not keep the gas and heat out,but it would retard them.     The room was again unlighted—at least to McCray's eyes. There was noteven that pink pseudo-light that had baffled him; here was nothingbut the beam of his suit lamp. What it showed was cryptic. There wereevidences of use: shelves, boxy contraptions that might have beencupboards, crude level surfaces attached to the walls that might havebeen workbenches. Yet they were queerly contrived, for it was notpossible to guess from them much about the creatures who used them.Some were near the floor, some at waist height, some even suspendedfrom the ceiling itself. A man would need a ladder to work at thesebenches and McCray, staring, thought briefly of many-armed blind giantsor shapeless huge intelligent amoebae, and felt the skin prickle at theback of his neck.     He tapped half-heartedly at one of the closed cupboards, and was notsurprised when it proved as refractory as the door. Undoubtedly hecould batter it open, but it was not likely that much would be left ofits contents when he was through; and there was the question of time.     But his attention was diverted by a gleam from one of the benches.Metallic parts lay heaped in a pile. He poked at them with astiff-fingered gauntlet; they were oddly familiar. They were, hethought, very much like the parts of a bullet-gun.     In fact, they were. He could recognize barrel, chamber, trigger, evena couple of cartridges, neatly opened and the grains of powder stackedbeside them. It was an older, clumsier model than the kind he had seenin survival locker, on the      Jodrell Bank     —and abruptly wished he werecarrying now—but it was a pistol. Another trophy, like the strangeassortment in the other room? He could not guess. But the others hadbeen more familiar; they all have come from his own ship. He wasprepared to swear that nothing like this antique had been aboard.     The drone began again in his ear, as it had at five-minute intervalsall along:     Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, Herrell McCray, this is      Jodrell Bank     calling Herrell McCray....     And louder, blaring, then fading to normal volume as the AVC circuitstoned the signal down, another voice. A woman's voice, crying out inpanic and fear:       Jodrell Bank!     Where are you? Help!      IV     Hatcher's second in command said: He has got through the firstsurvival test. In fact, he broke his way out! What next?     Wait! Hatcher ordered sharply. He was watching the new specimen anda troublesome thought had occurred to him. The new one was female andseemed to be in pain; but it was not the pain that disturbed Hatcher,it was something far more immediate to his interests.     I think, he said slowly, that they are in contact.     His assistant vibrated startlement.     I know, Hatcher said, but watch. Do you see? He is going straighttoward her.     Hatcher, who was not human, did not possess truly human emotions; buthe did feel amazement when he was amazed, and fear when there wascause to be afraid. These specimens, obtained with so much difficulty,needed so badly, were his responsibility. He knew the issues involvedmuch better than any of his helpers. They could only be surprised atthe queer antics of the aliens with attached limbs and strange powers.Hatcher knew that this was not a freak show, but a matter of life anddeath. He said, musing:     This new one, I cannot communicate with her, but I get—almost—awhisper, now and then. The first one, the male, nothing. But thisfemale is perhaps not quite mute.     Then shall we abandon him and work with her, forgetting the first one?     Hatcher hesitated. No, he said at last. The male is responding well.Remember that when last this experiment was done every subject died; heis alive at least. But I am wondering. We can't quite communicate withthe female—     But?     But I'm not sure that others can't.  The woman's voice was at such close range that McCray's suit radio madea useful RDF set. He located her direction easily enough, shielding thetiny built-in antenna with the tungsten-steel blade of the ax, whileshe begged him to hurry. Her voice was heavily accented, with somewords in a language he did not recognize. She seemed to be in shock.     McCray was hardly surprised at that; he had been close enough to shockhimself. He tried to reassure her as he searched for a way out of thehall, but in the middle of a word her voice stopped.     He hesitated, hefting the ax, glancing back at the way he had come.There had to be a way out, even if it meant chopping through a wall.     When he turned around again there was a door. It was oddly shaped andunlike the door he had hewn through, but clearly a door all the same,and it was open.     McCray regarded it grimly. He went back in his memory with meticulouscare. Had he not looked at, this very spot a matter of moments before?He had. And had there been an open door then? There had not. Therehadn't been even a shadowy outline of the three-sided, uneven openingthat stood there now.     Still, it led in the proper direction. McCray added one moreinexplicable fact to his file and walked through. He was in anotherhall—or tunnel—rising quite steeply to the right. By his reckoning itwas the proper direction. He labored up it, sweating under the weightof the suit, and found another open door, this one round, and behindit—     Yes, there was the woman whose voice he had heard.     It was a woman, all right. The voice had been so strained that hehadn't been positive. Even now, short black hair might not have provedit, and she was lying face down but the waist and hips were a woman's,even though she wore a bulky, quilted suit of coveralls.     He knelt beside her and gently turned her face.     She was unconscious. Broad, dark face, with no make-up; she wasapparently in her late thirties. She appeared to be Chinese.     She breathed, a little raggedly but without visible discomfort; herface was relaxed as though she were sleeping. She did not rouse as hemoved her.     He realized she was breathing the air of the room they were in.     His instant first thought was that she was in danger of asphyxiation;","Herrell McCray is the navigator for the Starship Jodrell Bank whose mission is to reach the colonies circling Betelgeuse Nine. He is young, adventurous, gifted in science and technology, and enjoys playing baseball, poker, and 3D chess. When McCray finds himself inexplicably abducted and transported to a dark room in an unknown location, he is confused about how he ended up in that location and why he is surrounded by items that vaguely remind him of his childhood. He is grateful when a pinkish light offers some illumination, and he attempts to contact his ship using the radio on a spacesuit he finds in the room. Before the light goes out, he panics when he is not able to see any part of his body; he later realizes this was a trick of the light. McCray continues to attempt to make contact with the ship and hours go by before he receives a reply, which makes him realize he is possibly millions of lightyears away from it. As McCray realizes his room is slowly filling with toxic fumes, he uses an ax he finds to break free and tries to find a way to escape his unknown prison. As he navigates the unusual building, he finds a gun and eventually hears a transmission from an unknown woman who is also calling out for the ship. He makes his way through bizarre doors until he finds her face down on the ground. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     A Gleeb for Earth     By CHARLES SHAFHAUSER     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1953.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Not to be or not to not be ... that was the       not-question for the invader of the not-world.        Dear Editor:     My 14 year old boy, Ronnie, is typing this letter for me because hecan do it neater and use better grammar. I had to get in touch withsomebody about this because if there is something to it, then somebody,everybody, is going to point finger at me, Ivan Smernda, and say, Whydidn't you warn us?     I could not go to the police because they are not too friendly tome because of some of my guests who frankly are stew bums. Also theymight think I was on booze, too, or maybe the hops, and get my licenserevoked. I run a strictly legit hotel even though some of my guestsmight be down on their luck now and then.     What really got me mixed up in this was the mysterious disappearance oftwo of my guests. They both took a powder last Wednesday morning.     Now get this. In one room, that of Joe Binkle, which maybe is an alias,I find nothing but a suit of clothes, some butts and the letters Iinclude here in same package. Binkle had only one suit. That I know.And this was it laying right in the middle of the room. Inside thecoat was the vest, inside the vest the shirt, inside the shirt theunderwear. The pants were up in the coat and inside of them was alsothe underwear. All this was buttoned up like Binkle had melted out ofit and dripped through a crack in the floor. In a bureau drawer werethe letters I told you about.     Now. In the room right under Binkle's lived another stew bum thatchecked in Thursday ... name Ed Smith, alias maybe, too. This guy was areal case. He brought with him a big mirror with a heavy bronze frame.Airloom, he says. He pays a week in advance, staggers up the stairs tohis room with the mirror and that's the last I see of him.     In Smith's room on Wednesday I find only a suit of clothes, the samesuit he wore when he came in. In the coat the vest, in the vest theshirt, in the shirt the underwear. Also in the pants. Also all in themiddle of the floor. Against the far wall stands the frame of themirror. Only the frame!     What a spot to be in! Now it might have been a gag. Sometimes theseguys get funny ideas when they are on the stuff. But then I readthe letters. This knocks me for a loop. They are all in differenthandwritings. All from different places. Stamps all legit, my kid says.India, China, England, everywhere.     My kid, he reads. He says it's no joke. He wants to call the cops ormaybe some doctor. But I say no. He reads your magazine so he sayswrite to you, send you the letters. You know what to do. Now you havethem. Maybe you print. Whatever you do, Mr. Editor, remember my place,the Plaza Ritz Arms, is straight establishment. I don't drink. I nevertouch junk, not even aspirin.     Yours very truly,     Ivan Smernda  Bombay, India     June 8     Mr. Joe Binkle     Plaza Ritz Arms     New York City     Dear Joe:     Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,Glmpauszn, will be born.     Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirrorgateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with suchtremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetuswithin the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am staticand for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universewith fear and trepidation.     As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but gotno response. What could have diminished your powers of articulatewave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages andreturning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsingand surrounded with an impregnable chimera.     Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned thenot-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by whatthe not-world calls mail till we meet. For this purpose I mustutilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whoseinadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time.     I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentaryreports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasuryof facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be freeof the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed inyour task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when wereturn again.     The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city ofBombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exactlocation, for the not-people might have access to the information.     I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When itis alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring fromthe pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrationallikeness.     I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am amongthem. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gatewaylies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child inorder that I might destroy the not-people completely.     All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix toofast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.Gezsltrysk, what a task!     Farewell till later.     Glmpauszn  Wichita, Kansas     June 13     Dear Joe:     Mnghjkl, fhfjgfhjklop phelnoprausynks. No. When I communicate with you,I see I must avoid those complexities of procedure for which there areno terms in this language. There is no way of describing to you innot-language what I had to go through during the first moments of mybirth.     Now I know what difficulties you must have had with your limitedequipment. These not-people are unpredictable and strange. Their doctorcame in and weighed me again the day after my birth. Consternationreigned when it was discovered I was ten pounds heavier. Whatdifference could it possibly make? Many doctors then came in to see me.As they arrived hourly, they found me heavier and heavier. Naturally,since I am growing. This is part of my instructions. My not-mother(Gezsltrysk!) then burst into tears. The doctors conferred, threw uptheir hands and left.     I learned the following day that the opposite component of mynot-mother, my not-father, had been away riding on some conveyanceduring my birth. He was out on ... what did they call it? Oh, yes, abender. He did not arrive till three days after I was born.     When I heard them say that he was straightening up to come see me, Imade a special effort and grew marvelously in one afternoon. I was 36not-world inches tall by evening. My not-father entered while I wasstanding by the crib examining a syringe the doctor had left behind.He stopped in his tracks on entering the room and seemed incapable ofspeech.     Dredging into the treasury of knowledge I had come equipped with, Iproduced the proper phrase for occasions of this kind in the not-world.     Poppa, I said.     This was the first use I had made of the so-called vocal cords thatare now part of my extended matrix. The sound I emitted soundedlow-pitched, guttural and penetrating even to myself. It must havejarred on my not-father's ears, for he turned and ran shouting from theroom.     They apprehended him on the stairs and I heard him babble somethingabout my being a monster and no child of his. My not-mother appeared atthe doorway and instead of being pleased at the progress of my growth,she fell down heavily. She made a distinct      thump     on the floor.     This brought the rest of them on the run, so I climbed out the windowand retreated across a nearby field. A prolonged search was launched,but I eluded them. What unpredictable beings!     I reported my tremendous progress back to our world, including thecleverness by which I managed to escape my pursuers. I received a replyfrom Blgftury which, on careful analysis, seems to be small praiseindeed. In fact, some of his phrases apparently contain veiled threats.But you know old Blgftury. He wanted to go on this expedition himselfand it's his nature never to flatter anyone.     From now on I will refer to not-people simply as people, dropping thequalifying preface except where comparisons must be made between thisalleged world and our own. It is merely an offshoot of our primitivemythology when this was considered a spirit world, just as these peoplerefer to our world as never-never land and other anomalies. But welearned otherwise, while they never have.     New sensations crowd into my consciousness and I am having a hardtime classifying them. Anyway, I shall carry on swiftly now to theinevitable climax in which I singlehanded will obliterate the terror ofthe not-world and return to our world a hero. I cannot understand yournot replying to my letters. I have given you a box number. What couldhave happened to your vibrations?     Glmpauszn  Albuquerque, New Mexico     June 15     Dear Joe:     I had tremendous difficulty getting a letter off to you this time.My process—original with myself, by the way—is to send out feelervibrations for what these people call the psychic individual. Then Iestablish contact with him while he sleeps and compel him without hisknowledge to translate my ideas into written language. He writes myletter and mails it to you. Of course, he has no awareness of what hehas done.     My first five tries were unfortunate. Each time I took control of anindividual who could not read or write! Finally I found my man, butI fear his words are limited. Ah, well. I had great things to tellyou about my progress, but I cannot convey even a hint of how I haveaccomplished these miracles through the thick skull of this incompetent.     In simple terms then: I crept into a cave and slipped into a kind ofsleep, directing my squhjkl ulytz & uhrytzg ... no, it won't come out.Anyway, I grew overnight to the size of an average person here.     As I said before, floods of impressions are driving into my xzbyl ...my brain ... from various nerve and sense areas and I am having a hardtime classifying them. My one idea was to get to a chemist and acquirethe stuff needed for the destruction of these people.     Sunrise came as I expected. According to my catalog of information, theimpressions aroused by it are of beauty. It took little conditioningfor me finally to react in this manner. This is truly an efficientmechanism I inhabit.     I gazed about me at the mixture of lights, forms and impressions.It was strange and ... now I know ... beautiful. However, I hurriedimmediately toward the nearest chemist. At the same time I looked upand all about me at the beauty.     Soon an individual approached. I knew what to do from my information. Isimply acted natural. You know, one of your earliest instructions wasto realize that these people see nothing unusual in you if you do notlet yourself believe they do.     This individual I classified as a female of a singular variety here.Her hair was short, her upper torso clad in a woolen garment. Shewore ... what are they? ... oh, yes, sneakers. My attention wasdiverted by a scream as I passed her. I stopped.     The woman gesticulated and continued to scream. People hurried fromnearby houses. I linked my hands behind me and watched the scene withan attitude of mild interest. They weren't interested in me, I toldmyself. But they were.     I became alarmed, dived into a bush and used a mechanism that youunfortunately do not have—invisibility. I lay there and listened.     He was stark naked, the girl with the sneakers said.     A figure I recognized as a police officer spoke to her.     Lizzy, you'll just have to keep these crackpot friends of yours out ofthis area.     But—     No more buck-bathing, Lizzy, the officer ordered. No more speechesin the Square. Not when it results in riots at five in the morning. Nowwhere is your naked friend? I'm going to make an example of him.     That was it—I had forgotten clothes. There is only one answer to thisoversight on my part. My mind is confused by the barrage of impressionsthat assault it. I must retire now and get them all classified. Beauty,pain, fear, hate, love, laughter. I don't know one from the other. Imust feel each, become accustomed to it.     The more I think about it, the more I realize that the information Ihave been given is very unrealistic. You have been inefficient, Joe.What will Blgftury and the others say of this? My great mission isimpaired. Farewell, till I find a more intelligent mind so I can writeyou with more enlightenment.     Glmpauszn  Moscow, Idaho     June 17     Dear Joe:     I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greetme in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of fivebucks!     It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up withthe correct variant of the slang term buck. Is it possible that youare powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live inthis inferior world?     A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged ina struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusionsof this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have liveda semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this worldripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individualfluctuations make up our sentient population.     Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardizedby these people. The not-world and our world are like two basketsas you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with thegreatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sidesare joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrationalplane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a worldof higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world.     They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selvesinto ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to forcesome of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,causing them much agony and fright.     The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people callmediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit oneof them at the first opportunity to see for myself.     Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I pickedthem up while examining the slang portion of my information catalogwhich you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimatecause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peaceof our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,get hep.     As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice.     Glmpauszn  Des Moines, Iowa     June 19     Dear Joe:     Your letter was imponderable till I had thrashed through long passagesin my information catalog that I had never imagined I would need.Biological functions and bodily processes which are labeled hererevolting are used freely in your missive. You can be sure they areall being forwarded to Blgftury. If I were not involved in the mostimportant part of my journey—completion of the weapon against thenot-worlders—I would come to New York immediately. You would rue thatday, I assure you.     Glmpauszn  Boise, Idaho     July 15     Dear Joe:     A great deal has happened to me since I wrote to you last.Systematically, I have tested each emotion and sensation listed inour catalog. I have been, as has been said in this world, like a reedbending before the winds of passion. In fact, I'm rather badly bentindeed. Ah! You'll pardon me, but I just took time for what is knownquaintly in this tongue as a hooker of red-eye. Ha! I've masteredeven the vagaries of slang in the not-language.... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. I feel much better now.     You see, Joe, as I attuned myself to the various impressions thatconstantly assaulted my mind through this body, I conditioned myself toreact exactly as our information catalog instructed me to.     Now it is all automatic, pure reflex. A sensation comes to me when I amburned; then I experience a burning pain. If the sensation is a tickle,I experience a tickle.     This morning I have what is known medically as a syndrome ... a groupof symptoms popularly referred to as a hangover ... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. Strangely ... now what was I saying? Oh, yes. Ha, ha. Strangelyenough, the reactions that come easiest to the people in this worldcame most difficult to me. Money-love, for example. It is a great thinghere, both among those who haven't got it and those who have.     I went out and got plenty of money. I walked invisible into a bank andcarried away piles of it. Then I sat and looked at it. I took the moneyto a remote room of the twenty room suite I have rented in the besthotel here in—no, sorry—and stared at it for hours.     Nothing happened. I didn't love the stuff or feel one way or the otherabout it. Yet all around me people are actually killing one another forthe love of it.     Anyway.... Ahhh. Pardon me. I got myself enough money to fill ten orfifteen rooms. By the end of the week I should have all eighteen sparerooms filled with money. If I don't love it then, I'll feel I havefailed. This alcohol is taking effect now.     Blgftury has been goading me for reports. To hell with his reports!I've got a lot more emotions to try, such as romantic love. I've beenstudying this phenomenon, along with other racial characteristics ofthese people, in the movies. This is the best place to see thesepeople as they really are. They all go into the movie houses and theredo homage to their own images. Very quaint type of idolatry.     Love. Ha! What an adventure this is becoming.     By the way, Joe, I'm forwarding that five dollars. You see, it won'tcost me anything. It'll come out of the pocket of the idiot who'swriting this letter. Pretty shrewd of me, eh?     I'm going out and look at that money again. I think I'm at lastlearning to love it, though not as much as I admire liquor. Well, onesimply must persevere, I always say.     Glmpauszn  Penobscot, Maine     July 20     Dear Joe:     Now you tell me not to drink alcohol. Why not? You never mentioned itin any of your vibrations to us, gleebs ago, when you first came acrossto this world. It will stint my powers? Nonsense! Already I have had aquart of the liquid today. I feel wonderful. Get that? I actually feelwonderful, in spite of this miserable imitation of a body.     There are long hours during which I am so well-integrated into thisbody and this world that I almost consider myself a member of it. NowI can function efficiently. I sent Blgftury some long reports todayoutlining my experiments in the realm of chemistry where we mustfinally defeat these people. Of course, I haven't made the experimentsyet, but I will. This is not deceit, merely realistic anticipation ofthe inevitable. Anyway, what the old xbyzrt doesn't know won't muss hisvibrations.     I went to what they call a nightclub here and picked out ablonde-haired woman, the kind that the books say men prefer. She wasattracted to me instantly. After all, the body I have devised isperfect in every detail ... actually a not-world ideal.     I didn't lose any time overwhelming her susceptibilities. I rememberdistinctly that just as I stooped to pick up a large roll of money Ihad dropped, her eyes met mine and in them I could see her admiration.We went to my suite and I showed her one of the money rooms. Would youbelieve it? She actually took off her shoes and ran around through themoney in her bare feet! Then we kissed.     Concealed in the dermis of the lips are tiny, highly sensitized nerveends which send sensations to the brain. The brain interprets theseimpulses in a certain manner. As a result, the fate of secretion in theadrenals on the ends of the kidneys increases and an enlivening of theentire endocrine system follows. Thus I felt the beginnings of love.     I sat her down on a pile of money and kissed her again. Again thetingling, again the secretion and activation. I integrated myselfquickly.     Now in all the motion pictures—true representations of life and lovein this world—the man with a lot of money or virtue kisses the girland tries to induce her to do something biological. She then refuses.This pleases both of them, for he wanted her to refuse. She, in turn,wanted him to want her, but also wanted to prevent him so that he wouldhave a high opinion of her. Do I make myself clear?     I kissed the blonde girl and gave her to understand what I then wanted.Well, you can imagine my surprise when she said yes! So I had failed. Ihad not found love.     I became so abstracted by this problem that the blonde girl fellasleep. I thoughtfully drank quantities of excellent alcohol called ginand didn't even notice when the blonde girl left.     I am now beginning to feel the effects of this alcohol again. Ha. Don'tI wish old Blgftury were here in the vibrational pattern of an olive?I'd get the blonde in and have her eat him out of a Martini. That is agin mixture.     I think I'll get a hot report off to the old so-and-so right now. It'lltake him a gleeb to figure this one out. I'll tell him I'm setting upan atomic reactor in the sewage systems here and that all we have to dois activate it and all the not-people will die of chain asphyxiation.     Boy, what an easy job this turned out to be. It's just a vacation. Joe,you old gold-bricker, imagine you here all these gleebs living off thefat of the land. Yak, yak. Affectionately.     Glmpauszn  Sacramento, Calif.     July 25     Dear Joe:     All is lost unless we work swiftly. I received your revealing letterthe morning after having a terrible experience of my own. I drank alot of gin for two days and then decided to go to one of these seancethings.     Somewhere along the way I picked up a red-headed girl. When we gotto the darkened seance room, I took the redhead into a corner andcontinued my investigations into the realm of love. I failed againbecause she said yes immediately.     The nerves of my dermis were working overtime when suddenly I had themost frightening experience of my life. Now I know what a horror thesepeople really are to our world.     The medium had turned out all the lights. He said there was a strongpsychic influence in the room somewhere. That was me, of course, but Iwas too busy with the redhead to notice.     Anyway, Mrs. Somebody wanted to make contact with her paternalgrandmother, Lucy, from the beyond. The medium went into his act. Heconcentrated and sweated and suddenly something began to take form inthe room. The best way to describe it in not-world language is a white,shapeless cascade of light.     Mrs. Somebody reared to her feet and screeched, Grandma Lucy! Then Ireally took notice.     Grandma Lucy, nothing! This medium had actually brought Blgfturypartially across the vibration barrier. He must have been vibrating inthe fringe area and got caught in the works. Did he look mad! His zyhkuwas open and his btgrimms were down.     Worst of all, he saw me. Looked right at me with an unbelievablepattern of pain, anger, fear and amazement in his matrix. Me and theredhead.     Then comes your letter today telling of the fate that befell you as aresult of drinking alcohol. Our wrenchingly attuned faculties in thesenot-world bodies need the loathsome drug to escape from the realityof not-reality. It's true. I cannot do without it now. The day is onlyhalf over and I have consumed a quart and a half. And it is dulling allmy powers as it has practically obliterated yours. I can't even becomeinvisible any more.     I must find the formula that will wipe out the not-world men quickly.     Quickly!     Glmpauszn  Florence, Italy     September 10     Dear Joe:     This telepathic control becomes more difficult every time. I must pickcloser points of communication soon. I have nothing to report butfailure. I bought a ton of equipment and went to work on the formulathat is half complete in my instructions. Six of my hotel rooms werefilled with tubes, pipes and apparatus of all kinds.     I had got my mechanism as close to perfect as possible when Irealized that, in my befuddled condition, I had set off a reactionthat inevitably would result in an explosion. I had to leave thereimmediately, but I could not create suspicion. The management was notaware of the nature of my activities.     I moved swiftly. I could not afford time to bring my baggage. Istuffed as much money into my pockets as I could and then saunteredinto the hotel lobby. Assuming my most casual air, I told the managerI was checking out. Naturally he was stunned since I was his bestcustomer.     But why, sir? he asked plaintively.     I was baffled. What could I tell him?     Don't you like the rooms? he persisted. Isn't the service good?     It's the rooms, I told him. They're—they're—     They're what? he wanted to know.     They're not safe.     Not safe? But that is ridiculous. This hotel is....     At this point the blast came. My nerves were a wreck from the alcohol.     See? I screamed. Not safe. I knew they were going to blow up!     He stood paralyzed as I ran from the lobby. Oh, well, never say die.Another day, another hotel. I swear I'm even beginning to think likethe not-men, curse them.     Glmpauszn  Rochester, New York     September 25     Dear Joe:     I have it! It is done! In spite of the alcohol, in spite of Blgftury'sniggling criticism, I have succeeded. I now have developed a formof mold, somewhat similar to the antibiotics of this world, that,transmitted to the human organism, will cause a disease whose end willbe swift and fatal.     First the brain will dissolve and then the body will fall apart.Nothing in this world can stop the spread of it once it is loose.Absolutely nothing.     We must use care. Stock in as much gin as you are able. I will bringwith me all that I can. Meanwhile I must return to my original place ofbirth into this world of horrors. There I will secure the gateway, alarge mirror, the vibrational point at which we shall meet and slowlyclimb the frequency scale to emerge into our own beautiful, now secureworld. You and I together, Joe, conquerors, liberators.     You say you eat little and drink as much as you can. The same withme. Even in this revolting world I am a sad sight. My not-world sensesfalter. This is the last letter. Tomorrow I come with the gateway. Whenthe gin is gone, we will plant the mold in the hotel where you live.     In only a single gleeb it will begin to work. The men of this queerworld will be no more. But we can't say we didn't have some fun, canwe, Joe?     And just let Blgftury make one crack. Just one xyzprlt. I'll havehgutry before the ghjdksla!     Glmpauszn  Dear Editor:     These guys might be queer drunk hopheads. But if not? If soon braindissolve, body fall apart, how long have we got? Please, anybody whoknows answer, write to me—Ivan Smernda, Plaza Ritz Arms—how long is agleeb?   ","A Gleeb for Earth is a collection of letters, signed by two characters - Ivan Smernda (a human on Earth who owns the Plaza Ritz Arms hotel in New York City) and Glmpauszn (an alien from a world that is entwined with Earth through a spiritual fringe). Ivan dictates the first letter through his son Ronnie (14 years old) and sends it to the Editor of a print publication, feeling responsible for publicizing what he witnessed to save humanity. Ivan recounts an occurrence in the Plaza Ritz Arms where two alcoholic guests that he calls “stew bums”, Joe Binkle and Ed Smith (an alias for Glmpauszn), mysteriously disappeared, leaving their suits behind as if they had melted out of them. Ed had checked in with a mirror with a heavy bronze frame. After their disappearance, Ivan found only their clothes, the frame of the mirror in Ed’s room, and a stack of letters in the bureau in Joe’s room, which are the letters that tell the remaining story.The vibrational plane of an alien world extends into Earth’s (which they call the not-world), allowing intrusive vibrations from Earth to semi-terrorize sentient alien vibrations. Human spiritual mediums can force psychic reproductions of themselves into the alien world, and conversely pull alien vibrations over the “fringe”. The aliens can’t tolerate it, and send Glmpauszn and Joe to take on human form and develop a chemical weapon to kill all humans.Glmpauszn crosses the fringe through a vibrational gateway that allows his consciousness to move into a newborn baby. Joe has already arrived in human form. Glmpauszn quickly grows the baby into an adult man. At three days old, he is 36 inches tall and talking, and a couple of days later is an adult man. Glmpauszn writes to Joe by controlling the minds of sleeping people around the world to pen the letters and then mail them to Joe at the Plaza Ritz Arms in New York City. He wonders why Joe won’t write to him, and can’t contact him spiritually, like normal, since Joe has fallen into alcoholism. Glmpauszn forgets to wear clothes and is nearly arrested, but escapes by becoming invisible. When Joe finally writes, it is to ask for money, enraging Glmpauszn who reports Joe’s actions to their boss, Blgftury. Glmpauszn becomes distracted by exploring human emotions like intimacy with women and love of money, which causes him to rob a bank and fill 18 rooms of a hotel with money. He also falls into alcoholism. Blgftury is accidentally summoned into a seance by a human medium who pulls Blgftury’s vibrations through the fringe (the very thing they are trying to stop from happening), and Glmpauszn is caught with a red-haired woman by his boss not doing his job. Glmpauszn finally develops a mold that can kill humans, and meets with Joe at the Plaza Ritz Arms with lots of gin that they consume before successfully returning to the vibrational frequency of their world, releasing the mold in the room."
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     A Gleeb for Earth     By CHARLES SHAFHAUSER     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1953.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Not to be or not to not be ... that was the       not-question for the invader of the not-world.        Dear Editor:     My 14 year old boy, Ronnie, is typing this letter for me because hecan do it neater and use better grammar. I had to get in touch withsomebody about this because if there is something to it, then somebody,everybody, is going to point finger at me, Ivan Smernda, and say, Whydidn't you warn us?     I could not go to the police because they are not too friendly tome because of some of my guests who frankly are stew bums. Also theymight think I was on booze, too, or maybe the hops, and get my licenserevoked. I run a strictly legit hotel even though some of my guestsmight be down on their luck now and then.     What really got me mixed up in this was the mysterious disappearance oftwo of my guests. They both took a powder last Wednesday morning.     Now get this. In one room, that of Joe Binkle, which maybe is an alias,I find nothing but a suit of clothes, some butts and the letters Iinclude here in same package. Binkle had only one suit. That I know.And this was it laying right in the middle of the room. Inside thecoat was the vest, inside the vest the shirt, inside the shirt theunderwear. The pants were up in the coat and inside of them was alsothe underwear. All this was buttoned up like Binkle had melted out ofit and dripped through a crack in the floor. In a bureau drawer werethe letters I told you about.     Now. In the room right under Binkle's lived another stew bum thatchecked in Thursday ... name Ed Smith, alias maybe, too. This guy was areal case. He brought with him a big mirror with a heavy bronze frame.Airloom, he says. He pays a week in advance, staggers up the stairs tohis room with the mirror and that's the last I see of him.     In Smith's room on Wednesday I find only a suit of clothes, the samesuit he wore when he came in. In the coat the vest, in the vest theshirt, in the shirt the underwear. Also in the pants. Also all in themiddle of the floor. Against the far wall stands the frame of themirror. Only the frame!     What a spot to be in! Now it might have been a gag. Sometimes theseguys get funny ideas when they are on the stuff. But then I readthe letters. This knocks me for a loop. They are all in differenthandwritings. All from different places. Stamps all legit, my kid says.India, China, England, everywhere.     My kid, he reads. He says it's no joke. He wants to call the cops ormaybe some doctor. But I say no. He reads your magazine so he sayswrite to you, send you the letters. You know what to do. Now you havethem. Maybe you print. Whatever you do, Mr. Editor, remember my place,the Plaza Ritz Arms, is straight establishment. I don't drink. I nevertouch junk, not even aspirin.     Yours very truly,     Ivan Smernda  Bombay, India     June 8     Mr. Joe Binkle     Plaza Ritz Arms     New York City     Dear Joe:     Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,Glmpauszn, will be born.     Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirrorgateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with suchtremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetuswithin the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am staticand for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universewith fear and trepidation.     As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but gotno response. What could have diminished your powers of articulatewave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages andreturning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsingand surrounded with an impregnable chimera.     Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned thenot-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by whatthe not-world calls mail till we meet. For this purpose I mustutilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whoseinadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time.     I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentaryreports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasuryof facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be freeof the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed inyour task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when wereturn again.     The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city ofBombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exactlocation, for the not-people might have access to the information.     I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When itis alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring fromthe pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrationallikeness.     I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am amongthem. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gatewaylies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child inorder that I might destroy the not-people completely.     All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix toofast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.Gezsltrysk, what a task!     Farewell till later.     Glmpauszn  Wichita, Kansas     June 13     Dear Joe:     Mnghjkl, fhfjgfhjklop phelnoprausynks. No. When I communicate with you,I see I must avoid those complexities of procedure for which there areno terms in this language. There is no way of describing to you innot-language what I had to go through during the first moments of mybirth.     Now I know what difficulties you must have had with your limitedequipment. These not-people are unpredictable and strange. Their doctorcame in and weighed me again the day after my birth. Consternationreigned when it was discovered I was ten pounds heavier. Whatdifference could it possibly make? Many doctors then came in to see me.As they arrived hourly, they found me heavier and heavier. Naturally,since I am growing. This is part of my instructions. My not-mother(Gezsltrysk!) then burst into tears. The doctors conferred, threw uptheir hands and left.     I learned the following day that the opposite component of mynot-mother, my not-father, had been away riding on some conveyanceduring my birth. He was out on ... what did they call it? Oh, yes, abender. He did not arrive till three days after I was born.     When I heard them say that he was straightening up to come see me, Imade a special effort and grew marvelously in one afternoon. I was 36not-world inches tall by evening. My not-father entered while I wasstanding by the crib examining a syringe the doctor had left behind.He stopped in his tracks on entering the room and seemed incapable ofspeech.     Dredging into the treasury of knowledge I had come equipped with, Iproduced the proper phrase for occasions of this kind in the not-world.     Poppa, I said.     This was the first use I had made of the so-called vocal cords thatare now part of my extended matrix. The sound I emitted soundedlow-pitched, guttural and penetrating even to myself. It must havejarred on my not-father's ears, for he turned and ran shouting from theroom.     They apprehended him on the stairs and I heard him babble somethingabout my being a monster and no child of his. My not-mother appeared atthe doorway and instead of being pleased at the progress of my growth,she fell down heavily. She made a distinct      thump     on the floor.     This brought the rest of them on the run, so I climbed out the windowand retreated across a nearby field. A prolonged search was launched,but I eluded them. What unpredictable beings!     I reported my tremendous progress back to our world, including thecleverness by which I managed to escape my pursuers. I received a replyfrom Blgftury which, on careful analysis, seems to be small praiseindeed. In fact, some of his phrases apparently contain veiled threats.But you know old Blgftury. He wanted to go on this expedition himselfand it's his nature never to flatter anyone.     From now on I will refer to not-people simply as people, dropping thequalifying preface except where comparisons must be made between thisalleged world and our own. It is merely an offshoot of our primitivemythology when this was considered a spirit world, just as these peoplerefer to our world as never-never land and other anomalies. But welearned otherwise, while they never have.     New sensations crowd into my consciousness and I am having a hardtime classifying them. Anyway, I shall carry on swiftly now to theinevitable climax in which I singlehanded will obliterate the terror ofthe not-world and return to our world a hero. I cannot understand yournot replying to my letters. I have given you a box number. What couldhave happened to your vibrations?     Glmpauszn  Albuquerque, New Mexico     June 15     Dear Joe:     I had tremendous difficulty getting a letter off to you this time.My process—original with myself, by the way—is to send out feelervibrations for what these people call the psychic individual. Then Iestablish contact with him while he sleeps and compel him without hisknowledge to translate my ideas into written language. He writes myletter and mails it to you. Of course, he has no awareness of what hehas done.     My first five tries were unfortunate. Each time I took control of anindividual who could not read or write! Finally I found my man, butI fear his words are limited. Ah, well. I had great things to tellyou about my progress, but I cannot convey even a hint of how I haveaccomplished these miracles through the thick skull of this incompetent.     In simple terms then: I crept into a cave and slipped into a kind ofsleep, directing my squhjkl ulytz & uhrytzg ... no, it won't come out.Anyway, I grew overnight to the size of an average person here.     As I said before, floods of impressions are driving into my xzbyl ...my brain ... from various nerve and sense areas and I am having a hardtime classifying them. My one idea was to get to a chemist and acquirethe stuff needed for the destruction of these people.     Sunrise came as I expected. According to my catalog of information, theimpressions aroused by it are of beauty. It took little conditioningfor me finally to react in this manner. This is truly an efficientmechanism I inhabit.     I gazed about me at the mixture of lights, forms and impressions.It was strange and ... now I know ... beautiful. However, I hurriedimmediately toward the nearest chemist. At the same time I looked upand all about me at the beauty.     Soon an individual approached. I knew what to do from my information. Isimply acted natural. You know, one of your earliest instructions wasto realize that these people see nothing unusual in you if you do notlet yourself believe they do.     This individual I classified as a female of a singular variety here.Her hair was short, her upper torso clad in a woolen garment. Shewore ... what are they? ... oh, yes, sneakers. My attention wasdiverted by a scream as I passed her. I stopped.     The woman gesticulated and continued to scream. People hurried fromnearby houses. I linked my hands behind me and watched the scene withan attitude of mild interest. They weren't interested in me, I toldmyself. But they were.     I became alarmed, dived into a bush and used a mechanism that youunfortunately do not have—invisibility. I lay there and listened.     He was stark naked, the girl with the sneakers said.     A figure I recognized as a police officer spoke to her.     Lizzy, you'll just have to keep these crackpot friends of yours out ofthis area.     But—     No more buck-bathing, Lizzy, the officer ordered. No more speechesin the Square. Not when it results in riots at five in the morning. Nowwhere is your naked friend? I'm going to make an example of him.     That was it—I had forgotten clothes. There is only one answer to thisoversight on my part. My mind is confused by the barrage of impressionsthat assault it. I must retire now and get them all classified. Beauty,pain, fear, hate, love, laughter. I don't know one from the other. Imust feel each, become accustomed to it.     The more I think about it, the more I realize that the information Ihave been given is very unrealistic. You have been inefficient, Joe.What will Blgftury and the others say of this? My great mission isimpaired. Farewell, till I find a more intelligent mind so I can writeyou with more enlightenment.     Glmpauszn  Moscow, Idaho     June 17     Dear Joe:     I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greetme in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of fivebucks!     It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up withthe correct variant of the slang term buck. Is it possible that youare powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live inthis inferior world?     A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged ina struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusionsof this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have liveda semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this worldripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individualfluctuations make up our sentient population.     Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardizedby these people. The not-world and our world are like two basketsas you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with thegreatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sidesare joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrationalplane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a worldof higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world.     They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selvesinto ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to forcesome of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,causing them much agony and fright.     The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people callmediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit oneof them at the first opportunity to see for myself.     Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I pickedthem up while examining the slang portion of my information catalogwhich you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimatecause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peaceof our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,get hep.     As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice.     Glmpauszn  Des Moines, Iowa     June 19     Dear Joe:     Your letter was imponderable till I had thrashed through long passagesin my information catalog that I had never imagined I would need.Biological functions and bodily processes which are labeled hererevolting are used freely in your missive. You can be sure they areall being forwarded to Blgftury. If I were not involved in the mostimportant part of my journey—completion of the weapon against thenot-worlders—I would come to New York immediately. You would rue thatday, I assure you.     Glmpauszn  Boise, Idaho     July 15     Dear Joe:     A great deal has happened to me since I wrote to you last.Systematically, I have tested each emotion and sensation listed inour catalog. I have been, as has been said in this world, like a reedbending before the winds of passion. In fact, I'm rather badly bentindeed. Ah! You'll pardon me, but I just took time for what is knownquaintly in this tongue as a hooker of red-eye. Ha! I've masteredeven the vagaries of slang in the not-language.... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. I feel much better now.     You see, Joe, as I attuned myself to the various impressions thatconstantly assaulted my mind through this body, I conditioned myself toreact exactly as our information catalog instructed me to.     Now it is all automatic, pure reflex. A sensation comes to me when I amburned; then I experience a burning pain. If the sensation is a tickle,I experience a tickle.     This morning I have what is known medically as a syndrome ... a groupof symptoms popularly referred to as a hangover ... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. Strangely ... now what was I saying? Oh, yes. Ha, ha. Strangelyenough, the reactions that come easiest to the people in this worldcame most difficult to me. Money-love, for example. It is a great thinghere, both among those who haven't got it and those who have.     I went out and got plenty of money. I walked invisible into a bank andcarried away piles of it. Then I sat and looked at it. I took the moneyto a remote room of the twenty room suite I have rented in the besthotel here in—no, sorry—and stared at it for hours.     Nothing happened. I didn't love the stuff or feel one way or the otherabout it. Yet all around me people are actually killing one another forthe love of it.     Anyway.... Ahhh. Pardon me. I got myself enough money to fill ten orfifteen rooms. By the end of the week I should have all eighteen sparerooms filled with money. If I don't love it then, I'll feel I havefailed. This alcohol is taking effect now.     Blgftury has been goading me for reports. To hell with his reports!I've got a lot more emotions to try, such as romantic love. I've beenstudying this phenomenon, along with other racial characteristics ofthese people, in the movies. This is the best place to see thesepeople as they really are. They all go into the movie houses and theredo homage to their own images. Very quaint type of idolatry.     Love. Ha! What an adventure this is becoming.     By the way, Joe, I'm forwarding that five dollars. You see, it won'tcost me anything. It'll come out of the pocket of the idiot who'swriting this letter. Pretty shrewd of me, eh?     I'm going out and look at that money again. I think I'm at lastlearning to love it, though not as much as I admire liquor. Well, onesimply must persevere, I always say.     Glmpauszn  Penobscot, Maine     July 20     Dear Joe:     Now you tell me not to drink alcohol. Why not? You never mentioned itin any of your vibrations to us, gleebs ago, when you first came acrossto this world. It will stint my powers? Nonsense! Already I have had aquart of the liquid today. I feel wonderful. Get that? I actually feelwonderful, in spite of this miserable imitation of a body.     There are long hours during which I am so well-integrated into thisbody and this world that I almost consider myself a member of it. NowI can function efficiently. I sent Blgftury some long reports todayoutlining my experiments in the realm of chemistry where we mustfinally defeat these people. Of course, I haven't made the experimentsyet, but I will. This is not deceit, merely realistic anticipation ofthe inevitable. Anyway, what the old xbyzrt doesn't know won't muss hisvibrations.     I went to what they call a nightclub here and picked out ablonde-haired woman, the kind that the books say men prefer. She wasattracted to me instantly. After all, the body I have devised isperfect in every detail ... actually a not-world ideal.     I didn't lose any time overwhelming her susceptibilities. I rememberdistinctly that just as I stooped to pick up a large roll of money Ihad dropped, her eyes met mine and in them I could see her admiration.We went to my suite and I showed her one of the money rooms. Would youbelieve it? She actually took off her shoes and ran around through themoney in her bare feet! Then we kissed.     Concealed in the dermis of the lips are tiny, highly sensitized nerveends which send sensations to the brain. The brain interprets theseimpulses in a certain manner. As a result, the fate of secretion in theadrenals on the ends of the kidneys increases and an enlivening of theentire endocrine system follows. Thus I felt the beginnings of love.     I sat her down on a pile of money and kissed her again. Again thetingling, again the secretion and activation. I integrated myselfquickly.     Now in all the motion pictures—true representations of life and lovein this world—the man with a lot of money or virtue kisses the girland tries to induce her to do something biological. She then refuses.This pleases both of them, for he wanted her to refuse. She, in turn,wanted him to want her, but also wanted to prevent him so that he wouldhave a high opinion of her. Do I make myself clear?     I kissed the blonde girl and gave her to understand what I then wanted.Well, you can imagine my surprise when she said yes! So I had failed. Ihad not found love.     I became so abstracted by this problem that the blonde girl fellasleep. I thoughtfully drank quantities of excellent alcohol called ginand didn't even notice when the blonde girl left.     I am now beginning to feel the effects of this alcohol again. Ha. Don'tI wish old Blgftury were here in the vibrational pattern of an olive?I'd get the blonde in and have her eat him out of a Martini. That is agin mixture.     I think I'll get a hot report off to the old so-and-so right now. It'lltake him a gleeb to figure this one out. I'll tell him I'm setting upan atomic reactor in the sewage systems here and that all we have to dois activate it and all the not-people will die of chain asphyxiation.     Boy, what an easy job this turned out to be. It's just a vacation. Joe,you old gold-bricker, imagine you here all these gleebs living off thefat of the land. Yak, yak. Affectionately.     Glmpauszn  Sacramento, Calif.     July 25     Dear Joe:     All is lost unless we work swiftly. I received your revealing letterthe morning after having a terrible experience of my own. I drank alot of gin for two days and then decided to go to one of these seancethings.     Somewhere along the way I picked up a red-headed girl. When we gotto the darkened seance room, I took the redhead into a corner andcontinued my investigations into the realm of love. I failed againbecause she said yes immediately.     The nerves of my dermis were working overtime when suddenly I had themost frightening experience of my life. Now I know what a horror thesepeople really are to our world.     The medium had turned out all the lights. He said there was a strongpsychic influence in the room somewhere. That was me, of course, but Iwas too busy with the redhead to notice.     Anyway, Mrs. Somebody wanted to make contact with her paternalgrandmother, Lucy, from the beyond. The medium went into his act. Heconcentrated and sweated and suddenly something began to take form inthe room. The best way to describe it in not-world language is a white,shapeless cascade of light.     Mrs. Somebody reared to her feet and screeched, Grandma Lucy! Then Ireally took notice.     Grandma Lucy, nothing! This medium had actually brought Blgfturypartially across the vibration barrier. He must have been vibrating inthe fringe area and got caught in the works. Did he look mad! His zyhkuwas open and his btgrimms were down.     Worst of all, he saw me. Looked right at me with an unbelievablepattern of pain, anger, fear and amazement in his matrix. Me and theredhead.     Then comes your letter today telling of the fate that befell you as aresult of drinking alcohol. Our wrenchingly attuned faculties in thesenot-world bodies need the loathsome drug to escape from the realityof not-reality. It's true. I cannot do without it now. The day is onlyhalf over and I have consumed a quart and a half. And it is dulling allmy powers as it has practically obliterated yours. I can't even becomeinvisible any more.     I must find the formula that will wipe out the not-world men quickly.     Quickly!     Glmpauszn  Florence, Italy     September 10     Dear Joe:     This telepathic control becomes more difficult every time. I must pickcloser points of communication soon. I have nothing to report butfailure. I bought a ton of equipment and went to work on the formulathat is half complete in my instructions. Six of my hotel rooms werefilled with tubes, pipes and apparatus of all kinds.     I had got my mechanism as close to perfect as possible when Irealized that, in my befuddled condition, I had set off a reactionthat inevitably would result in an explosion. I had to leave thereimmediately, but I could not create suspicion. The management was notaware of the nature of my activities.     I moved swiftly. I could not afford time to bring my baggage. Istuffed as much money into my pockets as I could and then saunteredinto the hotel lobby. Assuming my most casual air, I told the managerI was checking out. Naturally he was stunned since I was his bestcustomer.     But why, sir? he asked plaintively.     I was baffled. What could I tell him?     Don't you like the rooms? he persisted. Isn't the service good?     It's the rooms, I told him. They're—they're—     They're what? he wanted to know.     They're not safe.     Not safe? But that is ridiculous. This hotel is....     At this point the blast came. My nerves were a wreck from the alcohol.     See? I screamed. Not safe. I knew they were going to blow up!     He stood paralyzed as I ran from the lobby. Oh, well, never say die.Another day, another hotel. I swear I'm even beginning to think likethe not-men, curse them.     Glmpauszn  Rochester, New York     September 25     Dear Joe:     I have it! It is done! In spite of the alcohol, in spite of Blgftury'sniggling criticism, I have succeeded. I now have developed a formof mold, somewhat similar to the antibiotics of this world, that,transmitted to the human organism, will cause a disease whose end willbe swift and fatal.     First the brain will dissolve and then the body will fall apart.Nothing in this world can stop the spread of it once it is loose.Absolutely nothing.     We must use care. Stock in as much gin as you are able. I will bringwith me all that I can. Meanwhile I must return to my original place ofbirth into this world of horrors. There I will secure the gateway, alarge mirror, the vibrational point at which we shall meet and slowlyclimb the frequency scale to emerge into our own beautiful, now secureworld. You and I together, Joe, conquerors, liberators.     You say you eat little and drink as much as you can. The same withme. Even in this revolting world I am a sad sight. My not-world sensesfalter. This is the last letter. Tomorrow I come with the gateway. Whenthe gin is gone, we will plant the mold in the hotel where you live.     In only a single gleeb it will begin to work. The men of this queerworld will be no more. But we can't say we didn't have some fun, canwe, Joe?     And just let Blgftury make one crack. Just one xyzprlt. I'll havehgutry before the ghjdksla!     Glmpauszn  Dear Editor:     These guys might be queer drunk hopheads. But if not? If soon braindissolve, body fall apart, how long have we got? Please, anybody whoknows answer, write to me—Ivan Smernda, Plaza Ritz Arms—how long is agleeb?   ","A Gleeb for Earth takes place on Earth, where the spiritual vibrations of human mediums and psychics are intruding upon and semi-terrorizing another world populated by sentient vibrational beings. The vibrational plane of the alien world extends just a tiny bit into Earth (referred to as the not-world by the aliens), and the fringe between the two allows for human psychics to intrude into the alien’s realm, or for human seance practises to summon alien vibrations on Earth in ways that are terrifying for the aliens. The aliens can’t tolerate these vibrational intrusions any longer and have embarked on a mission to destroy all life on Earth by having two of their own take the form of humans and develop a chemical weapon (a mold) to wipe them out.The mission of Glmpauszn and Joe takes place on Earth between June 8th and September 25th of an unknown year. Glmpauszn mails letters from various international locations to Joe at the Plaza Ritz Arms in New York City by controlling the minds of unknown sleeping humans to pen what he spiritually dictates, and mail the letters without ever knowing they have done it. Glmpauszn’s physical location is not explicitly discussed, but it is possibly nearby to New York City since he does not mention the need for any long-distance or international travel in his letters. Both Glmpauszn and Joe become distracted from their mission at times by drugs, alcohol, stealing money using their invisibility, and the sensations of experiencing human emotions like love.The Plaza Ritz Arms hotel in New York City is an especially important location in the story, because it is the final meeting place where Glmpauszn and Joe return to their vibrational realm through a mirror with a heavy bronze frame, leaving their clothes in heaps as if they had melted out of them, only the frame of the mirror, and the pile of letters from Glmpauszn to Joe that detail their entire mission on Earth."
"Why does Glmpauszn want to take the form of a person on Earth? </s>     A Gleeb for Earth     By CHARLES SHAFHAUSER     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1953.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Not to be or not to not be ... that was the       not-question for the invader of the not-world.        Dear Editor:     My 14 year old boy, Ronnie, is typing this letter for me because hecan do it neater and use better grammar. I had to get in touch withsomebody about this because if there is something to it, then somebody,everybody, is going to point finger at me, Ivan Smernda, and say, Whydidn't you warn us?     I could not go to the police because they are not too friendly tome because of some of my guests who frankly are stew bums. Also theymight think I was on booze, too, or maybe the hops, and get my licenserevoked. I run a strictly legit hotel even though some of my guestsmight be down on their luck now and then.     What really got me mixed up in this was the mysterious disappearance oftwo of my guests. They both took a powder last Wednesday morning.     Now get this. In one room, that of Joe Binkle, which maybe is an alias,I find nothing but a suit of clothes, some butts and the letters Iinclude here in same package. Binkle had only one suit. That I know.And this was it laying right in the middle of the room. Inside thecoat was the vest, inside the vest the shirt, inside the shirt theunderwear. The pants were up in the coat and inside of them was alsothe underwear. All this was buttoned up like Binkle had melted out ofit and dripped through a crack in the floor. In a bureau drawer werethe letters I told you about.     Now. In the room right under Binkle's lived another stew bum thatchecked in Thursday ... name Ed Smith, alias maybe, too. This guy was areal case. He brought with him a big mirror with a heavy bronze frame.Airloom, he says. He pays a week in advance, staggers up the stairs tohis room with the mirror and that's the last I see of him.     In Smith's room on Wednesday I find only a suit of clothes, the samesuit he wore when he came in. In the coat the vest, in the vest theshirt, in the shirt the underwear. Also in the pants. Also all in themiddle of the floor. Against the far wall stands the frame of themirror. Only the frame!     What a spot to be in! Now it might have been a gag. Sometimes theseguys get funny ideas when they are on the stuff. But then I readthe letters. This knocks me for a loop. They are all in differenthandwritings. All from different places. Stamps all legit, my kid says.India, China, England, everywhere.     My kid, he reads. He says it's no joke. He wants to call the cops ormaybe some doctor. But I say no. He reads your magazine so he sayswrite to you, send you the letters. You know what to do. Now you havethem. Maybe you print. Whatever you do, Mr. Editor, remember my place,the Plaza Ritz Arms, is straight establishment. I don't drink. I nevertouch junk, not even aspirin.     Yours very truly,     Ivan Smernda  Bombay, India     June 8     Mr. Joe Binkle     Plaza Ritz Arms     New York City     Dear Joe:     Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,Glmpauszn, will be born.     Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirrorgateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with suchtremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetuswithin the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am staticand for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universewith fear and trepidation.     As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but gotno response. What could have diminished your powers of articulatewave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages andreturning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsingand surrounded with an impregnable chimera.     Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned thenot-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by whatthe not-world calls mail till we meet. For this purpose I mustutilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whoseinadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time.     I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentaryreports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasuryof facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be freeof the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed inyour task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when wereturn again.     The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city ofBombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exactlocation, for the not-people might have access to the information.     I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When itis alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring fromthe pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrationallikeness.     I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am amongthem. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gatewaylies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child inorder that I might destroy the not-people completely.     All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix toofast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.Gezsltrysk, what a task!     Farewell till later.     Glmpauszn  Wichita, Kansas     June 13     Dear Joe:     Mnghjkl, fhfjgfhjklop phelnoprausynks. No. When I communicate with you,I see I must avoid those complexities of procedure for which there areno terms in this language. There is no way of describing to you innot-language what I had to go through during the first moments of mybirth.     Now I know what difficulties you must have had with your limitedequipment. These not-people are unpredictable and strange. Their doctorcame in and weighed me again the day after my birth. Consternationreigned when it was discovered I was ten pounds heavier. Whatdifference could it possibly make? Many doctors then came in to see me.As they arrived hourly, they found me heavier and heavier. Naturally,since I am growing. This is part of my instructions. My not-mother(Gezsltrysk!) then burst into tears. The doctors conferred, threw uptheir hands and left.     I learned the following day that the opposite component of mynot-mother, my not-father, had been away riding on some conveyanceduring my birth. He was out on ... what did they call it? Oh, yes, abender. He did not arrive till three days after I was born.     When I heard them say that he was straightening up to come see me, Imade a special effort and grew marvelously in one afternoon. I was 36not-world inches tall by evening. My not-father entered while I wasstanding by the crib examining a syringe the doctor had left behind.He stopped in his tracks on entering the room and seemed incapable ofspeech.     Dredging into the treasury of knowledge I had come equipped with, Iproduced the proper phrase for occasions of this kind in the not-world.     Poppa, I said.     This was the first use I had made of the so-called vocal cords thatare now part of my extended matrix. The sound I emitted soundedlow-pitched, guttural and penetrating even to myself. It must havejarred on my not-father's ears, for he turned and ran shouting from theroom.     They apprehended him on the stairs and I heard him babble somethingabout my being a monster and no child of his. My not-mother appeared atthe doorway and instead of being pleased at the progress of my growth,she fell down heavily. She made a distinct      thump     on the floor.     This brought the rest of them on the run, so I climbed out the windowand retreated across a nearby field. A prolonged search was launched,but I eluded them. What unpredictable beings!     I reported my tremendous progress back to our world, including thecleverness by which I managed to escape my pursuers. I received a replyfrom Blgftury which, on careful analysis, seems to be small praiseindeed. In fact, some of his phrases apparently contain veiled threats.But you know old Blgftury. He wanted to go on this expedition himselfand it's his nature never to flatter anyone.     From now on I will refer to not-people simply as people, dropping thequalifying preface except where comparisons must be made between thisalleged world and our own. It is merely an offshoot of our primitivemythology when this was considered a spirit world, just as these peoplerefer to our world as never-never land and other anomalies. But welearned otherwise, while they never have.     New sensations crowd into my consciousness and I am having a hardtime classifying them. Anyway, I shall carry on swiftly now to theinevitable climax in which I singlehanded will obliterate the terror ofthe not-world and return to our world a hero. I cannot understand yournot replying to my letters. I have given you a box number. What couldhave happened to your vibrations?     Glmpauszn  Albuquerque, New Mexico     June 15     Dear Joe:     I had tremendous difficulty getting a letter off to you this time.My process—original with myself, by the way—is to send out feelervibrations for what these people call the psychic individual. Then Iestablish contact with him while he sleeps and compel him without hisknowledge to translate my ideas into written language. He writes myletter and mails it to you. Of course, he has no awareness of what hehas done.     My first five tries were unfortunate. Each time I took control of anindividual who could not read or write! Finally I found my man, butI fear his words are limited. Ah, well. I had great things to tellyou about my progress, but I cannot convey even a hint of how I haveaccomplished these miracles through the thick skull of this incompetent.     In simple terms then: I crept into a cave and slipped into a kind ofsleep, directing my squhjkl ulytz & uhrytzg ... no, it won't come out.Anyway, I grew overnight to the size of an average person here.     As I said before, floods of impressions are driving into my xzbyl ...my brain ... from various nerve and sense areas and I am having a hardtime classifying them. My one idea was to get to a chemist and acquirethe stuff needed for the destruction of these people.     Sunrise came as I expected. According to my catalog of information, theimpressions aroused by it are of beauty. It took little conditioningfor me finally to react in this manner. This is truly an efficientmechanism I inhabit.     I gazed about me at the mixture of lights, forms and impressions.It was strange and ... now I know ... beautiful. However, I hurriedimmediately toward the nearest chemist. At the same time I looked upand all about me at the beauty.     Soon an individual approached. I knew what to do from my information. Isimply acted natural. You know, one of your earliest instructions wasto realize that these people see nothing unusual in you if you do notlet yourself believe they do.     This individual I classified as a female of a singular variety here.Her hair was short, her upper torso clad in a woolen garment. Shewore ... what are they? ... oh, yes, sneakers. My attention wasdiverted by a scream as I passed her. I stopped.     The woman gesticulated and continued to scream. People hurried fromnearby houses. I linked my hands behind me and watched the scene withan attitude of mild interest. They weren't interested in me, I toldmyself. But they were.     I became alarmed, dived into a bush and used a mechanism that youunfortunately do not have—invisibility. I lay there and listened.     He was stark naked, the girl with the sneakers said.     A figure I recognized as a police officer spoke to her.     Lizzy, you'll just have to keep these crackpot friends of yours out ofthis area.     But—     No more buck-bathing, Lizzy, the officer ordered. No more speechesin the Square. Not when it results in riots at five in the morning. Nowwhere is your naked friend? I'm going to make an example of him.     That was it—I had forgotten clothes. There is only one answer to thisoversight on my part. My mind is confused by the barrage of impressionsthat assault it. I must retire now and get them all classified. Beauty,pain, fear, hate, love, laughter. I don't know one from the other. Imust feel each, become accustomed to it.     The more I think about it, the more I realize that the information Ihave been given is very unrealistic. You have been inefficient, Joe.What will Blgftury and the others say of this? My great mission isimpaired. Farewell, till I find a more intelligent mind so I can writeyou with more enlightenment.     Glmpauszn  Moscow, Idaho     June 17     Dear Joe:     I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greetme in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of fivebucks!     It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up withthe correct variant of the slang term buck. Is it possible that youare powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live inthis inferior world?     A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged ina struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusionsof this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have liveda semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this worldripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individualfluctuations make up our sentient population.     Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardizedby these people. The not-world and our world are like two basketsas you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with thegreatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sidesare joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrationalplane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a worldof higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world.     They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selvesinto ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to forcesome of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,causing them much agony and fright.     The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people callmediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit oneof them at the first opportunity to see for myself.     Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I pickedthem up while examining the slang portion of my information catalogwhich you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimatecause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peaceof our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,get hep.     As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice.     Glmpauszn  Des Moines, Iowa     June 19     Dear Joe:     Your letter was imponderable till I had thrashed through long passagesin my information catalog that I had never imagined I would need.Biological functions and bodily processes which are labeled hererevolting are used freely in your missive. You can be sure they areall being forwarded to Blgftury. If I were not involved in the mostimportant part of my journey—completion of the weapon against thenot-worlders—I would come to New York immediately. You would rue thatday, I assure you.     Glmpauszn  Boise, Idaho     July 15     Dear Joe:     A great deal has happened to me since I wrote to you last.Systematically, I have tested each emotion and sensation listed inour catalog. I have been, as has been said in this world, like a reedbending before the winds of passion. In fact, I'm rather badly bentindeed. Ah! You'll pardon me, but I just took time for what is knownquaintly in this tongue as a hooker of red-eye. Ha! I've masteredeven the vagaries of slang in the not-language.... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. I feel much better now.     You see, Joe, as I attuned myself to the various impressions thatconstantly assaulted my mind through this body, I conditioned myself toreact exactly as our information catalog instructed me to.     Now it is all automatic, pure reflex. A sensation comes to me when I amburned; then I experience a burning pain. If the sensation is a tickle,I experience a tickle.     This morning I have what is known medically as a syndrome ... a groupof symptoms popularly referred to as a hangover ... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. Strangely ... now what was I saying? Oh, yes. Ha, ha. Strangelyenough, the reactions that come easiest to the people in this worldcame most difficult to me. Money-love, for example. It is a great thinghere, both among those who haven't got it and those who have.     I went out and got plenty of money. I walked invisible into a bank andcarried away piles of it. Then I sat and looked at it. I took the moneyto a remote room of the twenty room suite I have rented in the besthotel here in—no, sorry—and stared at it for hours.     Nothing happened. I didn't love the stuff or feel one way or the otherabout it. Yet all around me people are actually killing one another forthe love of it.     Anyway.... Ahhh. Pardon me. I got myself enough money to fill ten orfifteen rooms. By the end of the week I should have all eighteen sparerooms filled with money. If I don't love it then, I'll feel I havefailed. This alcohol is taking effect now.     Blgftury has been goading me for reports. To hell with his reports!I've got a lot more emotions to try, such as romantic love. I've beenstudying this phenomenon, along with other racial characteristics ofthese people, in the movies. This is the best place to see thesepeople as they really are. They all go into the movie houses and theredo homage to their own images. Very quaint type of idolatry.     Love. Ha! What an adventure this is becoming.     By the way, Joe, I'm forwarding that five dollars. You see, it won'tcost me anything. It'll come out of the pocket of the idiot who'swriting this letter. Pretty shrewd of me, eh?     I'm going out and look at that money again. I think I'm at lastlearning to love it, though not as much as I admire liquor. Well, onesimply must persevere, I always say.     Glmpauszn  Penobscot, Maine     July 20     Dear Joe:     Now you tell me not to drink alcohol. Why not? You never mentioned itin any of your vibrations to us, gleebs ago, when you first came acrossto this world. It will stint my powers? Nonsense! Already I have had aquart of the liquid today. I feel wonderful. Get that? I actually feelwonderful, in spite of this miserable imitation of a body.     There are long hours during which I am so well-integrated into thisbody and this world that I almost consider myself a member of it. NowI can function efficiently. I sent Blgftury some long reports todayoutlining my experiments in the realm of chemistry where we mustfinally defeat these people. Of course, I haven't made the experimentsyet, but I will. This is not deceit, merely realistic anticipation ofthe inevitable. Anyway, what the old xbyzrt doesn't know won't muss hisvibrations.     I went to what they call a nightclub here and picked out ablonde-haired woman, the kind that the books say men prefer. She wasattracted to me instantly. After all, the body I have devised isperfect in every detail ... actually a not-world ideal.     I didn't lose any time overwhelming her susceptibilities. I rememberdistinctly that just as I stooped to pick up a large roll of money Ihad dropped, her eyes met mine and in them I could see her admiration.We went to my suite and I showed her one of the money rooms. Would youbelieve it? She actually took off her shoes and ran around through themoney in her bare feet! Then we kissed.     Concealed in the dermis of the lips are tiny, highly sensitized nerveends which send sensations to the brain. The brain interprets theseimpulses in a certain manner. As a result, the fate of secretion in theadrenals on the ends of the kidneys increases and an enlivening of theentire endocrine system follows. Thus I felt the beginnings of love.     I sat her down on a pile of money and kissed her again. Again thetingling, again the secretion and activation. I integrated myselfquickly.     Now in all the motion pictures—true representations of life and lovein this world—the man with a lot of money or virtue kisses the girland tries to induce her to do something biological. She then refuses.This pleases both of them, for he wanted her to refuse. She, in turn,wanted him to want her, but also wanted to prevent him so that he wouldhave a high opinion of her. Do I make myself clear?     I kissed the blonde girl and gave her to understand what I then wanted.Well, you can imagine my surprise when she said yes! So I had failed. Ihad not found love.     I became so abstracted by this problem that the blonde girl fellasleep. I thoughtfully drank quantities of excellent alcohol called ginand didn't even notice when the blonde girl left.     I am now beginning to feel the effects of this alcohol again. Ha. Don'tI wish old Blgftury were here in the vibrational pattern of an olive?I'd get the blonde in and have her eat him out of a Martini. That is agin mixture.     I think I'll get a hot report off to the old so-and-so right now. It'lltake him a gleeb to figure this one out. I'll tell him I'm setting upan atomic reactor in the sewage systems here and that all we have to dois activate it and all the not-people will die of chain asphyxiation.     Boy, what an easy job this turned out to be. It's just a vacation. Joe,you old gold-bricker, imagine you here all these gleebs living off thefat of the land. Yak, yak. Affectionately.     Glmpauszn  Sacramento, Calif.     July 25     Dear Joe:     All is lost unless we work swiftly. I received your revealing letterthe morning after having a terrible experience of my own. I drank alot of gin for two days and then decided to go to one of these seancethings.     Somewhere along the way I picked up a red-headed girl. When we gotto the darkened seance room, I took the redhead into a corner andcontinued my investigations into the realm of love. I failed againbecause she said yes immediately.     The nerves of my dermis were working overtime when suddenly I had themost frightening experience of my life. Now I know what a horror thesepeople really are to our world.     The medium had turned out all the lights. He said there was a strongpsychic influence in the room somewhere. That was me, of course, but Iwas too busy with the redhead to notice.     Anyway, Mrs. Somebody wanted to make contact with her paternalgrandmother, Lucy, from the beyond. The medium went into his act. Heconcentrated and sweated and suddenly something began to take form inthe room. The best way to describe it in not-world language is a white,shapeless cascade of light.     Mrs. Somebody reared to her feet and screeched, Grandma Lucy! Then Ireally took notice.     Grandma Lucy, nothing! This medium had actually brought Blgfturypartially across the vibration barrier. He must have been vibrating inthe fringe area and got caught in the works. Did he look mad! His zyhkuwas open and his btgrimms were down.     Worst of all, he saw me. Looked right at me with an unbelievablepattern of pain, anger, fear and amazement in his matrix. Me and theredhead.     Then comes your letter today telling of the fate that befell you as aresult of drinking alcohol. Our wrenchingly attuned faculties in thesenot-world bodies need the loathsome drug to escape from the realityof not-reality. It's true. I cannot do without it now. The day is onlyhalf over and I have consumed a quart and a half. And it is dulling allmy powers as it has practically obliterated yours. I can't even becomeinvisible any more.     I must find the formula that will wipe out the not-world men quickly.     Quickly!     Glmpauszn  Florence, Italy     September 10     Dear Joe:     This telepathic control becomes more difficult every time. I must pickcloser points of communication soon. I have nothing to report butfailure. I bought a ton of equipment and went to work on the formulathat is half complete in my instructions. Six of my hotel rooms werefilled with tubes, pipes and apparatus of all kinds.     I had got my mechanism as close to perfect as possible when Irealized that, in my befuddled condition, I had set off a reactionthat inevitably would result in an explosion. I had to leave thereimmediately, but I could not create suspicion. The management was notaware of the nature of my activities.     I moved swiftly. I could not afford time to bring my baggage. Istuffed as much money into my pockets as I could and then saunteredinto the hotel lobby. Assuming my most casual air, I told the managerI was checking out. Naturally he was stunned since I was his bestcustomer.     But why, sir? he asked plaintively.     I was baffled. What could I tell him?     Don't you like the rooms? he persisted. Isn't the service good?     It's the rooms, I told him. They're—they're—     They're what? he wanted to know.     They're not safe.     Not safe? But that is ridiculous. This hotel is....     At this point the blast came. My nerves were a wreck from the alcohol.     See? I screamed. Not safe. I knew they were going to blow up!     He stood paralyzed as I ran from the lobby. Oh, well, never say die.Another day, another hotel. I swear I'm even beginning to think likethe not-men, curse them.     Glmpauszn  Rochester, New York     September 25     Dear Joe:     I have it! It is done! In spite of the alcohol, in spite of Blgftury'sniggling criticism, I have succeeded. I now have developed a formof mold, somewhat similar to the antibiotics of this world, that,transmitted to the human organism, will cause a disease whose end willbe swift and fatal.     First the brain will dissolve and then the body will fall apart.Nothing in this world can stop the spread of it once it is loose.Absolutely nothing.     We must use care. Stock in as much gin as you are able. I will bringwith me all that I can. Meanwhile I must return to my original place ofbirth into this world of horrors. There I will secure the gateway, alarge mirror, the vibrational point at which we shall meet and slowlyclimb the frequency scale to emerge into our own beautiful, now secureworld. You and I together, Joe, conquerors, liberators.     You say you eat little and drink as much as you can. The same withme. Even in this revolting world I am a sad sight. My not-world sensesfalter. This is the last letter. Tomorrow I come with the gateway. Whenthe gin is gone, we will plant the mold in the hotel where you live.     In only a single gleeb it will begin to work. The men of this queerworld will be no more. But we can't say we didn't have some fun, canwe, Joe?     And just let Blgftury make one crack. Just one xyzprlt. I'll havehgutry before the ghjdksla!     Glmpauszn  Dear Editor:     These guys might be queer drunk hopheads. But if not? If soon braindissolve, body fall apart, how long have we got? Please, anybody whoknows answer, write to me—Ivan Smernda, Plaza Ritz Arms—how long is agleeb?   ","Glmpauszn’s consciousness takes the form of spiritual vibrations that can cross from his world into Earth’s, allowing him to take control of humans on Earth and even insert his consciousness into a human fetus. He describes Earth as a “weird extension of the Universe”, because from his perspective the vibrational plane of his world extends just a tiny bit into Earth (which he calls the not-world). This is unacceptable to his people since human spiritual mediums on Earth have been able to force psychic reproductions of themselves into his world, and conversely temporarily kidnap some individuals from his planet over the “fringe” between the two worlds, frightening them. The intrusive vibrations from Earth have semi-terrorized the sentient vibrations that make up the population of Glmpauszn’s world. Thus, Glmpauszn will now take on the form of a human on Earth and destroy the entirety of human existence to stop their intrusions."
"What is the relationship like between Glmpauszn and Joe? </s>     A Gleeb for Earth     By CHARLES SHAFHAUSER     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1953.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Not to be or not to not be ... that was the       not-question for the invader of the not-world.        Dear Editor:     My 14 year old boy, Ronnie, is typing this letter for me because hecan do it neater and use better grammar. I had to get in touch withsomebody about this because if there is something to it, then somebody,everybody, is going to point finger at me, Ivan Smernda, and say, Whydidn't you warn us?     I could not go to the police because they are not too friendly tome because of some of my guests who frankly are stew bums. Also theymight think I was on booze, too, or maybe the hops, and get my licenserevoked. I run a strictly legit hotel even though some of my guestsmight be down on their luck now and then.     What really got me mixed up in this was the mysterious disappearance oftwo of my guests. They both took a powder last Wednesday morning.     Now get this. In one room, that of Joe Binkle, which maybe is an alias,I find nothing but a suit of clothes, some butts and the letters Iinclude here in same package. Binkle had only one suit. That I know.And this was it laying right in the middle of the room. Inside thecoat was the vest, inside the vest the shirt, inside the shirt theunderwear. The pants were up in the coat and inside of them was alsothe underwear. All this was buttoned up like Binkle had melted out ofit and dripped through a crack in the floor. In a bureau drawer werethe letters I told you about.     Now. In the room right under Binkle's lived another stew bum thatchecked in Thursday ... name Ed Smith, alias maybe, too. This guy was areal case. He brought with him a big mirror with a heavy bronze frame.Airloom, he says. He pays a week in advance, staggers up the stairs tohis room with the mirror and that's the last I see of him.     In Smith's room on Wednesday I find only a suit of clothes, the samesuit he wore when he came in. In the coat the vest, in the vest theshirt, in the shirt the underwear. Also in the pants. Also all in themiddle of the floor. Against the far wall stands the frame of themirror. Only the frame!     What a spot to be in! Now it might have been a gag. Sometimes theseguys get funny ideas when they are on the stuff. But then I readthe letters. This knocks me for a loop. They are all in differenthandwritings. All from different places. Stamps all legit, my kid says.India, China, England, everywhere.     My kid, he reads. He says it's no joke. He wants to call the cops ormaybe some doctor. But I say no. He reads your magazine so he sayswrite to you, send you the letters. You know what to do. Now you havethem. Maybe you print. Whatever you do, Mr. Editor, remember my place,the Plaza Ritz Arms, is straight establishment. I don't drink. I nevertouch junk, not even aspirin.     Yours very truly,     Ivan Smernda  Bombay, India     June 8     Mr. Joe Binkle     Plaza Ritz Arms     New York City     Dear Joe:     Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,Glmpauszn, will be born.     Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirrorgateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with suchtremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetuswithin the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am staticand for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universewith fear and trepidation.     As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but gotno response. What could have diminished your powers of articulatewave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages andreturning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsingand surrounded with an impregnable chimera.     Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned thenot-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by whatthe not-world calls mail till we meet. For this purpose I mustutilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whoseinadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time.     I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentaryreports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasuryof facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be freeof the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed inyour task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when wereturn again.     The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city ofBombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exactlocation, for the not-people might have access to the information.     I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When itis alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring fromthe pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrationallikeness.     I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am amongthem. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gatewaylies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child inorder that I might destroy the not-people completely.     All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix toofast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.Gezsltrysk, what a task!     Farewell till later.     Glmpauszn  Wichita, Kansas     June 13     Dear Joe:     Mnghjkl, fhfjgfhjklop phelnoprausynks. No. When I communicate with you,I see I must avoid those complexities of procedure for which there areno terms in this language. There is no way of describing to you innot-language what I had to go through during the first moments of mybirth.     Now I know what difficulties you must have had with your limitedequipment. These not-people are unpredictable and strange. Their doctorcame in and weighed me again the day after my birth. Consternationreigned when it was discovered I was ten pounds heavier. Whatdifference could it possibly make? Many doctors then came in to see me.As they arrived hourly, they found me heavier and heavier. Naturally,since I am growing. This is part of my instructions. My not-mother(Gezsltrysk!) then burst into tears. The doctors conferred, threw uptheir hands and left.     I learned the following day that the opposite component of mynot-mother, my not-father, had been away riding on some conveyanceduring my birth. He was out on ... what did they call it? Oh, yes, abender. He did not arrive till three days after I was born.     When I heard them say that he was straightening up to come see me, Imade a special effort and grew marvelously in one afternoon. I was 36not-world inches tall by evening. My not-father entered while I wasstanding by the crib examining a syringe the doctor had left behind.He stopped in his tracks on entering the room and seemed incapable ofspeech.     Dredging into the treasury of knowledge I had come equipped with, Iproduced the proper phrase for occasions of this kind in the not-world.     Poppa, I said.     This was the first use I had made of the so-called vocal cords thatare now part of my extended matrix. The sound I emitted soundedlow-pitched, guttural and penetrating even to myself. It must havejarred on my not-father's ears, for he turned and ran shouting from theroom.     They apprehended him on the stairs and I heard him babble somethingabout my being a monster and no child of his. My not-mother appeared atthe doorway and instead of being pleased at the progress of my growth,she fell down heavily. She made a distinct      thump     on the floor.     This brought the rest of them on the run, so I climbed out the windowand retreated across a nearby field. A prolonged search was launched,but I eluded them. What unpredictable beings!     I reported my tremendous progress back to our world, including thecleverness by which I managed to escape my pursuers. I received a replyfrom Blgftury which, on careful analysis, seems to be small praiseindeed. In fact, some of his phrases apparently contain veiled threats.But you know old Blgftury. He wanted to go on this expedition himselfand it's his nature never to flatter anyone.     From now on I will refer to not-people simply as people, dropping thequalifying preface except where comparisons must be made between thisalleged world and our own. It is merely an offshoot of our primitivemythology when this was considered a spirit world, just as these peoplerefer to our world as never-never land and other anomalies. But welearned otherwise, while they never have.     New sensations crowd into my consciousness and I am having a hardtime classifying them. Anyway, I shall carry on swiftly now to theinevitable climax in which I singlehanded will obliterate the terror ofthe not-world and return to our world a hero. I cannot understand yournot replying to my letters. I have given you a box number. What couldhave happened to your vibrations?     Glmpauszn  Albuquerque, New Mexico     June 15     Dear Joe:     I had tremendous difficulty getting a letter off to you this time.My process—original with myself, by the way—is to send out feelervibrations for what these people call the psychic individual. Then Iestablish contact with him while he sleeps and compel him without hisknowledge to translate my ideas into written language. He writes myletter and mails it to you. Of course, he has no awareness of what hehas done.     My first five tries were unfortunate. Each time I took control of anindividual who could not read or write! Finally I found my man, butI fear his words are limited. Ah, well. I had great things to tellyou about my progress, but I cannot convey even a hint of how I haveaccomplished these miracles through the thick skull of this incompetent.     In simple terms then: I crept into a cave and slipped into a kind ofsleep, directing my squhjkl ulytz & uhrytzg ... no, it won't come out.Anyway, I grew overnight to the size of an average person here.     As I said before, floods of impressions are driving into my xzbyl ...my brain ... from various nerve and sense areas and I am having a hardtime classifying them. My one idea was to get to a chemist and acquirethe stuff needed for the destruction of these people.     Sunrise came as I expected. According to my catalog of information, theimpressions aroused by it are of beauty. It took little conditioningfor me finally to react in this manner. This is truly an efficientmechanism I inhabit.     I gazed about me at the mixture of lights, forms and impressions.It was strange and ... now I know ... beautiful. However, I hurriedimmediately toward the nearest chemist. At the same time I looked upand all about me at the beauty.     Soon an individual approached. I knew what to do from my information. Isimply acted natural. You know, one of your earliest instructions wasto realize that these people see nothing unusual in you if you do notlet yourself believe they do.     This individual I classified as a female of a singular variety here.Her hair was short, her upper torso clad in a woolen garment. Shewore ... what are they? ... oh, yes, sneakers. My attention wasdiverted by a scream as I passed her. I stopped.     The woman gesticulated and continued to scream. People hurried fromnearby houses. I linked my hands behind me and watched the scene withan attitude of mild interest. They weren't interested in me, I toldmyself. But they were.     I became alarmed, dived into a bush and used a mechanism that youunfortunately do not have—invisibility. I lay there and listened.     He was stark naked, the girl with the sneakers said.     A figure I recognized as a police officer spoke to her.     Lizzy, you'll just have to keep these crackpot friends of yours out ofthis area.     But—     No more buck-bathing, Lizzy, the officer ordered. No more speechesin the Square. Not when it results in riots at five in the morning. Nowwhere is your naked friend? I'm going to make an example of him.     That was it—I had forgotten clothes. There is only one answer to thisoversight on my part. My mind is confused by the barrage of impressionsthat assault it. I must retire now and get them all classified. Beauty,pain, fear, hate, love, laughter. I don't know one from the other. Imust feel each, become accustomed to it.     The more I think about it, the more I realize that the information Ihave been given is very unrealistic. You have been inefficient, Joe.What will Blgftury and the others say of this? My great mission isimpaired. Farewell, till I find a more intelligent mind so I can writeyou with more enlightenment.     Glmpauszn  Moscow, Idaho     June 17     Dear Joe:     I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greetme in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of fivebucks!     It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up withthe correct variant of the slang term buck. Is it possible that youare powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live inthis inferior world?     A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged ina struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusionsof this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have liveda semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this worldripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individualfluctuations make up our sentient population.     Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardizedby these people. The not-world and our world are like two basketsas you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with thegreatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sidesare joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrationalplane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a worldof higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world.     They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selvesinto ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to forcesome of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,causing them much agony and fright.     The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people callmediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit oneof them at the first opportunity to see for myself.     Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I pickedthem up while examining the slang portion of my information catalogwhich you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimatecause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peaceof our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,get hep.     As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice.     Glmpauszn  Des Moines, Iowa     June 19     Dear Joe:     Your letter was imponderable till I had thrashed through long passagesin my information catalog that I had never imagined I would need.Biological functions and bodily processes which are labeled hererevolting are used freely in your missive. You can be sure they areall being forwarded to Blgftury. If I were not involved in the mostimportant part of my journey—completion of the weapon against thenot-worlders—I would come to New York immediately. You would rue thatday, I assure you.     Glmpauszn  Boise, Idaho     July 15     Dear Joe:     A great deal has happened to me since I wrote to you last.Systematically, I have tested each emotion and sensation listed inour catalog. I have been, as has been said in this world, like a reedbending before the winds of passion. In fact, I'm rather badly bentindeed. Ah! You'll pardon me, but I just took time for what is knownquaintly in this tongue as a hooker of red-eye. Ha! I've masteredeven the vagaries of slang in the not-language.... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. I feel much better now.     You see, Joe, as I attuned myself to the various impressions thatconstantly assaulted my mind through this body, I conditioned myself toreact exactly as our information catalog instructed me to.     Now it is all automatic, pure reflex. A sensation comes to me when I amburned; then I experience a burning pain. If the sensation is a tickle,I experience a tickle.     This morning I have what is known medically as a syndrome ... a groupof symptoms popularly referred to as a hangover ... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. Strangely ... now what was I saying? Oh, yes. Ha, ha. Strangelyenough, the reactions that come easiest to the people in this worldcame most difficult to me. Money-love, for example. It is a great thinghere, both among those who haven't got it and those who have.     I went out and got plenty of money. I walked invisible into a bank andcarried away piles of it. Then I sat and looked at it. I took the moneyto a remote room of the twenty room suite I have rented in the besthotel here in—no, sorry—and stared at it for hours.     Nothing happened. I didn't love the stuff or feel one way or the otherabout it. Yet all around me people are actually killing one another forthe love of it.     Anyway.... Ahhh. Pardon me. I got myself enough money to fill ten orfifteen rooms. By the end of the week I should have all eighteen sparerooms filled with money. If I don't love it then, I'll feel I havefailed. This alcohol is taking effect now.     Blgftury has been goading me for reports. To hell with his reports!I've got a lot more emotions to try, such as romantic love. I've beenstudying this phenomenon, along with other racial characteristics ofthese people, in the movies. This is the best place to see thesepeople as they really are. They all go into the movie houses and theredo homage to their own images. Very quaint type of idolatry.     Love. Ha! What an adventure this is becoming.     By the way, Joe, I'm forwarding that five dollars. You see, it won'tcost me anything. It'll come out of the pocket of the idiot who'swriting this letter. Pretty shrewd of me, eh?     I'm going out and look at that money again. I think I'm at lastlearning to love it, though not as much as I admire liquor. Well, onesimply must persevere, I always say.     Glmpauszn  Penobscot, Maine     July 20     Dear Joe:     Now you tell me not to drink alcohol. Why not? You never mentioned itin any of your vibrations to us, gleebs ago, when you first came acrossto this world. It will stint my powers? Nonsense! Already I have had aquart of the liquid today. I feel wonderful. Get that? I actually feelwonderful, in spite of this miserable imitation of a body.     There are long hours during which I am so well-integrated into thisbody and this world that I almost consider myself a member of it. NowI can function efficiently. I sent Blgftury some long reports todayoutlining my experiments in the realm of chemistry where we mustfinally defeat these people. Of course, I haven't made the experimentsyet, but I will. This is not deceit, merely realistic anticipation ofthe inevitable. Anyway, what the old xbyzrt doesn't know won't muss hisvibrations.     I went to what they call a nightclub here and picked out ablonde-haired woman, the kind that the books say men prefer. She wasattracted to me instantly. After all, the body I have devised isperfect in every detail ... actually a not-world ideal.     I didn't lose any time overwhelming her susceptibilities. I rememberdistinctly that just as I stooped to pick up a large roll of money Ihad dropped, her eyes met mine and in them I could see her admiration.We went to my suite and I showed her one of the money rooms. Would youbelieve it? She actually took off her shoes and ran around through themoney in her bare feet! Then we kissed.     Concealed in the dermis of the lips are tiny, highly sensitized nerveends which send sensations to the brain. The brain interprets theseimpulses in a certain manner. As a result, the fate of secretion in theadrenals on the ends of the kidneys increases and an enlivening of theentire endocrine system follows. Thus I felt the beginnings of love.     I sat her down on a pile of money and kissed her again. Again thetingling, again the secretion and activation. I integrated myselfquickly.     Now in all the motion pictures—true representations of life and lovein this world—the man with a lot of money or virtue kisses the girland tries to induce her to do something biological. She then refuses.This pleases both of them, for he wanted her to refuse. She, in turn,wanted him to want her, but also wanted to prevent him so that he wouldhave a high opinion of her. Do I make myself clear?     I kissed the blonde girl and gave her to understand what I then wanted.Well, you can imagine my surprise when she said yes! So I had failed. Ihad not found love.     I became so abstracted by this problem that the blonde girl fellasleep. I thoughtfully drank quantities of excellent alcohol called ginand didn't even notice when the blonde girl left.     I am now beginning to feel the effects of this alcohol again. Ha. Don'tI wish old Blgftury were here in the vibrational pattern of an olive?I'd get the blonde in and have her eat him out of a Martini. That is agin mixture.     I think I'll get a hot report off to the old so-and-so right now. It'lltake him a gleeb to figure this one out. I'll tell him I'm setting upan atomic reactor in the sewage systems here and that all we have to dois activate it and all the not-people will die of chain asphyxiation.     Boy, what an easy job this turned out to be. It's just a vacation. Joe,you old gold-bricker, imagine you here all these gleebs living off thefat of the land. Yak, yak. Affectionately.     Glmpauszn  Sacramento, Calif.     July 25     Dear Joe:     All is lost unless we work swiftly. I received your revealing letterthe morning after having a terrible experience of my own. I drank alot of gin for two days and then decided to go to one of these seancethings.     Somewhere along the way I picked up a red-headed girl. When we gotto the darkened seance room, I took the redhead into a corner andcontinued my investigations into the realm of love. I failed againbecause she said yes immediately.     The nerves of my dermis were working overtime when suddenly I had themost frightening experience of my life. Now I know what a horror thesepeople really are to our world.     The medium had turned out all the lights. He said there was a strongpsychic influence in the room somewhere. That was me, of course, but Iwas too busy with the redhead to notice.     Anyway, Mrs. Somebody wanted to make contact with her paternalgrandmother, Lucy, from the beyond. The medium went into his act. Heconcentrated and sweated and suddenly something began to take form inthe room. The best way to describe it in not-world language is a white,shapeless cascade of light.     Mrs. Somebody reared to her feet and screeched, Grandma Lucy! Then Ireally took notice.     Grandma Lucy, nothing! This medium had actually brought Blgfturypartially across the vibration barrier. He must have been vibrating inthe fringe area and got caught in the works. Did he look mad! His zyhkuwas open and his btgrimms were down.     Worst of all, he saw me. Looked right at me with an unbelievablepattern of pain, anger, fear and amazement in his matrix. Me and theredhead.     Then comes your letter today telling of the fate that befell you as aresult of drinking alcohol. Our wrenchingly attuned faculties in thesenot-world bodies need the loathsome drug to escape from the realityof not-reality. It's true. I cannot do without it now. The day is onlyhalf over and I have consumed a quart and a half. And it is dulling allmy powers as it has practically obliterated yours. I can't even becomeinvisible any more.     I must find the formula that will wipe out the not-world men quickly.     Quickly!     Glmpauszn  Florence, Italy     September 10     Dear Joe:     This telepathic control becomes more difficult every time. I must pickcloser points of communication soon. I have nothing to report butfailure. I bought a ton of equipment and went to work on the formulathat is half complete in my instructions. Six of my hotel rooms werefilled with tubes, pipes and apparatus of all kinds.     I had got my mechanism as close to perfect as possible when Irealized that, in my befuddled condition, I had set off a reactionthat inevitably would result in an explosion. I had to leave thereimmediately, but I could not create suspicion. The management was notaware of the nature of my activities.     I moved swiftly. I could not afford time to bring my baggage. Istuffed as much money into my pockets as I could and then saunteredinto the hotel lobby. Assuming my most casual air, I told the managerI was checking out. Naturally he was stunned since I was his bestcustomer.     But why, sir? he asked plaintively.     I was baffled. What could I tell him?     Don't you like the rooms? he persisted. Isn't the service good?     It's the rooms, I told him. They're—they're—     They're what? he wanted to know.     They're not safe.     Not safe? But that is ridiculous. This hotel is....     At this point the blast came. My nerves were a wreck from the alcohol.     See? I screamed. Not safe. I knew they were going to blow up!     He stood paralyzed as I ran from the lobby. Oh, well, never say die.Another day, another hotel. I swear I'm even beginning to think likethe not-men, curse them.     Glmpauszn  Rochester, New York     September 25     Dear Joe:     I have it! It is done! In spite of the alcohol, in spite of Blgftury'sniggling criticism, I have succeeded. I now have developed a formof mold, somewhat similar to the antibiotics of this world, that,transmitted to the human organism, will cause a disease whose end willbe swift and fatal.     First the brain will dissolve and then the body will fall apart.Nothing in this world can stop the spread of it once it is loose.Absolutely nothing.     We must use care. Stock in as much gin as you are able. I will bringwith me all that I can. Meanwhile I must return to my original place ofbirth into this world of horrors. There I will secure the gateway, alarge mirror, the vibrational point at which we shall meet and slowlyclimb the frequency scale to emerge into our own beautiful, now secureworld. You and I together, Joe, conquerors, liberators.     You say you eat little and drink as much as you can. The same withme. Even in this revolting world I am a sad sight. My not-world sensesfalter. This is the last letter. Tomorrow I come with the gateway. Whenthe gin is gone, we will plant the mold in the hotel where you live.     In only a single gleeb it will begin to work. The men of this queerworld will be no more. But we can't say we didn't have some fun, canwe, Joe?     And just let Blgftury make one crack. Just one xyzprlt. I'll havehgutry before the ghjdksla!     Glmpauszn  Dear Editor:     These guys might be queer drunk hopheads. But if not? If soon braindissolve, body fall apart, how long have we got? Please, anybody whoknows answer, write to me—Ivan Smernda, Plaza Ritz Arms—how long is agleeb?   ","Glmpauszn is a sentient being from an alien world that takes the form of spiritual vibrations that are capable of controlling humans on Earth (which he refers to as the non-world), or entering the body of a human to take their form. He travels through a gateway (a vibrational point that alters the frequency of those who enter in the form of a mirror with a heavy bronze frame), allowing Glmpauszn to take on the frequency of a human and move his consciousness into a newborn baby. Once on Earth in newborn form, Glmpauszn quickly grows the body of the newborn baby into that of an adult man over a matter of days, and begins using the alias Ed Smith. He writes to Joe by vibrationaly controlling the minds of a variety of literate people around the world to pen the letters and then mail them to Joe at the Plaza Ritz Arms in New York City. The people he uses the mind of never become aware that they have written or mailed the letters.Joe (an alias name) is of the same world as Glmpauszn, and they are on a mission together to destroy all human life on Earth in order to stop the intrusive vibrations of Earth polluting their spiritually sentient world. There is a rocky start to their mission as Glmpauszn is not receiving any contact back from Joe who has become distracted by drugs and alcohol in his human form on Earth. Normally, Glmpauszn would be able to reach Joe through spiritual vibrations instead of letters, but Joe’s vibrations are very weak due to the substances he takes. Joe eventually does write to Glmpauszn, but only to ask for money, which greatly offends Glmpauszn who becomes furious with him for abandoning their mission. However, their relationship changes as Glmpauszn begins to experiment with the feelings of being human, and tries to feel love and consume alcohol. Glmpauszn starts to relate to Joe’s experience with alcohol, and they even decide to bring lots of gin to consume when they finally meet at the Plaza Ritz Arms to re-enter the gateway to their own world together after releasing the deadly mold that will kill all humans on Earth and complete their mission. They finish the mission triumphantly together, with Glmpauszn referring to them together in one of his final letters as conquerors and liberators for their world."
"Who is Blgftury and what happens to them in the story? </s>     A Gleeb for Earth     By CHARLES SHAFHAUSER     Illustrated by EMSH     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction May 1953.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Not to be or not to not be ... that was the       not-question for the invader of the not-world.        Dear Editor:     My 14 year old boy, Ronnie, is typing this letter for me because hecan do it neater and use better grammar. I had to get in touch withsomebody about this because if there is something to it, then somebody,everybody, is going to point finger at me, Ivan Smernda, and say, Whydidn't you warn us?     I could not go to the police because they are not too friendly tome because of some of my guests who frankly are stew bums. Also theymight think I was on booze, too, or maybe the hops, and get my licenserevoked. I run a strictly legit hotel even though some of my guestsmight be down on their luck now and then.     What really got me mixed up in this was the mysterious disappearance oftwo of my guests. They both took a powder last Wednesday morning.     Now get this. In one room, that of Joe Binkle, which maybe is an alias,I find nothing but a suit of clothes, some butts and the letters Iinclude here in same package. Binkle had only one suit. That I know.And this was it laying right in the middle of the room. Inside thecoat was the vest, inside the vest the shirt, inside the shirt theunderwear. The pants were up in the coat and inside of them was alsothe underwear. All this was buttoned up like Binkle had melted out ofit and dripped through a crack in the floor. In a bureau drawer werethe letters I told you about.     Now. In the room right under Binkle's lived another stew bum thatchecked in Thursday ... name Ed Smith, alias maybe, too. This guy was areal case. He brought with him a big mirror with a heavy bronze frame.Airloom, he says. He pays a week in advance, staggers up the stairs tohis room with the mirror and that's the last I see of him.     In Smith's room on Wednesday I find only a suit of clothes, the samesuit he wore when he came in. In the coat the vest, in the vest theshirt, in the shirt the underwear. Also in the pants. Also all in themiddle of the floor. Against the far wall stands the frame of themirror. Only the frame!     What a spot to be in! Now it might have been a gag. Sometimes theseguys get funny ideas when they are on the stuff. But then I readthe letters. This knocks me for a loop. They are all in differenthandwritings. All from different places. Stamps all legit, my kid says.India, China, England, everywhere.     My kid, he reads. He says it's no joke. He wants to call the cops ormaybe some doctor. But I say no. He reads your magazine so he sayswrite to you, send you the letters. You know what to do. Now you havethem. Maybe you print. Whatever you do, Mr. Editor, remember my place,the Plaza Ritz Arms, is straight establishment. I don't drink. I nevertouch junk, not even aspirin.     Yours very truly,     Ivan Smernda  Bombay, India     June 8     Mr. Joe Binkle     Plaza Ritz Arms     New York City     Dear Joe:     Greetings, greetings, greetings. Hold firm in your wretched projection,for tomorrow you will not be alone in the not-world. In two days I,Glmpauszn, will be born.     Today I hang in our newly developed not-pod just within the mirrorgateway, torn with the agony that we calculated must go with suchtremendous wavelength fluctuations. I have attuned myself to a fetuswithin the body of a not-woman in the not-world. Already I am staticand for hours have looked into this weird extension of the Universewith fear and trepidation.     As soon as my stasis was achieved, I tried to contact you, but gotno response. What could have diminished your powers of articulatewave interaction to make you incapable of receiving my messages andreturning them? My wave went out to yours and found it, barely pulsingand surrounded with an impregnable chimera.     Quickly, from the not-world vibrations about you, I learned thenot-knowledge of your location. So I must communicate with you by whatthe not-world calls mail till we meet. For this purpose I mustutilize the feeble vibrations of various not-people through whoseinadequate articulation I will attempt to make my moves known to you.Each time I will pick a city other than the one I am in at the time.     I, Glmpauszn, come equipped with powers evolved from your fragmentaryreports before you ceased to vibrate to us and with a vast treasuryof facts from indirect sources. Soon our tortured people will be freeof the fearsome not-folk and I will be their liberator. You failed inyour task, but I will try to get you off with light punishment when wereturn again.     The hand that writes this letter is that of a boy in the not-city ofBombay in the not-country of India. He does not know he writes it.Tomorrow it will be someone else. You must never know of my exactlocation, for the not-people might have access to the information.     I must leave off now because the not-child is about to be born. When itis alone in the room, it will be spirited away and I will spring fromthe pod on the gateway into its crib and will be its exact vibrationallikeness.     I have tremendous powers. But the not-people must never know I am amongthem. This is the only way I could arrive in the room where the gatewaylies without arousing suspicion. I will grow up as the not-child inorder that I might destroy the not-people completely.     All is well, only they shot this information file into my matrix toofast. I'm having a hard time sorting facts and make the right decision.Gezsltrysk, what a task!     Farewell till later.     Glmpauszn  Wichita, Kansas     June 13     Dear Joe:     Mnghjkl, fhfjgfhjklop phelnoprausynks. No. When I communicate with you,I see I must avoid those complexities of procedure for which there areno terms in this language. There is no way of describing to you innot-language what I had to go through during the first moments of mybirth.     Now I know what difficulties you must have had with your limitedequipment. These not-people are unpredictable and strange. Their doctorcame in and weighed me again the day after my birth. Consternationreigned when it was discovered I was ten pounds heavier. Whatdifference could it possibly make? Many doctors then came in to see me.As they arrived hourly, they found me heavier and heavier. Naturally,since I am growing. This is part of my instructions. My not-mother(Gezsltrysk!) then burst into tears. The doctors conferred, threw uptheir hands and left.     I learned the following day that the opposite component of mynot-mother, my not-father, had been away riding on some conveyanceduring my birth. He was out on ... what did they call it? Oh, yes, abender. He did not arrive till three days after I was born.     When I heard them say that he was straightening up to come see me, Imade a special effort and grew marvelously in one afternoon. I was 36not-world inches tall by evening. My not-father entered while I wasstanding by the crib examining a syringe the doctor had left behind.He stopped in his tracks on entering the room and seemed incapable ofspeech.     Dredging into the treasury of knowledge I had come equipped with, Iproduced the proper phrase for occasions of this kind in the not-world.     Poppa, I said.     This was the first use I had made of the so-called vocal cords thatare now part of my extended matrix. The sound I emitted soundedlow-pitched, guttural and penetrating even to myself. It must havejarred on my not-father's ears, for he turned and ran shouting from theroom.     They apprehended him on the stairs and I heard him babble somethingabout my being a monster and no child of his. My not-mother appeared atthe doorway and instead of being pleased at the progress of my growth,she fell down heavily. She made a distinct      thump     on the floor.     This brought the rest of them on the run, so I climbed out the windowand retreated across a nearby field. A prolonged search was launched,but I eluded them. What unpredictable beings!     I reported my tremendous progress back to our world, including thecleverness by which I managed to escape my pursuers. I received a replyfrom Blgftury which, on careful analysis, seems to be small praiseindeed. In fact, some of his phrases apparently contain veiled threats.But you know old Blgftury. He wanted to go on this expedition himselfand it's his nature never to flatter anyone.     From now on I will refer to not-people simply as people, dropping thequalifying preface except where comparisons must be made between thisalleged world and our own. It is merely an offshoot of our primitivemythology when this was considered a spirit world, just as these peoplerefer to our world as never-never land and other anomalies. But welearned otherwise, while they never have.     New sensations crowd into my consciousness and I am having a hardtime classifying them. Anyway, I shall carry on swiftly now to theinevitable climax in which I singlehanded will obliterate the terror ofthe not-world and return to our world a hero. I cannot understand yournot replying to my letters. I have given you a box number. What couldhave happened to your vibrations?     Glmpauszn  Albuquerque, New Mexico     June 15     Dear Joe:     I had tremendous difficulty getting a letter off to you this time.My process—original with myself, by the way—is to send out feelervibrations for what these people call the psychic individual. Then Iestablish contact with him while he sleeps and compel him without hisknowledge to translate my ideas into written language. He writes myletter and mails it to you. Of course, he has no awareness of what hehas done.     My first five tries were unfortunate. Each time I took control of anindividual who could not read or write! Finally I found my man, butI fear his words are limited. Ah, well. I had great things to tellyou about my progress, but I cannot convey even a hint of how I haveaccomplished these miracles through the thick skull of this incompetent.     In simple terms then: I crept into a cave and slipped into a kind ofsleep, directing my squhjkl ulytz & uhrytzg ... no, it won't come out.Anyway, I grew overnight to the size of an average person here.     As I said before, floods of impressions are driving into my xzbyl ...my brain ... from various nerve and sense areas and I am having a hardtime classifying them. My one idea was to get to a chemist and acquirethe stuff needed for the destruction of these people.     Sunrise came as I expected. According to my catalog of information, theimpressions aroused by it are of beauty. It took little conditioningfor me finally to react in this manner. This is truly an efficientmechanism I inhabit.     I gazed about me at the mixture of lights, forms and impressions.It was strange and ... now I know ... beautiful. However, I hurriedimmediately toward the nearest chemist. At the same time I looked upand all about me at the beauty.     Soon an individual approached. I knew what to do from my information. Isimply acted natural. You know, one of your earliest instructions wasto realize that these people see nothing unusual in you if you do notlet yourself believe they do.     This individual I classified as a female of a singular variety here.Her hair was short, her upper torso clad in a woolen garment. Shewore ... what are they? ... oh, yes, sneakers. My attention wasdiverted by a scream as I passed her. I stopped.     The woman gesticulated and continued to scream. People hurried fromnearby houses. I linked my hands behind me and watched the scene withan attitude of mild interest. They weren't interested in me, I toldmyself. But they were.     I became alarmed, dived into a bush and used a mechanism that youunfortunately do not have—invisibility. I lay there and listened.     He was stark naked, the girl with the sneakers said.     A figure I recognized as a police officer spoke to her.     Lizzy, you'll just have to keep these crackpot friends of yours out ofthis area.     But—     No more buck-bathing, Lizzy, the officer ordered. No more speechesin the Square. Not when it results in riots at five in the morning. Nowwhere is your naked friend? I'm going to make an example of him.     That was it—I had forgotten clothes. There is only one answer to thisoversight on my part. My mind is confused by the barrage of impressionsthat assault it. I must retire now and get them all classified. Beauty,pain, fear, hate, love, laughter. I don't know one from the other. Imust feel each, become accustomed to it.     The more I think about it, the more I realize that the information Ihave been given is very unrealistic. You have been inefficient, Joe.What will Blgftury and the others say of this? My great mission isimpaired. Farewell, till I find a more intelligent mind so I can writeyou with more enlightenment.     Glmpauszn  Moscow, Idaho     June 17     Dear Joe:     I received your first communication today. It baffles me. Do you greetme in the proper fringe-zone manner? No. Do you express joy, hope,pride, helpfulness at my arrival? No. You ask me for a loan of fivebucks!     It took me some time, culling my information catalog to come up withthe correct variant of the slang term buck. Is it possible that youare powerless even to provide yourself with the wherewithal to live inthis inferior world?     A reminder, please. You and I—I in particular—are now engaged ina struggle to free our world from the terrible, maiming intrusionsof this not-world. Through many long gleebs, our people have liveda semi-terrorized existence while errant vibrations from this worldripped across the closely joined vibration flux, whose individualfluctuations make up our sentient population.     Even our eminent, all-high Frequency himself has often been jeopardizedby these people. The not-world and our world are like two basketsas you and I see them in our present forms. Baskets woven with thegreatest intricacy, design and color; but baskets whose convex sidesare joined by a thin fringe of filaments. Our world, on the vibrationalplane, extends just a bit into this, the not-world. But being a worldof higher vibration, it is ultimately tenuous to these gross peoples.While we vibrate only within a restricted plane because of our purer,more stable existence, these people radiate widely into our world.     They even send what they call psychic reproductions of their own selvesinto ours. And most infamous of all, they sometimes are able to forcesome of our individuals over the fringe into their world temporarily,causing them much agony and fright.     The latter atrocity is perpetrated through what these people callmediums, spiritualists and other fatuous names. I intend to visit oneof them at the first opportunity to see for myself.     Meanwhile, as to you, I would offer a few words of advice. I pickedthem up while examining the slang portion of my information catalogwhich you unfortunately caused me to use. So, for the ultimatecause—in this, the penultimate adventure, and for the glory and peaceof our world—shake a leg, bub. Straighten up and fly right. In short,get hep.     As far as the five bucks is concerned, no dice.     Glmpauszn  Des Moines, Iowa     June 19     Dear Joe:     Your letter was imponderable till I had thrashed through long passagesin my information catalog that I had never imagined I would need.Biological functions and bodily processes which are labeled hererevolting are used freely in your missive. You can be sure they areall being forwarded to Blgftury. If I were not involved in the mostimportant part of my journey—completion of the weapon against thenot-worlders—I would come to New York immediately. You would rue thatday, I assure you.     Glmpauszn  Boise, Idaho     July 15     Dear Joe:     A great deal has happened to me since I wrote to you last.Systematically, I have tested each emotion and sensation listed inour catalog. I have been, as has been said in this world, like a reedbending before the winds of passion. In fact, I'm rather badly bentindeed. Ah! You'll pardon me, but I just took time for what is knownquaintly in this tongue as a hooker of red-eye. Ha! I've masteredeven the vagaries of slang in the not-language.... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. I feel much better now.     You see, Joe, as I attuned myself to the various impressions thatconstantly assaulted my mind through this body, I conditioned myself toreact exactly as our information catalog instructed me to.     Now it is all automatic, pure reflex. A sensation comes to me when I amburned; then I experience a burning pain. If the sensation is a tickle,I experience a tickle.     This morning I have what is known medically as a syndrome ... a groupof symptoms popularly referred to as a hangover ... Ahhh! Pardon meagain. Strangely ... now what was I saying? Oh, yes. Ha, ha. Strangelyenough, the reactions that come easiest to the people in this worldcame most difficult to me. Money-love, for example. It is a great thinghere, both among those who haven't got it and those who have.     I went out and got plenty of money. I walked invisible into a bank andcarried away piles of it. Then I sat and looked at it. I took the moneyto a remote room of the twenty room suite I have rented in the besthotel here in—no, sorry—and stared at it for hours.     Nothing happened. I didn't love the stuff or feel one way or the otherabout it. Yet all around me people are actually killing one another forthe love of it.     Anyway.... Ahhh. Pardon me. I got myself enough money to fill ten orfifteen rooms. By the end of the week I should have all eighteen sparerooms filled with money. If I don't love it then, I'll feel I havefailed. This alcohol is taking effect now.     Blgftury has been goading me for reports. To hell with his reports!I've got a lot more emotions to try, such as romantic love. I've beenstudying this phenomenon, along with other racial characteristics ofthese people, in the movies. This is the best place to see thesepeople as they really are. They all go into the movie houses and theredo homage to their own images. Very quaint type of idolatry.     Love. Ha! What an adventure this is becoming.     By the way, Joe, I'm forwarding that five dollars. You see, it won'tcost me anything. It'll come out of the pocket of the idiot who'swriting this letter. Pretty shrewd of me, eh?     I'm going out and look at that money again. I think I'm at lastlearning to love it, though not as much as I admire liquor. Well, onesimply must persevere, I always say.     Glmpauszn  Penobscot, Maine     July 20     Dear Joe:     Now you tell me not to drink alcohol. Why not? You never mentioned itin any of your vibrations to us, gleebs ago, when you first came acrossto this world. It will stint my powers? Nonsense! Already I have had aquart of the liquid today. I feel wonderful. Get that? I actually feelwonderful, in spite of this miserable imitation of a body.     There are long hours during which I am so well-integrated into thisbody and this world that I almost consider myself a member of it. NowI can function efficiently. I sent Blgftury some long reports todayoutlining my experiments in the realm of chemistry where we mustfinally defeat these people. Of course, I haven't made the experimentsyet, but I will. This is not deceit, merely realistic anticipation ofthe inevitable. Anyway, what the old xbyzrt doesn't know won't muss hisvibrations.     I went to what they call a nightclub here and picked out ablonde-haired woman, the kind that the books say men prefer. She wasattracted to me instantly. After all, the body I have devised isperfect in every detail ... actually a not-world ideal.     I didn't lose any time overwhelming her susceptibilities. I rememberdistinctly that just as I stooped to pick up a large roll of money Ihad dropped, her eyes met mine and in them I could see her admiration.We went to my suite and I showed her one of the money rooms. Would youbelieve it? She actually took off her shoes and ran around through themoney in her bare feet! Then we kissed.     Concealed in the dermis of the lips are tiny, highly sensitized nerveends which send sensations to the brain. The brain interprets theseimpulses in a certain manner. As a result, the fate of secretion in theadrenals on the ends of the kidneys increases and an enlivening of theentire endocrine system follows. Thus I felt the beginnings of love.     I sat her down on a pile of money and kissed her again. Again thetingling, again the secretion and activation. I integrated myselfquickly.     Now in all the motion pictures—true representations of life and lovein this world—the man with a lot of money or virtue kisses the girland tries to induce her to do something biological. She then refuses.This pleases both of them, for he wanted her to refuse. She, in turn,wanted him to want her, but also wanted to prevent him so that he wouldhave a high opinion of her. Do I make myself clear?     I kissed the blonde girl and gave her to understand what I then wanted.Well, you can imagine my surprise when she said yes! So I had failed. Ihad not found love.     I became so abstracted by this problem that the blonde girl fellasleep. I thoughtfully drank quantities of excellent alcohol called ginand didn't even notice when the blonde girl left.     I am now beginning to feel the effects of this alcohol again. Ha. Don'tI wish old Blgftury were here in the vibrational pattern of an olive?I'd get the blonde in and have her eat him out of a Martini. That is agin mixture.     I think I'll get a hot report off to the old so-and-so right now. It'lltake him a gleeb to figure this one out. I'll tell him I'm setting upan atomic reactor in the sewage systems here and that all we have to dois activate it and all the not-people will die of chain asphyxiation.     Boy, what an easy job this turned out to be. It's just a vacation. Joe,you old gold-bricker, imagine you here all these gleebs living off thefat of the land. Yak, yak. Affectionately.     Glmpauszn  Sacramento, Calif.     July 25     Dear Joe:     All is lost unless we work swiftly. I received your revealing letterthe morning after having a terrible experience of my own. I drank alot of gin for two days and then decided to go to one of these seancethings.     Somewhere along the way I picked up a red-headed girl. When we gotto the darkened seance room, I took the redhead into a corner andcontinued my investigations into the realm of love. I failed againbecause she said yes immediately.     The nerves of my dermis were working overtime when suddenly I had themost frightening experience of my life. Now I know what a horror thesepeople really are to our world.     The medium had turned out all the lights. He said there was a strongpsychic influence in the room somewhere. That was me, of course, but Iwas too busy with the redhead to notice.     Anyway, Mrs. Somebody wanted to make contact with her paternalgrandmother, Lucy, from the beyond. The medium went into his act. Heconcentrated and sweated and suddenly something began to take form inthe room. The best way to describe it in not-world language is a white,shapeless cascade of light.     Mrs. Somebody reared to her feet and screeched, Grandma Lucy! Then Ireally took notice.     Grandma Lucy, nothing! This medium had actually brought Blgfturypartially across the vibration barrier. He must have been vibrating inthe fringe area and got caught in the works. Did he look mad! His zyhkuwas open and his btgrimms were down.     Worst of all, he saw me. Looked right at me with an unbelievablepattern of pain, anger, fear and amazement in his matrix. Me and theredhead.     Then comes your letter today telling of the fate that befell you as aresult of drinking alcohol. Our wrenchingly attuned faculties in thesenot-world bodies need the loathsome drug to escape from the realityof not-reality. It's true. I cannot do without it now. The day is onlyhalf over and I have consumed a quart and a half. And it is dulling allmy powers as it has practically obliterated yours. I can't even becomeinvisible any more.     I must find the formula that will wipe out the not-world men quickly.     Quickly!     Glmpauszn  Florence, Italy     September 10     Dear Joe:     This telepathic control becomes more difficult every time. I must pickcloser points of communication soon. I have nothing to report butfailure. I bought a ton of equipment and went to work on the formulathat is half complete in my instructions. Six of my hotel rooms werefilled with tubes, pipes and apparatus of all kinds.     I had got my mechanism as close to perfect as possible when Irealized that, in my befuddled condition, I had set off a reactionthat inevitably would result in an explosion. I had to leave thereimmediately, but I could not create suspicion. The management was notaware of the nature of my activities.     I moved swiftly. I could not afford time to bring my baggage. Istuffed as much money into my pockets as I could and then saunteredinto the hotel lobby. Assuming my most casual air, I told the managerI was checking out. Naturally he was stunned since I was his bestcustomer.     But why, sir? he asked plaintively.     I was baffled. What could I tell him?     Don't you like the rooms? he persisted. Isn't the service good?     It's the rooms, I told him. They're—they're—     They're what? he wanted to know.     They're not safe.     Not safe? But that is ridiculous. This hotel is....     At this point the blast came. My nerves were a wreck from the alcohol.     See? I screamed. Not safe. I knew they were going to blow up!     He stood paralyzed as I ran from the lobby. Oh, well, never say die.Another day, another hotel. I swear I'm even beginning to think likethe not-men, curse them.     Glmpauszn  Rochester, New York     September 25     Dear Joe:     I have it! It is done! In spite of the alcohol, in spite of Blgftury'sniggling criticism, I have succeeded. I now have developed a formof mold, somewhat similar to the antibiotics of this world, that,transmitted to the human organism, will cause a disease whose end willbe swift and fatal.     First the brain will dissolve and then the body will fall apart.Nothing in this world can stop the spread of it once it is loose.Absolutely nothing.     We must use care. Stock in as much gin as you are able. I will bringwith me all that I can. Meanwhile I must return to my original place ofbirth into this world of horrors. There I will secure the gateway, alarge mirror, the vibrational point at which we shall meet and slowlyclimb the frequency scale to emerge into our own beautiful, now secureworld. You and I together, Joe, conquerors, liberators.     You say you eat little and drink as much as you can. The same withme. Even in this revolting world I am a sad sight. My not-world sensesfalter. This is the last letter. Tomorrow I come with the gateway. Whenthe gin is gone, we will plant the mold in the hotel where you live.     In only a single gleeb it will begin to work. The men of this queerworld will be no more. But we can't say we didn't have some fun, canwe, Joe?     And just let Blgftury make one crack. Just one xyzprlt. I'll havehgutry before the ghjdksla!     Glmpauszn  Dear Editor:     These guys might be queer drunk hopheads. But if not? If soon braindissolve, body fall apart, how long have we got? Please, anybody whoknows answer, write to me—Ivan Smernda, Plaza Ritz Arms—how long is agleeb?   ","Blgftury is an alien of the same world as Glmpauszn and Joe, which is being semi-terrorized by intrusive vibrations from Earth (which they refer to as non-world) that pollute their world’s sentient frequency. Their world wishes to destroy all human life on Earth to become free from these intrusions. Blgftury is the boss of the other two, and Glmpauszn often refers to having to write reports for him begrudgingly to update on the status of the mission.Blgftury is not a supportive boss, because he wished to go on this mission himself. Glmpauszn describes that Blgftury gave him little praise, and even wrote thinly-veiled threats, in his response to Glmpauszn’s report on how he escaped the pursuit of the police when he was caught naked in public after forgetting humans need to put on clothes. Blgftury has the authority to take corrective action related to the mission, evidenced by how Glmpauszn doesn’t hesitate to forward him the letters from Joe that he finds offensive about asking for money and discussing “revolting bodily processes.” Blgftury has to pester Glmpauszn for reports when he begins to go off the plan and experiment with human feelings like falling in love and alcohol. Glmpauszn does finally successfully develop a mold that will kill all humans on Earth and sends detailed chemistry reports back to Blgftury on the subject. Blgftury spends a lot of time sending vibrations in the fringe area between Earth and their world, and by accident his vibrations are summoned by a spiritual medium into a white, shapeless cascade of light at a human seance gathering that Glmpauszn happens to be attending on Earth where he is fooling around with a red-headed woman in the corner of the room (flagrantly not doing the work of the mission) in full visibility to Blgftury. Blgftury responded with a pattern in his matrix that showed pain, anger, fear and amazement. Glmpauszn goes on to complete the mission and return with Joe to their home world without further interaction with Blgftury."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     The Haunted Fountain    id=chap01>  CHAPTER I   An Unsolved Mystery    “Tell Judy about it,” begged Lois. “Please, Lorraine,it can’t be as bad as it appears. There isn’tanything that Judy can’t solve.”     Lorraine tilted her head disdainfully. “We’re sistersnow. We’re both Farringdon-Petts and should beloyal to each other. But you always did take Judy’spart. She was the one who nearly spoiled our doublewedding trying to solve a mystery. I don’t believeshe’d understand—understand any better than I do.Everyone has problems, and I’m sure Judy is noexception.”     “You’re right, Lorraine,” announced Judy, comingin to serve dessert to the two friends she had invitedfor lunch at Peter’s suggestion. “I do haveproblems, and there are plenty of mysteries I can’tsolve.”     “Name one,” charged Lois. “Just mention onesingle spooky thing you couldn’t explain, and I’llbelieve you. I’ve seen you in action, Judy Bolton—”     “Judy Dobbs, remember?”     “Well, you were Judy Bolton when you solvedall those mysteries. I met you when the wholevalley below the big Roulsville dam was threatenedby flood and you solved that—”     “That,” declared Judy, “was my brother Horace,not me. He was the hero without even meaning tobe. He was the one who rode through town andwarned people that the flood was coming. I was offchasing a shadow.”     “A vanishing shadow,” Lois said with a sigh.“What you did wasn’t easy, Judy.”     “It didn’t need to be as hard as it was,” Judy confessed.“I know now that keeping that promise notto talk about the dam was a great big mistake andcould have cost lives. I should have told Arthur.”     “Please,” Lorraine said, a pained expression cloudingher pretty face, “let’s not talk about him now.”     “Very well,” Judy agreed. “What shall we talkabout?”     “You,” Lois said, “and all the mysteries you’vesolved. Maybe you were mistaken about a thing ortwo before the flood, but what about the haunted  house you moved into? You were the one whotracked down the ghosts in the attic and the cellarand goodness knows where all. You’ve been chasingghosts ever since I met you, and not one of them didyou fail to explain in some sensible, logical fashion.”     “Before I met you,” Judy said, thinking back,“there were plenty of them I couldn’t explain. Therewas one I used to call the spirit of the fountain, butwhat she was or how she spoke to me is more thanI know. If my grandparents knew, they weren’t telling.And now they’re both dead and I can’t ask them.They left me a lot of unsolved mysteries along withthis house. Maybe I’ll find the answers to some ofthem when I finish sorting Grandma’s things. They’restored in one end of the attic.”     “Another haunted attic? How thrilling!” exclaimedLois. “Why don’t you have another ghost party andshow up the spooks?”     “I didn’t say the attic was haunted.”     Judy was almost sorry she had mentioned it. Shewasn’t in the mood for digging up old mysteries,but Lois and Lorraine insisted. It all began, she finallytold them, the summer before they met. Horacehad just started working on the paper. Judy rememberedthat it was Lorraine’s father, Richard ThorntonLee, who gave him his job with the      FarringdonDaily Herald     . He had turned in some interestingchurch news, convincing Mr. Lee that he had in him  the makings of a good reporter. And so it was thathe spent the summer Judy was remembering in Farringdonwhere the Farringdon-Petts had their turretedmansion, while she had to suffer the heat andloneliness of Dry Brook Hollow.     Her thoughts were what had made it so hard, sheconfessed now as she reviewed everything that hadhappened. She just couldn’t help resenting the factthat her parents left her every summer while theywent off on a vacation by themselves. What did theythink she would do?     “You’ll have plenty to read,” her father had toldher. “I bought you six new books in that mysteryseries you like. When they’re finished there areplenty of short stories around. Your grandmothernever throws anything away. She has magazines she’ssaved since your mother was a girl. If you ask forthem she’ll let you have the whole stack. I know howyou love to read.”     “I do, Dad, but if the magazines are that old—”     Judy had stopped. She had seen her father’s tiredeyes and had realized that a busy doctor needed avacation much more than a schoolgirl who had toolittle to do. He and Judy’s mother usually went tothe beach hotel where they had honeymooned. Itwas a precious memory. Every summer Dr. Boltonand his wife relived it. And every summer Judywent to stay with her grandmother Smeed, whoscolded and fussed and tried to pretend she wasn’tglad to have her.     “You here again?” she had greeted her that summer,and Judy hadn’t noticed her old eyes twinklingbehind her glasses. “What do you propose to do withyourself this time?”     “Read,” Judy had told her. “Mom and Dad sayyou have a whole stack of old magazines—”     “In the attic. Go up and look them over if youcan stand the heat.”     Judy went, not to look over the old magazines somuch as to escape to a place where she could have agood cry. It was the summer before her fifteenthbirthday. In another year she would have outgrownher childish resentment of her parents’ vacation orbe grown up enough to ask them to let her have avacation of her own. In another year she wouldbe summering among the beautiful Thousand Islandsand solving a mystery to be known as the      GhostParade     .     “A whole parade of ghosts,” Lois would be tellingher, “and you solved everything.”     But then she didn’t even know Lois. She had noidea so many thrilling adventures awaited her. Thereseemed to be nothing—nothing—and so the tearscame and spilled over on one of the magazines. AsJudy wiped it away she noticed that it had fallenon a picture of a fountain.     “A fountain with tears for water. How strange!”she remembered saying aloud.     Judy had never seen a real fountain. The thrill ofwalking up to the door of the palatial Farringdon-Pettmansion was still ahead of her. On the lawn afountain still caught and held rainbows like thoseshe was to see on her honeymoon at Niagara Falls.But all that was in the future. If anyone had toldthe freckled-faced, pigtailed girl that she would oneday marry Peter Dobbs, she would have laughed intheir faces.     “That tease!”     For then she knew Peter only as an older boy whoused to tease her and call her carrot-top until one dayshe yelled back at him, “Carrot-tops are green and soare you!”     Peter was to win Judy’s heart when he gave her akitten and suggested the name Blackberry for him.The kitten was now a dignified family cat. But thesummer Judy found the picture of a fountain andspilled tears on it she had no kitten. She had nothing,she confessed, not even a friend. It had helped topretend the fountain in the picture was filled withall the tears lonely girls like herself had ever cried.     “But that would make it enchanted!” she had suddenlyexclaimed. “If I could find it I’d wish—”     A step had sounded on the stairs. Judy rememberedit distinctly. She had turned to see her grandmother  and to hear her say in her usual abrupt fashion,“Enchanted fountain, indeed! If you let peopleknow your wishes instead of muttering them toyourself, most of them aren’t so impossible.”     “Were they?” asked Lois.     She and Lorraine had listened to this much of whatJudy was telling them without interruption.     “That’s the unsolved mystery,” Judy replied.“There weren’t any of them impossible.”     And she went on to tell them how, the very nextday, her grandparents had taken her to a fountainexactly like the one in the picture. It was in the centerof a deep, circular pool with steps leading up to it.Beside the steps were smaller fountains with thewater spurting from the mouths of stone lions. Judyhad stared at them a moment and then climbed thesteps to the pool.     “Am I dreaming?” she remembered saying aloud.“Is this beautiful fountain real?”     A voice had answered, although she could see noone.     “Make your wishes, Judy. Wish wisely. If youshed a tear in the fountain your wishes will surelycome true.”     “A tear?” Judy had asked. “How can I shed atear when I’m happy? This is a wonderful place.”     “Shed a tear in the fountain and your wishes willsurely come true,” the voice had repeated.     “But what is there to cry about?”     “You found plenty to cry about back at yourgrandmother’s house,” the mysterious voice had remindedher. “Weren’t you crying on my picture upthere in the attic?”     “Then you—you      are     the fountain!” Judy rememberedexclaiming. “But a fountain doesn’t speak. Itdoesn’t have a voice.”     “Wish wisely,” the voice from the fountain hadsaid in a mysterious whisper.    id=chap02>  CHAPTER II   If Wishes Came True    “Did you?” Lois interrupted the story to ask excitedly.“Oh, Judy! Don’t keep us in suspense anylonger. What did you wish?”     “Patience,” Judy said with a smile. “I’m comingto that.”     First, she told her friends, she had to think of awise wish. There had been so much she wanted inthose early days before the flood. Dora Scott hadbeen her best friend in Roulsville, but she had movedaway.     “You see,” she explained, “I made the mistake ofhaving just one best friend. There wasn’t anybodyin Dry Brook Hollow. I remember thinking of howlonely I was and how I wished for a friend or a sister,  and suddenly a tear splashed in the water. It madelittle ripples. I thought I had to wish quickly beforethey vanished, and so I began naming the things Iwanted as fast as I could. I’m not sure they werewise wishes. They seem rather selfish to me, now. Iwasn’t thinking of anybody but me, Judy Bolton,and what I wanted. It wasn’t until after I began tothink of others that my wishes started to come true.”     “But what were they?” Lois insisted.     Lorraine seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful.Judy did not notice the fear in her eyes as she repliedairily, “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I wished for lotsof friends and a sister, and I wished I could marry aG-man and solve a lot of mysteries and that’s as faras I got when the ripples vanished. I thought thespell was broken and so I didn’t wish for anythingmore.”     “Wasn’t there anything more you wanted?” Loisasked.     “Of course,” replied Judy. “There were lots morethings. I wanted to go places, of course, and keeppets, and have a nice home, and—”     “And your wishes all came true!”     “Every one of them,” Judy agreed, “even the oneabout the sister. You see, it wasn’t a baby sister Iwanted. It was a sister near my own age. Thatseemed impossible at the time, but the future didhold a sister for me.”     “It held one for me, too,” Lois said, squeezingLorraine’s hand under the table. “Don’t you thinksisters should tell each other their problems, Judy?”     “Honey and I always do,” she replied “but thenit was different. I didn’t know I would marry Peteror that he would become a G-man, and he didn’tknow he had a sister. It is strange, isn’t it? But thestrangest thing of all was the fountain itself.”     “Why?” asked Lorraine. “Do you still think it wasenchanted?”     Lois laughed at this, but Judy was serious as sheanswered, “I was still little girl enough to think soat the time. I wandered around, growing verydrowsy. Then I found a hammock and climbed intoit. I must have gone to sleep, because I rememberwaking up and wondering if the voice in the fountainhad been a dream.”     “A hammock?” Lois questioned. “Are you sure itwasn’t a flying carpet?”     “No, it was a hammock all right,” Judy assuredher, laughing. “It was hung between two trees in abeautiful garden all enclosed in rose trellises thickwith roses. Did I tell you it was June?”     “All the year around?”     Again Lois laughed. But Lorraine said abruptly,“Let’s not talk about rose gardens in June. It’s a longway from June to December.”     “Do you mean a garden changes? I know,” Judysaid, “but I think this one would be beautiful at anytime of the year. There were rhododendrons, too,and I don’t know how many different kinds of evergreens.I explored the garden all around the fountain.”     “And then what happened?” Lorraine urged her.     “Yes, yes. Go on,” entreated Lois. “I didn’t dreamyou’d kept anything that exciting a secret. Why didn’tyou try to solve the mystery?”     “I think I would have tried,” Judy admitted, “ifI had been older or more experienced. I really shouldhave investigated it more thoroughly and learned thesecret of the fountain. But after the ripples wentaway it didn’t speak to me any more, and I didn’treally think it had heard my wishes. I was still wishingfor a friend when I met you, Lois. It did seemimpossible for us to be friends at first, didn’t it? Lorrainewas your friend.”     “I did make trouble for you,” Lorraine remembered.“It was all because of my foolish jealousy.”     “It was nothing compared to the trouble caused bythe Roulsville flood,” declared Judy. “After thatthings started happening so fast that I completelyforgot about the fountain. Honestly, Lois, I don’tbelieve I thought about it again until after we movedto Farringdon and I walked up to your door andsaw the fountain on your lawn.”     “The Farringdon-Pett puddle, I always called it,”Lois said with a giggle. “I’ve seen lots nicer fountains.”     “You have?” asked Judy. “Then maybe you’veseen the one I’ve been telling you about. I think thepicture of it is still in the attic. Come on up and I’llshow you.”     Lois and Lorraine had finished their dessert whileJudy was telling them the story of the fountain.Somehow, she wasn’t hungry for hers. She hadtasted it too often while she was making it.     “I’ll leave it for Blackberry,” she decided.     Lois watched in amusement as the cat lapped upthe chocolate pudding after Judy had mixed it generouslywith cream.     “Sometimes,” Judy said fondly, “Blackberry thinkshe’s a person. He eats everything we eat, includinglettuce. Do you mind if he comes with us, Lorraine?He wants to explore the attic, too.”     “He’ll remember he’s a cat fast enough if thereare any mice up there,” Lois said with a giggle.     Leaving the table, they all started upstairs withthe cat bounding ahead of them. In modernizing hergrandparents’ house to suit her own and Peter’stastes, Judy had seen to it that the old stair door wasremoved. But there was still a door closing off thenarrower stairs that led to the attic. Blackberryreached it first and yowled for Judy to open it.     “He can read my mind. He always knows whereI’m going,” Judy said as the door creaked open andthe cat shot through it. A moment later a weird rollingnoise came from the floor above.     “Come on. There’s nothing up here to be afraidof,” Judy urged her friends.     “Maybe not, but I’m beginning to get the shivers,”confessed Lois as she followed Judy to the sewingroom at the top of the last flight of stairs.     “So am I,” Lorraine admitted. “I’m not superstitiousabout black cats, but they are creepy. DoesBlackberry have to roll spools across the floor?”     “Now he thinks he’s a kitten,” laughed Judy.Pausing at still another door that led to the darkerpart of the attic, she turned and said mysteriously,“Up here we can all turn back the clock. Does anybodycare to explore the past?”     The exploration began enthusiastically with Judyrelating still more of what she remembered aboutthe fountain.     “When I told Grandma about it she laughed andsaid I must have dreamed it. She said if wishes cametrue that easily she’d be living in a castle. But wouldshe?” Judy wondered. “When I first remember thishouse she was still burning kerosene lamps like thoseyou see on that high shelf by the window. I thinkshe and Grandpa like the way they lived withoutany modern conveniences or anything.”     “I think so, too,” Lois agreed, looking around theold attic with a shiver. “It is strange they both diedthe same winter, isn’t it?”     “Maybe they wanted it that way. Maybe theywished neither of them would outlive the other. Ifthey did wish in the fountain,” Judy went on morethoughtfully, “I’m sure that was one of their wishes.Another could have been to keep the good old days,as Grandma used to call them. That one came truein a way. They did manage to keep a little of thepast when they kept all these old things. That’s whatI meant about turning back the clock.”     “If wishes came true I’d like to turn it back a littlemyself,” Lorraine began. “It would be nice if thingswere the way they used to be when I trustedArthur—”     “Don’t you trust him now?” Judy asked.     Afterwards she was sorry for the interruption. Loisand Judy both questioned Lorraine, but that was allshe would say. Judy wondered, as they searchedthrough the old magazines, what was wrong. Lorrainewas of a jealous disposition. Was the green-eyedmonster coming between her and her handsome husband,Arthur Farringdon-Pett? Until now they hadseemed blissfully happy. But there was no happinessin Lorraine’s face as she gazed at a picture of one ofthe fountains and then said in a tight little voice, “Itis. It’s the very same one.”     “But that’s the picture I’ve been searching for!”Judy said eagerly. “Do you know where it is?”     “I can’t be sure. But if it ever was enchanted, I’msure it isn’t now. Let’s go,” Lorraine said suddenlyto Lois. Judy knew she was suggesting a fast trip home.But, apparently, Lois did not understand it that way.If she did, she pretended not to.     “Where?” she asked. “To the fountain? I’d loveto, wouldn’t you, Judy?”     “I certainly would,” Judy replied enthusiastically.“Do you recognize it, too?”     “I think so,” Lois answered after studying a littlemore closely the picture they had found. “It lookslike the fountain on the Brandt estate.”     “The department store Brandts?” Judy questioned.“Then my grandparents must have driven old Fannyall the way to Farringdon.”     “Not quite all the way,” Lorraine objected. “TheBrandts own that stretch of woods just before youcome into the city. You’ve passed it lots of times.”     “Of course,” agreed Judy. She put the magazineback in its place under the eaves and turned eagerlyto her friends. “I do remember a road turning offinto the woods and going on uphill,” she told them.“I never thought it led to a house, though. Thereisn’t even a gate. Could that be the road my grandparentstook?”     “Why don’t we take it ourselves and find out?”Lois suggested.    id=chap03>  CHAPTER III   A Strange Encounter    Lorraine was not too enthusiastic about the proposedtrip to the Brandt estate. Finally she agreed toit under one condition. They were not to drive allthe way to the house which, she said, was just overthe hilltop. They were to park the car where noone would see it and follow the path to the fountain.     “But suppose we can’t find the path?” asked Judy.     “You’ll remember it, won’t you?”     Judy thought she would, but she wasn’t too sure.She and Lois both argued that it would be better toinquire at the house. Lois knew Helen Brandt slightly.     “She’d be glad to show us around. This way itlooks as if we’re planning a crime,” Lois said as theystarted off in the blue car she was driving.     It was a neat little car, not too conspicuous, andeasy to park in out-of-the-way places. Judy laughedand said if they did find the fountain she thoughtshe’d wish for one exactly like it.     “Well, you know what your grandmother saidabout wishes, don’t you?” Lorraine asked. “If youlet people know about them instead of mutteringthem to yourself most of them aren’t so impossible.”     “Quite true,” Judy agreed. “I’ll let Peter knowabout this one. He’s my Santa Claus, and it will soonbe Christmas. Maybe I should have worn the furcoat he gave me last year.”     “Your reversible’s better in case it rains. It’s toowarm for snow. We picked a perfect day for thistrip,” Lois continued, guiding the car around curvesas it climbed the steep hill beyond Dry Brook Hollow.     The trip was a short one. In twenty minutes theyhad covered the distance that had seemed such along way to Judy when she was riding in her grandfather’swagon.     “I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, “and I’vejust about figured out how it happened. I didn’tthink my grandparents knew the Brandts well enoughto pay them a visit, though. We must have lookedqueer driving up to a beautiful estate in Grandpa’sold farm wagon. I do remember that Grandma had  some hooked rugs to deliver. But that still doesn’texplain what happened afterwards. When I wokeup in the hammock I was alone in the garden. Horse,wagon, grandparents—all had disappeared.”     “How could they?” asked Lois.     “Anyway,” Lorraine began, “you had a chance tosee how beautiful everything was before—”     Again she broke off as if there were somethingshe wanted to tell but didn’t quite dare.     “Before what?” questioned Judy.     “Oh, nothing. Forget I said anything about it. Youwere telling us how you woke up in the hammock,but you never did explain how you got back home,”Lorraine reminded her.     “Didn’t I?” asked Judy. “I’d forgotten a lot of it,but it’s beginning to come back now. I do rememberdriving home along this road. You see, I thought mygrandparents had left me in the garden for a surpriseand would return for me. I told you I was all alone.There wasn’t a house in sight.”     “The Brandt house is just over the top of this nexthill,” Lois put in.     “I know. You told me that. Now I know why Icouldn’t see it. All I could see was a windowless oldtower and a path leading in that direction. Naturally,I followed it. There’s something about a path inthe woods that always tempts me.”     “We know that, Judy. Honey told us all aboutyour latest mystery. You followed a trail or something.”     “Well, this trail led out of the rose garden wherethe hammock was and then through an archway,”Judy continued. “All sorts of little cupids and gnomespeered out at me from unexpected places. I wasactually scared by the time I reached the old tower.There wasn’t time to explore it. Just then I heardthe rumble of my grandfather’s wagon and knew hewas driving off without me.”     “He was!” Judy’s friends both chorused in surprise,and Lois asked, “Why would he do a thing likethat?”     “I think now it was just to tease me. He did stopand wait for me after a while,” Judy remembered.“The rugs were gone. Grandma must have deliveredthem, but I didn’t ask where. If she made them forMrs. Brandt they may still be there.”     “I wouldn’t depend on it,” Lorraine said as theyturned up the narrow road to the Brandt estate.     “Watch out!” Judy suddenly exclaimed. “There’sanother car coming.”     As Lois swerved to avoid the oncoming car, Lorraineducked her head. She kept herself hidden behindJudy until the car had passed. The man drivingit was a stranger to Judy, but she would rememberhis hypnotic, dark eyes and swarthy complexion for along time. The soft brown hat he was wearing coveredmost of his hair.     “What’s the matter with you two?” asked Loiswhen the car had passed. “Aren’t you a little old forplaying hide and seek?”     “I wasn’t—playing. Let’s not go up there,” Lorrainebegged. “I don’t think the Brandts live thereany more.”     “Maybe not, but we can pretend we think they do,can’t we?” Judy replied a little uncertainly.     She was beginning to suspect that Lorraine knewmore about the Brandt estate than she was telling.     Lois kept on driving along the narrow, gravellyroad. Soon there were more evergreens and a hedgeof rhododendrons to be seen. They looked verygreen next to the leafless trees in the woods beyond.The sky was gray with white clouds being drivenacross it by the wind.     “There’s the tower!” Lorraine exclaimed. “I cansee it over to the left. It looks like something out ofGrimm’s Fairy Tales, doesn’t it?”     “It looks grim all right,” agreed Judy. “I wonderwhat it is.”     “I suppose it’s nothing but an old water tower. Itwould be fun to explore it, though,” Lois said. “Butif there are new people living here they’ll never giveus permission.”     “We might explore it without permission,” Judysuggested daringly. “Come on!” she urged her friendsas Lois parked the car in a cleared place beside theroad. “Who’s going to stop us? And who wants toexplore a gloomy old tower, anyway? Let’s look forthe fountain.”     “Do you think we should?” Lorraine asked. “Itwon’t be enchanted. I told you—”     “You told us very little,” Lois reminded her. “Ifyou know anything about the people who live herenow, I think you ought to let us know. Otherwise,I’m afraid we won’t be very welcome.”     “I don’t think they’ll welcome us, anyway. I doknow who they are,” Lorraine admitted. “You rememberRoger Banning from school, don’t you?I’ve seen him around here. His family must haveacquired sudden wealth, or else he’s just working onthe estate.”     “Then you’ve been here lately? Why didn’t youtell me?” asked Lois. “We always used to go placestogether.”     “It wasn’t important,” Lorraine replied evasively.“I was just out for a drive.”     “You plutocrats!” laughed Judy. “Each with acar of your own. You’re not interested in RogerBanning, are you, Lois? I’m sure you can do betterthan that. I did know him slightly, but not fromschool. The boys and girls were separated and wentto different high schools by the time we moved to  Farringdon. I remember his pal, Dick Hartwell, alot better. He was in our young people’s group atchurch.”     “Sh!” Lois cautioned her. “Nice people no longermention Dick Hartwell’s name. He’s doing time.”     “For what?” asked Judy.     Like Peter, her FBI husband, she preferred factsto gossip.     “Forgery, I guess. He stole some checkbooks fromhis father’s desk and forged the names of a lot of importantbusiness people. I think he forged some legaldocuments, too. Anyway, he went to the Federal Penitentiary.It was all in the papers,” Lorraine told her.     Now Judy did remember. It was something shewould have preferred to forget. She liked to thinkshe was a good judge of character, and she had takenDick Hartwell for a quiet, refined boy who wouldnever stoop to crime.     “I don’t see what all this has to do with the fountain,”Lois said impatiently. “Are we going to lookfor it, or aren’t we?”     “Of course we are. That’s what we came for. Ijust like to know what a tiger looks like before hesprings at me,” Judy explained.     “You seem to think there’s danger in this expeditionof ours, don’t you?” asked Lorraine.     “I don’t know what to think. You’re the one whoseems to know the answers, but you’re not telling.  Hiding your face back there gave you away. You’veseen that character who drove down this road and,for some reason, you were afraid he would see you.Why, Lorraine? Why didn’t you want to be recognized?”     Lorraine hesitated a moment and then repliedevasively, “People don’t generally enter privateestates without an invitation. That’s all.”     “I’d better turn the car around,” Lois decided,“in case we have to leave in a hurry. I don’t expectwe’ll encounter any tigers, but we may be accusedof trespassing.”     “I’m sure we will be,” announced Judy as twodark-coated figures strode down the road towardthem. “You drove right by a  NO TRESPASSING  sign,and this isn’t a welcoming committee coming tomeet us!”   ","Lois and Lorraine are having lunch at Judy’s house, speaking about how Judy nearly spoiled their double-wedding where they both became sisters under the name Farringdon-Petts by solving a mystery.  Judy starts telling the story of the haunted fountain. She discovered a photo of a spectacular fountain in her grandmother’s hot attic one summer as she was stuck there for two weeks while her parents went on vacation. She shed a tear onto the photo while recalling her sadness about not having friends or a sister, and imagined the fountain was a place for lonely girls to fill with their tears. Her grandmother overhears her speaking aloud her wishes and calls that she shouldn’t keep her wishes to herself, because “most of them aren’t so impossible.”Judy’s grandparents take her to the fountain in the photo and it speaks to Judy, directing her to shed a tear into it and make wishes. Judy sheds a tear thinking about how her only friend just moved out of town and then hurries through her wishes before the ripples disappear - to have lots of friends, a sister, to marry a G-man and to solve a lot of mysteries. All things that have come true in her life.Abruptly returning to Judy’s modern timeline, she takes Lois and Lorraine to the attic. They are spooked by Judy’s black cat, Blackberry, who makes sudden noises. Judy finds the photo and Lorraine recognizes the fountain is identical to one on her estate - yet it is in a different location. They surmise that it is in the woods on the edge of town that are part of the Brandt estate, and drive to it immediately.During their adventure, Judy recalls more of her fountain memory. Her grandparents didn’t know the Brandt’s well enough to pay them a visit, but instead stopped by the fountain on their way to drop off her grandmother’s hooked rugs at the estate further up the path. Judy was left behind napping in a hammock - told by her grandparents they were getting her a surprise, but they didn’t return. She followed a path to an old windowless tower, but got distracted by the sound of her grandfather's cart leaving. This is all she recalls, but there is evidently more to discover that will solve the mystery.The trip to the fountain shakes the confidence of Lorraine in the back seat, who knows information about the new owners of the estate - Roger Banning - that she is withholding. Lois and Judy probe her about what she knows and why she ducked down to hide her face from a stranger passing in a car. Although Lorraine tells them about Roger, she does not reveal why she is afraid. Judy mentions knowing Roger’s pal Dick Hartwell, who is apparently in the Federal Penitentiary for forgery now. As they park and exit the car to walk to the fountain, two dark-coated strangers approach them. This is where the story ends."
"Describe the setting for the story. </s>     The Haunted Fountain    id=chap01>  CHAPTER I   An Unsolved Mystery    “Tell Judy about it,” begged Lois. “Please, Lorraine,it can’t be as bad as it appears. There isn’tanything that Judy can’t solve.”     Lorraine tilted her head disdainfully. “We’re sistersnow. We’re both Farringdon-Petts and should beloyal to each other. But you always did take Judy’spart. She was the one who nearly spoiled our doublewedding trying to solve a mystery. I don’t believeshe’d understand—understand any better than I do.Everyone has problems, and I’m sure Judy is noexception.”     “You’re right, Lorraine,” announced Judy, comingin to serve dessert to the two friends she had invitedfor lunch at Peter’s suggestion. “I do haveproblems, and there are plenty of mysteries I can’tsolve.”     “Name one,” charged Lois. “Just mention onesingle spooky thing you couldn’t explain, and I’llbelieve you. I’ve seen you in action, Judy Bolton—”     “Judy Dobbs, remember?”     “Well, you were Judy Bolton when you solvedall those mysteries. I met you when the wholevalley below the big Roulsville dam was threatenedby flood and you solved that—”     “That,” declared Judy, “was my brother Horace,not me. He was the hero without even meaning tobe. He was the one who rode through town andwarned people that the flood was coming. I was offchasing a shadow.”     “A vanishing shadow,” Lois said with a sigh.“What you did wasn’t easy, Judy.”     “It didn’t need to be as hard as it was,” Judy confessed.“I know now that keeping that promise notto talk about the dam was a great big mistake andcould have cost lives. I should have told Arthur.”     “Please,” Lorraine said, a pained expression cloudingher pretty face, “let’s not talk about him now.”     “Very well,” Judy agreed. “What shall we talkabout?”     “You,” Lois said, “and all the mysteries you’vesolved. Maybe you were mistaken about a thing ortwo before the flood, but what about the haunted  house you moved into? You were the one whotracked down the ghosts in the attic and the cellarand goodness knows where all. You’ve been chasingghosts ever since I met you, and not one of them didyou fail to explain in some sensible, logical fashion.”     “Before I met you,” Judy said, thinking back,“there were plenty of them I couldn’t explain. Therewas one I used to call the spirit of the fountain, butwhat she was or how she spoke to me is more thanI know. If my grandparents knew, they weren’t telling.And now they’re both dead and I can’t ask them.They left me a lot of unsolved mysteries along withthis house. Maybe I’ll find the answers to some ofthem when I finish sorting Grandma’s things. They’restored in one end of the attic.”     “Another haunted attic? How thrilling!” exclaimedLois. “Why don’t you have another ghost party andshow up the spooks?”     “I didn’t say the attic was haunted.”     Judy was almost sorry she had mentioned it. Shewasn’t in the mood for digging up old mysteries,but Lois and Lorraine insisted. It all began, she finallytold them, the summer before they met. Horacehad just started working on the paper. Judy rememberedthat it was Lorraine’s father, Richard ThorntonLee, who gave him his job with the      FarringdonDaily Herald     . He had turned in some interestingchurch news, convincing Mr. Lee that he had in him  the makings of a good reporter. And so it was thathe spent the summer Judy was remembering in Farringdonwhere the Farringdon-Petts had their turretedmansion, while she had to suffer the heat andloneliness of Dry Brook Hollow.     Her thoughts were what had made it so hard, sheconfessed now as she reviewed everything that hadhappened. She just couldn’t help resenting the factthat her parents left her every summer while theywent off on a vacation by themselves. What did theythink she would do?     “You’ll have plenty to read,” her father had toldher. “I bought you six new books in that mysteryseries you like. When they’re finished there areplenty of short stories around. Your grandmothernever throws anything away. She has magazines she’ssaved since your mother was a girl. If you ask forthem she’ll let you have the whole stack. I know howyou love to read.”     “I do, Dad, but if the magazines are that old—”     Judy had stopped. She had seen her father’s tiredeyes and had realized that a busy doctor needed avacation much more than a schoolgirl who had toolittle to do. He and Judy’s mother usually went tothe beach hotel where they had honeymooned. Itwas a precious memory. Every summer Dr. Boltonand his wife relived it. And every summer Judywent to stay with her grandmother Smeed, whoscolded and fussed and tried to pretend she wasn’tglad to have her.     “You here again?” she had greeted her that summer,and Judy hadn’t noticed her old eyes twinklingbehind her glasses. “What do you propose to do withyourself this time?”     “Read,” Judy had told her. “Mom and Dad sayyou have a whole stack of old magazines—”     “In the attic. Go up and look them over if youcan stand the heat.”     Judy went, not to look over the old magazines somuch as to escape to a place where she could have agood cry. It was the summer before her fifteenthbirthday. In another year she would have outgrownher childish resentment of her parents’ vacation orbe grown up enough to ask them to let her have avacation of her own. In another year she wouldbe summering among the beautiful Thousand Islandsand solving a mystery to be known as the      GhostParade     .     “A whole parade of ghosts,” Lois would be tellingher, “and you solved everything.”     But then she didn’t even know Lois. She had noidea so many thrilling adventures awaited her. Thereseemed to be nothing—nothing—and so the tearscame and spilled over on one of the magazines. AsJudy wiped it away she noticed that it had fallenon a picture of a fountain.     “A fountain with tears for water. How strange!”she remembered saying aloud.     Judy had never seen a real fountain. The thrill ofwalking up to the door of the palatial Farringdon-Pettmansion was still ahead of her. On the lawn afountain still caught and held rainbows like thoseshe was to see on her honeymoon at Niagara Falls.But all that was in the future. If anyone had toldthe freckled-faced, pigtailed girl that she would oneday marry Peter Dobbs, she would have laughed intheir faces.     “That tease!”     For then she knew Peter only as an older boy whoused to tease her and call her carrot-top until one dayshe yelled back at him, “Carrot-tops are green and soare you!”     Peter was to win Judy’s heart when he gave her akitten and suggested the name Blackberry for him.The kitten was now a dignified family cat. But thesummer Judy found the picture of a fountain andspilled tears on it she had no kitten. She had nothing,she confessed, not even a friend. It had helped topretend the fountain in the picture was filled withall the tears lonely girls like herself had ever cried.     “But that would make it enchanted!” she had suddenlyexclaimed. “If I could find it I’d wish—”     A step had sounded on the stairs. Judy rememberedit distinctly. She had turned to see her grandmother  and to hear her say in her usual abrupt fashion,“Enchanted fountain, indeed! If you let peopleknow your wishes instead of muttering them toyourself, most of them aren’t so impossible.”     “Were they?” asked Lois.     She and Lorraine had listened to this much of whatJudy was telling them without interruption.     “That’s the unsolved mystery,” Judy replied.“There weren’t any of them impossible.”     And she went on to tell them how, the very nextday, her grandparents had taken her to a fountainexactly like the one in the picture. It was in the centerof a deep, circular pool with steps leading up to it.Beside the steps were smaller fountains with thewater spurting from the mouths of stone lions. Judyhad stared at them a moment and then climbed thesteps to the pool.     “Am I dreaming?” she remembered saying aloud.“Is this beautiful fountain real?”     A voice had answered, although she could see noone.     “Make your wishes, Judy. Wish wisely. If youshed a tear in the fountain your wishes will surelycome true.”     “A tear?” Judy had asked. “How can I shed atear when I’m happy? This is a wonderful place.”     “Shed a tear in the fountain and your wishes willsurely come true,” the voice had repeated.     “But what is there to cry about?”     “You found plenty to cry about back at yourgrandmother’s house,” the mysterious voice had remindedher. “Weren’t you crying on my picture upthere in the attic?”     “Then you—you      are     the fountain!” Judy rememberedexclaiming. “But a fountain doesn’t speak. Itdoesn’t have a voice.”     “Wish wisely,” the voice from the fountain hadsaid in a mysterious whisper.    id=chap02>  CHAPTER II   If Wishes Came True    “Did you?” Lois interrupted the story to ask excitedly.“Oh, Judy! Don’t keep us in suspense anylonger. What did you wish?”     “Patience,” Judy said with a smile. “I’m comingto that.”     First, she told her friends, she had to think of awise wish. There had been so much she wanted inthose early days before the flood. Dora Scott hadbeen her best friend in Roulsville, but she had movedaway.     “You see,” she explained, “I made the mistake ofhaving just one best friend. There wasn’t anybodyin Dry Brook Hollow. I remember thinking of howlonely I was and how I wished for a friend or a sister,  and suddenly a tear splashed in the water. It madelittle ripples. I thought I had to wish quickly beforethey vanished, and so I began naming the things Iwanted as fast as I could. I’m not sure they werewise wishes. They seem rather selfish to me, now. Iwasn’t thinking of anybody but me, Judy Bolton,and what I wanted. It wasn’t until after I began tothink of others that my wishes started to come true.”     “But what were they?” Lois insisted.     Lorraine seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful.Judy did not notice the fear in her eyes as she repliedairily, “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I wished for lotsof friends and a sister, and I wished I could marry aG-man and solve a lot of mysteries and that’s as faras I got when the ripples vanished. I thought thespell was broken and so I didn’t wish for anythingmore.”     “Wasn’t there anything more you wanted?” Loisasked.     “Of course,” replied Judy. “There were lots morethings. I wanted to go places, of course, and keeppets, and have a nice home, and—”     “And your wishes all came true!”     “Every one of them,” Judy agreed, “even the oneabout the sister. You see, it wasn’t a baby sister Iwanted. It was a sister near my own age. Thatseemed impossible at the time, but the future didhold a sister for me.”     “It held one for me, too,” Lois said, squeezingLorraine’s hand under the table. “Don’t you thinksisters should tell each other their problems, Judy?”     “Honey and I always do,” she replied “but thenit was different. I didn’t know I would marry Peteror that he would become a G-man, and he didn’tknow he had a sister. It is strange, isn’t it? But thestrangest thing of all was the fountain itself.”     “Why?” asked Lorraine. “Do you still think it wasenchanted?”     Lois laughed at this, but Judy was serious as sheanswered, “I was still little girl enough to think soat the time. I wandered around, growing verydrowsy. Then I found a hammock and climbed intoit. I must have gone to sleep, because I rememberwaking up and wondering if the voice in the fountainhad been a dream.”     “A hammock?” Lois questioned. “Are you sure itwasn’t a flying carpet?”     “No, it was a hammock all right,” Judy assuredher, laughing. “It was hung between two trees in abeautiful garden all enclosed in rose trellises thickwith roses. Did I tell you it was June?”     “All the year around?”     Again Lois laughed. But Lorraine said abruptly,“Let’s not talk about rose gardens in June. It’s a longway from June to December.”     “Do you mean a garden changes? I know,” Judysaid, “but I think this one would be beautiful at anytime of the year. There were rhododendrons, too,and I don’t know how many different kinds of evergreens.I explored the garden all around the fountain.”     “And then what happened?” Lorraine urged her.     “Yes, yes. Go on,” entreated Lois. “I didn’t dreamyou’d kept anything that exciting a secret. Why didn’tyou try to solve the mystery?”     “I think I would have tried,” Judy admitted, “ifI had been older or more experienced. I really shouldhave investigated it more thoroughly and learned thesecret of the fountain. But after the ripples wentaway it didn’t speak to me any more, and I didn’treally think it had heard my wishes. I was still wishingfor a friend when I met you, Lois. It did seemimpossible for us to be friends at first, didn’t it? Lorrainewas your friend.”     “I did make trouble for you,” Lorraine remembered.“It was all because of my foolish jealousy.”     “It was nothing compared to the trouble caused bythe Roulsville flood,” declared Judy. “After thatthings started happening so fast that I completelyforgot about the fountain. Honestly, Lois, I don’tbelieve I thought about it again until after we movedto Farringdon and I walked up to your door andsaw the fountain on your lawn.”     “The Farringdon-Pett puddle, I always called it,”Lois said with a giggle. “I’ve seen lots nicer fountains.”     “You have?” asked Judy. “Then maybe you’veseen the one I’ve been telling you about. I think thepicture of it is still in the attic. Come on up and I’llshow you.”     Lois and Lorraine had finished their dessert whileJudy was telling them the story of the fountain.Somehow, she wasn’t hungry for hers. She hadtasted it too often while she was making it.     “I’ll leave it for Blackberry,” she decided.     Lois watched in amusement as the cat lapped upthe chocolate pudding after Judy had mixed it generouslywith cream.     “Sometimes,” Judy said fondly, “Blackberry thinkshe’s a person. He eats everything we eat, includinglettuce. Do you mind if he comes with us, Lorraine?He wants to explore the attic, too.”     “He’ll remember he’s a cat fast enough if thereare any mice up there,” Lois said with a giggle.     Leaving the table, they all started upstairs withthe cat bounding ahead of them. In modernizing hergrandparents’ house to suit her own and Peter’stastes, Judy had seen to it that the old stair door wasremoved. But there was still a door closing off thenarrower stairs that led to the attic. Blackberryreached it first and yowled for Judy to open it.     “He can read my mind. He always knows whereI’m going,” Judy said as the door creaked open andthe cat shot through it. A moment later a weird rollingnoise came from the floor above.     “Come on. There’s nothing up here to be afraidof,” Judy urged her friends.     “Maybe not, but I’m beginning to get the shivers,”confessed Lois as she followed Judy to the sewingroom at the top of the last flight of stairs.     “So am I,” Lorraine admitted. “I’m not superstitiousabout black cats, but they are creepy. DoesBlackberry have to roll spools across the floor?”     “Now he thinks he’s a kitten,” laughed Judy.Pausing at still another door that led to the darkerpart of the attic, she turned and said mysteriously,“Up here we can all turn back the clock. Does anybodycare to explore the past?”     The exploration began enthusiastically with Judyrelating still more of what she remembered aboutthe fountain.     “When I told Grandma about it she laughed andsaid I must have dreamed it. She said if wishes cametrue that easily she’d be living in a castle. But wouldshe?” Judy wondered. “When I first remember thishouse she was still burning kerosene lamps like thoseyou see on that high shelf by the window. I thinkshe and Grandpa like the way they lived withoutany modern conveniences or anything.”     “I think so, too,” Lois agreed, looking around theold attic with a shiver. “It is strange they both diedthe same winter, isn’t it?”     “Maybe they wanted it that way. Maybe theywished neither of them would outlive the other. Ifthey did wish in the fountain,” Judy went on morethoughtfully, “I’m sure that was one of their wishes.Another could have been to keep the good old days,as Grandma used to call them. That one came truein a way. They did manage to keep a little of thepast when they kept all these old things. That’s whatI meant about turning back the clock.”     “If wishes came true I’d like to turn it back a littlemyself,” Lorraine began. “It would be nice if thingswere the way they used to be when I trustedArthur—”     “Don’t you trust him now?” Judy asked.     Afterwards she was sorry for the interruption. Loisand Judy both questioned Lorraine, but that was allshe would say. Judy wondered, as they searchedthrough the old magazines, what was wrong. Lorrainewas of a jealous disposition. Was the green-eyedmonster coming between her and her handsome husband,Arthur Farringdon-Pett? Until now they hadseemed blissfully happy. But there was no happinessin Lorraine’s face as she gazed at a picture of one ofthe fountains and then said in a tight little voice, “Itis. It’s the very same one.”     “But that’s the picture I’ve been searching for!”Judy said eagerly. “Do you know where it is?”     “I can’t be sure. But if it ever was enchanted, I’msure it isn’t now. Let’s go,” Lorraine said suddenlyto Lois. Judy knew she was suggesting a fast trip home.But, apparently, Lois did not understand it that way.If she did, she pretended not to.     “Where?” she asked. “To the fountain? I’d loveto, wouldn’t you, Judy?”     “I certainly would,” Judy replied enthusiastically.“Do you recognize it, too?”     “I think so,” Lois answered after studying a littlemore closely the picture they had found. “It lookslike the fountain on the Brandt estate.”     “The department store Brandts?” Judy questioned.“Then my grandparents must have driven old Fannyall the way to Farringdon.”     “Not quite all the way,” Lorraine objected. “TheBrandts own that stretch of woods just before youcome into the city. You’ve passed it lots of times.”     “Of course,” agreed Judy. She put the magazineback in its place under the eaves and turned eagerlyto her friends. “I do remember a road turning offinto the woods and going on uphill,” she told them.“I never thought it led to a house, though. Thereisn’t even a gate. Could that be the road my grandparentstook?”     “Why don’t we take it ourselves and find out?”Lois suggested.    id=chap03>  CHAPTER III   A Strange Encounter    Lorraine was not too enthusiastic about the proposedtrip to the Brandt estate. Finally she agreed toit under one condition. They were not to drive allthe way to the house which, she said, was just overthe hilltop. They were to park the car where noone would see it and follow the path to the fountain.     “But suppose we can’t find the path?” asked Judy.     “You’ll remember it, won’t you?”     Judy thought she would, but she wasn’t too sure.She and Lois both argued that it would be better toinquire at the house. Lois knew Helen Brandt slightly.     “She’d be glad to show us around. This way itlooks as if we’re planning a crime,” Lois said as theystarted off in the blue car she was driving.     It was a neat little car, not too conspicuous, andeasy to park in out-of-the-way places. Judy laughedand said if they did find the fountain she thoughtshe’d wish for one exactly like it.     “Well, you know what your grandmother saidabout wishes, don’t you?” Lorraine asked. “If youlet people know about them instead of mutteringthem to yourself most of them aren’t so impossible.”     “Quite true,” Judy agreed. “I’ll let Peter knowabout this one. He’s my Santa Claus, and it will soonbe Christmas. Maybe I should have worn the furcoat he gave me last year.”     “Your reversible’s better in case it rains. It’s toowarm for snow. We picked a perfect day for thistrip,” Lois continued, guiding the car around curvesas it climbed the steep hill beyond Dry Brook Hollow.     The trip was a short one. In twenty minutes theyhad covered the distance that had seemed such along way to Judy when she was riding in her grandfather’swagon.     “I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, “and I’vejust about figured out how it happened. I didn’tthink my grandparents knew the Brandts well enoughto pay them a visit, though. We must have lookedqueer driving up to a beautiful estate in Grandpa’sold farm wagon. I do remember that Grandma had  some hooked rugs to deliver. But that still doesn’texplain what happened afterwards. When I wokeup in the hammock I was alone in the garden. Horse,wagon, grandparents—all had disappeared.”     “How could they?” asked Lois.     “Anyway,” Lorraine began, “you had a chance tosee how beautiful everything was before—”     Again she broke off as if there were somethingshe wanted to tell but didn’t quite dare.     “Before what?” questioned Judy.     “Oh, nothing. Forget I said anything about it. Youwere telling us how you woke up in the hammock,but you never did explain how you got back home,”Lorraine reminded her.     “Didn’t I?” asked Judy. “I’d forgotten a lot of it,but it’s beginning to come back now. I do rememberdriving home along this road. You see, I thought mygrandparents had left me in the garden for a surpriseand would return for me. I told you I was all alone.There wasn’t a house in sight.”     “The Brandt house is just over the top of this nexthill,” Lois put in.     “I know. You told me that. Now I know why Icouldn’t see it. All I could see was a windowless oldtower and a path leading in that direction. Naturally,I followed it. There’s something about a path inthe woods that always tempts me.”     “We know that, Judy. Honey told us all aboutyour latest mystery. You followed a trail or something.”     “Well, this trail led out of the rose garden wherethe hammock was and then through an archway,”Judy continued. “All sorts of little cupids and gnomespeered out at me from unexpected places. I wasactually scared by the time I reached the old tower.There wasn’t time to explore it. Just then I heardthe rumble of my grandfather’s wagon and knew hewas driving off without me.”     “He was!” Judy’s friends both chorused in surprise,and Lois asked, “Why would he do a thing likethat?”     “I think now it was just to tease me. He did stopand wait for me after a while,” Judy remembered.“The rugs were gone. Grandma must have deliveredthem, but I didn’t ask where. If she made them forMrs. Brandt they may still be there.”     “I wouldn’t depend on it,” Lorraine said as theyturned up the narrow road to the Brandt estate.     “Watch out!” Judy suddenly exclaimed. “There’sanother car coming.”     As Lois swerved to avoid the oncoming car, Lorraineducked her head. She kept herself hidden behindJudy until the car had passed. The man drivingit was a stranger to Judy, but she would rememberhis hypnotic, dark eyes and swarthy complexion for along time. The soft brown hat he was wearing coveredmost of his hair.     “What’s the matter with you two?” asked Loiswhen the car had passed. “Aren’t you a little old forplaying hide and seek?”     “I wasn’t—playing. Let’s not go up there,” Lorrainebegged. “I don’t think the Brandts live thereany more.”     “Maybe not, but we can pretend we think they do,can’t we?” Judy replied a little uncertainly.     She was beginning to suspect that Lorraine knewmore about the Brandt estate than she was telling.     Lois kept on driving along the narrow, gravellyroad. Soon there were more evergreens and a hedgeof rhododendrons to be seen. They looked verygreen next to the leafless trees in the woods beyond.The sky was gray with white clouds being drivenacross it by the wind.     “There’s the tower!” Lorraine exclaimed. “I cansee it over to the left. It looks like something out ofGrimm’s Fairy Tales, doesn’t it?”     “It looks grim all right,” agreed Judy. “I wonderwhat it is.”     “I suppose it’s nothing but an old water tower. Itwould be fun to explore it, though,” Lois said. “Butif there are new people living here they’ll never giveus permission.”     “We might explore it without permission,” Judysuggested daringly. “Come on!” she urged her friendsas Lois parked the car in a cleared place beside theroad. “Who’s going to stop us? And who wants toexplore a gloomy old tower, anyway? Let’s look forthe fountain.”     “Do you think we should?” Lorraine asked. “Itwon’t be enchanted. I told you—”     “You told us very little,” Lois reminded her. “Ifyou know anything about the people who live herenow, I think you ought to let us know. Otherwise,I’m afraid we won’t be very welcome.”     “I don’t think they’ll welcome us, anyway. I doknow who they are,” Lorraine admitted. “You rememberRoger Banning from school, don’t you?I’ve seen him around here. His family must haveacquired sudden wealth, or else he’s just working onthe estate.”     “Then you’ve been here lately? Why didn’t youtell me?” asked Lois. “We always used to go placestogether.”     “It wasn’t important,” Lorraine replied evasively.“I was just out for a drive.”     “You plutocrats!” laughed Judy. “Each with acar of your own. You’re not interested in RogerBanning, are you, Lois? I’m sure you can do betterthan that. I did know him slightly, but not fromschool. The boys and girls were separated and wentto different high schools by the time we moved to  Farringdon. I remember his pal, Dick Hartwell, alot better. He was in our young people’s group atchurch.”     “Sh!” Lois cautioned her. “Nice people no longermention Dick Hartwell’s name. He’s doing time.”     “For what?” asked Judy.     Like Peter, her FBI husband, she preferred factsto gossip.     “Forgery, I guess. He stole some checkbooks fromhis father’s desk and forged the names of a lot of importantbusiness people. I think he forged some legaldocuments, too. Anyway, he went to the Federal Penitentiary.It was all in the papers,” Lorraine told her.     Now Judy did remember. It was something shewould have preferred to forget. She liked to thinkshe was a good judge of character, and she had takenDick Hartwell for a quiet, refined boy who wouldnever stoop to crime.     “I don’t see what all this has to do with the fountain,”Lois said impatiently. “Are we going to lookfor it, or aren’t we?”     “Of course we are. That’s what we came for. Ijust like to know what a tiger looks like before hesprings at me,” Judy explained.     “You seem to think there’s danger in this expeditionof ours, don’t you?” asked Lorraine.     “I don’t know what to think. You’re the one whoseems to know the answers, but you’re not telling.  Hiding your face back there gave you away. You’veseen that character who drove down this road and,for some reason, you were afraid he would see you.Why, Lorraine? Why didn’t you want to be recognized?”     Lorraine hesitated a moment and then repliedevasively, “People don’t generally enter privateestates without an invitation. That’s all.”     “I’d better turn the car around,” Lois decided,“in case we have to leave in a hurry. I don’t expectwe’ll encounter any tigers, but we may be accusedof trespassing.”     “I’m sure we will be,” announced Judy as twodark-coated figures strode down the road towardthem. “You drove right by a  NO TRESPASSING  sign,and this isn’t a welcoming committee coming tomeet us!”   ","The story opens at Judy’s house as she has Lois and Lorraine over for lunch. Judy’s lives in her grandparents' old house that she modernized with her husband, Peter. The house has an attic that is up a narrow set of stairs with a door at the top. They have a black cat named Blackberry that spooks her friends because it is creepy when it makes unexpected noises in the attic.When Judy is recalling the story of the fountain, the narrative bounces back and forth into their present reality as Lois and Lorraine ask questions.In Judy’s recalled story, she is a young red-haired girl with no friends who spends two weeks in the summer with her grandparents at their home. They have a hot attic filled with keepsakes and old reading materials, most notably a picture of a fountain that Judy’s grandmother later brings her to. The fountain was centered in a deep, circular pool, and had steps leading up to it that were bordered with smaller fountains of lions with water spurting out of the mouths. Judy thinks it could be a beautiful location at any time of the year, surrounded by lush vegetation like rhododendrons and evergreens. From the fountain there was a path leading to a windowless old tower that was populated by cupids and gnomes that peered out at Judy.Back in modern day, when Judy, Lois and Lorraine go looking for the fountain, the tower is still visible, and Lorraine describes it as something out of “Grimm’s Fairy Tales.” The friends visit it on a day where the trees are leafless in the woods, making the rhododendrons appear vibrantly green, under a gray sky. They do not actually reach the fountain in the story, but they do pass several posted signs for “NO TRESPASSING” along the wooded road."
"Who is Judy and what is her personality like? </s>     The Haunted Fountain    id=chap01>  CHAPTER I   An Unsolved Mystery    “Tell Judy about it,” begged Lois. “Please, Lorraine,it can’t be as bad as it appears. There isn’tanything that Judy can’t solve.”     Lorraine tilted her head disdainfully. “We’re sistersnow. We’re both Farringdon-Petts and should beloyal to each other. But you always did take Judy’spart. She was the one who nearly spoiled our doublewedding trying to solve a mystery. I don’t believeshe’d understand—understand any better than I do.Everyone has problems, and I’m sure Judy is noexception.”     “You’re right, Lorraine,” announced Judy, comingin to serve dessert to the two friends she had invitedfor lunch at Peter’s suggestion. “I do haveproblems, and there are plenty of mysteries I can’tsolve.”     “Name one,” charged Lois. “Just mention onesingle spooky thing you couldn’t explain, and I’llbelieve you. I’ve seen you in action, Judy Bolton—”     “Judy Dobbs, remember?”     “Well, you were Judy Bolton when you solvedall those mysteries. I met you when the wholevalley below the big Roulsville dam was threatenedby flood and you solved that—”     “That,” declared Judy, “was my brother Horace,not me. He was the hero without even meaning tobe. He was the one who rode through town andwarned people that the flood was coming. I was offchasing a shadow.”     “A vanishing shadow,” Lois said with a sigh.“What you did wasn’t easy, Judy.”     “It didn’t need to be as hard as it was,” Judy confessed.“I know now that keeping that promise notto talk about the dam was a great big mistake andcould have cost lives. I should have told Arthur.”     “Please,” Lorraine said, a pained expression cloudingher pretty face, “let’s not talk about him now.”     “Very well,” Judy agreed. “What shall we talkabout?”     “You,” Lois said, “and all the mysteries you’vesolved. Maybe you were mistaken about a thing ortwo before the flood, but what about the haunted  house you moved into? You were the one whotracked down the ghosts in the attic and the cellarand goodness knows where all. You’ve been chasingghosts ever since I met you, and not one of them didyou fail to explain in some sensible, logical fashion.”     “Before I met you,” Judy said, thinking back,“there were plenty of them I couldn’t explain. Therewas one I used to call the spirit of the fountain, butwhat she was or how she spoke to me is more thanI know. If my grandparents knew, they weren’t telling.And now they’re both dead and I can’t ask them.They left me a lot of unsolved mysteries along withthis house. Maybe I’ll find the answers to some ofthem when I finish sorting Grandma’s things. They’restored in one end of the attic.”     “Another haunted attic? How thrilling!” exclaimedLois. “Why don’t you have another ghost party andshow up the spooks?”     “I didn’t say the attic was haunted.”     Judy was almost sorry she had mentioned it. Shewasn’t in the mood for digging up old mysteries,but Lois and Lorraine insisted. It all began, she finallytold them, the summer before they met. Horacehad just started working on the paper. Judy rememberedthat it was Lorraine’s father, Richard ThorntonLee, who gave him his job with the      FarringdonDaily Herald     . He had turned in some interestingchurch news, convincing Mr. Lee that he had in him  the makings of a good reporter. And so it was thathe spent the summer Judy was remembering in Farringdonwhere the Farringdon-Petts had their turretedmansion, while she had to suffer the heat andloneliness of Dry Brook Hollow.     Her thoughts were what had made it so hard, sheconfessed now as she reviewed everything that hadhappened. She just couldn’t help resenting the factthat her parents left her every summer while theywent off on a vacation by themselves. What did theythink she would do?     “You’ll have plenty to read,” her father had toldher. “I bought you six new books in that mysteryseries you like. When they’re finished there areplenty of short stories around. Your grandmothernever throws anything away. She has magazines she’ssaved since your mother was a girl. If you ask forthem she’ll let you have the whole stack. I know howyou love to read.”     “I do, Dad, but if the magazines are that old—”     Judy had stopped. She had seen her father’s tiredeyes and had realized that a busy doctor needed avacation much more than a schoolgirl who had toolittle to do. He and Judy’s mother usually went tothe beach hotel where they had honeymooned. Itwas a precious memory. Every summer Dr. Boltonand his wife relived it. And every summer Judywent to stay with her grandmother Smeed, whoscolded and fussed and tried to pretend she wasn’tglad to have her.     “You here again?” she had greeted her that summer,and Judy hadn’t noticed her old eyes twinklingbehind her glasses. “What do you propose to do withyourself this time?”     “Read,” Judy had told her. “Mom and Dad sayyou have a whole stack of old magazines—”     “In the attic. Go up and look them over if youcan stand the heat.”     Judy went, not to look over the old magazines somuch as to escape to a place where she could have agood cry. It was the summer before her fifteenthbirthday. In another year she would have outgrownher childish resentment of her parents’ vacation orbe grown up enough to ask them to let her have avacation of her own. In another year she wouldbe summering among the beautiful Thousand Islandsand solving a mystery to be known as the      GhostParade     .     “A whole parade of ghosts,” Lois would be tellingher, “and you solved everything.”     But then she didn’t even know Lois. She had noidea so many thrilling adventures awaited her. Thereseemed to be nothing—nothing—and so the tearscame and spilled over on one of the magazines. AsJudy wiped it away she noticed that it had fallenon a picture of a fountain.     “A fountain with tears for water. How strange!”she remembered saying aloud.     Judy had never seen a real fountain. The thrill ofwalking up to the door of the palatial Farringdon-Pettmansion was still ahead of her. On the lawn afountain still caught and held rainbows like thoseshe was to see on her honeymoon at Niagara Falls.But all that was in the future. If anyone had toldthe freckled-faced, pigtailed girl that she would oneday marry Peter Dobbs, she would have laughed intheir faces.     “That tease!”     For then she knew Peter only as an older boy whoused to tease her and call her carrot-top until one dayshe yelled back at him, “Carrot-tops are green and soare you!”     Peter was to win Judy’s heart when he gave her akitten and suggested the name Blackberry for him.The kitten was now a dignified family cat. But thesummer Judy found the picture of a fountain andspilled tears on it she had no kitten. She had nothing,she confessed, not even a friend. It had helped topretend the fountain in the picture was filled withall the tears lonely girls like herself had ever cried.     “But that would make it enchanted!” she had suddenlyexclaimed. “If I could find it I’d wish—”     A step had sounded on the stairs. Judy rememberedit distinctly. She had turned to see her grandmother  and to hear her say in her usual abrupt fashion,“Enchanted fountain, indeed! If you let peopleknow your wishes instead of muttering them toyourself, most of them aren’t so impossible.”     “Were they?” asked Lois.     She and Lorraine had listened to this much of whatJudy was telling them without interruption.     “That’s the unsolved mystery,” Judy replied.“There weren’t any of them impossible.”     And she went on to tell them how, the very nextday, her grandparents had taken her to a fountainexactly like the one in the picture. It was in the centerof a deep, circular pool with steps leading up to it.Beside the steps were smaller fountains with thewater spurting from the mouths of stone lions. Judyhad stared at them a moment and then climbed thesteps to the pool.     “Am I dreaming?” she remembered saying aloud.“Is this beautiful fountain real?”     A voice had answered, although she could see noone.     “Make your wishes, Judy. Wish wisely. If youshed a tear in the fountain your wishes will surelycome true.”     “A tear?” Judy had asked. “How can I shed atear when I’m happy? This is a wonderful place.”     “Shed a tear in the fountain and your wishes willsurely come true,” the voice had repeated.     “But what is there to cry about?”     “You found plenty to cry about back at yourgrandmother’s house,” the mysterious voice had remindedher. “Weren’t you crying on my picture upthere in the attic?”     “Then you—you      are     the fountain!” Judy rememberedexclaiming. “But a fountain doesn’t speak. Itdoesn’t have a voice.”     “Wish wisely,” the voice from the fountain hadsaid in a mysterious whisper.    id=chap02>  CHAPTER II   If Wishes Came True    “Did you?” Lois interrupted the story to ask excitedly.“Oh, Judy! Don’t keep us in suspense anylonger. What did you wish?”     “Patience,” Judy said with a smile. “I’m comingto that.”     First, she told her friends, she had to think of awise wish. There had been so much she wanted inthose early days before the flood. Dora Scott hadbeen her best friend in Roulsville, but she had movedaway.     “You see,” she explained, “I made the mistake ofhaving just one best friend. There wasn’t anybodyin Dry Brook Hollow. I remember thinking of howlonely I was and how I wished for a friend or a sister,  and suddenly a tear splashed in the water. It madelittle ripples. I thought I had to wish quickly beforethey vanished, and so I began naming the things Iwanted as fast as I could. I’m not sure they werewise wishes. They seem rather selfish to me, now. Iwasn’t thinking of anybody but me, Judy Bolton,and what I wanted. It wasn’t until after I began tothink of others that my wishes started to come true.”     “But what were they?” Lois insisted.     Lorraine seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful.Judy did not notice the fear in her eyes as she repliedairily, “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I wished for lotsof friends and a sister, and I wished I could marry aG-man and solve a lot of mysteries and that’s as faras I got when the ripples vanished. I thought thespell was broken and so I didn’t wish for anythingmore.”     “Wasn’t there anything more you wanted?” Loisasked.     “Of course,” replied Judy. “There were lots morethings. I wanted to go places, of course, and keeppets, and have a nice home, and—”     “And your wishes all came true!”     “Every one of them,” Judy agreed, “even the oneabout the sister. You see, it wasn’t a baby sister Iwanted. It was a sister near my own age. Thatseemed impossible at the time, but the future didhold a sister for me.”     “It held one for me, too,” Lois said, squeezingLorraine’s hand under the table. “Don’t you thinksisters should tell each other their problems, Judy?”     “Honey and I always do,” she replied “but thenit was different. I didn’t know I would marry Peteror that he would become a G-man, and he didn’tknow he had a sister. It is strange, isn’t it? But thestrangest thing of all was the fountain itself.”     “Why?” asked Lorraine. “Do you still think it wasenchanted?”     Lois laughed at this, but Judy was serious as sheanswered, “I was still little girl enough to think soat the time. I wandered around, growing verydrowsy. Then I found a hammock and climbed intoit. I must have gone to sleep, because I rememberwaking up and wondering if the voice in the fountainhad been a dream.”     “A hammock?” Lois questioned. “Are you sure itwasn’t a flying carpet?”     “No, it was a hammock all right,” Judy assuredher, laughing. “It was hung between two trees in abeautiful garden all enclosed in rose trellises thickwith roses. Did I tell you it was June?”     “All the year around?”     Again Lois laughed. But Lorraine said abruptly,“Let’s not talk about rose gardens in June. It’s a longway from June to December.”     “Do you mean a garden changes? I know,” Judysaid, “but I think this one would be beautiful at anytime of the year. There were rhododendrons, too,and I don’t know how many different kinds of evergreens.I explored the garden all around the fountain.”     “And then what happened?” Lorraine urged her.     “Yes, yes. Go on,” entreated Lois. “I didn’t dreamyou’d kept anything that exciting a secret. Why didn’tyou try to solve the mystery?”     “I think I would have tried,” Judy admitted, “ifI had been older or more experienced. I really shouldhave investigated it more thoroughly and learned thesecret of the fountain. But after the ripples wentaway it didn’t speak to me any more, and I didn’treally think it had heard my wishes. I was still wishingfor a friend when I met you, Lois. It did seemimpossible for us to be friends at first, didn’t it? Lorrainewas your friend.”     “I did make trouble for you,” Lorraine remembered.“It was all because of my foolish jealousy.”     “It was nothing compared to the trouble caused bythe Roulsville flood,” declared Judy. “After thatthings started happening so fast that I completelyforgot about the fountain. Honestly, Lois, I don’tbelieve I thought about it again until after we movedto Farringdon and I walked up to your door andsaw the fountain on your lawn.”     “The Farringdon-Pett puddle, I always called it,”Lois said with a giggle. “I’ve seen lots nicer fountains.”     “You have?” asked Judy. “Then maybe you’veseen the one I’ve been telling you about. I think thepicture of it is still in the attic. Come on up and I’llshow you.”     Lois and Lorraine had finished their dessert whileJudy was telling them the story of the fountain.Somehow, she wasn’t hungry for hers. She hadtasted it too often while she was making it.     “I’ll leave it for Blackberry,” she decided.     Lois watched in amusement as the cat lapped upthe chocolate pudding after Judy had mixed it generouslywith cream.     “Sometimes,” Judy said fondly, “Blackberry thinkshe’s a person. He eats everything we eat, includinglettuce. Do you mind if he comes with us, Lorraine?He wants to explore the attic, too.”     “He’ll remember he’s a cat fast enough if thereare any mice up there,” Lois said with a giggle.     Leaving the table, they all started upstairs withthe cat bounding ahead of them. In modernizing hergrandparents’ house to suit her own and Peter’stastes, Judy had seen to it that the old stair door wasremoved. But there was still a door closing off thenarrower stairs that led to the attic. Blackberryreached it first and yowled for Judy to open it.     “He can read my mind. He always knows whereI’m going,” Judy said as the door creaked open andthe cat shot through it. A moment later a weird rollingnoise came from the floor above.     “Come on. There’s nothing up here to be afraidof,” Judy urged her friends.     “Maybe not, but I’m beginning to get the shivers,”confessed Lois as she followed Judy to the sewingroom at the top of the last flight of stairs.     “So am I,” Lorraine admitted. “I’m not superstitiousabout black cats, but they are creepy. DoesBlackberry have to roll spools across the floor?”     “Now he thinks he’s a kitten,” laughed Judy.Pausing at still another door that led to the darkerpart of the attic, she turned and said mysteriously,“Up here we can all turn back the clock. Does anybodycare to explore the past?”     The exploration began enthusiastically with Judyrelating still more of what she remembered aboutthe fountain.     “When I told Grandma about it she laughed andsaid I must have dreamed it. She said if wishes cametrue that easily she’d be living in a castle. But wouldshe?” Judy wondered. “When I first remember thishouse she was still burning kerosene lamps like thoseyou see on that high shelf by the window. I thinkshe and Grandpa like the way they lived withoutany modern conveniences or anything.”     “I think so, too,” Lois agreed, looking around theold attic with a shiver. “It is strange they both diedthe same winter, isn’t it?”     “Maybe they wanted it that way. Maybe theywished neither of them would outlive the other. Ifthey did wish in the fountain,” Judy went on morethoughtfully, “I’m sure that was one of their wishes.Another could have been to keep the good old days,as Grandma used to call them. That one came truein a way. They did manage to keep a little of thepast when they kept all these old things. That’s whatI meant about turning back the clock.”     “If wishes came true I’d like to turn it back a littlemyself,” Lorraine began. “It would be nice if thingswere the way they used to be when I trustedArthur—”     “Don’t you trust him now?” Judy asked.     Afterwards she was sorry for the interruption. Loisand Judy both questioned Lorraine, but that was allshe would say. Judy wondered, as they searchedthrough the old magazines, what was wrong. Lorrainewas of a jealous disposition. Was the green-eyedmonster coming between her and her handsome husband,Arthur Farringdon-Pett? Until now they hadseemed blissfully happy. But there was no happinessin Lorraine’s face as she gazed at a picture of one ofthe fountains and then said in a tight little voice, “Itis. It’s the very same one.”     “But that’s the picture I’ve been searching for!”Judy said eagerly. “Do you know where it is?”     “I can’t be sure. But if it ever was enchanted, I’msure it isn’t now. Let’s go,” Lorraine said suddenlyto Lois. Judy knew she was suggesting a fast trip home.But, apparently, Lois did not understand it that way.If she did, she pretended not to.     “Where?” she asked. “To the fountain? I’d loveto, wouldn’t you, Judy?”     “I certainly would,” Judy replied enthusiastically.“Do you recognize it, too?”     “I think so,” Lois answered after studying a littlemore closely the picture they had found. “It lookslike the fountain on the Brandt estate.”     “The department store Brandts?” Judy questioned.“Then my grandparents must have driven old Fannyall the way to Farringdon.”     “Not quite all the way,” Lorraine objected. “TheBrandts own that stretch of woods just before youcome into the city. You’ve passed it lots of times.”     “Of course,” agreed Judy. She put the magazineback in its place under the eaves and turned eagerlyto her friends. “I do remember a road turning offinto the woods and going on uphill,” she told them.“I never thought it led to a house, though. Thereisn’t even a gate. Could that be the road my grandparentstook?”     “Why don’t we take it ourselves and find out?”Lois suggested.    id=chap03>  CHAPTER III   A Strange Encounter    Lorraine was not too enthusiastic about the proposedtrip to the Brandt estate. Finally she agreed toit under one condition. They were not to drive allthe way to the house which, she said, was just overthe hilltop. They were to park the car where noone would see it and follow the path to the fountain.     “But suppose we can’t find the path?” asked Judy.     “You’ll remember it, won’t you?”     Judy thought she would, but she wasn’t too sure.She and Lois both argued that it would be better toinquire at the house. Lois knew Helen Brandt slightly.     “She’d be glad to show us around. This way itlooks as if we’re planning a crime,” Lois said as theystarted off in the blue car she was driving.     It was a neat little car, not too conspicuous, andeasy to park in out-of-the-way places. Judy laughedand said if they did find the fountain she thoughtshe’d wish for one exactly like it.     “Well, you know what your grandmother saidabout wishes, don’t you?” Lorraine asked. “If youlet people know about them instead of mutteringthem to yourself most of them aren’t so impossible.”     “Quite true,” Judy agreed. “I’ll let Peter knowabout this one. He’s my Santa Claus, and it will soonbe Christmas. Maybe I should have worn the furcoat he gave me last year.”     “Your reversible’s better in case it rains. It’s toowarm for snow. We picked a perfect day for thistrip,” Lois continued, guiding the car around curvesas it climbed the steep hill beyond Dry Brook Hollow.     The trip was a short one. In twenty minutes theyhad covered the distance that had seemed such along way to Judy when she was riding in her grandfather’swagon.     “I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, “and I’vejust about figured out how it happened. I didn’tthink my grandparents knew the Brandts well enoughto pay them a visit, though. We must have lookedqueer driving up to a beautiful estate in Grandpa’sold farm wagon. I do remember that Grandma had  some hooked rugs to deliver. But that still doesn’texplain what happened afterwards. When I wokeup in the hammock I was alone in the garden. Horse,wagon, grandparents—all had disappeared.”     “How could they?” asked Lois.     “Anyway,” Lorraine began, “you had a chance tosee how beautiful everything was before—”     Again she broke off as if there were somethingshe wanted to tell but didn’t quite dare.     “Before what?” questioned Judy.     “Oh, nothing. Forget I said anything about it. Youwere telling us how you woke up in the hammock,but you never did explain how you got back home,”Lorraine reminded her.     “Didn’t I?” asked Judy. “I’d forgotten a lot of it,but it’s beginning to come back now. I do rememberdriving home along this road. You see, I thought mygrandparents had left me in the garden for a surpriseand would return for me. I told you I was all alone.There wasn’t a house in sight.”     “The Brandt house is just over the top of this nexthill,” Lois put in.     “I know. You told me that. Now I know why Icouldn’t see it. All I could see was a windowless oldtower and a path leading in that direction. Naturally,I followed it. There’s something about a path inthe woods that always tempts me.”     “We know that, Judy. Honey told us all aboutyour latest mystery. You followed a trail or something.”     “Well, this trail led out of the rose garden wherethe hammock was and then through an archway,”Judy continued. “All sorts of little cupids and gnomespeered out at me from unexpected places. I wasactually scared by the time I reached the old tower.There wasn’t time to explore it. Just then I heardthe rumble of my grandfather’s wagon and knew hewas driving off without me.”     “He was!” Judy’s friends both chorused in surprise,and Lois asked, “Why would he do a thing likethat?”     “I think now it was just to tease me. He did stopand wait for me after a while,” Judy remembered.“The rugs were gone. Grandma must have deliveredthem, but I didn’t ask where. If she made them forMrs. Brandt they may still be there.”     “I wouldn’t depend on it,” Lorraine said as theyturned up the narrow road to the Brandt estate.     “Watch out!” Judy suddenly exclaimed. “There’sanother car coming.”     As Lois swerved to avoid the oncoming car, Lorraineducked her head. She kept herself hidden behindJudy until the car had passed. The man drivingit was a stranger to Judy, but she would rememberhis hypnotic, dark eyes and swarthy complexion for along time. The soft brown hat he was wearing coveredmost of his hair.     “What’s the matter with you two?” asked Loiswhen the car had passed. “Aren’t you a little old forplaying hide and seek?”     “I wasn’t—playing. Let’s not go up there,” Lorrainebegged. “I don’t think the Brandts live thereany more.”     “Maybe not, but we can pretend we think they do,can’t we?” Judy replied a little uncertainly.     She was beginning to suspect that Lorraine knewmore about the Brandt estate than she was telling.     Lois kept on driving along the narrow, gravellyroad. Soon there were more evergreens and a hedgeof rhododendrons to be seen. They looked verygreen next to the leafless trees in the woods beyond.The sky was gray with white clouds being drivenacross it by the wind.     “There’s the tower!” Lorraine exclaimed. “I cansee it over to the left. It looks like something out ofGrimm’s Fairy Tales, doesn’t it?”     “It looks grim all right,” agreed Judy. “I wonderwhat it is.”     “I suppose it’s nothing but an old water tower. Itwould be fun to explore it, though,” Lois said. “Butif there are new people living here they’ll never giveus permission.”     “We might explore it without permission,” Judysuggested daringly. “Come on!” she urged her friendsas Lois parked the car in a cleared place beside theroad. “Who’s going to stop us? And who wants toexplore a gloomy old tower, anyway? Let’s look forthe fountain.”     “Do you think we should?” Lorraine asked. “Itwon’t be enchanted. I told you—”     “You told us very little,” Lois reminded her. “Ifyou know anything about the people who live herenow, I think you ought to let us know. Otherwise,I’m afraid we won’t be very welcome.”     “I don’t think they’ll welcome us, anyway. I doknow who they are,” Lorraine admitted. “You rememberRoger Banning from school, don’t you?I’ve seen him around here. His family must haveacquired sudden wealth, or else he’s just working onthe estate.”     “Then you’ve been here lately? Why didn’t youtell me?” asked Lois. “We always used to go placestogether.”     “It wasn’t important,” Lorraine replied evasively.“I was just out for a drive.”     “You plutocrats!” laughed Judy. “Each with acar of your own. You’re not interested in RogerBanning, are you, Lois? I’m sure you can do betterthan that. I did know him slightly, but not fromschool. The boys and girls were separated and wentto different high schools by the time we moved to  Farringdon. I remember his pal, Dick Hartwell, alot better. He was in our young people’s group atchurch.”     “Sh!” Lois cautioned her. “Nice people no longermention Dick Hartwell’s name. He’s doing time.”     “For what?” asked Judy.     Like Peter, her FBI husband, she preferred factsto gossip.     “Forgery, I guess. He stole some checkbooks fromhis father’s desk and forged the names of a lot of importantbusiness people. I think he forged some legaldocuments, too. Anyway, he went to the Federal Penitentiary.It was all in the papers,” Lorraine told her.     Now Judy did remember. It was something shewould have preferred to forget. She liked to thinkshe was a good judge of character, and she had takenDick Hartwell for a quiet, refined boy who wouldnever stoop to crime.     “I don’t see what all this has to do with the fountain,”Lois said impatiently. “Are we going to lookfor it, or aren’t we?”     “Of course we are. That’s what we came for. Ijust like to know what a tiger looks like before hesprings at me,” Judy explained.     “You seem to think there’s danger in this expeditionof ours, don’t you?” asked Lorraine.     “I don’t know what to think. You’re the one whoseems to know the answers, but you’re not telling.  Hiding your face back there gave you away. You’veseen that character who drove down this road and,for some reason, you were afraid he would see you.Why, Lorraine? Why didn’t you want to be recognized?”     Lorraine hesitated a moment and then repliedevasively, “People don’t generally enter privateestates without an invitation. That’s all.”     “I’d better turn the car around,” Lois decided,“in case we have to leave in a hurry. I don’t expectwe’ll encounter any tigers, but we may be accusedof trespassing.”     “I’m sure we will be,” announced Judy as twodark-coated figures strode down the road towardthem. “You drove right by a  NO TRESPASSING  sign,and this isn’t a welcoming committee coming tomeet us!”   ","Judy was a freckled-faced, pigtailed girl that spent two weeks every summer with her grandmother, Smeed, and grandfather while her parents went on vacation to a beach hotel they honeymooned at many years ago. Judy resented being left behind by her parents. However, during one summer with her grandparents, they took her to an enchanted fountain that Judy found a photo of in their attic. The fountain spoke to Judy and asked her to shed a tear into the fountain and make wishes. All of the things that Judy wished for in her life came true - to have a lot of friends, a sister, to marry a G-man and to solve a lot of mysteries. In the telling of the story, Judy is older, married, and has a sister Lois (by way of Judy’s marriage to her brother), and another close friend like a sister, Lorraine (by way of her marrying into the same family as Lois - the Farringdon-Petts). Judy shows modesty by bringing up the mysteries she never solved when Lois and Lorraine shower her with compliments. Judy’s grandparents have since passed, but she lives in their home and keeps their belongings in the attic, showing her connection with family. Judy (maiden name Bolten) is married to Peter Dobbs, an FBI agent, and she prefers to discuss facts instead of gossiping about hear-say with Lois and Lorraine. Judy is diligent in asking questions about Lorraine’s behavior when she ducks down in the car to hide her face from a passing stranger, and probes her to tell the truth about knowing who the new owner of the Brandt estate is - Roger Banning. Her wit is sharp, and she comes across as determined and willing to take risks to solve her mysteries (like passing no trespassing signs in broad daylight after they have already been spotted by a stranger)."
"What is the significance of tears in the story? </s>     The Haunted Fountain    id=chap01>  CHAPTER I   An Unsolved Mystery    “Tell Judy about it,” begged Lois. “Please, Lorraine,it can’t be as bad as it appears. There isn’tanything that Judy can’t solve.”     Lorraine tilted her head disdainfully. “We’re sistersnow. We’re both Farringdon-Petts and should beloyal to each other. But you always did take Judy’spart. She was the one who nearly spoiled our doublewedding trying to solve a mystery. I don’t believeshe’d understand—understand any better than I do.Everyone has problems, and I’m sure Judy is noexception.”     “You’re right, Lorraine,” announced Judy, comingin to serve dessert to the two friends she had invitedfor lunch at Peter’s suggestion. “I do haveproblems, and there are plenty of mysteries I can’tsolve.”     “Name one,” charged Lois. “Just mention onesingle spooky thing you couldn’t explain, and I’llbelieve you. I’ve seen you in action, Judy Bolton—”     “Judy Dobbs, remember?”     “Well, you were Judy Bolton when you solvedall those mysteries. I met you when the wholevalley below the big Roulsville dam was threatenedby flood and you solved that—”     “That,” declared Judy, “was my brother Horace,not me. He was the hero without even meaning tobe. He was the one who rode through town andwarned people that the flood was coming. I was offchasing a shadow.”     “A vanishing shadow,” Lois said with a sigh.“What you did wasn’t easy, Judy.”     “It didn’t need to be as hard as it was,” Judy confessed.“I know now that keeping that promise notto talk about the dam was a great big mistake andcould have cost lives. I should have told Arthur.”     “Please,” Lorraine said, a pained expression cloudingher pretty face, “let’s not talk about him now.”     “Very well,” Judy agreed. “What shall we talkabout?”     “You,” Lois said, “and all the mysteries you’vesolved. Maybe you were mistaken about a thing ortwo before the flood, but what about the haunted  house you moved into? You were the one whotracked down the ghosts in the attic and the cellarand goodness knows where all. You’ve been chasingghosts ever since I met you, and not one of them didyou fail to explain in some sensible, logical fashion.”     “Before I met you,” Judy said, thinking back,“there were plenty of them I couldn’t explain. Therewas one I used to call the spirit of the fountain, butwhat she was or how she spoke to me is more thanI know. If my grandparents knew, they weren’t telling.And now they’re both dead and I can’t ask them.They left me a lot of unsolved mysteries along withthis house. Maybe I’ll find the answers to some ofthem when I finish sorting Grandma’s things. They’restored in one end of the attic.”     “Another haunted attic? How thrilling!” exclaimedLois. “Why don’t you have another ghost party andshow up the spooks?”     “I didn’t say the attic was haunted.”     Judy was almost sorry she had mentioned it. Shewasn’t in the mood for digging up old mysteries,but Lois and Lorraine insisted. It all began, she finallytold them, the summer before they met. Horacehad just started working on the paper. Judy rememberedthat it was Lorraine’s father, Richard ThorntonLee, who gave him his job with the      FarringdonDaily Herald     . He had turned in some interestingchurch news, convincing Mr. Lee that he had in him  the makings of a good reporter. And so it was thathe spent the summer Judy was remembering in Farringdonwhere the Farringdon-Petts had their turretedmansion, while she had to suffer the heat andloneliness of Dry Brook Hollow.     Her thoughts were what had made it so hard, sheconfessed now as she reviewed everything that hadhappened. She just couldn’t help resenting the factthat her parents left her every summer while theywent off on a vacation by themselves. What did theythink she would do?     “You’ll have plenty to read,” her father had toldher. “I bought you six new books in that mysteryseries you like. When they’re finished there areplenty of short stories around. Your grandmothernever throws anything away. She has magazines she’ssaved since your mother was a girl. If you ask forthem she’ll let you have the whole stack. I know howyou love to read.”     “I do, Dad, but if the magazines are that old—”     Judy had stopped. She had seen her father’s tiredeyes and had realized that a busy doctor needed avacation much more than a schoolgirl who had toolittle to do. He and Judy’s mother usually went tothe beach hotel where they had honeymooned. Itwas a precious memory. Every summer Dr. Boltonand his wife relived it. And every summer Judywent to stay with her grandmother Smeed, whoscolded and fussed and tried to pretend she wasn’tglad to have her.     “You here again?” she had greeted her that summer,and Judy hadn’t noticed her old eyes twinklingbehind her glasses. “What do you propose to do withyourself this time?”     “Read,” Judy had told her. “Mom and Dad sayyou have a whole stack of old magazines—”     “In the attic. Go up and look them over if youcan stand the heat.”     Judy went, not to look over the old magazines somuch as to escape to a place where she could have agood cry. It was the summer before her fifteenthbirthday. In another year she would have outgrownher childish resentment of her parents’ vacation orbe grown up enough to ask them to let her have avacation of her own. In another year she wouldbe summering among the beautiful Thousand Islandsand solving a mystery to be known as the      GhostParade     .     “A whole parade of ghosts,” Lois would be tellingher, “and you solved everything.”     But then she didn’t even know Lois. She had noidea so many thrilling adventures awaited her. Thereseemed to be nothing—nothing—and so the tearscame and spilled over on one of the magazines. AsJudy wiped it away she noticed that it had fallenon a picture of a fountain.     “A fountain with tears for water. How strange!”she remembered saying aloud.     Judy had never seen a real fountain. The thrill ofwalking up to the door of the palatial Farringdon-Pettmansion was still ahead of her. On the lawn afountain still caught and held rainbows like thoseshe was to see on her honeymoon at Niagara Falls.But all that was in the future. If anyone had toldthe freckled-faced, pigtailed girl that she would oneday marry Peter Dobbs, she would have laughed intheir faces.     “That tease!”     For then she knew Peter only as an older boy whoused to tease her and call her carrot-top until one dayshe yelled back at him, “Carrot-tops are green and soare you!”     Peter was to win Judy’s heart when he gave her akitten and suggested the name Blackberry for him.The kitten was now a dignified family cat. But thesummer Judy found the picture of a fountain andspilled tears on it she had no kitten. She had nothing,she confessed, not even a friend. It had helped topretend the fountain in the picture was filled withall the tears lonely girls like herself had ever cried.     “But that would make it enchanted!” she had suddenlyexclaimed. “If I could find it I’d wish—”     A step had sounded on the stairs. Judy rememberedit distinctly. She had turned to see her grandmother  and to hear her say in her usual abrupt fashion,“Enchanted fountain, indeed! If you let peopleknow your wishes instead of muttering them toyourself, most of them aren’t so impossible.”     “Were they?” asked Lois.     She and Lorraine had listened to this much of whatJudy was telling them without interruption.     “That’s the unsolved mystery,” Judy replied.“There weren’t any of them impossible.”     And she went on to tell them how, the very nextday, her grandparents had taken her to a fountainexactly like the one in the picture. It was in the centerof a deep, circular pool with steps leading up to it.Beside the steps were smaller fountains with thewater spurting from the mouths of stone lions. Judyhad stared at them a moment and then climbed thesteps to the pool.     “Am I dreaming?” she remembered saying aloud.“Is this beautiful fountain real?”     A voice had answered, although she could see noone.     “Make your wishes, Judy. Wish wisely. If youshed a tear in the fountain your wishes will surelycome true.”     “A tear?” Judy had asked. “How can I shed atear when I’m happy? This is a wonderful place.”     “Shed a tear in the fountain and your wishes willsurely come true,” the voice had repeated.     “But what is there to cry about?”     “You found plenty to cry about back at yourgrandmother’s house,” the mysterious voice had remindedher. “Weren’t you crying on my picture upthere in the attic?”     “Then you—you      are     the fountain!” Judy rememberedexclaiming. “But a fountain doesn’t speak. Itdoesn’t have a voice.”     “Wish wisely,” the voice from the fountain hadsaid in a mysterious whisper.    id=chap02>  CHAPTER II   If Wishes Came True    “Did you?” Lois interrupted the story to ask excitedly.“Oh, Judy! Don’t keep us in suspense anylonger. What did you wish?”     “Patience,” Judy said with a smile. “I’m comingto that.”     First, she told her friends, she had to think of awise wish. There had been so much she wanted inthose early days before the flood. Dora Scott hadbeen her best friend in Roulsville, but she had movedaway.     “You see,” she explained, “I made the mistake ofhaving just one best friend. There wasn’t anybodyin Dry Brook Hollow. I remember thinking of howlonely I was and how I wished for a friend or a sister,  and suddenly a tear splashed in the water. It madelittle ripples. I thought I had to wish quickly beforethey vanished, and so I began naming the things Iwanted as fast as I could. I’m not sure they werewise wishes. They seem rather selfish to me, now. Iwasn’t thinking of anybody but me, Judy Bolton,and what I wanted. It wasn’t until after I began tothink of others that my wishes started to come true.”     “But what were they?” Lois insisted.     Lorraine seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful.Judy did not notice the fear in her eyes as she repliedairily, “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I wished for lotsof friends and a sister, and I wished I could marry aG-man and solve a lot of mysteries and that’s as faras I got when the ripples vanished. I thought thespell was broken and so I didn’t wish for anythingmore.”     “Wasn’t there anything more you wanted?” Loisasked.     “Of course,” replied Judy. “There were lots morethings. I wanted to go places, of course, and keeppets, and have a nice home, and—”     “And your wishes all came true!”     “Every one of them,” Judy agreed, “even the oneabout the sister. You see, it wasn’t a baby sister Iwanted. It was a sister near my own age. Thatseemed impossible at the time, but the future didhold a sister for me.”     “It held one for me, too,” Lois said, squeezingLorraine’s hand under the table. “Don’t you thinksisters should tell each other their problems, Judy?”     “Honey and I always do,” she replied “but thenit was different. I didn’t know I would marry Peteror that he would become a G-man, and he didn’tknow he had a sister. It is strange, isn’t it? But thestrangest thing of all was the fountain itself.”     “Why?” asked Lorraine. “Do you still think it wasenchanted?”     Lois laughed at this, but Judy was serious as sheanswered, “I was still little girl enough to think soat the time. I wandered around, growing verydrowsy. Then I found a hammock and climbed intoit. I must have gone to sleep, because I rememberwaking up and wondering if the voice in the fountainhad been a dream.”     “A hammock?” Lois questioned. “Are you sure itwasn’t a flying carpet?”     “No, it was a hammock all right,” Judy assuredher, laughing. “It was hung between two trees in abeautiful garden all enclosed in rose trellises thickwith roses. Did I tell you it was June?”     “All the year around?”     Again Lois laughed. But Lorraine said abruptly,“Let’s not talk about rose gardens in June. It’s a longway from June to December.”     “Do you mean a garden changes? I know,” Judysaid, “but I think this one would be beautiful at anytime of the year. There were rhododendrons, too,and I don’t know how many different kinds of evergreens.I explored the garden all around the fountain.”     “And then what happened?” Lorraine urged her.     “Yes, yes. Go on,” entreated Lois. “I didn’t dreamyou’d kept anything that exciting a secret. Why didn’tyou try to solve the mystery?”     “I think I would have tried,” Judy admitted, “ifI had been older or more experienced. I really shouldhave investigated it more thoroughly and learned thesecret of the fountain. But after the ripples wentaway it didn’t speak to me any more, and I didn’treally think it had heard my wishes. I was still wishingfor a friend when I met you, Lois. It did seemimpossible for us to be friends at first, didn’t it? Lorrainewas your friend.”     “I did make trouble for you,” Lorraine remembered.“It was all because of my foolish jealousy.”     “It was nothing compared to the trouble caused bythe Roulsville flood,” declared Judy. “After thatthings started happening so fast that I completelyforgot about the fountain. Honestly, Lois, I don’tbelieve I thought about it again until after we movedto Farringdon and I walked up to your door andsaw the fountain on your lawn.”     “The Farringdon-Pett puddle, I always called it,”Lois said with a giggle. “I’ve seen lots nicer fountains.”     “You have?” asked Judy. “Then maybe you’veseen the one I’ve been telling you about. I think thepicture of it is still in the attic. Come on up and I’llshow you.”     Lois and Lorraine had finished their dessert whileJudy was telling them the story of the fountain.Somehow, she wasn’t hungry for hers. She hadtasted it too often while she was making it.     “I’ll leave it for Blackberry,” she decided.     Lois watched in amusement as the cat lapped upthe chocolate pudding after Judy had mixed it generouslywith cream.     “Sometimes,” Judy said fondly, “Blackberry thinkshe’s a person. He eats everything we eat, includinglettuce. Do you mind if he comes with us, Lorraine?He wants to explore the attic, too.”     “He’ll remember he’s a cat fast enough if thereare any mice up there,” Lois said with a giggle.     Leaving the table, they all started upstairs withthe cat bounding ahead of them. In modernizing hergrandparents’ house to suit her own and Peter’stastes, Judy had seen to it that the old stair door wasremoved. But there was still a door closing off thenarrower stairs that led to the attic. Blackberryreached it first and yowled for Judy to open it.     “He can read my mind. He always knows whereI’m going,” Judy said as the door creaked open andthe cat shot through it. A moment later a weird rollingnoise came from the floor above.     “Come on. There’s nothing up here to be afraidof,” Judy urged her friends.     “Maybe not, but I’m beginning to get the shivers,”confessed Lois as she followed Judy to the sewingroom at the top of the last flight of stairs.     “So am I,” Lorraine admitted. “I’m not superstitiousabout black cats, but they are creepy. DoesBlackberry have to roll spools across the floor?”     “Now he thinks he’s a kitten,” laughed Judy.Pausing at still another door that led to the darkerpart of the attic, she turned and said mysteriously,“Up here we can all turn back the clock. Does anybodycare to explore the past?”     The exploration began enthusiastically with Judyrelating still more of what she remembered aboutthe fountain.     “When I told Grandma about it she laughed andsaid I must have dreamed it. She said if wishes cametrue that easily she’d be living in a castle. But wouldshe?” Judy wondered. “When I first remember thishouse she was still burning kerosene lamps like thoseyou see on that high shelf by the window. I thinkshe and Grandpa like the way they lived withoutany modern conveniences or anything.”     “I think so, too,” Lois agreed, looking around theold attic with a shiver. “It is strange they both diedthe same winter, isn’t it?”     “Maybe they wanted it that way. Maybe theywished neither of them would outlive the other. Ifthey did wish in the fountain,” Judy went on morethoughtfully, “I’m sure that was one of their wishes.Another could have been to keep the good old days,as Grandma used to call them. That one came truein a way. They did manage to keep a little of thepast when they kept all these old things. That’s whatI meant about turning back the clock.”     “If wishes came true I’d like to turn it back a littlemyself,” Lorraine began. “It would be nice if thingswere the way they used to be when I trustedArthur—”     “Don’t you trust him now?” Judy asked.     Afterwards she was sorry for the interruption. Loisand Judy both questioned Lorraine, but that was allshe would say. Judy wondered, as they searchedthrough the old magazines, what was wrong. Lorrainewas of a jealous disposition. Was the green-eyedmonster coming between her and her handsome husband,Arthur Farringdon-Pett? Until now they hadseemed blissfully happy. But there was no happinessin Lorraine’s face as she gazed at a picture of one ofthe fountains and then said in a tight little voice, “Itis. It’s the very same one.”     “But that’s the picture I’ve been searching for!”Judy said eagerly. “Do you know where it is?”     “I can’t be sure. But if it ever was enchanted, I’msure it isn’t now. Let’s go,” Lorraine said suddenlyto Lois. Judy knew she was suggesting a fast trip home.But, apparently, Lois did not understand it that way.If she did, she pretended not to.     “Where?” she asked. “To the fountain? I’d loveto, wouldn’t you, Judy?”     “I certainly would,” Judy replied enthusiastically.“Do you recognize it, too?”     “I think so,” Lois answered after studying a littlemore closely the picture they had found. “It lookslike the fountain on the Brandt estate.”     “The department store Brandts?” Judy questioned.“Then my grandparents must have driven old Fannyall the way to Farringdon.”     “Not quite all the way,” Lorraine objected. “TheBrandts own that stretch of woods just before youcome into the city. You’ve passed it lots of times.”     “Of course,” agreed Judy. She put the magazineback in its place under the eaves and turned eagerlyto her friends. “I do remember a road turning offinto the woods and going on uphill,” she told them.“I never thought it led to a house, though. Thereisn’t even a gate. Could that be the road my grandparentstook?”     “Why don’t we take it ourselves and find out?”Lois suggested.    id=chap03>  CHAPTER III   A Strange Encounter    Lorraine was not too enthusiastic about the proposedtrip to the Brandt estate. Finally she agreed toit under one condition. They were not to drive allthe way to the house which, she said, was just overthe hilltop. They were to park the car where noone would see it and follow the path to the fountain.     “But suppose we can’t find the path?” asked Judy.     “You’ll remember it, won’t you?”     Judy thought she would, but she wasn’t too sure.She and Lois both argued that it would be better toinquire at the house. Lois knew Helen Brandt slightly.     “She’d be glad to show us around. This way itlooks as if we’re planning a crime,” Lois said as theystarted off in the blue car she was driving.     It was a neat little car, not too conspicuous, andeasy to park in out-of-the-way places. Judy laughedand said if they did find the fountain she thoughtshe’d wish for one exactly like it.     “Well, you know what your grandmother saidabout wishes, don’t you?” Lorraine asked. “If youlet people know about them instead of mutteringthem to yourself most of them aren’t so impossible.”     “Quite true,” Judy agreed. “I’ll let Peter knowabout this one. He’s my Santa Claus, and it will soonbe Christmas. Maybe I should have worn the furcoat he gave me last year.”     “Your reversible’s better in case it rains. It’s toowarm for snow. We picked a perfect day for thistrip,” Lois continued, guiding the car around curvesas it climbed the steep hill beyond Dry Brook Hollow.     The trip was a short one. In twenty minutes theyhad covered the distance that had seemed such along way to Judy when she was riding in her grandfather’swagon.     “I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, “and I’vejust about figured out how it happened. I didn’tthink my grandparents knew the Brandts well enoughto pay them a visit, though. We must have lookedqueer driving up to a beautiful estate in Grandpa’sold farm wagon. I do remember that Grandma had  some hooked rugs to deliver. But that still doesn’texplain what happened afterwards. When I wokeup in the hammock I was alone in the garden. Horse,wagon, grandparents—all had disappeared.”     “How could they?” asked Lois.     “Anyway,” Lorraine began, “you had a chance tosee how beautiful everything was before—”     Again she broke off as if there were somethingshe wanted to tell but didn’t quite dare.     “Before what?” questioned Judy.     “Oh, nothing. Forget I said anything about it. Youwere telling us how you woke up in the hammock,but you never did explain how you got back home,”Lorraine reminded her.     “Didn’t I?” asked Judy. “I’d forgotten a lot of it,but it’s beginning to come back now. I do rememberdriving home along this road. You see, I thought mygrandparents had left me in the garden for a surpriseand would return for me. I told you I was all alone.There wasn’t a house in sight.”     “The Brandt house is just over the top of this nexthill,” Lois put in.     “I know. You told me that. Now I know why Icouldn’t see it. All I could see was a windowless oldtower and a path leading in that direction. Naturally,I followed it. There’s something about a path inthe woods that always tempts me.”     “We know that, Judy. Honey told us all aboutyour latest mystery. You followed a trail or something.”     “Well, this trail led out of the rose garden wherethe hammock was and then through an archway,”Judy continued. “All sorts of little cupids and gnomespeered out at me from unexpected places. I wasactually scared by the time I reached the old tower.There wasn’t time to explore it. Just then I heardthe rumble of my grandfather’s wagon and knew hewas driving off without me.”     “He was!” Judy’s friends both chorused in surprise,and Lois asked, “Why would he do a thing likethat?”     “I think now it was just to tease me. He did stopand wait for me after a while,” Judy remembered.“The rugs were gone. Grandma must have deliveredthem, but I didn’t ask where. If she made them forMrs. Brandt they may still be there.”     “I wouldn’t depend on it,” Lorraine said as theyturned up the narrow road to the Brandt estate.     “Watch out!” Judy suddenly exclaimed. “There’sanother car coming.”     As Lois swerved to avoid the oncoming car, Lorraineducked her head. She kept herself hidden behindJudy until the car had passed. The man drivingit was a stranger to Judy, but she would rememberhis hypnotic, dark eyes and swarthy complexion for along time. The soft brown hat he was wearing coveredmost of his hair.     “What’s the matter with you two?” asked Loiswhen the car had passed. “Aren’t you a little old forplaying hide and seek?”     “I wasn’t—playing. Let’s not go up there,” Lorrainebegged. “I don’t think the Brandts live thereany more.”     “Maybe not, but we can pretend we think they do,can’t we?” Judy replied a little uncertainly.     She was beginning to suspect that Lorraine knewmore about the Brandt estate than she was telling.     Lois kept on driving along the narrow, gravellyroad. Soon there were more evergreens and a hedgeof rhododendrons to be seen. They looked verygreen next to the leafless trees in the woods beyond.The sky was gray with white clouds being drivenacross it by the wind.     “There’s the tower!” Lorraine exclaimed. “I cansee it over to the left. It looks like something out ofGrimm’s Fairy Tales, doesn’t it?”     “It looks grim all right,” agreed Judy. “I wonderwhat it is.”     “I suppose it’s nothing but an old water tower. Itwould be fun to explore it, though,” Lois said. “Butif there are new people living here they’ll never giveus permission.”     “We might explore it without permission,” Judysuggested daringly. “Come on!” she urged her friendsas Lois parked the car in a cleared place beside theroad. “Who’s going to stop us? And who wants toexplore a gloomy old tower, anyway? Let’s look forthe fountain.”     “Do you think we should?” Lorraine asked. “Itwon’t be enchanted. I told you—”     “You told us very little,” Lois reminded her. “Ifyou know anything about the people who live herenow, I think you ought to let us know. Otherwise,I’m afraid we won’t be very welcome.”     “I don’t think they’ll welcome us, anyway. I doknow who they are,” Lorraine admitted. “You rememberRoger Banning from school, don’t you?I’ve seen him around here. His family must haveacquired sudden wealth, or else he’s just working onthe estate.”     “Then you’ve been here lately? Why didn’t youtell me?” asked Lois. “We always used to go placestogether.”     “It wasn’t important,” Lorraine replied evasively.“I was just out for a drive.”     “You plutocrats!” laughed Judy. “Each with acar of your own. You’re not interested in RogerBanning, are you, Lois? I’m sure you can do betterthan that. I did know him slightly, but not fromschool. The boys and girls were separated and wentto different high schools by the time we moved to  Farringdon. I remember his pal, Dick Hartwell, alot better. He was in our young people’s group atchurch.”     “Sh!” Lois cautioned her. “Nice people no longermention Dick Hartwell’s name. He’s doing time.”     “For what?” asked Judy.     Like Peter, her FBI husband, she preferred factsto gossip.     “Forgery, I guess. He stole some checkbooks fromhis father’s desk and forged the names of a lot of importantbusiness people. I think he forged some legaldocuments, too. Anyway, he went to the Federal Penitentiary.It was all in the papers,” Lorraine told her.     Now Judy did remember. It was something shewould have preferred to forget. She liked to thinkshe was a good judge of character, and she had takenDick Hartwell for a quiet, refined boy who wouldnever stoop to crime.     “I don’t see what all this has to do with the fountain,”Lois said impatiently. “Are we going to lookfor it, or aren’t we?”     “Of course we are. That’s what we came for. Ijust like to know what a tiger looks like before hesprings at me,” Judy explained.     “You seem to think there’s danger in this expeditionof ours, don’t you?” asked Lorraine.     “I don’t know what to think. You’re the one whoseems to know the answers, but you’re not telling.  Hiding your face back there gave you away. You’veseen that character who drove down this road and,for some reason, you were afraid he would see you.Why, Lorraine? Why didn’t you want to be recognized?”     Lorraine hesitated a moment and then repliedevasively, “People don’t generally enter privateestates without an invitation. That’s all.”     “I’d better turn the car around,” Lois decided,“in case we have to leave in a hurry. I don’t expectwe’ll encounter any tigers, but we may be accusedof trespassing.”     “I’m sure we will be,” announced Judy as twodark-coated figures strode down the road towardthem. “You drove right by a  NO TRESPASSING  sign,and this isn’t a welcoming committee coming tomeet us!”   ","Tears are the inciting event that connect Judy with the photo of the fountain as a tear rolls off her cheek and onto the photo as she thinks of her loneliness in her grandparents attic. Expressing her longing for friendship and a sister aloud sparks her grandmother to take her along to the fountain itself. When visiting the fountain, tears again become important because the fountain asks for a tear to be shed into it before wishes can be made.The physical description of tears rolling onto a photograph or causing small ripples in the fountain that travel and dissipate are important visualizations that draw the reader into Judy’s story, and make her character feel real. "
"What is the relationship like between Lois and Lorraine? </s>     The Haunted Fountain    id=chap01>  CHAPTER I   An Unsolved Mystery    “Tell Judy about it,” begged Lois. “Please, Lorraine,it can’t be as bad as it appears. There isn’tanything that Judy can’t solve.”     Lorraine tilted her head disdainfully. “We’re sistersnow. We’re both Farringdon-Petts and should beloyal to each other. But you always did take Judy’spart. She was the one who nearly spoiled our doublewedding trying to solve a mystery. I don’t believeshe’d understand—understand any better than I do.Everyone has problems, and I’m sure Judy is noexception.”     “You’re right, Lorraine,” announced Judy, comingin to serve dessert to the two friends she had invitedfor lunch at Peter’s suggestion. “I do haveproblems, and there are plenty of mysteries I can’tsolve.”     “Name one,” charged Lois. “Just mention onesingle spooky thing you couldn’t explain, and I’llbelieve you. I’ve seen you in action, Judy Bolton—”     “Judy Dobbs, remember?”     “Well, you were Judy Bolton when you solvedall those mysteries. I met you when the wholevalley below the big Roulsville dam was threatenedby flood and you solved that—”     “That,” declared Judy, “was my brother Horace,not me. He was the hero without even meaning tobe. He was the one who rode through town andwarned people that the flood was coming. I was offchasing a shadow.”     “A vanishing shadow,” Lois said with a sigh.“What you did wasn’t easy, Judy.”     “It didn’t need to be as hard as it was,” Judy confessed.“I know now that keeping that promise notto talk about the dam was a great big mistake andcould have cost lives. I should have told Arthur.”     “Please,” Lorraine said, a pained expression cloudingher pretty face, “let’s not talk about him now.”     “Very well,” Judy agreed. “What shall we talkabout?”     “You,” Lois said, “and all the mysteries you’vesolved. Maybe you were mistaken about a thing ortwo before the flood, but what about the haunted  house you moved into? You were the one whotracked down the ghosts in the attic and the cellarand goodness knows where all. You’ve been chasingghosts ever since I met you, and not one of them didyou fail to explain in some sensible, logical fashion.”     “Before I met you,” Judy said, thinking back,“there were plenty of them I couldn’t explain. Therewas one I used to call the spirit of the fountain, butwhat she was or how she spoke to me is more thanI know. If my grandparents knew, they weren’t telling.And now they’re both dead and I can’t ask them.They left me a lot of unsolved mysteries along withthis house. Maybe I’ll find the answers to some ofthem when I finish sorting Grandma’s things. They’restored in one end of the attic.”     “Another haunted attic? How thrilling!” exclaimedLois. “Why don’t you have another ghost party andshow up the spooks?”     “I didn’t say the attic was haunted.”     Judy was almost sorry she had mentioned it. Shewasn’t in the mood for digging up old mysteries,but Lois and Lorraine insisted. It all began, she finallytold them, the summer before they met. Horacehad just started working on the paper. Judy rememberedthat it was Lorraine’s father, Richard ThorntonLee, who gave him his job with the      FarringdonDaily Herald     . He had turned in some interestingchurch news, convincing Mr. Lee that he had in him  the makings of a good reporter. And so it was thathe spent the summer Judy was remembering in Farringdonwhere the Farringdon-Petts had their turretedmansion, while she had to suffer the heat andloneliness of Dry Brook Hollow.     Her thoughts were what had made it so hard, sheconfessed now as she reviewed everything that hadhappened. She just couldn’t help resenting the factthat her parents left her every summer while theywent off on a vacation by themselves. What did theythink she would do?     “You’ll have plenty to read,” her father had toldher. “I bought you six new books in that mysteryseries you like. When they’re finished there areplenty of short stories around. Your grandmothernever throws anything away. She has magazines she’ssaved since your mother was a girl. If you ask forthem she’ll let you have the whole stack. I know howyou love to read.”     “I do, Dad, but if the magazines are that old—”     Judy had stopped. She had seen her father’s tiredeyes and had realized that a busy doctor needed avacation much more than a schoolgirl who had toolittle to do. He and Judy’s mother usually went tothe beach hotel where they had honeymooned. Itwas a precious memory. Every summer Dr. Boltonand his wife relived it. And every summer Judywent to stay with her grandmother Smeed, whoscolded and fussed and tried to pretend she wasn’tglad to have her.     “You here again?” she had greeted her that summer,and Judy hadn’t noticed her old eyes twinklingbehind her glasses. “What do you propose to do withyourself this time?”     “Read,” Judy had told her. “Mom and Dad sayyou have a whole stack of old magazines—”     “In the attic. Go up and look them over if youcan stand the heat.”     Judy went, not to look over the old magazines somuch as to escape to a place where she could have agood cry. It was the summer before her fifteenthbirthday. In another year she would have outgrownher childish resentment of her parents’ vacation orbe grown up enough to ask them to let her have avacation of her own. In another year she wouldbe summering among the beautiful Thousand Islandsand solving a mystery to be known as the      GhostParade     .     “A whole parade of ghosts,” Lois would be tellingher, “and you solved everything.”     But then she didn’t even know Lois. She had noidea so many thrilling adventures awaited her. Thereseemed to be nothing—nothing—and so the tearscame and spilled over on one of the magazines. AsJudy wiped it away she noticed that it had fallenon a picture of a fountain.     “A fountain with tears for water. How strange!”she remembered saying aloud.     Judy had never seen a real fountain. The thrill ofwalking up to the door of the palatial Farringdon-Pettmansion was still ahead of her. On the lawn afountain still caught and held rainbows like thoseshe was to see on her honeymoon at Niagara Falls.But all that was in the future. If anyone had toldthe freckled-faced, pigtailed girl that she would oneday marry Peter Dobbs, she would have laughed intheir faces.     “That tease!”     For then she knew Peter only as an older boy whoused to tease her and call her carrot-top until one dayshe yelled back at him, “Carrot-tops are green and soare you!”     Peter was to win Judy’s heart when he gave her akitten and suggested the name Blackberry for him.The kitten was now a dignified family cat. But thesummer Judy found the picture of a fountain andspilled tears on it she had no kitten. She had nothing,she confessed, not even a friend. It had helped topretend the fountain in the picture was filled withall the tears lonely girls like herself had ever cried.     “But that would make it enchanted!” she had suddenlyexclaimed. “If I could find it I’d wish—”     A step had sounded on the stairs. Judy rememberedit distinctly. She had turned to see her grandmother  and to hear her say in her usual abrupt fashion,“Enchanted fountain, indeed! If you let peopleknow your wishes instead of muttering them toyourself, most of them aren’t so impossible.”     “Were they?” asked Lois.     She and Lorraine had listened to this much of whatJudy was telling them without interruption.     “That’s the unsolved mystery,” Judy replied.“There weren’t any of them impossible.”     And she went on to tell them how, the very nextday, her grandparents had taken her to a fountainexactly like the one in the picture. It was in the centerof a deep, circular pool with steps leading up to it.Beside the steps were smaller fountains with thewater spurting from the mouths of stone lions. Judyhad stared at them a moment and then climbed thesteps to the pool.     “Am I dreaming?” she remembered saying aloud.“Is this beautiful fountain real?”     A voice had answered, although she could see noone.     “Make your wishes, Judy. Wish wisely. If youshed a tear in the fountain your wishes will surelycome true.”     “A tear?” Judy had asked. “How can I shed atear when I’m happy? This is a wonderful place.”     “Shed a tear in the fountain and your wishes willsurely come true,” the voice had repeated.     “But what is there to cry about?”     “You found plenty to cry about back at yourgrandmother’s house,” the mysterious voice had remindedher. “Weren’t you crying on my picture upthere in the attic?”     “Then you—you      are     the fountain!” Judy rememberedexclaiming. “But a fountain doesn’t speak. Itdoesn’t have a voice.”     “Wish wisely,” the voice from the fountain hadsaid in a mysterious whisper.    id=chap02>  CHAPTER II   If Wishes Came True    “Did you?” Lois interrupted the story to ask excitedly.“Oh, Judy! Don’t keep us in suspense anylonger. What did you wish?”     “Patience,” Judy said with a smile. “I’m comingto that.”     First, she told her friends, she had to think of awise wish. There had been so much she wanted inthose early days before the flood. Dora Scott hadbeen her best friend in Roulsville, but she had movedaway.     “You see,” she explained, “I made the mistake ofhaving just one best friend. There wasn’t anybodyin Dry Brook Hollow. I remember thinking of howlonely I was and how I wished for a friend or a sister,  and suddenly a tear splashed in the water. It madelittle ripples. I thought I had to wish quickly beforethey vanished, and so I began naming the things Iwanted as fast as I could. I’m not sure they werewise wishes. They seem rather selfish to me, now. Iwasn’t thinking of anybody but me, Judy Bolton,and what I wanted. It wasn’t until after I began tothink of others that my wishes started to come true.”     “But what were they?” Lois insisted.     Lorraine seemed unusually quiet and thoughtful.Judy did not notice the fear in her eyes as she repliedairily, “Oh, didn’t I tell you? I wished for lotsof friends and a sister, and I wished I could marry aG-man and solve a lot of mysteries and that’s as faras I got when the ripples vanished. I thought thespell was broken and so I didn’t wish for anythingmore.”     “Wasn’t there anything more you wanted?” Loisasked.     “Of course,” replied Judy. “There were lots morethings. I wanted to go places, of course, and keeppets, and have a nice home, and—”     “And your wishes all came true!”     “Every one of them,” Judy agreed, “even the oneabout the sister. You see, it wasn’t a baby sister Iwanted. It was a sister near my own age. Thatseemed impossible at the time, but the future didhold a sister for me.”     “It held one for me, too,” Lois said, squeezingLorraine’s hand under the table. “Don’t you thinksisters should tell each other their problems, Judy?”     “Honey and I always do,” she replied “but thenit was different. I didn’t know I would marry Peteror that he would become a G-man, and he didn’tknow he had a sister. It is strange, isn’t it? But thestrangest thing of all was the fountain itself.”     “Why?” asked Lorraine. “Do you still think it wasenchanted?”     Lois laughed at this, but Judy was serious as sheanswered, “I was still little girl enough to think soat the time. I wandered around, growing verydrowsy. Then I found a hammock and climbed intoit. I must have gone to sleep, because I rememberwaking up and wondering if the voice in the fountainhad been a dream.”     “A hammock?” Lois questioned. “Are you sure itwasn’t a flying carpet?”     “No, it was a hammock all right,” Judy assuredher, laughing. “It was hung between two trees in abeautiful garden all enclosed in rose trellises thickwith roses. Did I tell you it was June?”     “All the year around?”     Again Lois laughed. But Lorraine said abruptly,“Let’s not talk about rose gardens in June. It’s a longway from June to December.”     “Do you mean a garden changes? I know,” Judysaid, “but I think this one would be beautiful at anytime of the year. There were rhododendrons, too,and I don’t know how many different kinds of evergreens.I explored the garden all around the fountain.”     “And then what happened?” Lorraine urged her.     “Yes, yes. Go on,” entreated Lois. “I didn’t dreamyou’d kept anything that exciting a secret. Why didn’tyou try to solve the mystery?”     “I think I would have tried,” Judy admitted, “ifI had been older or more experienced. I really shouldhave investigated it more thoroughly and learned thesecret of the fountain. But after the ripples wentaway it didn’t speak to me any more, and I didn’treally think it had heard my wishes. I was still wishingfor a friend when I met you, Lois. It did seemimpossible for us to be friends at first, didn’t it? Lorrainewas your friend.”     “I did make trouble for you,” Lorraine remembered.“It was all because of my foolish jealousy.”     “It was nothing compared to the trouble caused bythe Roulsville flood,” declared Judy. “After thatthings started happening so fast that I completelyforgot about the fountain. Honestly, Lois, I don’tbelieve I thought about it again until after we movedto Farringdon and I walked up to your door andsaw the fountain on your lawn.”     “The Farringdon-Pett puddle, I always called it,”Lois said with a giggle. “I’ve seen lots nicer fountains.”     “You have?” asked Judy. “Then maybe you’veseen the one I’ve been telling you about. I think thepicture of it is still in the attic. Come on up and I’llshow you.”     Lois and Lorraine had finished their dessert whileJudy was telling them the story of the fountain.Somehow, she wasn’t hungry for hers. She hadtasted it too often while she was making it.     “I’ll leave it for Blackberry,” she decided.     Lois watched in amusement as the cat lapped upthe chocolate pudding after Judy had mixed it generouslywith cream.     “Sometimes,” Judy said fondly, “Blackberry thinkshe’s a person. He eats everything we eat, includinglettuce. Do you mind if he comes with us, Lorraine?He wants to explore the attic, too.”     “He’ll remember he’s a cat fast enough if thereare any mice up there,” Lois said with a giggle.     Leaving the table, they all started upstairs withthe cat bounding ahead of them. In modernizing hergrandparents’ house to suit her own and Peter’stastes, Judy had seen to it that the old stair door wasremoved. But there was still a door closing off thenarrower stairs that led to the attic. Blackberryreached it first and yowled for Judy to open it.     “He can read my mind. He always knows whereI’m going,” Judy said as the door creaked open andthe cat shot through it. A moment later a weird rollingnoise came from the floor above.     “Come on. There’s nothing up here to be afraidof,” Judy urged her friends.     “Maybe not, but I’m beginning to get the shivers,”confessed Lois as she followed Judy to the sewingroom at the top of the last flight of stairs.     “So am I,” Lorraine admitted. “I’m not superstitiousabout black cats, but they are creepy. DoesBlackberry have to roll spools across the floor?”     “Now he thinks he’s a kitten,” laughed Judy.Pausing at still another door that led to the darkerpart of the attic, she turned and said mysteriously,“Up here we can all turn back the clock. Does anybodycare to explore the past?”     The exploration began enthusiastically with Judyrelating still more of what she remembered aboutthe fountain.     “When I told Grandma about it she laughed andsaid I must have dreamed it. She said if wishes cametrue that easily she’d be living in a castle. But wouldshe?” Judy wondered. “When I first remember thishouse she was still burning kerosene lamps like thoseyou see on that high shelf by the window. I thinkshe and Grandpa like the way they lived withoutany modern conveniences or anything.”     “I think so, too,” Lois agreed, looking around theold attic with a shiver. “It is strange they both diedthe same winter, isn’t it?”     “Maybe they wanted it that way. Maybe theywished neither of them would outlive the other. Ifthey did wish in the fountain,” Judy went on morethoughtfully, “I’m sure that was one of their wishes.Another could have been to keep the good old days,as Grandma used to call them. That one came truein a way. They did manage to keep a little of thepast when they kept all these old things. That’s whatI meant about turning back the clock.”     “If wishes came true I’d like to turn it back a littlemyself,” Lorraine began. “It would be nice if thingswere the way they used to be when I trustedArthur—”     “Don’t you trust him now?” Judy asked.     Afterwards she was sorry for the interruption. Loisand Judy both questioned Lorraine, but that was allshe would say. Judy wondered, as they searchedthrough the old magazines, what was wrong. Lorrainewas of a jealous disposition. Was the green-eyedmonster coming between her and her handsome husband,Arthur Farringdon-Pett? Until now they hadseemed blissfully happy. But there was no happinessin Lorraine’s face as she gazed at a picture of one ofthe fountains and then said in a tight little voice, “Itis. It’s the very same one.”     “But that’s the picture I’ve been searching for!”Judy said eagerly. “Do you know where it is?”     “I can’t be sure. But if it ever was enchanted, I’msure it isn’t now. Let’s go,” Lorraine said suddenlyto Lois. Judy knew she was suggesting a fast trip home.But, apparently, Lois did not understand it that way.If she did, she pretended not to.     “Where?” she asked. “To the fountain? I’d loveto, wouldn’t you, Judy?”     “I certainly would,” Judy replied enthusiastically.“Do you recognize it, too?”     “I think so,” Lois answered after studying a littlemore closely the picture they had found. “It lookslike the fountain on the Brandt estate.”     “The department store Brandts?” Judy questioned.“Then my grandparents must have driven old Fannyall the way to Farringdon.”     “Not quite all the way,” Lorraine objected. “TheBrandts own that stretch of woods just before youcome into the city. You’ve passed it lots of times.”     “Of course,” agreed Judy. She put the magazineback in its place under the eaves and turned eagerlyto her friends. “I do remember a road turning offinto the woods and going on uphill,” she told them.“I never thought it led to a house, though. Thereisn’t even a gate. Could that be the road my grandparentstook?”     “Why don’t we take it ourselves and find out?”Lois suggested.    id=chap03>  CHAPTER III   A Strange Encounter    Lorraine was not too enthusiastic about the proposedtrip to the Brandt estate. Finally she agreed toit under one condition. They were not to drive allthe way to the house which, she said, was just overthe hilltop. They were to park the car where noone would see it and follow the path to the fountain.     “But suppose we can’t find the path?” asked Judy.     “You’ll remember it, won’t you?”     Judy thought she would, but she wasn’t too sure.She and Lois both argued that it would be better toinquire at the house. Lois knew Helen Brandt slightly.     “She’d be glad to show us around. This way itlooks as if we’re planning a crime,” Lois said as theystarted off in the blue car she was driving.     It was a neat little car, not too conspicuous, andeasy to park in out-of-the-way places. Judy laughedand said if they did find the fountain she thoughtshe’d wish for one exactly like it.     “Well, you know what your grandmother saidabout wishes, don’t you?” Lorraine asked. “If youlet people know about them instead of mutteringthem to yourself most of them aren’t so impossible.”     “Quite true,” Judy agreed. “I’ll let Peter knowabout this one. He’s my Santa Claus, and it will soonbe Christmas. Maybe I should have worn the furcoat he gave me last year.”     “Your reversible’s better in case it rains. It’s toowarm for snow. We picked a perfect day for thistrip,” Lois continued, guiding the car around curvesas it climbed the steep hill beyond Dry Brook Hollow.     The trip was a short one. In twenty minutes theyhad covered the distance that had seemed such along way to Judy when she was riding in her grandfather’swagon.     “I’ve been thinking about it,” she said, “and I’vejust about figured out how it happened. I didn’tthink my grandparents knew the Brandts well enoughto pay them a visit, though. We must have lookedqueer driving up to a beautiful estate in Grandpa’sold farm wagon. I do remember that Grandma had  some hooked rugs to deliver. But that still doesn’texplain what happened afterwards. When I wokeup in the hammock I was alone in the garden. Horse,wagon, grandparents—all had disappeared.”     “How could they?” asked Lois.     “Anyway,” Lorraine began, “you had a chance tosee how beautiful everything was before—”     Again she broke off as if there were somethingshe wanted to tell but didn’t quite dare.     “Before what?” questioned Judy.     “Oh, nothing. Forget I said anything about it. Youwere telling us how you woke up in the hammock,but you never did explain how you got back home,”Lorraine reminded her.     “Didn’t I?” asked Judy. “I’d forgotten a lot of it,but it’s beginning to come back now. I do rememberdriving home along this road. You see, I thought mygrandparents had left me in the garden for a surpriseand would return for me. I told you I was all alone.There wasn’t a house in sight.”     “The Brandt house is just over the top of this nexthill,” Lois put in.     “I know. You told me that. Now I know why Icouldn’t see it. All I could see was a windowless oldtower and a path leading in that direction. Naturally,I followed it. There’s something about a path inthe woods that always tempts me.”     “We know that, Judy. Honey told us all aboutyour latest mystery. You followed a trail or something.”     “Well, this trail led out of the rose garden wherethe hammock was and then through an archway,”Judy continued. “All sorts of little cupids and gnomespeered out at me from unexpected places. I wasactually scared by the time I reached the old tower.There wasn’t time to explore it. Just then I heardthe rumble of my grandfather’s wagon and knew hewas driving off without me.”     “He was!” Judy’s friends both chorused in surprise,and Lois asked, “Why would he do a thing likethat?”     “I think now it was just to tease me. He did stopand wait for me after a while,” Judy remembered.“The rugs were gone. Grandma must have deliveredthem, but I didn’t ask where. If she made them forMrs. Brandt they may still be there.”     “I wouldn’t depend on it,” Lorraine said as theyturned up the narrow road to the Brandt estate.     “Watch out!” Judy suddenly exclaimed. “There’sanother car coming.”     As Lois swerved to avoid the oncoming car, Lorraineducked her head. She kept herself hidden behindJudy until the car had passed. The man drivingit was a stranger to Judy, but she would rememberhis hypnotic, dark eyes and swarthy complexion for along time. The soft brown hat he was wearing coveredmost of his hair.     “What’s the matter with you two?” asked Loiswhen the car had passed. “Aren’t you a little old forplaying hide and seek?”     “I wasn’t—playing. Let’s not go up there,” Lorrainebegged. “I don’t think the Brandts live thereany more.”     “Maybe not, but we can pretend we think they do,can’t we?” Judy replied a little uncertainly.     She was beginning to suspect that Lorraine knewmore about the Brandt estate than she was telling.     Lois kept on driving along the narrow, gravellyroad. Soon there were more evergreens and a hedgeof rhododendrons to be seen. They looked verygreen next to the leafless trees in the woods beyond.The sky was gray with white clouds being drivenacross it by the wind.     “There’s the tower!” Lorraine exclaimed. “I cansee it over to the left. It looks like something out ofGrimm’s Fairy Tales, doesn’t it?”     “It looks grim all right,” agreed Judy. “I wonderwhat it is.”     “I suppose it’s nothing but an old water tower. Itwould be fun to explore it, though,” Lois said. “Butif there are new people living here they’ll never giveus permission.”     “We might explore it without permission,” Judysuggested daringly. “Come on!” she urged her friendsas Lois parked the car in a cleared place beside theroad. “Who’s going to stop us? And who wants toexplore a gloomy old tower, anyway? Let’s look forthe fountain.”     “Do you think we should?” Lorraine asked. “Itwon’t be enchanted. I told you—”     “You told us very little,” Lois reminded her. “Ifyou know anything about the people who live herenow, I think you ought to let us know. Otherwise,I’m afraid we won’t be very welcome.”     “I don’t think they’ll welcome us, anyway. I doknow who they are,” Lorraine admitted. “You rememberRoger Banning from school, don’t you?I’ve seen him around here. His family must haveacquired sudden wealth, or else he’s just working onthe estate.”     “Then you’ve been here lately? Why didn’t youtell me?” asked Lois. “We always used to go placestogether.”     “It wasn’t important,” Lorraine replied evasively.“I was just out for a drive.”     “You plutocrats!” laughed Judy. “Each with acar of your own. You’re not interested in RogerBanning, are you, Lois? I’m sure you can do betterthan that. I did know him slightly, but not fromschool. The boys and girls were separated and wentto different high schools by the time we moved to  Farringdon. I remember his pal, Dick Hartwell, alot better. He was in our young people’s group atchurch.”     “Sh!” Lois cautioned her. “Nice people no longermention Dick Hartwell’s name. He’s doing time.”     “For what?” asked Judy.     Like Peter, her FBI husband, she preferred factsto gossip.     “Forgery, I guess. He stole some checkbooks fromhis father’s desk and forged the names of a lot of importantbusiness people. I think he forged some legaldocuments, too. Anyway, he went to the Federal Penitentiary.It was all in the papers,” Lorraine told her.     Now Judy did remember. It was something shewould have preferred to forget. She liked to thinkshe was a good judge of character, and she had takenDick Hartwell for a quiet, refined boy who wouldnever stoop to crime.     “I don’t see what all this has to do with the fountain,”Lois said impatiently. “Are we going to lookfor it, or aren’t we?”     “Of course we are. That’s what we came for. Ijust like to know what a tiger looks like before hesprings at me,” Judy explained.     “You seem to think there’s danger in this expeditionof ours, don’t you?” asked Lorraine.     “I don’t know what to think. You’re the one whoseems to know the answers, but you’re not telling.  Hiding your face back there gave you away. You’veseen that character who drove down this road and,for some reason, you were afraid he would see you.Why, Lorraine? Why didn’t you want to be recognized?”     Lorraine hesitated a moment and then repliedevasively, “People don’t generally enter privateestates without an invitation. That’s all.”     “I’d better turn the car around,” Lois decided,“in case we have to leave in a hurry. I don’t expectwe’ll encounter any tigers, but we may be accusedof trespassing.”     “I’m sure we will be,” announced Judy as twodark-coated figures strode down the road towardthem. “You drove right by a  NO TRESPASSING  sign,and this isn’t a welcoming committee coming tomeet us!”   ","Lois and Lorraine became sisters by marriage as they both married into the Farringdon-Petts family in a double-wedding event. Judy (a sister to Lois by way of her marrying Lois’ brother, Peter Dobbs), nearly ruined the double-wedding trying to solve a mystery.Lois is perhaps more forgiving to Judy, and Lorraine goes as far as to describe that Lois has always taken Judy’s side. Both Lois and Lorraine acknowledge that Judy is great at solving mysteries and try to lift her up when she is down on herself about the few that she couldn’t solve when they come over for lunch. Lorraine becomes evasive and hides from view when the three of them go to the fountain together, concealing information about the new owners of the Brandt estate that Lois and Judy eventually get out of her by probing questions. This event shows Lois’ willingness to challenge Lorraine, and perhaps also supporting “Judy’s side” as Lois calls her out on earlier in the story."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     I am a Nucleus     By STEPHEN BARR     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      No doubt whatever about it, I had the Indian     sign on me ... my comfortably untidy world had     suddenly turned into a monstrosity of order!      When I got home from the office, I was not so much tired as beatendown, but the effect is similar. I let myself into the apartment, whichhad an absentee-wife look, and took a cold shower. The present downtowntemperature, according to the radio, was eighty-seven degrees, butaccording to my Greenwich Village thermometer, it was ninety-six. I gotdressed and went into the living room, and wished ardently that mywife Molly were here to tell me why the whole place looked so woebegone.     What do they do, I asked myself, that I have left undone? I've vacuumedthe carpet, I've dusted and I've straightened the cushions.... Ah! Theashtrays. I emptied them, washed them and put them back, but still theplace looked wife-deserted.     It had been a bad day; I had forgotten to wind the alarm clock, so I'dhad to hurry to make a story conference at one of the TV studios Iwrite for. I didn't notice the impending rain storm and had no umbrellawhen I reached the sidewalk, to find myself confronted with an almosttropical downpour. I would have turned back, but a taxi came up and awoman got out, so I dashed through the rain and got in.     Madison and Fifty-fourth, I said.     Right, said the driver, and I heard the starter grind, and then goon grinding. After some futile efforts, he turned to me. Sorry, Mac.You'll have to find another cab. Good hunting.     If possible, it was raining still harder. I opened my newspaper overmy hat and ran for the subway: three blocks. Whizzing traffic heldme up at each crossing and I was soaked when I reached the platform,just in time to miss the local. After an abnormal delay, I got onewhich exactly missed the express at Fourteenth Street. The same thinghappened at both ends of the crosstown shuttle, but I found the rainhad stopped when I got out at Fifty-first and Lexington.  As I walked across to Madison Avenue, I passed a big excavation wherethey were getting ready to put up a new office building. There was theusual crowd of buffs watching the digging machines and, in particular,a man with a pneumatic drill who was breaking up some hard-packed clay.While I looked, a big lump of it fell away, and for an instant I wasable to see something that looked like a chunk of dirty glass, the sizeof an old-fashioned hatbox. It glittered brilliantly in the sunlight,and then his chattering drill hit it.     There was a faint bang and the thing disintegrated. It knocked him onhis back, but he got right up and I realized he was not hurt. At themoment of the explosion—if so feeble a thing can be called one—Ifelt something sting my face and, on touching it, found blood on myhand. I mopped at it with my handkerchief but, though slight, thebleeding would not stop, so I went into a drugstore and bought somepink adhesive which I put on the tiny cut. When I got to the studio, Ifound that I had missed the story conference.     During the day, by actual count, I heard the phrase I'm justspitballing eight times, and another Madison Avenue favorite,The whole ball of wax, twelve times. However, my story had beenaccepted without change because nobody had noticed my absence from theconference room. There you have what is known as the Advertising World,the Advertising game or the advertising racket, depending upon whichrung of the ladder you have achieved.     The subway gave a repeat performance going home, and as I got to theapartment house we live in, the cop on the afternoon beat was standingthere talking to the doorman.     He said, Hello, Mr. Graham. I guess you must have just have missed itat your office building. I looked blank and he explained, We justheard it a little while ago: all six elevators in your building jammedat the same time. Sounds crazy. I guess you just missed it.     Anything can happen in advertising, I thought. That's right, Danny, Ijust missed it, I said, and went on in.     Psychiatry tells us that some people are accident-prone; I, on theother hand, seemed recently to be coincidence-prone, fluke-happy, andexcept for the alarm clock, I'd had no control over what had been goingon.     I went into our little kitchen to make a drink and reread thedirections Molly had left, telling me how to get along by myself untilshe got back from her mother's in Oyster Bay, a matter of ten days.How to make coffee, how to open a can, whom to call if I took sick andsuch. My wife used to be a trained nurse and she is quite convincedthat I cannot take a breath without her. She is right, but not for thereasons she supposes.     I opened the refrigerator to get some ice and saw another notice: Whenyou take out the Milk or Butter, Put it Right Back. And Close the Door,too.     Intimidated, I took my drink into the living room and sat down infront of the typewriter. As I stared at the novel that was to liberateme from Madison Avenue, I noticed a mistake and picked up a pencil.When I put it down, it rolled off the desk, and with my eyes on themanuscript, I groped under the chair for it. Then I looked down. Thepencil was standing on its end.  There, I thought to myself, is that one chance in a million we hearabout, and picked up the pencil. I turned back to my novel and dranksome of the highball in hopes of inspiration and surcease from themuggy heat, but nothing came. I went back and read the whole chapterto try to get a forward momentum, but came to a dead stop at the lastsentence.     Damn the heat, damn the pencil, damn Madison Avenue and advertising.My drink was gone and I went back to the kitchen and read Molly'snotes again to see if they would be like a letter from her. I noticedone that I had missed, pinned to the door of the dumbwaiter: Garbagepicked up at 6:30 AM so the idea is to Put it Here the Night Before. Ilove you. What can you do when the girl loves you?     I made another drink and went and stared out of the living room windowat the roof opposite. The Sun was out again and a man with a stick wasexercising his flock of pigeons. They wheeled in a circle, hoping to beallowed to perch, but were not allowed to.     Pigeons fly as a rule in formation and turn simultaneously, so thattheir wings all catch the sunlight at the same time. I was thinkingabout this decorative fact when I saw that as they were making a turn,they seemed to bunch up together. By some curious chance, they allwanted the same place in the sky to turn in, and several collided andfell.     The man was as surprised as I and went to one of the dazed birds andpicked it up. He stood there shaking his head from side to side,stroking its feathers.     My speculations about this peculiar aerial traffic accident wereinterrupted by loud voices in the hallway. Since our building isusually very well behaved, I was astonished to hear what sounded likean incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized thatof my neighbor, Nat, a very quiet guy who works on a newspaper and hasnever, to my knowledge, given wild parties, particularly in the lateafternoon.     You can't say a thing like that to me! I heard him shout. I tell youI got that deck this afternoon and they weren't opened till we startedto play!     Several other loud voices started at the same time.     Nobody gets five straight-flushes in a row!     Yeah, and only when you were dealer!     The tone of the argument was beginning to get ugly, and I opened thedoor to offer Nat help if he needed it. There were four men confrontinghim, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and theimpulse to stay and beat him up. His face was furiously red and helooked stunned.     Here! he said, holding out a deck of cards, For Pete's sake, look at'em yourselves if you think they're marked!     The nearest man struck them up from his hand. Okay, Houdini! Sothey're not marked! All I know is five straight....     His voice trailed away. He and the others stared at the scattered cardson the floor. About half were face down, as might be expected, and therest face up—all red.  Someone must have rung, because at that moment the elevator arrived andthe four men, with half frightened, incredulous looks, and in silence,got in and were taken down. My friend stood looking at the neatlyarranged cards.     Judas! he said, and started to pick them up. Will you look at that!My God, what a session....     I helped him and said to come in for a drink and tell me all about it,but I had an idea what I would hear.     After a while, he calmed down, but he still seemed dazed.     Never seen anything to equal it, he said. Wouldn't have believedit. Those guys      didn't     believe it. Every round normal, nothingunusual about the hands—three of a kind, a low straight, that sortof thing and one guy got queens over tens, until it gets to be      my     deal. Brother! Straight flush to the king—every time! And each time,somebody else has four aces....     He started to sweat again, so I got up to fix him another drink. Therewas one quart of club soda left, but when I tried to open it, the topbroke and glass chips got into the bottle.     I'll have to go down for more soda, I said.     I'll come, too. I need air.     At the delicatessen on the corner, the man gave me three bottles inwhat must have been a wet bag, because as he handed them to me over thetop of the cold-meat display, the bottom gave and they fell onto thetile floor. None of them broke, although the fall must have been fromat least five feet. Nat was too wound up in his thoughts to notice andI was getting used to miracles. We left the proprietor with his mouthopen and met Danny, the cop, looking in at the door, also with hismouth open.       On the sidewalk, a man walking in front of Nat stooped suddenly to tiehis shoe and Nat, to avoid bumping him, stepped off the curb and a taxiswerved to avoid Nat. The street was still wet and the taxi skidded,its rear end lightly flipping the front of one of those small foreigncars, which was going rather fast. It turned sideways and, without anyside-slip, went right up the stoop of a brownstone opposite, coming torest with its nose inside the front door, which a man opened at thatmoment.     The sight of this threw another driver into a skid, and when he andthe taxi had stopped sliding around, they were face to face, arrangedcrosswise to the street. This gave them exactly no room to move eitherforward or backward, for the car had its back to a hydrant and the taxito a lamp.     Although rather narrow, this is a two-way street, and in no time atall, traffic was stacked up from both directions as far as the avenues.Everyone was honking his horn.     Danny was furious—more so when he tried to put through a call to hisstation house from the box opposite.     It was out of order.  Upstairs, the wind was blowing into the apartment and I closed thewindows, mainly to shut out the tumult and the shouting. Nat hadbrightened up considerably.     I'll stay for one more drink and then I'm due at the office, he said.You know, I think this would make an item for the paper. He grinnedand nodded toward the pandemonium.     When he was gone, I noticed it was getting dark and turned on the desklamp. Then I saw the curtains. They were all tied in knots, exceptone. That was tied in three knots.     All      right     , I told myself, it was the wind. But I felt the time hadcome for me to get expert advice, so I went to the phone to callMcGill. McGill is an assistant professor of mathematics at a universityuptown and lives near us. He is highly imaginative, but we believe heknows everything.     When I picked up the receiver, the line sounded dead and I thought,      more     trouble. Then I heard a man cough and I said hello. McGill'svoice said, Alec? You must have picked up the receiver just as we wereconnected. That's a damn funny coincidence.     Not in the least, I said. Come on over here. I've got something foryou to work on.     Well, as a matter of fact, I was calling up to ask you and Molly—     Molly's away for the week. Can you get over here quick? It's urgent.     At once, he said, and hung up.     While I waited, I thought I might try getting down a few paragraphs ofmy novel—perhaps something would come now. It did, but as I came to apoint where I was about to put down the word agurgling, I decided itwas too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letterR. Then I saw that I had unaccountably hit all four keys one step tothe side of the correct ones, and tore out the page, with my face red.     This was absolutely not my day.  Well, McGill said, nothing you've told me is impossible orsupernatural. Just very, very improbable. In fact, the odds againstthat poker game alone would lead me to suspect Nat, well as I know him.It's all those other things....     He got up and walked over to the window and looked at the hot twilightwhile I waited. Then he turned around; he had a look of concern.     Alec, you're a reasonable guy, so I don't think you'll take offense atwhat I'm going to say. What you have told me is so impossibly unlikely,and the odds against it so astronomical, that I must take the view thatyou're either stringing me or you're subject to a delusion. I startedto get up and expostulate, but he motioned me back. I know, but don'tyou see that that is far more likely than.... He stopped and shookhis head. Then he brightened. I have an idea. Maybe we can have ademonstration.     He thought for a tense minute and snapped his fingers. Have you anychange on you?     Why, yes, I said. Quite a bit. I reached into my pocket. Theremust have been nearly two dollars in silver and pennies. Do you thinkthey'll each have the same date, perhaps?     Did you accumulate all that change today?     No. During the week.     He shook his head. In that case, no. Discounting the fact that youcould have prearranged it, if my dim provisional theory is right, thatwould be      actually     impossible. It would involve time-reversal. I'lltell you about it later. No, just throw down the change. Let's see ifthey all come up heads.     I moved away from the carpet and tossed the handful of coins onto thefloor. They clattered and bounced—and bounced together—and stackedthemselves into a neat pile.     I looked at McGill. His eyes were narrowed. Without a word, he took ahandful of coins from his own pocket and threw them.     These coins didn't stack. They just fell into an exactly straight line,the adjacent ones touching.     Well, I said, what more do you want?     Great Scott, he said, and sat down. I suppose you know thatthere are two great apparently opposite principles governing theUniverse—random and design. The sands on the beach are an exampleof random distribution and life is an example of design. The motionsof the particles of a gas are what we call random, but there are somany of them, we treat them statistically and derive the Second Law ofThermodynamics—quite reliable. It isn't theoretically hard-and-fast;it's just a matter of extreme probability. Now life, on the otherhand, seems not to depend on probability at all; actually, it goesagainst it. Or you might say it is certainly not an accidentalmanifestation.     Do you mean, I asked in some confusion, that some form of life iscontrolling the coins and—the other things?  He shook his head. No. All I mean is that improbable things usuallyhave improbable explanations. When I see a natural law being broken,I don't say to myself, 'Here's a miracle.' I revise my version of thebook of rules. Something—I don't know what—is going on, and it seemsto involve probability, and it seems to center around you. Were youstill in that building when the elevators stuck? Or near it?     I guess I must have been. It happened just after I left.     Hm. You're the center, all right. But why?     Center of what? I asked. I feel as though I were the center of anelectrical storm. Something has it in for me!     McGill grinned. Don't be superstitious. And especially don't beanthropomorphic.     Well, if it's the opposite of random, it's got to be a form of life.     On what basis? All we know for certain is that random motions arebeing rearranged. A crystal, for example, is not life, but it's anon-random arrangement of particles.... I wonder. He had a faraway,frowning look.     I was beginning to feel hungry and the drinks had worn off.     Let's go out and eat, I said, There's not a damn thing in thekitchen and I'm not allowed to cook. Only eggs and coffee.     We put on our hats and went down to the street. From either end, wecould hear wrecking trucks towing away the stalled cars. There were,by this time, a number of harassed cops directing the maneuver and weheard one of them say to Danny, I don't know what the hell's goingon around here. Every goddam car's got something the matter with it.They can't none of them back out for one reason or another. Never seenanything like it.     Near us, two pedestrians were doing a curious little two-step as theytried to pass one another; as soon as one of them moved aside to letthe other pass, the other would move to the same side. They both hadembarrassed grins on their faces, but before long their grins werereplaced by looks of suspicion and then determination.     All right, smart guy! they shouted in unison, and barged ahead,only to collide. They backed off and threw simultaneous puncheswhich met in mid-air. Then began one of the most remarkable boutsever witnessed—a fight in which fist hit fist but never anythingelse, until both champions backed away undefeated, muttering identicalexcuses and threats.  Danny appeared at that moment. His face was dripping. You all right,Mr. Graham? he asked. I don't know what's going on around here, butever since I came on this afternoon, things are going crazy. Bartley!he shouted—he could succeed as a hog-caller. Bring those dames overhere!     Three women in a confused wrangle, with their half-open umbrellasintertwined, were brought across the street, which meant climbing overfenders. Bartley, a fine young patrolman, seemed self-conscious; theladies seemed not to be.     All right, now, Mrs. Mac-Philip! one of them said. Leave go of myumbrella and we'll say no more about it!     And so now it's Missus Mac-Philip, is it? said her adversary.     The third, a younger one with her back turned to us, her umbrella alsocaught in the tangle, pulled at it in a tentative way, at which theother two glared at her. She turned her head away and tried to let go,but the handle was caught in her glove. She looked up and I saw it wasMolly. My nurse-wife.     Oh, Alec! she said, and managed to detach herself. Are you allright? Was      I     all right!     Molly! What are you doing here?     I was so worried, and when I saw all this, I didn't know what tothink. She pointed to the stalled cars. Are you really all right?     Of course I'm all right. But why....     The Oyster Bay operator said someone kept dialing and dialing Mother'snumber and there wasn't anyone on the line, so then she had it tracedand it came from our phone here. I kept calling up, but I only got abusy signal. Oh, dear, are you      sure     you're all right?     I put my arm around her and glanced at McGill. He had an inward look.Then I caught Danny's eye. It had a thoughtful, almost suspicious castto it.     Trouble does seem to follow you, Mr. Graham, was all he said.     When we got upstairs, I turned to McGill. Explain to Molly, I said.And incidentally to me. I'm not properly briefed yet.     He did so, and when he got to the summing up, I had the feeling she wasa jump ahead of him.     In other words, you think it's something organic?     Well, McGill said, I'm trying to think of anything else it might be.I'm not doing so well, he confessed.     But so far as I can see, Molly answered, it's mere probability, andwithout any over-all pattern.     Not quite. It has a center. Alec is the center.  Molly looked at me with a curious expression for a moment. Do you      feel     all right, darling? she asked me. I nodded brightly. You'llthink this silly of me, she went on to McGill, but why isn't itsomething like an overactive poltergeist?     Pure concept, he said. No genuine evidence.     Magnetism?     Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren'tmagnetic—and don't forget magnetism is a force, not a form of energy,and a great deal of energy has been involved. I admit the energy hasmainly been supplied by the things themselves, but in a magnetic field,all you'd get would be stored kinetic energy, such as when a piece ofiron moves to a magnet or a line of force. Then it would just staythere, like a rundown clock weight. These things do a lot more thanthat—they go on moving.     Why did you mention a crystal before? Why not a life-form?     Only an analogy, said McGill. A crystal resembles life in that ithas a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agreethis—thing—has no discernible shape and motion      is     involved, butplants don't move and amebas have no shape. Then a crystal feeds, butit does not convert what it feeds on; it merely rearranges it into anon-random pattern. In this case, it's rearranging random motions andit has a nucleus and it seems to be growing—at least in what you mightcall improbability.     Molly frowned. Then what      is     it? What's it made of?     I should say it was made of the motions. There's a similar idea aboutthe atom. Another thing that's like a crystal is that it appears tobe forming around a nucleus not of its own material—the way a speckof sand thrown into a supersaturated solution becomes the nucleus ofcrystallization.     Sounds like the pearl in an oyster, Molly said, and gave me animpertinent look.     Why, I asked McGill, did you say the coins couldn't have the samedate? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way.     Because I don't think this thing got going before today andeverything that's happened can all be described as improbable motionshere and now. The dates were already there, and to change them wouldrequire retroactive action, reversing time. That's out, in my book.That telephone now—     The doorbell rang. We were not surprised to find it was the telephonerepairman. He took the set apart and clucked like a hen.     I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister, he said with strongdisapproval.     Certainly not, I said. Is it broken?     Not exactly      broken     , but— He shook his head and took it apart somemore.  McGill went over and they discussed the problem in undertones. Finallythe man left and Molly called her mother to reassure her. McGill triedto explain to me what had happened with the phone.     You must have joggled something loose. And then you replaced thereceiver in such a way that the contact wasn't quite open.     But for Pete's sake, Molly says the calls were going on for a longtime! I phoned you only a short time ago and it must have taken hernearly two hours to get here from Oyster Bay.     Then you must have done it twice and the vibrations in thefloor—something like that—just happened to cause the right inductionimpulses. Yes, I know how you feel, he said, seeing my expression.It's beginning to bear down.     Molly was through telephoning and suggested going out for dinner. I wasso pleased to see her that I'd forgotten all about being hungry.     I'm in no mood to cook, she said. Let's get away from all this.     McGill raised an eyebrow. If all this, as you call it, will let us.     In the lobby, we ran into Nat, looking smug in a journalistic way.     I've been put on the story—who could be better?—I live here. So far,I don't quite get what's been happening. I've been talking to Danny,but he didn't say much. I got the feeling he thinks you're involved insome mystical, Hibernian way. Hello, McGill, what's with you?     He's got a theory, said Molly. Come and eat with us and he'll tellyou all about it.     Since we decided on an air-conditioned restaurant nearby on SixthAvenue, we walked. The jam of cars didn't seem to be any less thanbefore and we saw Danny again. He was talking to a police lieutenant,and when he caught sight of us, he said something that made thelieutenant look at us with interest. Particularly at me.     If you want your umbrella, Mrs. Graham, Danny said, it's at thestation house. What there's left of it, that is.     Molly thanked him and there was a short pause, during which I feltthe speculative regard of the lieutenant. I pulled out a packet ofcigarettes, which I had opened, as always, by tearing off the top. Ihappened to have it upside down and all the cigarettes fell out. BeforeI could move my foot to obliterate what they had spelled out on thesidewalk, the two cops saw it. The lieutenant gave me a hard look, butsaid nothing. I quickly kicked the insulting cigarettes into the gutter.     When we got to the restaurant, it was crowded but cool—although itdidn't stay cool for long. We sat down at a side table near the doorand ordered Tom Collinses as we looked at the menu. Sitting at thenext table were a fat lady, wearing a very long, brilliant greenevening gown, and a dried-up sour-looking man in a tux. When the waiterreturned, they preempted him and began ordering dinner fussily: coldcuts for the man, and vichyssoise, lobster salad and strawberry parfaitfor the fat lady.     I tasted my drink. It was most peculiar; salt seemed to have been usedinstead of sugar. I mentioned this and my companions tried theirs, andmade faces.  The waiter was concerned and apologetic, and took the drinks back tothe bar across the room. The bartender looked over at us and tastedone of the drinks. Then he dumped them in his sink with a puzzledexpression and made a new batch. After shaking this up, he set out arow of glasses, put ice in them and began to pour.     That is to say he tilted the shaker over the first one, but nothingcame out. He bumped it against the side of the bar and tried again.Still nothing. Then he took off the top and pried into it with hispick, his face pink with exasperation.     I had the impression that the shaker had frozen solid. Well, ice      is     acrystal, I thought to myself.     The other bartender gave him a fresh shaker, but the same thinghappened, and I saw no more because the customers sitting at the barcrowded around in front of him, offering advice. Our waiter came back,baffled, saying he'd have the drinks in a moment, and went to thekitchen. When he returned, he had madame's vichyssoise and some rolls,which he put down, and then went to the bar, where the audience hadgrown larger.     Molly lit a cigarette and said, I suppose this is all part of it,Alec. Incidentally, it seems to be getting warmer in here.     It was, and I had the feeling the place was quieter—a background noisehad stopped. It dawned on me that I no longer heard the faint hum ofthe air-conditioner over the door, and as I started to say so, I madea gesture toward it. My hand collided with Molly's when she tapped hercigarette over the ashtray, and the cigarette landed in the neighboringvichyssoise.     Hey! What's the idea? snarled the sour-looking man.     I'm terribly sorry, I said. It was an accident. I—     Throwing cigarettes at people! the fat lady said.     I really didn't mean to, I began again, getting up. There must havebeen a hole in the edge of their tablecloth which one of my cuffbuttons caught in, because as I stepped out from between the closelyset tables, I pulled everything—tablecloth, silver, water glasses,ashtrays and the vichyssoise-à-la-nicotine—onto the floor.     The fat lady surged from the banquette and slapped me meatily. The manlicked his thumb and danced as boxers are popularly supposed to do. Theowner of the place, a man with thick black eyebrows, hustled toward uswith a determined manner. I tried to explain what had happened, but Iwas outshouted, and the owner frowned darkly.  ","Alec Graham returns to his home from the office after a long day. His wife Molly has left, and he still feels that it looks wife-deserted even after doing many chores to clean it up. He recounts his bad day, having forgotten to set his alarm and rushing to the TV Studio that he writes for. The taxi driver refuses to take him to Madison and Fifty-fourth, and the rain has gotten worse. His hand continuously bleeds after passing by a big excavation site, and he misses his story conference. After hearing the same phrases numerous times and all six elevators being jammed, he is convinced that he is coincidence prone. Molly leaves him instructions on how to take care of himself, and he works on his novel. More of these events happen with pigeons colliding and somebody getting five straight-flushes in a row. Nat tells Alec about the strange occurrence as they get soda. The three bottles do not break after falling at least five feet, and Danny, the cop, is shocked. Outside, more strange events occur when Nat almost gets caught up with a swerving taxi. Once they return home, he immediately calls McGill, an assistant mathematics professor for some expert advice. Once McGill arrives, he says that all of the events are very improbable, which makes him inclined to believe that Alec is stringing him on or subject to delusion. They do an experiment involving coin-throwing, and all of the coins are arranged in a neat pile when Alec throws them. McGill asks him some more questions about any recent occurrences, but Alec suggests that they go outside to eat. Outside, the cars are being towed away, while two pedestrians are having trouble letting each other pass. Danny is confused by all that is happening. Alec also runs into Molly, stuck in a confused wrangle of umbrellas with two other women. She explains that somebody from their home had kept calling her mother’s number, so she came back to investigate. Back at the apartment, all of this is traced back to Alec as the center. McGill tries to explain what is possibly happening to Alec, but they are interrupted by the telephone repairman. Molly suggests they go out to a restaurant to eat, and Nat comes along. They pass by the car jam again, and the police lieutenant looks at Alec with interest. Even at the restaurant, Alec realizes that his Tom Collins drink is made with salt instead of sugar. When the bartender tries to remake the drink for them, the shaker has frozen solid. It happens again with a new shaker, and the waiter is extremely confused. When Alec’s hand collides with Molly’s cigarette, it goes into the neighboring lady’s vichyssoise. The two of them are displeased, and when Alec stands up, he ends up pulling all of the contents on their entire table onto the floor. The lady and the man are furious at Alec; even the owner has come to fix the situation. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     I am a Nucleus     By STEPHEN BARR     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      No doubt whatever about it, I had the Indian     sign on me ... my comfortably untidy world had     suddenly turned into a monstrosity of order!      When I got home from the office, I was not so much tired as beatendown, but the effect is similar. I let myself into the apartment, whichhad an absentee-wife look, and took a cold shower. The present downtowntemperature, according to the radio, was eighty-seven degrees, butaccording to my Greenwich Village thermometer, it was ninety-six. I gotdressed and went into the living room, and wished ardently that mywife Molly were here to tell me why the whole place looked so woebegone.     What do they do, I asked myself, that I have left undone? I've vacuumedthe carpet, I've dusted and I've straightened the cushions.... Ah! Theashtrays. I emptied them, washed them and put them back, but still theplace looked wife-deserted.     It had been a bad day; I had forgotten to wind the alarm clock, so I'dhad to hurry to make a story conference at one of the TV studios Iwrite for. I didn't notice the impending rain storm and had no umbrellawhen I reached the sidewalk, to find myself confronted with an almosttropical downpour. I would have turned back, but a taxi came up and awoman got out, so I dashed through the rain and got in.     Madison and Fifty-fourth, I said.     Right, said the driver, and I heard the starter grind, and then goon grinding. After some futile efforts, he turned to me. Sorry, Mac.You'll have to find another cab. Good hunting.     If possible, it was raining still harder. I opened my newspaper overmy hat and ran for the subway: three blocks. Whizzing traffic heldme up at each crossing and I was soaked when I reached the platform,just in time to miss the local. After an abnormal delay, I got onewhich exactly missed the express at Fourteenth Street. The same thinghappened at both ends of the crosstown shuttle, but I found the rainhad stopped when I got out at Fifty-first and Lexington.  As I walked across to Madison Avenue, I passed a big excavation wherethey were getting ready to put up a new office building. There was theusual crowd of buffs watching the digging machines and, in particular,a man with a pneumatic drill who was breaking up some hard-packed clay.While I looked, a big lump of it fell away, and for an instant I wasable to see something that looked like a chunk of dirty glass, the sizeof an old-fashioned hatbox. It glittered brilliantly in the sunlight,and then his chattering drill hit it.     There was a faint bang and the thing disintegrated. It knocked him onhis back, but he got right up and I realized he was not hurt. At themoment of the explosion—if so feeble a thing can be called one—Ifelt something sting my face and, on touching it, found blood on myhand. I mopped at it with my handkerchief but, though slight, thebleeding would not stop, so I went into a drugstore and bought somepink adhesive which I put on the tiny cut. When I got to the studio, Ifound that I had missed the story conference.     During the day, by actual count, I heard the phrase I'm justspitballing eight times, and another Madison Avenue favorite,The whole ball of wax, twelve times. However, my story had beenaccepted without change because nobody had noticed my absence from theconference room. There you have what is known as the Advertising World,the Advertising game or the advertising racket, depending upon whichrung of the ladder you have achieved.     The subway gave a repeat performance going home, and as I got to theapartment house we live in, the cop on the afternoon beat was standingthere talking to the doorman.     He said, Hello, Mr. Graham. I guess you must have just have missed itat your office building. I looked blank and he explained, We justheard it a little while ago: all six elevators in your building jammedat the same time. Sounds crazy. I guess you just missed it.     Anything can happen in advertising, I thought. That's right, Danny, Ijust missed it, I said, and went on in.     Psychiatry tells us that some people are accident-prone; I, on theother hand, seemed recently to be coincidence-prone, fluke-happy, andexcept for the alarm clock, I'd had no control over what had been goingon.     I went into our little kitchen to make a drink and reread thedirections Molly had left, telling me how to get along by myself untilshe got back from her mother's in Oyster Bay, a matter of ten days.How to make coffee, how to open a can, whom to call if I took sick andsuch. My wife used to be a trained nurse and she is quite convincedthat I cannot take a breath without her. She is right, but not for thereasons she supposes.     I opened the refrigerator to get some ice and saw another notice: Whenyou take out the Milk or Butter, Put it Right Back. And Close the Door,too.     Intimidated, I took my drink into the living room and sat down infront of the typewriter. As I stared at the novel that was to liberateme from Madison Avenue, I noticed a mistake and picked up a pencil.When I put it down, it rolled off the desk, and with my eyes on themanuscript, I groped under the chair for it. Then I looked down. Thepencil was standing on its end.  There, I thought to myself, is that one chance in a million we hearabout, and picked up the pencil. I turned back to my novel and dranksome of the highball in hopes of inspiration and surcease from themuggy heat, but nothing came. I went back and read the whole chapterto try to get a forward momentum, but came to a dead stop at the lastsentence.     Damn the heat, damn the pencil, damn Madison Avenue and advertising.My drink was gone and I went back to the kitchen and read Molly'snotes again to see if they would be like a letter from her. I noticedone that I had missed, pinned to the door of the dumbwaiter: Garbagepicked up at 6:30 AM so the idea is to Put it Here the Night Before. Ilove you. What can you do when the girl loves you?     I made another drink and went and stared out of the living room windowat the roof opposite. The Sun was out again and a man with a stick wasexercising his flock of pigeons. They wheeled in a circle, hoping to beallowed to perch, but were not allowed to.     Pigeons fly as a rule in formation and turn simultaneously, so thattheir wings all catch the sunlight at the same time. I was thinkingabout this decorative fact when I saw that as they were making a turn,they seemed to bunch up together. By some curious chance, they allwanted the same place in the sky to turn in, and several collided andfell.     The man was as surprised as I and went to one of the dazed birds andpicked it up. He stood there shaking his head from side to side,stroking its feathers.     My speculations about this peculiar aerial traffic accident wereinterrupted by loud voices in the hallway. Since our building isusually very well behaved, I was astonished to hear what sounded likean incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized thatof my neighbor, Nat, a very quiet guy who works on a newspaper and hasnever, to my knowledge, given wild parties, particularly in the lateafternoon.     You can't say a thing like that to me! I heard him shout. I tell youI got that deck this afternoon and they weren't opened till we startedto play!     Several other loud voices started at the same time.     Nobody gets five straight-flushes in a row!     Yeah, and only when you were dealer!     The tone of the argument was beginning to get ugly, and I opened thedoor to offer Nat help if he needed it. There were four men confrontinghim, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and theimpulse to stay and beat him up. His face was furiously red and helooked stunned.     Here! he said, holding out a deck of cards, For Pete's sake, look at'em yourselves if you think they're marked!     The nearest man struck them up from his hand. Okay, Houdini! Sothey're not marked! All I know is five straight....     His voice trailed away. He and the others stared at the scattered cardson the floor. About half were face down, as might be expected, and therest face up—all red.  Someone must have rung, because at that moment the elevator arrived andthe four men, with half frightened, incredulous looks, and in silence,got in and were taken down. My friend stood looking at the neatlyarranged cards.     Judas! he said, and started to pick them up. Will you look at that!My God, what a session....     I helped him and said to come in for a drink and tell me all about it,but I had an idea what I would hear.     After a while, he calmed down, but he still seemed dazed.     Never seen anything to equal it, he said. Wouldn't have believedit. Those guys      didn't     believe it. Every round normal, nothingunusual about the hands—three of a kind, a low straight, that sortof thing and one guy got queens over tens, until it gets to be      my     deal. Brother! Straight flush to the king—every time! And each time,somebody else has four aces....     He started to sweat again, so I got up to fix him another drink. Therewas one quart of club soda left, but when I tried to open it, the topbroke and glass chips got into the bottle.     I'll have to go down for more soda, I said.     I'll come, too. I need air.     At the delicatessen on the corner, the man gave me three bottles inwhat must have been a wet bag, because as he handed them to me over thetop of the cold-meat display, the bottom gave and they fell onto thetile floor. None of them broke, although the fall must have been fromat least five feet. Nat was too wound up in his thoughts to notice andI was getting used to miracles. We left the proprietor with his mouthopen and met Danny, the cop, looking in at the door, also with hismouth open.       On the sidewalk, a man walking in front of Nat stooped suddenly to tiehis shoe and Nat, to avoid bumping him, stepped off the curb and a taxiswerved to avoid Nat. The street was still wet and the taxi skidded,its rear end lightly flipping the front of one of those small foreigncars, which was going rather fast. It turned sideways and, without anyside-slip, went right up the stoop of a brownstone opposite, coming torest with its nose inside the front door, which a man opened at thatmoment.     The sight of this threw another driver into a skid, and when he andthe taxi had stopped sliding around, they were face to face, arrangedcrosswise to the street. This gave them exactly no room to move eitherforward or backward, for the car had its back to a hydrant and the taxito a lamp.     Although rather narrow, this is a two-way street, and in no time atall, traffic was stacked up from both directions as far as the avenues.Everyone was honking his horn.     Danny was furious—more so when he tried to put through a call to hisstation house from the box opposite.     It was out of order.  Upstairs, the wind was blowing into the apartment and I closed thewindows, mainly to shut out the tumult and the shouting. Nat hadbrightened up considerably.     I'll stay for one more drink and then I'm due at the office, he said.You know, I think this would make an item for the paper. He grinnedand nodded toward the pandemonium.     When he was gone, I noticed it was getting dark and turned on the desklamp. Then I saw the curtains. They were all tied in knots, exceptone. That was tied in three knots.     All      right     , I told myself, it was the wind. But I felt the time hadcome for me to get expert advice, so I went to the phone to callMcGill. McGill is an assistant professor of mathematics at a universityuptown and lives near us. He is highly imaginative, but we believe heknows everything.     When I picked up the receiver, the line sounded dead and I thought,      more     trouble. Then I heard a man cough and I said hello. McGill'svoice said, Alec? You must have picked up the receiver just as we wereconnected. That's a damn funny coincidence.     Not in the least, I said. Come on over here. I've got something foryou to work on.     Well, as a matter of fact, I was calling up to ask you and Molly—     Molly's away for the week. Can you get over here quick? It's urgent.     At once, he said, and hung up.     While I waited, I thought I might try getting down a few paragraphs ofmy novel—perhaps something would come now. It did, but as I came to apoint where I was about to put down the word agurgling, I decided itwas too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letterR. Then I saw that I had unaccountably hit all four keys one step tothe side of the correct ones, and tore out the page, with my face red.     This was absolutely not my day.  Well, McGill said, nothing you've told me is impossible orsupernatural. Just very, very improbable. In fact, the odds againstthat poker game alone would lead me to suspect Nat, well as I know him.It's all those other things....     He got up and walked over to the window and looked at the hot twilightwhile I waited. Then he turned around; he had a look of concern.     Alec, you're a reasonable guy, so I don't think you'll take offense atwhat I'm going to say. What you have told me is so impossibly unlikely,and the odds against it so astronomical, that I must take the view thatyou're either stringing me or you're subject to a delusion. I startedto get up and expostulate, but he motioned me back. I know, but don'tyou see that that is far more likely than.... He stopped and shookhis head. Then he brightened. I have an idea. Maybe we can have ademonstration.     He thought for a tense minute and snapped his fingers. Have you anychange on you?     Why, yes, I said. Quite a bit. I reached into my pocket. Theremust have been nearly two dollars in silver and pennies. Do you thinkthey'll each have the same date, perhaps?     Did you accumulate all that change today?     No. During the week.     He shook his head. In that case, no. Discounting the fact that youcould have prearranged it, if my dim provisional theory is right, thatwould be      actually     impossible. It would involve time-reversal. I'lltell you about it later. No, just throw down the change. Let's see ifthey all come up heads.     I moved away from the carpet and tossed the handful of coins onto thefloor. They clattered and bounced—and bounced together—and stackedthemselves into a neat pile.     I looked at McGill. His eyes were narrowed. Without a word, he took ahandful of coins from his own pocket and threw them.     These coins didn't stack. They just fell into an exactly straight line,the adjacent ones touching.     Well, I said, what more do you want?     Great Scott, he said, and sat down. I suppose you know thatthere are two great apparently opposite principles governing theUniverse—random and design. The sands on the beach are an exampleof random distribution and life is an example of design. The motionsof the particles of a gas are what we call random, but there are somany of them, we treat them statistically and derive the Second Law ofThermodynamics—quite reliable. It isn't theoretically hard-and-fast;it's just a matter of extreme probability. Now life, on the otherhand, seems not to depend on probability at all; actually, it goesagainst it. Or you might say it is certainly not an accidentalmanifestation.     Do you mean, I asked in some confusion, that some form of life iscontrolling the coins and—the other things?  He shook his head. No. All I mean is that improbable things usuallyhave improbable explanations. When I see a natural law being broken,I don't say to myself, 'Here's a miracle.' I revise my version of thebook of rules. Something—I don't know what—is going on, and it seemsto involve probability, and it seems to center around you. Were youstill in that building when the elevators stuck? Or near it?     I guess I must have been. It happened just after I left.     Hm. You're the center, all right. But why?     Center of what? I asked. I feel as though I were the center of anelectrical storm. Something has it in for me!     McGill grinned. Don't be superstitious. And especially don't beanthropomorphic.     Well, if it's the opposite of random, it's got to be a form of life.     On what basis? All we know for certain is that random motions arebeing rearranged. A crystal, for example, is not life, but it's anon-random arrangement of particles.... I wonder. He had a faraway,frowning look.     I was beginning to feel hungry and the drinks had worn off.     Let's go out and eat, I said, There's not a damn thing in thekitchen and I'm not allowed to cook. Only eggs and coffee.     We put on our hats and went down to the street. From either end, wecould hear wrecking trucks towing away the stalled cars. There were,by this time, a number of harassed cops directing the maneuver and weheard one of them say to Danny, I don't know what the hell's goingon around here. Every goddam car's got something the matter with it.They can't none of them back out for one reason or another. Never seenanything like it.     Near us, two pedestrians were doing a curious little two-step as theytried to pass one another; as soon as one of them moved aside to letthe other pass, the other would move to the same side. They both hadembarrassed grins on their faces, but before long their grins werereplaced by looks of suspicion and then determination.     All right, smart guy! they shouted in unison, and barged ahead,only to collide. They backed off and threw simultaneous puncheswhich met in mid-air. Then began one of the most remarkable boutsever witnessed—a fight in which fist hit fist but never anythingelse, until both champions backed away undefeated, muttering identicalexcuses and threats.  Danny appeared at that moment. His face was dripping. You all right,Mr. Graham? he asked. I don't know what's going on around here, butever since I came on this afternoon, things are going crazy. Bartley!he shouted—he could succeed as a hog-caller. Bring those dames overhere!     Three women in a confused wrangle, with their half-open umbrellasintertwined, were brought across the street, which meant climbing overfenders. Bartley, a fine young patrolman, seemed self-conscious; theladies seemed not to be.     All right, now, Mrs. Mac-Philip! one of them said. Leave go of myumbrella and we'll say no more about it!     And so now it's Missus Mac-Philip, is it? said her adversary.     The third, a younger one with her back turned to us, her umbrella alsocaught in the tangle, pulled at it in a tentative way, at which theother two glared at her. She turned her head away and tried to let go,but the handle was caught in her glove. She looked up and I saw it wasMolly. My nurse-wife.     Oh, Alec! she said, and managed to detach herself. Are you allright? Was      I     all right!     Molly! What are you doing here?     I was so worried, and when I saw all this, I didn't know what tothink. She pointed to the stalled cars. Are you really all right?     Of course I'm all right. But why....     The Oyster Bay operator said someone kept dialing and dialing Mother'snumber and there wasn't anyone on the line, so then she had it tracedand it came from our phone here. I kept calling up, but I only got abusy signal. Oh, dear, are you      sure     you're all right?     I put my arm around her and glanced at McGill. He had an inward look.Then I caught Danny's eye. It had a thoughtful, almost suspicious castto it.     Trouble does seem to follow you, Mr. Graham, was all he said.     When we got upstairs, I turned to McGill. Explain to Molly, I said.And incidentally to me. I'm not properly briefed yet.     He did so, and when he got to the summing up, I had the feeling she wasa jump ahead of him.     In other words, you think it's something organic?     Well, McGill said, I'm trying to think of anything else it might be.I'm not doing so well, he confessed.     But so far as I can see, Molly answered, it's mere probability, andwithout any over-all pattern.     Not quite. It has a center. Alec is the center.  Molly looked at me with a curious expression for a moment. Do you      feel     all right, darling? she asked me. I nodded brightly. You'llthink this silly of me, she went on to McGill, but why isn't itsomething like an overactive poltergeist?     Pure concept, he said. No genuine evidence.     Magnetism?     Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren'tmagnetic—and don't forget magnetism is a force, not a form of energy,and a great deal of energy has been involved. I admit the energy hasmainly been supplied by the things themselves, but in a magnetic field,all you'd get would be stored kinetic energy, such as when a piece ofiron moves to a magnet or a line of force. Then it would just staythere, like a rundown clock weight. These things do a lot more thanthat—they go on moving.     Why did you mention a crystal before? Why not a life-form?     Only an analogy, said McGill. A crystal resembles life in that ithas a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agreethis—thing—has no discernible shape and motion      is     involved, butplants don't move and amebas have no shape. Then a crystal feeds, butit does not convert what it feeds on; it merely rearranges it into anon-random pattern. In this case, it's rearranging random motions andit has a nucleus and it seems to be growing—at least in what you mightcall improbability.     Molly frowned. Then what      is     it? What's it made of?     I should say it was made of the motions. There's a similar idea aboutthe atom. Another thing that's like a crystal is that it appears tobe forming around a nucleus not of its own material—the way a speckof sand thrown into a supersaturated solution becomes the nucleus ofcrystallization.     Sounds like the pearl in an oyster, Molly said, and gave me animpertinent look.     Why, I asked McGill, did you say the coins couldn't have the samedate? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way.     Because I don't think this thing got going before today andeverything that's happened can all be described as improbable motionshere and now. The dates were already there, and to change them wouldrequire retroactive action, reversing time. That's out, in my book.That telephone now—     The doorbell rang. We were not surprised to find it was the telephonerepairman. He took the set apart and clucked like a hen.     I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister, he said with strongdisapproval.     Certainly not, I said. Is it broken?     Not exactly      broken     , but— He shook his head and took it apart somemore.  McGill went over and they discussed the problem in undertones. Finallythe man left and Molly called her mother to reassure her. McGill triedto explain to me what had happened with the phone.     You must have joggled something loose. And then you replaced thereceiver in such a way that the contact wasn't quite open.     But for Pete's sake, Molly says the calls were going on for a longtime! I phoned you only a short time ago and it must have taken hernearly two hours to get here from Oyster Bay.     Then you must have done it twice and the vibrations in thefloor—something like that—just happened to cause the right inductionimpulses. Yes, I know how you feel, he said, seeing my expression.It's beginning to bear down.     Molly was through telephoning and suggested going out for dinner. I wasso pleased to see her that I'd forgotten all about being hungry.     I'm in no mood to cook, she said. Let's get away from all this.     McGill raised an eyebrow. If all this, as you call it, will let us.     In the lobby, we ran into Nat, looking smug in a journalistic way.     I've been put on the story—who could be better?—I live here. So far,I don't quite get what's been happening. I've been talking to Danny,but he didn't say much. I got the feeling he thinks you're involved insome mystical, Hibernian way. Hello, McGill, what's with you?     He's got a theory, said Molly. Come and eat with us and he'll tellyou all about it.     Since we decided on an air-conditioned restaurant nearby on SixthAvenue, we walked. The jam of cars didn't seem to be any less thanbefore and we saw Danny again. He was talking to a police lieutenant,and when he caught sight of us, he said something that made thelieutenant look at us with interest. Particularly at me.     If you want your umbrella, Mrs. Graham, Danny said, it's at thestation house. What there's left of it, that is.     Molly thanked him and there was a short pause, during which I feltthe speculative regard of the lieutenant. I pulled out a packet ofcigarettes, which I had opened, as always, by tearing off the top. Ihappened to have it upside down and all the cigarettes fell out. BeforeI could move my foot to obliterate what they had spelled out on thesidewalk, the two cops saw it. The lieutenant gave me a hard look, butsaid nothing. I quickly kicked the insulting cigarettes into the gutter.     When we got to the restaurant, it was crowded but cool—although itdidn't stay cool for long. We sat down at a side table near the doorand ordered Tom Collinses as we looked at the menu. Sitting at thenext table were a fat lady, wearing a very long, brilliant greenevening gown, and a dried-up sour-looking man in a tux. When the waiterreturned, they preempted him and began ordering dinner fussily: coldcuts for the man, and vichyssoise, lobster salad and strawberry parfaitfor the fat lady.     I tasted my drink. It was most peculiar; salt seemed to have been usedinstead of sugar. I mentioned this and my companions tried theirs, andmade faces.  The waiter was concerned and apologetic, and took the drinks back tothe bar across the room. The bartender looked over at us and tastedone of the drinks. Then he dumped them in his sink with a puzzledexpression and made a new batch. After shaking this up, he set out arow of glasses, put ice in them and began to pour.     That is to say he tilted the shaker over the first one, but nothingcame out. He bumped it against the side of the bar and tried again.Still nothing. Then he took off the top and pried into it with hispick, his face pink with exasperation.     I had the impression that the shaker had frozen solid. Well, ice      is     acrystal, I thought to myself.     The other bartender gave him a fresh shaker, but the same thinghappened, and I saw no more because the customers sitting at the barcrowded around in front of him, offering advice. Our waiter came back,baffled, saying he'd have the drinks in a moment, and went to thekitchen. When he returned, he had madame's vichyssoise and some rolls,which he put down, and then went to the bar, where the audience hadgrown larger.     Molly lit a cigarette and said, I suppose this is all part of it,Alec. Incidentally, it seems to be getting warmer in here.     It was, and I had the feeling the place was quieter—a background noisehad stopped. It dawned on me that I no longer heard the faint hum ofthe air-conditioner over the door, and as I started to say so, I madea gesture toward it. My hand collided with Molly's when she tapped hercigarette over the ashtray, and the cigarette landed in the neighboringvichyssoise.     Hey! What's the idea? snarled the sour-looking man.     I'm terribly sorry, I said. It was an accident. I—     Throwing cigarettes at people! the fat lady said.     I really didn't mean to, I began again, getting up. There must havebeen a hole in the edge of their tablecloth which one of my cuffbuttons caught in, because as I stepped out from between the closelyset tables, I pulled everything—tablecloth, silver, water glasses,ashtrays and the vichyssoise-à-la-nicotine—onto the floor.     The fat lady surged from the banquette and slapped me meatily. The manlicked his thumb and danced as boxers are popularly supposed to do. Theowner of the place, a man with thick black eyebrows, hustled toward uswith a determined manner. I tried to explain what had happened, but Iwas outshouted, and the owner frowned darkly.  ","The story is initially set in Alec’s home. There is a radio, Greenwich Village thermometer, and a living room. In the home, there is also carpet, cushions, and ashtrays for cigarettes. Alec also owns an alarm clock to help him wake up. In the living room, there is also a typewriter and a telephone. Alec tries to go to his conference in New York, but it is raining heavily, and the cab refuses to take him to his destination. However, the story also mentions the subway, which he takes. Alec’s stop is Fifty-first and Lexington. There is also mention of a big excavation site for a new building. On his way to the studio, he also stops at the drugstore. There are also at least six elevators in his building. Around the corner of the apartment, there is a delicatessen that sells soda. On the streets outside, cars are jamming into each other and have to be towed away. Later, the story is set in a restaurant near Sixth Avenue. The restaurant is crowded but cool, and there is a bar too. There is also background music and the faint hum of the air-conditioner, both that stop shortly after. "
"Who is McGill, and what are his traits? </s>     I am a Nucleus     By STEPHEN BARR     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      No doubt whatever about it, I had the Indian     sign on me ... my comfortably untidy world had     suddenly turned into a monstrosity of order!      When I got home from the office, I was not so much tired as beatendown, but the effect is similar. I let myself into the apartment, whichhad an absentee-wife look, and took a cold shower. The present downtowntemperature, according to the radio, was eighty-seven degrees, butaccording to my Greenwich Village thermometer, it was ninety-six. I gotdressed and went into the living room, and wished ardently that mywife Molly were here to tell me why the whole place looked so woebegone.     What do they do, I asked myself, that I have left undone? I've vacuumedthe carpet, I've dusted and I've straightened the cushions.... Ah! Theashtrays. I emptied them, washed them and put them back, but still theplace looked wife-deserted.     It had been a bad day; I had forgotten to wind the alarm clock, so I'dhad to hurry to make a story conference at one of the TV studios Iwrite for. I didn't notice the impending rain storm and had no umbrellawhen I reached the sidewalk, to find myself confronted with an almosttropical downpour. I would have turned back, but a taxi came up and awoman got out, so I dashed through the rain and got in.     Madison and Fifty-fourth, I said.     Right, said the driver, and I heard the starter grind, and then goon grinding. After some futile efforts, he turned to me. Sorry, Mac.You'll have to find another cab. Good hunting.     If possible, it was raining still harder. I opened my newspaper overmy hat and ran for the subway: three blocks. Whizzing traffic heldme up at each crossing and I was soaked when I reached the platform,just in time to miss the local. After an abnormal delay, I got onewhich exactly missed the express at Fourteenth Street. The same thinghappened at both ends of the crosstown shuttle, but I found the rainhad stopped when I got out at Fifty-first and Lexington.  As I walked across to Madison Avenue, I passed a big excavation wherethey were getting ready to put up a new office building. There was theusual crowd of buffs watching the digging machines and, in particular,a man with a pneumatic drill who was breaking up some hard-packed clay.While I looked, a big lump of it fell away, and for an instant I wasable to see something that looked like a chunk of dirty glass, the sizeof an old-fashioned hatbox. It glittered brilliantly in the sunlight,and then his chattering drill hit it.     There was a faint bang and the thing disintegrated. It knocked him onhis back, but he got right up and I realized he was not hurt. At themoment of the explosion—if so feeble a thing can be called one—Ifelt something sting my face and, on touching it, found blood on myhand. I mopped at it with my handkerchief but, though slight, thebleeding would not stop, so I went into a drugstore and bought somepink adhesive which I put on the tiny cut. When I got to the studio, Ifound that I had missed the story conference.     During the day, by actual count, I heard the phrase I'm justspitballing eight times, and another Madison Avenue favorite,The whole ball of wax, twelve times. However, my story had beenaccepted without change because nobody had noticed my absence from theconference room. There you have what is known as the Advertising World,the Advertising game or the advertising racket, depending upon whichrung of the ladder you have achieved.     The subway gave a repeat performance going home, and as I got to theapartment house we live in, the cop on the afternoon beat was standingthere talking to the doorman.     He said, Hello, Mr. Graham. I guess you must have just have missed itat your office building. I looked blank and he explained, We justheard it a little while ago: all six elevators in your building jammedat the same time. Sounds crazy. I guess you just missed it.     Anything can happen in advertising, I thought. That's right, Danny, Ijust missed it, I said, and went on in.     Psychiatry tells us that some people are accident-prone; I, on theother hand, seemed recently to be coincidence-prone, fluke-happy, andexcept for the alarm clock, I'd had no control over what had been goingon.     I went into our little kitchen to make a drink and reread thedirections Molly had left, telling me how to get along by myself untilshe got back from her mother's in Oyster Bay, a matter of ten days.How to make coffee, how to open a can, whom to call if I took sick andsuch. My wife used to be a trained nurse and she is quite convincedthat I cannot take a breath without her. She is right, but not for thereasons she supposes.     I opened the refrigerator to get some ice and saw another notice: Whenyou take out the Milk or Butter, Put it Right Back. And Close the Door,too.     Intimidated, I took my drink into the living room and sat down infront of the typewriter. As I stared at the novel that was to liberateme from Madison Avenue, I noticed a mistake and picked up a pencil.When I put it down, it rolled off the desk, and with my eyes on themanuscript, I groped under the chair for it. Then I looked down. Thepencil was standing on its end.  There, I thought to myself, is that one chance in a million we hearabout, and picked up the pencil. I turned back to my novel and dranksome of the highball in hopes of inspiration and surcease from themuggy heat, but nothing came. I went back and read the whole chapterto try to get a forward momentum, but came to a dead stop at the lastsentence.     Damn the heat, damn the pencil, damn Madison Avenue and advertising.My drink was gone and I went back to the kitchen and read Molly'snotes again to see if they would be like a letter from her. I noticedone that I had missed, pinned to the door of the dumbwaiter: Garbagepicked up at 6:30 AM so the idea is to Put it Here the Night Before. Ilove you. What can you do when the girl loves you?     I made another drink and went and stared out of the living room windowat the roof opposite. The Sun was out again and a man with a stick wasexercising his flock of pigeons. They wheeled in a circle, hoping to beallowed to perch, but were not allowed to.     Pigeons fly as a rule in formation and turn simultaneously, so thattheir wings all catch the sunlight at the same time. I was thinkingabout this decorative fact when I saw that as they were making a turn,they seemed to bunch up together. By some curious chance, they allwanted the same place in the sky to turn in, and several collided andfell.     The man was as surprised as I and went to one of the dazed birds andpicked it up. He stood there shaking his head from side to side,stroking its feathers.     My speculations about this peculiar aerial traffic accident wereinterrupted by loud voices in the hallway. Since our building isusually very well behaved, I was astonished to hear what sounded likean incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized thatof my neighbor, Nat, a very quiet guy who works on a newspaper and hasnever, to my knowledge, given wild parties, particularly in the lateafternoon.     You can't say a thing like that to me! I heard him shout. I tell youI got that deck this afternoon and they weren't opened till we startedto play!     Several other loud voices started at the same time.     Nobody gets five straight-flushes in a row!     Yeah, and only when you were dealer!     The tone of the argument was beginning to get ugly, and I opened thedoor to offer Nat help if he needed it. There were four men confrontinghim, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and theimpulse to stay and beat him up. His face was furiously red and helooked stunned.     Here! he said, holding out a deck of cards, For Pete's sake, look at'em yourselves if you think they're marked!     The nearest man struck them up from his hand. Okay, Houdini! Sothey're not marked! All I know is five straight....     His voice trailed away. He and the others stared at the scattered cardson the floor. About half were face down, as might be expected, and therest face up—all red.  Someone must have rung, because at that moment the elevator arrived andthe four men, with half frightened, incredulous looks, and in silence,got in and were taken down. My friend stood looking at the neatlyarranged cards.     Judas! he said, and started to pick them up. Will you look at that!My God, what a session....     I helped him and said to come in for a drink and tell me all about it,but I had an idea what I would hear.     After a while, he calmed down, but he still seemed dazed.     Never seen anything to equal it, he said. Wouldn't have believedit. Those guys      didn't     believe it. Every round normal, nothingunusual about the hands—three of a kind, a low straight, that sortof thing and one guy got queens over tens, until it gets to be      my     deal. Brother! Straight flush to the king—every time! And each time,somebody else has four aces....     He started to sweat again, so I got up to fix him another drink. Therewas one quart of club soda left, but when I tried to open it, the topbroke and glass chips got into the bottle.     I'll have to go down for more soda, I said.     I'll come, too. I need air.     At the delicatessen on the corner, the man gave me three bottles inwhat must have been a wet bag, because as he handed them to me over thetop of the cold-meat display, the bottom gave and they fell onto thetile floor. None of them broke, although the fall must have been fromat least five feet. Nat was too wound up in his thoughts to notice andI was getting used to miracles. We left the proprietor with his mouthopen and met Danny, the cop, looking in at the door, also with hismouth open.       On the sidewalk, a man walking in front of Nat stooped suddenly to tiehis shoe and Nat, to avoid bumping him, stepped off the curb and a taxiswerved to avoid Nat. The street was still wet and the taxi skidded,its rear end lightly flipping the front of one of those small foreigncars, which was going rather fast. It turned sideways and, without anyside-slip, went right up the stoop of a brownstone opposite, coming torest with its nose inside the front door, which a man opened at thatmoment.     The sight of this threw another driver into a skid, and when he andthe taxi had stopped sliding around, they were face to face, arrangedcrosswise to the street. This gave them exactly no room to move eitherforward or backward, for the car had its back to a hydrant and the taxito a lamp.     Although rather narrow, this is a two-way street, and in no time atall, traffic was stacked up from both directions as far as the avenues.Everyone was honking his horn.     Danny was furious—more so when he tried to put through a call to hisstation house from the box opposite.     It was out of order.  Upstairs, the wind was blowing into the apartment and I closed thewindows, mainly to shut out the tumult and the shouting. Nat hadbrightened up considerably.     I'll stay for one more drink and then I'm due at the office, he said.You know, I think this would make an item for the paper. He grinnedand nodded toward the pandemonium.     When he was gone, I noticed it was getting dark and turned on the desklamp. Then I saw the curtains. They were all tied in knots, exceptone. That was tied in three knots.     All      right     , I told myself, it was the wind. But I felt the time hadcome for me to get expert advice, so I went to the phone to callMcGill. McGill is an assistant professor of mathematics at a universityuptown and lives near us. He is highly imaginative, but we believe heknows everything.     When I picked up the receiver, the line sounded dead and I thought,      more     trouble. Then I heard a man cough and I said hello. McGill'svoice said, Alec? You must have picked up the receiver just as we wereconnected. That's a damn funny coincidence.     Not in the least, I said. Come on over here. I've got something foryou to work on.     Well, as a matter of fact, I was calling up to ask you and Molly—     Molly's away for the week. Can you get over here quick? It's urgent.     At once, he said, and hung up.     While I waited, I thought I might try getting down a few paragraphs ofmy novel—perhaps something would come now. It did, but as I came to apoint where I was about to put down the word agurgling, I decided itwas too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letterR. Then I saw that I had unaccountably hit all four keys one step tothe side of the correct ones, and tore out the page, with my face red.     This was absolutely not my day.  Well, McGill said, nothing you've told me is impossible orsupernatural. Just very, very improbable. In fact, the odds againstthat poker game alone would lead me to suspect Nat, well as I know him.It's all those other things....     He got up and walked over to the window and looked at the hot twilightwhile I waited. Then he turned around; he had a look of concern.     Alec, you're a reasonable guy, so I don't think you'll take offense atwhat I'm going to say. What you have told me is so impossibly unlikely,and the odds against it so astronomical, that I must take the view thatyou're either stringing me or you're subject to a delusion. I startedto get up and expostulate, but he motioned me back. I know, but don'tyou see that that is far more likely than.... He stopped and shookhis head. Then he brightened. I have an idea. Maybe we can have ademonstration.     He thought for a tense minute and snapped his fingers. Have you anychange on you?     Why, yes, I said. Quite a bit. I reached into my pocket. Theremust have been nearly two dollars in silver and pennies. Do you thinkthey'll each have the same date, perhaps?     Did you accumulate all that change today?     No. During the week.     He shook his head. In that case, no. Discounting the fact that youcould have prearranged it, if my dim provisional theory is right, thatwould be      actually     impossible. It would involve time-reversal. I'lltell you about it later. No, just throw down the change. Let's see ifthey all come up heads.     I moved away from the carpet and tossed the handful of coins onto thefloor. They clattered and bounced—and bounced together—and stackedthemselves into a neat pile.     I looked at McGill. His eyes were narrowed. Without a word, he took ahandful of coins from his own pocket and threw them.     These coins didn't stack. They just fell into an exactly straight line,the adjacent ones touching.     Well, I said, what more do you want?     Great Scott, he said, and sat down. I suppose you know thatthere are two great apparently opposite principles governing theUniverse—random and design. The sands on the beach are an exampleof random distribution and life is an example of design. The motionsof the particles of a gas are what we call random, but there are somany of them, we treat them statistically and derive the Second Law ofThermodynamics—quite reliable. It isn't theoretically hard-and-fast;it's just a matter of extreme probability. Now life, on the otherhand, seems not to depend on probability at all; actually, it goesagainst it. Or you might say it is certainly not an accidentalmanifestation.     Do you mean, I asked in some confusion, that some form of life iscontrolling the coins and—the other things?  He shook his head. No. All I mean is that improbable things usuallyhave improbable explanations. When I see a natural law being broken,I don't say to myself, 'Here's a miracle.' I revise my version of thebook of rules. Something—I don't know what—is going on, and it seemsto involve probability, and it seems to center around you. Were youstill in that building when the elevators stuck? Or near it?     I guess I must have been. It happened just after I left.     Hm. You're the center, all right. But why?     Center of what? I asked. I feel as though I were the center of anelectrical storm. Something has it in for me!     McGill grinned. Don't be superstitious. And especially don't beanthropomorphic.     Well, if it's the opposite of random, it's got to be a form of life.     On what basis? All we know for certain is that random motions arebeing rearranged. A crystal, for example, is not life, but it's anon-random arrangement of particles.... I wonder. He had a faraway,frowning look.     I was beginning to feel hungry and the drinks had worn off.     Let's go out and eat, I said, There's not a damn thing in thekitchen and I'm not allowed to cook. Only eggs and coffee.     We put on our hats and went down to the street. From either end, wecould hear wrecking trucks towing away the stalled cars. There were,by this time, a number of harassed cops directing the maneuver and weheard one of them say to Danny, I don't know what the hell's goingon around here. Every goddam car's got something the matter with it.They can't none of them back out for one reason or another. Never seenanything like it.     Near us, two pedestrians were doing a curious little two-step as theytried to pass one another; as soon as one of them moved aside to letthe other pass, the other would move to the same side. They both hadembarrassed grins on their faces, but before long their grins werereplaced by looks of suspicion and then determination.     All right, smart guy! they shouted in unison, and barged ahead,only to collide. They backed off and threw simultaneous puncheswhich met in mid-air. Then began one of the most remarkable boutsever witnessed—a fight in which fist hit fist but never anythingelse, until both champions backed away undefeated, muttering identicalexcuses and threats.  Danny appeared at that moment. His face was dripping. You all right,Mr. Graham? he asked. I don't know what's going on around here, butever since I came on this afternoon, things are going crazy. Bartley!he shouted—he could succeed as a hog-caller. Bring those dames overhere!     Three women in a confused wrangle, with their half-open umbrellasintertwined, were brought across the street, which meant climbing overfenders. Bartley, a fine young patrolman, seemed self-conscious; theladies seemed not to be.     All right, now, Mrs. Mac-Philip! one of them said. Leave go of myumbrella and we'll say no more about it!     And so now it's Missus Mac-Philip, is it? said her adversary.     The third, a younger one with her back turned to us, her umbrella alsocaught in the tangle, pulled at it in a tentative way, at which theother two glared at her. She turned her head away and tried to let go,but the handle was caught in her glove. She looked up and I saw it wasMolly. My nurse-wife.     Oh, Alec! she said, and managed to detach herself. Are you allright? Was      I     all right!     Molly! What are you doing here?     I was so worried, and when I saw all this, I didn't know what tothink. She pointed to the stalled cars. Are you really all right?     Of course I'm all right. But why....     The Oyster Bay operator said someone kept dialing and dialing Mother'snumber and there wasn't anyone on the line, so then she had it tracedand it came from our phone here. I kept calling up, but I only got abusy signal. Oh, dear, are you      sure     you're all right?     I put my arm around her and glanced at McGill. He had an inward look.Then I caught Danny's eye. It had a thoughtful, almost suspicious castto it.     Trouble does seem to follow you, Mr. Graham, was all he said.     When we got upstairs, I turned to McGill. Explain to Molly, I said.And incidentally to me. I'm not properly briefed yet.     He did so, and when he got to the summing up, I had the feeling she wasa jump ahead of him.     In other words, you think it's something organic?     Well, McGill said, I'm trying to think of anything else it might be.I'm not doing so well, he confessed.     But so far as I can see, Molly answered, it's mere probability, andwithout any over-all pattern.     Not quite. It has a center. Alec is the center.  Molly looked at me with a curious expression for a moment. Do you      feel     all right, darling? she asked me. I nodded brightly. You'llthink this silly of me, she went on to McGill, but why isn't itsomething like an overactive poltergeist?     Pure concept, he said. No genuine evidence.     Magnetism?     Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren'tmagnetic—and don't forget magnetism is a force, not a form of energy,and a great deal of energy has been involved. I admit the energy hasmainly been supplied by the things themselves, but in a magnetic field,all you'd get would be stored kinetic energy, such as when a piece ofiron moves to a magnet or a line of force. Then it would just staythere, like a rundown clock weight. These things do a lot more thanthat—they go on moving.     Why did you mention a crystal before? Why not a life-form?     Only an analogy, said McGill. A crystal resembles life in that ithas a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agreethis—thing—has no discernible shape and motion      is     involved, butplants don't move and amebas have no shape. Then a crystal feeds, butit does not convert what it feeds on; it merely rearranges it into anon-random pattern. In this case, it's rearranging random motions andit has a nucleus and it seems to be growing—at least in what you mightcall improbability.     Molly frowned. Then what      is     it? What's it made of?     I should say it was made of the motions. There's a similar idea aboutthe atom. Another thing that's like a crystal is that it appears tobe forming around a nucleus not of its own material—the way a speckof sand thrown into a supersaturated solution becomes the nucleus ofcrystallization.     Sounds like the pearl in an oyster, Molly said, and gave me animpertinent look.     Why, I asked McGill, did you say the coins couldn't have the samedate? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way.     Because I don't think this thing got going before today andeverything that's happened can all be described as improbable motionshere and now. The dates were already there, and to change them wouldrequire retroactive action, reversing time. That's out, in my book.That telephone now—     The doorbell rang. We were not surprised to find it was the telephonerepairman. He took the set apart and clucked like a hen.     I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister, he said with strongdisapproval.     Certainly not, I said. Is it broken?     Not exactly      broken     , but— He shook his head and took it apart somemore.  McGill went over and they discussed the problem in undertones. Finallythe man left and Molly called her mother to reassure her. McGill triedto explain to me what had happened with the phone.     You must have joggled something loose. And then you replaced thereceiver in such a way that the contact wasn't quite open.     But for Pete's sake, Molly says the calls were going on for a longtime! I phoned you only a short time ago and it must have taken hernearly two hours to get here from Oyster Bay.     Then you must have done it twice and the vibrations in thefloor—something like that—just happened to cause the right inductionimpulses. Yes, I know how you feel, he said, seeing my expression.It's beginning to bear down.     Molly was through telephoning and suggested going out for dinner. I wasso pleased to see her that I'd forgotten all about being hungry.     I'm in no mood to cook, she said. Let's get away from all this.     McGill raised an eyebrow. If all this, as you call it, will let us.     In the lobby, we ran into Nat, looking smug in a journalistic way.     I've been put on the story—who could be better?—I live here. So far,I don't quite get what's been happening. I've been talking to Danny,but he didn't say much. I got the feeling he thinks you're involved insome mystical, Hibernian way. Hello, McGill, what's with you?     He's got a theory, said Molly. Come and eat with us and he'll tellyou all about it.     Since we decided on an air-conditioned restaurant nearby on SixthAvenue, we walked. The jam of cars didn't seem to be any less thanbefore and we saw Danny again. He was talking to a police lieutenant,and when he caught sight of us, he said something that made thelieutenant look at us with interest. Particularly at me.     If you want your umbrella, Mrs. Graham, Danny said, it's at thestation house. What there's left of it, that is.     Molly thanked him and there was a short pause, during which I feltthe speculative regard of the lieutenant. I pulled out a packet ofcigarettes, which I had opened, as always, by tearing off the top. Ihappened to have it upside down and all the cigarettes fell out. BeforeI could move my foot to obliterate what they had spelled out on thesidewalk, the two cops saw it. The lieutenant gave me a hard look, butsaid nothing. I quickly kicked the insulting cigarettes into the gutter.     When we got to the restaurant, it was crowded but cool—although itdidn't stay cool for long. We sat down at a side table near the doorand ordered Tom Collinses as we looked at the menu. Sitting at thenext table were a fat lady, wearing a very long, brilliant greenevening gown, and a dried-up sour-looking man in a tux. When the waiterreturned, they preempted him and began ordering dinner fussily: coldcuts for the man, and vichyssoise, lobster salad and strawberry parfaitfor the fat lady.     I tasted my drink. It was most peculiar; salt seemed to have been usedinstead of sugar. I mentioned this and my companions tried theirs, andmade faces.  The waiter was concerned and apologetic, and took the drinks back tothe bar across the room. The bartender looked over at us and tastedone of the drinks. Then he dumped them in his sink with a puzzledexpression and made a new batch. After shaking this up, he set out arow of glasses, put ice in them and began to pour.     That is to say he tilted the shaker over the first one, but nothingcame out. He bumped it against the side of the bar and tried again.Still nothing. Then he took off the top and pried into it with hispick, his face pink with exasperation.     I had the impression that the shaker had frozen solid. Well, ice      is     acrystal, I thought to myself.     The other bartender gave him a fresh shaker, but the same thinghappened, and I saw no more because the customers sitting at the barcrowded around in front of him, offering advice. Our waiter came back,baffled, saying he'd have the drinks in a moment, and went to thekitchen. When he returned, he had madame's vichyssoise and some rolls,which he put down, and then went to the bar, where the audience hadgrown larger.     Molly lit a cigarette and said, I suppose this is all part of it,Alec. Incidentally, it seems to be getting warmer in here.     It was, and I had the feeling the place was quieter—a background noisehad stopped. It dawned on me that I no longer heard the faint hum ofthe air-conditioner over the door, and as I started to say so, I madea gesture toward it. My hand collided with Molly's when she tapped hercigarette over the ashtray, and the cigarette landed in the neighboringvichyssoise.     Hey! What's the idea? snarled the sour-looking man.     I'm terribly sorry, I said. It was an accident. I—     Throwing cigarettes at people! the fat lady said.     I really didn't mean to, I began again, getting up. There must havebeen a hole in the edge of their tablecloth which one of my cuffbuttons caught in, because as I stepped out from between the closelyset tables, I pulled everything—tablecloth, silver, water glasses,ashtrays and the vichyssoise-à-la-nicotine—onto the floor.     The fat lady surged from the banquette and slapped me meatily. The manlicked his thumb and danced as boxers are popularly supposed to do. Theowner of the place, a man with thick black eyebrows, hustled toward uswith a determined manner. I tried to explain what had happened, but Iwas outshouted, and the owner frowned darkly.  ","McGill is an assistant mathematics professor at a nearby university. He is friends with both Alec and Molly, even calling to ask about the both of them. He is considered to be highly imaginative, but they believe that he knows everything. Personality-wise, McGill is a very logical person. He believes that what Alec has told him is normally impossible, and the odds against it are very astronomical as well. Even when Alec shows him what has happened to him, he continues to pursue a logical explanation. However, despite these theories, he tries to approach these findings logically and tells Alec not to be superstitious when they initially discuss why this is happening to him. "
"Who is Molly, and what are her traits? </s>     I am a Nucleus     By STEPHEN BARR     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      No doubt whatever about it, I had the Indian     sign on me ... my comfortably untidy world had     suddenly turned into a monstrosity of order!      When I got home from the office, I was not so much tired as beatendown, but the effect is similar. I let myself into the apartment, whichhad an absentee-wife look, and took a cold shower. The present downtowntemperature, according to the radio, was eighty-seven degrees, butaccording to my Greenwich Village thermometer, it was ninety-six. I gotdressed and went into the living room, and wished ardently that mywife Molly were here to tell me why the whole place looked so woebegone.     What do they do, I asked myself, that I have left undone? I've vacuumedthe carpet, I've dusted and I've straightened the cushions.... Ah! Theashtrays. I emptied them, washed them and put them back, but still theplace looked wife-deserted.     It had been a bad day; I had forgotten to wind the alarm clock, so I'dhad to hurry to make a story conference at one of the TV studios Iwrite for. I didn't notice the impending rain storm and had no umbrellawhen I reached the sidewalk, to find myself confronted with an almosttropical downpour. I would have turned back, but a taxi came up and awoman got out, so I dashed through the rain and got in.     Madison and Fifty-fourth, I said.     Right, said the driver, and I heard the starter grind, and then goon grinding. After some futile efforts, he turned to me. Sorry, Mac.You'll have to find another cab. Good hunting.     If possible, it was raining still harder. I opened my newspaper overmy hat and ran for the subway: three blocks. Whizzing traffic heldme up at each crossing and I was soaked when I reached the platform,just in time to miss the local. After an abnormal delay, I got onewhich exactly missed the express at Fourteenth Street. The same thinghappened at both ends of the crosstown shuttle, but I found the rainhad stopped when I got out at Fifty-first and Lexington.  As I walked across to Madison Avenue, I passed a big excavation wherethey were getting ready to put up a new office building. There was theusual crowd of buffs watching the digging machines and, in particular,a man with a pneumatic drill who was breaking up some hard-packed clay.While I looked, a big lump of it fell away, and for an instant I wasable to see something that looked like a chunk of dirty glass, the sizeof an old-fashioned hatbox. It glittered brilliantly in the sunlight,and then his chattering drill hit it.     There was a faint bang and the thing disintegrated. It knocked him onhis back, but he got right up and I realized he was not hurt. At themoment of the explosion—if so feeble a thing can be called one—Ifelt something sting my face and, on touching it, found blood on myhand. I mopped at it with my handkerchief but, though slight, thebleeding would not stop, so I went into a drugstore and bought somepink adhesive which I put on the tiny cut. When I got to the studio, Ifound that I had missed the story conference.     During the day, by actual count, I heard the phrase I'm justspitballing eight times, and another Madison Avenue favorite,The whole ball of wax, twelve times. However, my story had beenaccepted without change because nobody had noticed my absence from theconference room. There you have what is known as the Advertising World,the Advertising game or the advertising racket, depending upon whichrung of the ladder you have achieved.     The subway gave a repeat performance going home, and as I got to theapartment house we live in, the cop on the afternoon beat was standingthere talking to the doorman.     He said, Hello, Mr. Graham. I guess you must have just have missed itat your office building. I looked blank and he explained, We justheard it a little while ago: all six elevators in your building jammedat the same time. Sounds crazy. I guess you just missed it.     Anything can happen in advertising, I thought. That's right, Danny, Ijust missed it, I said, and went on in.     Psychiatry tells us that some people are accident-prone; I, on theother hand, seemed recently to be coincidence-prone, fluke-happy, andexcept for the alarm clock, I'd had no control over what had been goingon.     I went into our little kitchen to make a drink and reread thedirections Molly had left, telling me how to get along by myself untilshe got back from her mother's in Oyster Bay, a matter of ten days.How to make coffee, how to open a can, whom to call if I took sick andsuch. My wife used to be a trained nurse and she is quite convincedthat I cannot take a breath without her. She is right, but not for thereasons she supposes.     I opened the refrigerator to get some ice and saw another notice: Whenyou take out the Milk or Butter, Put it Right Back. And Close the Door,too.     Intimidated, I took my drink into the living room and sat down infront of the typewriter. As I stared at the novel that was to liberateme from Madison Avenue, I noticed a mistake and picked up a pencil.When I put it down, it rolled off the desk, and with my eyes on themanuscript, I groped under the chair for it. Then I looked down. Thepencil was standing on its end.  There, I thought to myself, is that one chance in a million we hearabout, and picked up the pencil. I turned back to my novel and dranksome of the highball in hopes of inspiration and surcease from themuggy heat, but nothing came. I went back and read the whole chapterto try to get a forward momentum, but came to a dead stop at the lastsentence.     Damn the heat, damn the pencil, damn Madison Avenue and advertising.My drink was gone and I went back to the kitchen and read Molly'snotes again to see if they would be like a letter from her. I noticedone that I had missed, pinned to the door of the dumbwaiter: Garbagepicked up at 6:30 AM so the idea is to Put it Here the Night Before. Ilove you. What can you do when the girl loves you?     I made another drink and went and stared out of the living room windowat the roof opposite. The Sun was out again and a man with a stick wasexercising his flock of pigeons. They wheeled in a circle, hoping to beallowed to perch, but were not allowed to.     Pigeons fly as a rule in formation and turn simultaneously, so thattheir wings all catch the sunlight at the same time. I was thinkingabout this decorative fact when I saw that as they were making a turn,they seemed to bunch up together. By some curious chance, they allwanted the same place in the sky to turn in, and several collided andfell.     The man was as surprised as I and went to one of the dazed birds andpicked it up. He stood there shaking his head from side to side,stroking its feathers.     My speculations about this peculiar aerial traffic accident wereinterrupted by loud voices in the hallway. Since our building isusually very well behaved, I was astonished to hear what sounded likean incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized thatof my neighbor, Nat, a very quiet guy who works on a newspaper and hasnever, to my knowledge, given wild parties, particularly in the lateafternoon.     You can't say a thing like that to me! I heard him shout. I tell youI got that deck this afternoon and they weren't opened till we startedto play!     Several other loud voices started at the same time.     Nobody gets five straight-flushes in a row!     Yeah, and only when you were dealer!     The tone of the argument was beginning to get ugly, and I opened thedoor to offer Nat help if he needed it. There were four men confrontinghim, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and theimpulse to stay and beat him up. His face was furiously red and helooked stunned.     Here! he said, holding out a deck of cards, For Pete's sake, look at'em yourselves if you think they're marked!     The nearest man struck them up from his hand. Okay, Houdini! Sothey're not marked! All I know is five straight....     His voice trailed away. He and the others stared at the scattered cardson the floor. About half were face down, as might be expected, and therest face up—all red.  Someone must have rung, because at that moment the elevator arrived andthe four men, with half frightened, incredulous looks, and in silence,got in and were taken down. My friend stood looking at the neatlyarranged cards.     Judas! he said, and started to pick them up. Will you look at that!My God, what a session....     I helped him and said to come in for a drink and tell me all about it,but I had an idea what I would hear.     After a while, he calmed down, but he still seemed dazed.     Never seen anything to equal it, he said. Wouldn't have believedit. Those guys      didn't     believe it. Every round normal, nothingunusual about the hands—three of a kind, a low straight, that sortof thing and one guy got queens over tens, until it gets to be      my     deal. Brother! Straight flush to the king—every time! And each time,somebody else has four aces....     He started to sweat again, so I got up to fix him another drink. Therewas one quart of club soda left, but when I tried to open it, the topbroke and glass chips got into the bottle.     I'll have to go down for more soda, I said.     I'll come, too. I need air.     At the delicatessen on the corner, the man gave me three bottles inwhat must have been a wet bag, because as he handed them to me over thetop of the cold-meat display, the bottom gave and they fell onto thetile floor. None of them broke, although the fall must have been fromat least five feet. Nat was too wound up in his thoughts to notice andI was getting used to miracles. We left the proprietor with his mouthopen and met Danny, the cop, looking in at the door, also with hismouth open.       On the sidewalk, a man walking in front of Nat stooped suddenly to tiehis shoe and Nat, to avoid bumping him, stepped off the curb and a taxiswerved to avoid Nat. The street was still wet and the taxi skidded,its rear end lightly flipping the front of one of those small foreigncars, which was going rather fast. It turned sideways and, without anyside-slip, went right up the stoop of a brownstone opposite, coming torest with its nose inside the front door, which a man opened at thatmoment.     The sight of this threw another driver into a skid, and when he andthe taxi had stopped sliding around, they were face to face, arrangedcrosswise to the street. This gave them exactly no room to move eitherforward or backward, for the car had its back to a hydrant and the taxito a lamp.     Although rather narrow, this is a two-way street, and in no time atall, traffic was stacked up from both directions as far as the avenues.Everyone was honking his horn.     Danny was furious—more so when he tried to put through a call to hisstation house from the box opposite.     It was out of order.  Upstairs, the wind was blowing into the apartment and I closed thewindows, mainly to shut out the tumult and the shouting. Nat hadbrightened up considerably.     I'll stay for one more drink and then I'm due at the office, he said.You know, I think this would make an item for the paper. He grinnedand nodded toward the pandemonium.     When he was gone, I noticed it was getting dark and turned on the desklamp. Then I saw the curtains. They were all tied in knots, exceptone. That was tied in three knots.     All      right     , I told myself, it was the wind. But I felt the time hadcome for me to get expert advice, so I went to the phone to callMcGill. McGill is an assistant professor of mathematics at a universityuptown and lives near us. He is highly imaginative, but we believe heknows everything.     When I picked up the receiver, the line sounded dead and I thought,      more     trouble. Then I heard a man cough and I said hello. McGill'svoice said, Alec? You must have picked up the receiver just as we wereconnected. That's a damn funny coincidence.     Not in the least, I said. Come on over here. I've got something foryou to work on.     Well, as a matter of fact, I was calling up to ask you and Molly—     Molly's away for the week. Can you get over here quick? It's urgent.     At once, he said, and hung up.     While I waited, I thought I might try getting down a few paragraphs ofmy novel—perhaps something would come now. It did, but as I came to apoint where I was about to put down the word agurgling, I decided itwas too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letterR. Then I saw that I had unaccountably hit all four keys one step tothe side of the correct ones, and tore out the page, with my face red.     This was absolutely not my day.  Well, McGill said, nothing you've told me is impossible orsupernatural. Just very, very improbable. In fact, the odds againstthat poker game alone would lead me to suspect Nat, well as I know him.It's all those other things....     He got up and walked over to the window and looked at the hot twilightwhile I waited. Then he turned around; he had a look of concern.     Alec, you're a reasonable guy, so I don't think you'll take offense atwhat I'm going to say. What you have told me is so impossibly unlikely,and the odds against it so astronomical, that I must take the view thatyou're either stringing me or you're subject to a delusion. I startedto get up and expostulate, but he motioned me back. I know, but don'tyou see that that is far more likely than.... He stopped and shookhis head. Then he brightened. I have an idea. Maybe we can have ademonstration.     He thought for a tense minute and snapped his fingers. Have you anychange on you?     Why, yes, I said. Quite a bit. I reached into my pocket. Theremust have been nearly two dollars in silver and pennies. Do you thinkthey'll each have the same date, perhaps?     Did you accumulate all that change today?     No. During the week.     He shook his head. In that case, no. Discounting the fact that youcould have prearranged it, if my dim provisional theory is right, thatwould be      actually     impossible. It would involve time-reversal. I'lltell you about it later. No, just throw down the change. Let's see ifthey all come up heads.     I moved away from the carpet and tossed the handful of coins onto thefloor. They clattered and bounced—and bounced together—and stackedthemselves into a neat pile.     I looked at McGill. His eyes were narrowed. Without a word, he took ahandful of coins from his own pocket and threw them.     These coins didn't stack. They just fell into an exactly straight line,the adjacent ones touching.     Well, I said, what more do you want?     Great Scott, he said, and sat down. I suppose you know thatthere are two great apparently opposite principles governing theUniverse—random and design. The sands on the beach are an exampleof random distribution and life is an example of design. The motionsof the particles of a gas are what we call random, but there are somany of them, we treat them statistically and derive the Second Law ofThermodynamics—quite reliable. It isn't theoretically hard-and-fast;it's just a matter of extreme probability. Now life, on the otherhand, seems not to depend on probability at all; actually, it goesagainst it. Or you might say it is certainly not an accidentalmanifestation.     Do you mean, I asked in some confusion, that some form of life iscontrolling the coins and—the other things?  He shook his head. No. All I mean is that improbable things usuallyhave improbable explanations. When I see a natural law being broken,I don't say to myself, 'Here's a miracle.' I revise my version of thebook of rules. Something—I don't know what—is going on, and it seemsto involve probability, and it seems to center around you. Were youstill in that building when the elevators stuck? Or near it?     I guess I must have been. It happened just after I left.     Hm. You're the center, all right. But why?     Center of what? I asked. I feel as though I were the center of anelectrical storm. Something has it in for me!     McGill grinned. Don't be superstitious. And especially don't beanthropomorphic.     Well, if it's the opposite of random, it's got to be a form of life.     On what basis? All we know for certain is that random motions arebeing rearranged. A crystal, for example, is not life, but it's anon-random arrangement of particles.... I wonder. He had a faraway,frowning look.     I was beginning to feel hungry and the drinks had worn off.     Let's go out and eat, I said, There's not a damn thing in thekitchen and I'm not allowed to cook. Only eggs and coffee.     We put on our hats and went down to the street. From either end, wecould hear wrecking trucks towing away the stalled cars. There were,by this time, a number of harassed cops directing the maneuver and weheard one of them say to Danny, I don't know what the hell's goingon around here. Every goddam car's got something the matter with it.They can't none of them back out for one reason or another. Never seenanything like it.     Near us, two pedestrians were doing a curious little two-step as theytried to pass one another; as soon as one of them moved aside to letthe other pass, the other would move to the same side. They both hadembarrassed grins on their faces, but before long their grins werereplaced by looks of suspicion and then determination.     All right, smart guy! they shouted in unison, and barged ahead,only to collide. They backed off and threw simultaneous puncheswhich met in mid-air. Then began one of the most remarkable boutsever witnessed—a fight in which fist hit fist but never anythingelse, until both champions backed away undefeated, muttering identicalexcuses and threats.  Danny appeared at that moment. His face was dripping. You all right,Mr. Graham? he asked. I don't know what's going on around here, butever since I came on this afternoon, things are going crazy. Bartley!he shouted—he could succeed as a hog-caller. Bring those dames overhere!     Three women in a confused wrangle, with their half-open umbrellasintertwined, were brought across the street, which meant climbing overfenders. Bartley, a fine young patrolman, seemed self-conscious; theladies seemed not to be.     All right, now, Mrs. Mac-Philip! one of them said. Leave go of myumbrella and we'll say no more about it!     And so now it's Missus Mac-Philip, is it? said her adversary.     The third, a younger one with her back turned to us, her umbrella alsocaught in the tangle, pulled at it in a tentative way, at which theother two glared at her. She turned her head away and tried to let go,but the handle was caught in her glove. She looked up and I saw it wasMolly. My nurse-wife.     Oh, Alec! she said, and managed to detach herself. Are you allright? Was      I     all right!     Molly! What are you doing here?     I was so worried, and when I saw all this, I didn't know what tothink. She pointed to the stalled cars. Are you really all right?     Of course I'm all right. But why....     The Oyster Bay operator said someone kept dialing and dialing Mother'snumber and there wasn't anyone on the line, so then she had it tracedand it came from our phone here. I kept calling up, but I only got abusy signal. Oh, dear, are you      sure     you're all right?     I put my arm around her and glanced at McGill. He had an inward look.Then I caught Danny's eye. It had a thoughtful, almost suspicious castto it.     Trouble does seem to follow you, Mr. Graham, was all he said.     When we got upstairs, I turned to McGill. Explain to Molly, I said.And incidentally to me. I'm not properly briefed yet.     He did so, and when he got to the summing up, I had the feeling she wasa jump ahead of him.     In other words, you think it's something organic?     Well, McGill said, I'm trying to think of anything else it might be.I'm not doing so well, he confessed.     But so far as I can see, Molly answered, it's mere probability, andwithout any over-all pattern.     Not quite. It has a center. Alec is the center.  Molly looked at me with a curious expression for a moment. Do you      feel     all right, darling? she asked me. I nodded brightly. You'llthink this silly of me, she went on to McGill, but why isn't itsomething like an overactive poltergeist?     Pure concept, he said. No genuine evidence.     Magnetism?     Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren'tmagnetic—and don't forget magnetism is a force, not a form of energy,and a great deal of energy has been involved. I admit the energy hasmainly been supplied by the things themselves, but in a magnetic field,all you'd get would be stored kinetic energy, such as when a piece ofiron moves to a magnet or a line of force. Then it would just staythere, like a rundown clock weight. These things do a lot more thanthat—they go on moving.     Why did you mention a crystal before? Why not a life-form?     Only an analogy, said McGill. A crystal resembles life in that ithas a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agreethis—thing—has no discernible shape and motion      is     involved, butplants don't move and amebas have no shape. Then a crystal feeds, butit does not convert what it feeds on; it merely rearranges it into anon-random pattern. In this case, it's rearranging random motions andit has a nucleus and it seems to be growing—at least in what you mightcall improbability.     Molly frowned. Then what      is     it? What's it made of?     I should say it was made of the motions. There's a similar idea aboutthe atom. Another thing that's like a crystal is that it appears tobe forming around a nucleus not of its own material—the way a speckof sand thrown into a supersaturated solution becomes the nucleus ofcrystallization.     Sounds like the pearl in an oyster, Molly said, and gave me animpertinent look.     Why, I asked McGill, did you say the coins couldn't have the samedate? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way.     Because I don't think this thing got going before today andeverything that's happened can all be described as improbable motionshere and now. The dates were already there, and to change them wouldrequire retroactive action, reversing time. That's out, in my book.That telephone now—     The doorbell rang. We were not surprised to find it was the telephonerepairman. He took the set apart and clucked like a hen.     I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister, he said with strongdisapproval.     Certainly not, I said. Is it broken?     Not exactly      broken     , but— He shook his head and took it apart somemore.  McGill went over and they discussed the problem in undertones. Finallythe man left and Molly called her mother to reassure her. McGill triedto explain to me what had happened with the phone.     You must have joggled something loose. And then you replaced thereceiver in such a way that the contact wasn't quite open.     But for Pete's sake, Molly says the calls were going on for a longtime! I phoned you only a short time ago and it must have taken hernearly two hours to get here from Oyster Bay.     Then you must have done it twice and the vibrations in thefloor—something like that—just happened to cause the right inductionimpulses. Yes, I know how you feel, he said, seeing my expression.It's beginning to bear down.     Molly was through telephoning and suggested going out for dinner. I wasso pleased to see her that I'd forgotten all about being hungry.     I'm in no mood to cook, she said. Let's get away from all this.     McGill raised an eyebrow. If all this, as you call it, will let us.     In the lobby, we ran into Nat, looking smug in a journalistic way.     I've been put on the story—who could be better?—I live here. So far,I don't quite get what's been happening. I've been talking to Danny,but he didn't say much. I got the feeling he thinks you're involved insome mystical, Hibernian way. Hello, McGill, what's with you?     He's got a theory, said Molly. Come and eat with us and he'll tellyou all about it.     Since we decided on an air-conditioned restaurant nearby on SixthAvenue, we walked. The jam of cars didn't seem to be any less thanbefore and we saw Danny again. He was talking to a police lieutenant,and when he caught sight of us, he said something that made thelieutenant look at us with interest. Particularly at me.     If you want your umbrella, Mrs. Graham, Danny said, it's at thestation house. What there's left of it, that is.     Molly thanked him and there was a short pause, during which I feltthe speculative regard of the lieutenant. I pulled out a packet ofcigarettes, which I had opened, as always, by tearing off the top. Ihappened to have it upside down and all the cigarettes fell out. BeforeI could move my foot to obliterate what they had spelled out on thesidewalk, the two cops saw it. The lieutenant gave me a hard look, butsaid nothing. I quickly kicked the insulting cigarettes into the gutter.     When we got to the restaurant, it was crowded but cool—although itdidn't stay cool for long. We sat down at a side table near the doorand ordered Tom Collinses as we looked at the menu. Sitting at thenext table were a fat lady, wearing a very long, brilliant greenevening gown, and a dried-up sour-looking man in a tux. When the waiterreturned, they preempted him and began ordering dinner fussily: coldcuts for the man, and vichyssoise, lobster salad and strawberry parfaitfor the fat lady.     I tasted my drink. It was most peculiar; salt seemed to have been usedinstead of sugar. I mentioned this and my companions tried theirs, andmade faces.  The waiter was concerned and apologetic, and took the drinks back tothe bar across the room. The bartender looked over at us and tastedone of the drinks. Then he dumped them in his sink with a puzzledexpression and made a new batch. After shaking this up, he set out arow of glasses, put ice in them and began to pour.     That is to say he tilted the shaker over the first one, but nothingcame out. He bumped it against the side of the bar and tried again.Still nothing. Then he took off the top and pried into it with hispick, his face pink with exasperation.     I had the impression that the shaker had frozen solid. Well, ice      is     acrystal, I thought to myself.     The other bartender gave him a fresh shaker, but the same thinghappened, and I saw no more because the customers sitting at the barcrowded around in front of him, offering advice. Our waiter came back,baffled, saying he'd have the drinks in a moment, and went to thekitchen. When he returned, he had madame's vichyssoise and some rolls,which he put down, and then went to the bar, where the audience hadgrown larger.     Molly lit a cigarette and said, I suppose this is all part of it,Alec. Incidentally, it seems to be getting warmer in here.     It was, and I had the feeling the place was quieter—a background noisehad stopped. It dawned on me that I no longer heard the faint hum ofthe air-conditioner over the door, and as I started to say so, I madea gesture toward it. My hand collided with Molly's when she tapped hercigarette over the ashtray, and the cigarette landed in the neighboringvichyssoise.     Hey! What's the idea? snarled the sour-looking man.     I'm terribly sorry, I said. It was an accident. I—     Throwing cigarettes at people! the fat lady said.     I really didn't mean to, I began again, getting up. There must havebeen a hole in the edge of their tablecloth which one of my cuffbuttons caught in, because as I stepped out from between the closelyset tables, I pulled everything—tablecloth, silver, water glasses,ashtrays and the vichyssoise-à-la-nicotine—onto the floor.     The fat lady surged from the banquette and slapped me meatily. The manlicked his thumb and danced as boxers are popularly supposed to do. Theowner of the place, a man with thick black eyebrows, hustled toward uswith a determined manner. I tried to explain what had happened, but Iwas outshouted, and the owner frowned darkly.  ","Molly Graham is Alec’s wife. She cares a lot about her husband, leaving him notes with instructions on what to do when she is gone. She is also a former nurse and loves Alec greatly to do all of this for him. Molly also has a habit of smoking, which she began doing when they went to the restaurant. When she notices something is wrong at home, she comes back immediately even though her previous plan was to visit her mother at Oyster Bay. Personality-wise, Molly is also a logical thinker. When Alec explains the situation to her, she also tries to find reasoning for it and catches on pretty quickly. Molly is very observant as well, watching the events that involve Alec play out. "
"How do the strange coincidences that happen to Alec affect his mood throughout the story? </s>     I am a Nucleus     By STEPHEN BARR     Illustrated by GAUGHAN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction February 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      No doubt whatever about it, I had the Indian     sign on me ... my comfortably untidy world had     suddenly turned into a monstrosity of order!      When I got home from the office, I was not so much tired as beatendown, but the effect is similar. I let myself into the apartment, whichhad an absentee-wife look, and took a cold shower. The present downtowntemperature, according to the radio, was eighty-seven degrees, butaccording to my Greenwich Village thermometer, it was ninety-six. I gotdressed and went into the living room, and wished ardently that mywife Molly were here to tell me why the whole place looked so woebegone.     What do they do, I asked myself, that I have left undone? I've vacuumedthe carpet, I've dusted and I've straightened the cushions.... Ah! Theashtrays. I emptied them, washed them and put them back, but still theplace looked wife-deserted.     It had been a bad day; I had forgotten to wind the alarm clock, so I'dhad to hurry to make a story conference at one of the TV studios Iwrite for. I didn't notice the impending rain storm and had no umbrellawhen I reached the sidewalk, to find myself confronted with an almosttropical downpour. I would have turned back, but a taxi came up and awoman got out, so I dashed through the rain and got in.     Madison and Fifty-fourth, I said.     Right, said the driver, and I heard the starter grind, and then goon grinding. After some futile efforts, he turned to me. Sorry, Mac.You'll have to find another cab. Good hunting.     If possible, it was raining still harder. I opened my newspaper overmy hat and ran for the subway: three blocks. Whizzing traffic heldme up at each crossing and I was soaked when I reached the platform,just in time to miss the local. After an abnormal delay, I got onewhich exactly missed the express at Fourteenth Street. The same thinghappened at both ends of the crosstown shuttle, but I found the rainhad stopped when I got out at Fifty-first and Lexington.  As I walked across to Madison Avenue, I passed a big excavation wherethey were getting ready to put up a new office building. There was theusual crowd of buffs watching the digging machines and, in particular,a man with a pneumatic drill who was breaking up some hard-packed clay.While I looked, a big lump of it fell away, and for an instant I wasable to see something that looked like a chunk of dirty glass, the sizeof an old-fashioned hatbox. It glittered brilliantly in the sunlight,and then his chattering drill hit it.     There was a faint bang and the thing disintegrated. It knocked him onhis back, but he got right up and I realized he was not hurt. At themoment of the explosion—if so feeble a thing can be called one—Ifelt something sting my face and, on touching it, found blood on myhand. I mopped at it with my handkerchief but, though slight, thebleeding would not stop, so I went into a drugstore and bought somepink adhesive which I put on the tiny cut. When I got to the studio, Ifound that I had missed the story conference.     During the day, by actual count, I heard the phrase I'm justspitballing eight times, and another Madison Avenue favorite,The whole ball of wax, twelve times. However, my story had beenaccepted without change because nobody had noticed my absence from theconference room. There you have what is known as the Advertising World,the Advertising game or the advertising racket, depending upon whichrung of the ladder you have achieved.     The subway gave a repeat performance going home, and as I got to theapartment house we live in, the cop on the afternoon beat was standingthere talking to the doorman.     He said, Hello, Mr. Graham. I guess you must have just have missed itat your office building. I looked blank and he explained, We justheard it a little while ago: all six elevators in your building jammedat the same time. Sounds crazy. I guess you just missed it.     Anything can happen in advertising, I thought. That's right, Danny, Ijust missed it, I said, and went on in.     Psychiatry tells us that some people are accident-prone; I, on theother hand, seemed recently to be coincidence-prone, fluke-happy, andexcept for the alarm clock, I'd had no control over what had been goingon.     I went into our little kitchen to make a drink and reread thedirections Molly had left, telling me how to get along by myself untilshe got back from her mother's in Oyster Bay, a matter of ten days.How to make coffee, how to open a can, whom to call if I took sick andsuch. My wife used to be a trained nurse and she is quite convincedthat I cannot take a breath without her. She is right, but not for thereasons she supposes.     I opened the refrigerator to get some ice and saw another notice: Whenyou take out the Milk or Butter, Put it Right Back. And Close the Door,too.     Intimidated, I took my drink into the living room and sat down infront of the typewriter. As I stared at the novel that was to liberateme from Madison Avenue, I noticed a mistake and picked up a pencil.When I put it down, it rolled off the desk, and with my eyes on themanuscript, I groped under the chair for it. Then I looked down. Thepencil was standing on its end.  There, I thought to myself, is that one chance in a million we hearabout, and picked up the pencil. I turned back to my novel and dranksome of the highball in hopes of inspiration and surcease from themuggy heat, but nothing came. I went back and read the whole chapterto try to get a forward momentum, but came to a dead stop at the lastsentence.     Damn the heat, damn the pencil, damn Madison Avenue and advertising.My drink was gone and I went back to the kitchen and read Molly'snotes again to see if they would be like a letter from her. I noticedone that I had missed, pinned to the door of the dumbwaiter: Garbagepicked up at 6:30 AM so the idea is to Put it Here the Night Before. Ilove you. What can you do when the girl loves you?     I made another drink and went and stared out of the living room windowat the roof opposite. The Sun was out again and a man with a stick wasexercising his flock of pigeons. They wheeled in a circle, hoping to beallowed to perch, but were not allowed to.     Pigeons fly as a rule in formation and turn simultaneously, so thattheir wings all catch the sunlight at the same time. I was thinkingabout this decorative fact when I saw that as they were making a turn,they seemed to bunch up together. By some curious chance, they allwanted the same place in the sky to turn in, and several collided andfell.     The man was as surprised as I and went to one of the dazed birds andpicked it up. He stood there shaking his head from side to side,stroking its feathers.     My speculations about this peculiar aerial traffic accident wereinterrupted by loud voices in the hallway. Since our building isusually very well behaved, I was astonished to hear what sounded likean incipient free-for-all, and among the angry voices I recognized thatof my neighbor, Nat, a very quiet guy who works on a newspaper and hasnever, to my knowledge, given wild parties, particularly in the lateafternoon.     You can't say a thing like that to me! I heard him shout. I tell youI got that deck this afternoon and they weren't opened till we startedto play!     Several other loud voices started at the same time.     Nobody gets five straight-flushes in a row!     Yeah, and only when you were dealer!     The tone of the argument was beginning to get ugly, and I opened thedoor to offer Nat help if he needed it. There were four men confrontinghim, evidently torn between the desire to make an angry exit and theimpulse to stay and beat him up. His face was furiously red and helooked stunned.     Here! he said, holding out a deck of cards, For Pete's sake, look at'em yourselves if you think they're marked!     The nearest man struck them up from his hand. Okay, Houdini! Sothey're not marked! All I know is five straight....     His voice trailed away. He and the others stared at the scattered cardson the floor. About half were face down, as might be expected, and therest face up—all red.  Someone must have rung, because at that moment the elevator arrived andthe four men, with half frightened, incredulous looks, and in silence,got in and were taken down. My friend stood looking at the neatlyarranged cards.     Judas! he said, and started to pick them up. Will you look at that!My God, what a session....     I helped him and said to come in for a drink and tell me all about it,but I had an idea what I would hear.     After a while, he calmed down, but he still seemed dazed.     Never seen anything to equal it, he said. Wouldn't have believedit. Those guys      didn't     believe it. Every round normal, nothingunusual about the hands—three of a kind, a low straight, that sortof thing and one guy got queens over tens, until it gets to be      my     deal. Brother! Straight flush to the king—every time! And each time,somebody else has four aces....     He started to sweat again, so I got up to fix him another drink. Therewas one quart of club soda left, but when I tried to open it, the topbroke and glass chips got into the bottle.     I'll have to go down for more soda, I said.     I'll come, too. I need air.     At the delicatessen on the corner, the man gave me three bottles inwhat must have been a wet bag, because as he handed them to me over thetop of the cold-meat display, the bottom gave and they fell onto thetile floor. None of them broke, although the fall must have been fromat least five feet. Nat was too wound up in his thoughts to notice andI was getting used to miracles. We left the proprietor with his mouthopen and met Danny, the cop, looking in at the door, also with hismouth open.       On the sidewalk, a man walking in front of Nat stooped suddenly to tiehis shoe and Nat, to avoid bumping him, stepped off the curb and a taxiswerved to avoid Nat. The street was still wet and the taxi skidded,its rear end lightly flipping the front of one of those small foreigncars, which was going rather fast. It turned sideways and, without anyside-slip, went right up the stoop of a brownstone opposite, coming torest with its nose inside the front door, which a man opened at thatmoment.     The sight of this threw another driver into a skid, and when he andthe taxi had stopped sliding around, they were face to face, arrangedcrosswise to the street. This gave them exactly no room to move eitherforward or backward, for the car had its back to a hydrant and the taxito a lamp.     Although rather narrow, this is a two-way street, and in no time atall, traffic was stacked up from both directions as far as the avenues.Everyone was honking his horn.     Danny was furious—more so when he tried to put through a call to hisstation house from the box opposite.     It was out of order.  Upstairs, the wind was blowing into the apartment and I closed thewindows, mainly to shut out the tumult and the shouting. Nat hadbrightened up considerably.     I'll stay for one more drink and then I'm due at the office, he said.You know, I think this would make an item for the paper. He grinnedand nodded toward the pandemonium.     When he was gone, I noticed it was getting dark and turned on the desklamp. Then I saw the curtains. They were all tied in knots, exceptone. That was tied in three knots.     All      right     , I told myself, it was the wind. But I felt the time hadcome for me to get expert advice, so I went to the phone to callMcGill. McGill is an assistant professor of mathematics at a universityuptown and lives near us. He is highly imaginative, but we believe heknows everything.     When I picked up the receiver, the line sounded dead and I thought,      more     trouble. Then I heard a man cough and I said hello. McGill'svoice said, Alec? You must have picked up the receiver just as we wereconnected. That's a damn funny coincidence.     Not in the least, I said. Come on over here. I've got something foryou to work on.     Well, as a matter of fact, I was calling up to ask you and Molly—     Molly's away for the week. Can you get over here quick? It's urgent.     At once, he said, and hung up.     While I waited, I thought I might try getting down a few paragraphs ofmy novel—perhaps something would come now. It did, but as I came to apoint where I was about to put down the word agurgling, I decided itwas too reminiscent of Gilbert and Sullivan, and stopped at the letterR. Then I saw that I had unaccountably hit all four keys one step tothe side of the correct ones, and tore out the page, with my face red.     This was absolutely not my day.  Well, McGill said, nothing you've told me is impossible orsupernatural. Just very, very improbable. In fact, the odds againstthat poker game alone would lead me to suspect Nat, well as I know him.It's all those other things....     He got up and walked over to the window and looked at the hot twilightwhile I waited. Then he turned around; he had a look of concern.     Alec, you're a reasonable guy, so I don't think you'll take offense atwhat I'm going to say. What you have told me is so impossibly unlikely,and the odds against it so astronomical, that I must take the view thatyou're either stringing me or you're subject to a delusion. I startedto get up and expostulate, but he motioned me back. I know, but don'tyou see that that is far more likely than.... He stopped and shookhis head. Then he brightened. I have an idea. Maybe we can have ademonstration.     He thought for a tense minute and snapped his fingers. Have you anychange on you?     Why, yes, I said. Quite a bit. I reached into my pocket. Theremust have been nearly two dollars in silver and pennies. Do you thinkthey'll each have the same date, perhaps?     Did you accumulate all that change today?     No. During the week.     He shook his head. In that case, no. Discounting the fact that youcould have prearranged it, if my dim provisional theory is right, thatwould be      actually     impossible. It would involve time-reversal. I'lltell you about it later. No, just throw down the change. Let's see ifthey all come up heads.     I moved away from the carpet and tossed the handful of coins onto thefloor. They clattered and bounced—and bounced together—and stackedthemselves into a neat pile.     I looked at McGill. His eyes were narrowed. Without a word, he took ahandful of coins from his own pocket and threw them.     These coins didn't stack. They just fell into an exactly straight line,the adjacent ones touching.     Well, I said, what more do you want?     Great Scott, he said, and sat down. I suppose you know thatthere are two great apparently opposite principles governing theUniverse—random and design. The sands on the beach are an exampleof random distribution and life is an example of design. The motionsof the particles of a gas are what we call random, but there are somany of them, we treat them statistically and derive the Second Law ofThermodynamics—quite reliable. It isn't theoretically hard-and-fast;it's just a matter of extreme probability. Now life, on the otherhand, seems not to depend on probability at all; actually, it goesagainst it. Or you might say it is certainly not an accidentalmanifestation.     Do you mean, I asked in some confusion, that some form of life iscontrolling the coins and—the other things?  He shook his head. No. All I mean is that improbable things usuallyhave improbable explanations. When I see a natural law being broken,I don't say to myself, 'Here's a miracle.' I revise my version of thebook of rules. Something—I don't know what—is going on, and it seemsto involve probability, and it seems to center around you. Were youstill in that building when the elevators stuck? Or near it?     I guess I must have been. It happened just after I left.     Hm. You're the center, all right. But why?     Center of what? I asked. I feel as though I were the center of anelectrical storm. Something has it in for me!     McGill grinned. Don't be superstitious. And especially don't beanthropomorphic.     Well, if it's the opposite of random, it's got to be a form of life.     On what basis? All we know for certain is that random motions arebeing rearranged. A crystal, for example, is not life, but it's anon-random arrangement of particles.... I wonder. He had a faraway,frowning look.     I was beginning to feel hungry and the drinks had worn off.     Let's go out and eat, I said, There's not a damn thing in thekitchen and I'm not allowed to cook. Only eggs and coffee.     We put on our hats and went down to the street. From either end, wecould hear wrecking trucks towing away the stalled cars. There were,by this time, a number of harassed cops directing the maneuver and weheard one of them say to Danny, I don't know what the hell's goingon around here. Every goddam car's got something the matter with it.They can't none of them back out for one reason or another. Never seenanything like it.     Near us, two pedestrians were doing a curious little two-step as theytried to pass one another; as soon as one of them moved aside to letthe other pass, the other would move to the same side. They both hadembarrassed grins on their faces, but before long their grins werereplaced by looks of suspicion and then determination.     All right, smart guy! they shouted in unison, and barged ahead,only to collide. They backed off and threw simultaneous puncheswhich met in mid-air. Then began one of the most remarkable boutsever witnessed—a fight in which fist hit fist but never anythingelse, until both champions backed away undefeated, muttering identicalexcuses and threats.  Danny appeared at that moment. His face was dripping. You all right,Mr. Graham? he asked. I don't know what's going on around here, butever since I came on this afternoon, things are going crazy. Bartley!he shouted—he could succeed as a hog-caller. Bring those dames overhere!     Three women in a confused wrangle, with their half-open umbrellasintertwined, were brought across the street, which meant climbing overfenders. Bartley, a fine young patrolman, seemed self-conscious; theladies seemed not to be.     All right, now, Mrs. Mac-Philip! one of them said. Leave go of myumbrella and we'll say no more about it!     And so now it's Missus Mac-Philip, is it? said her adversary.     The third, a younger one with her back turned to us, her umbrella alsocaught in the tangle, pulled at it in a tentative way, at which theother two glared at her. She turned her head away and tried to let go,but the handle was caught in her glove. She looked up and I saw it wasMolly. My nurse-wife.     Oh, Alec! she said, and managed to detach herself. Are you allright? Was      I     all right!     Molly! What are you doing here?     I was so worried, and when I saw all this, I didn't know what tothink. She pointed to the stalled cars. Are you really all right?     Of course I'm all right. But why....     The Oyster Bay operator said someone kept dialing and dialing Mother'snumber and there wasn't anyone on the line, so then she had it tracedand it came from our phone here. I kept calling up, but I only got abusy signal. Oh, dear, are you      sure     you're all right?     I put my arm around her and glanced at McGill. He had an inward look.Then I caught Danny's eye. It had a thoughtful, almost suspicious castto it.     Trouble does seem to follow you, Mr. Graham, was all he said.     When we got upstairs, I turned to McGill. Explain to Molly, I said.And incidentally to me. I'm not properly briefed yet.     He did so, and when he got to the summing up, I had the feeling she wasa jump ahead of him.     In other words, you think it's something organic?     Well, McGill said, I'm trying to think of anything else it might be.I'm not doing so well, he confessed.     But so far as I can see, Molly answered, it's mere probability, andwithout any over-all pattern.     Not quite. It has a center. Alec is the center.  Molly looked at me with a curious expression for a moment. Do you      feel     all right, darling? she asked me. I nodded brightly. You'llthink this silly of me, she went on to McGill, but why isn't itsomething like an overactive poltergeist?     Pure concept, he said. No genuine evidence.     Magnetism?     Absolutely not. For one thing, most of the objects affected weren'tmagnetic—and don't forget magnetism is a force, not a form of energy,and a great deal of energy has been involved. I admit the energy hasmainly been supplied by the things themselves, but in a magnetic field,all you'd get would be stored kinetic energy, such as when a piece ofiron moves to a magnet or a line of force. Then it would just staythere, like a rundown clock weight. These things do a lot more thanthat—they go on moving.     Why did you mention a crystal before? Why not a life-form?     Only an analogy, said McGill. A crystal resembles life in that ithas a definite shape and exhibits growth, but that's all. I'll agreethis—thing—has no discernible shape and motion      is     involved, butplants don't move and amebas have no shape. Then a crystal feeds, butit does not convert what it feeds on; it merely rearranges it into anon-random pattern. In this case, it's rearranging random motions andit has a nucleus and it seems to be growing—at least in what you mightcall improbability.     Molly frowned. Then what      is     it? What's it made of?     I should say it was made of the motions. There's a similar idea aboutthe atom. Another thing that's like a crystal is that it appears tobe forming around a nucleus not of its own material—the way a speckof sand thrown into a supersaturated solution becomes the nucleus ofcrystallization.     Sounds like the pearl in an oyster, Molly said, and gave me animpertinent look.     Why, I asked McGill, did you say the coins couldn't have the samedate? I mean apart from the off chance I got them that way.     Because I don't think this thing got going before today andeverything that's happened can all be described as improbable motionshere and now. The dates were already there, and to change them wouldrequire retroactive action, reversing time. That's out, in my book.That telephone now—     The doorbell rang. We were not surprised to find it was the telephonerepairman. He took the set apart and clucked like a hen.     I guess you dropped it on the floor, mister, he said with strongdisapproval.     Certainly not, I said. Is it broken?     Not exactly      broken     , but— He shook his head and took it apart somemore.  McGill went over and they discussed the problem in undertones. Finallythe man left and Molly called her mother to reassure her. McGill triedto explain to me what had happened with the phone.     You must have joggled something loose. And then you replaced thereceiver in such a way that the contact wasn't quite open.     But for Pete's sake, Molly says the calls were going on for a longtime! I phoned you only a short time ago and it must have taken hernearly two hours to get here from Oyster Bay.     Then you must have done it twice and the vibrations in thefloor—something like that—just happened to cause the right inductionimpulses. Yes, I know how you feel, he said, seeing my expression.It's beginning to bear down.     Molly was through telephoning and suggested going out for dinner. I wasso pleased to see her that I'd forgotten all about being hungry.     I'm in no mood to cook, she said. Let's get away from all this.     McGill raised an eyebrow. If all this, as you call it, will let us.     In the lobby, we ran into Nat, looking smug in a journalistic way.     I've been put on the story—who could be better?—I live here. So far,I don't quite get what's been happening. I've been talking to Danny,but he didn't say much. I got the feeling he thinks you're involved insome mystical, Hibernian way. Hello, McGill, what's with you?     He's got a theory, said Molly. Come and eat with us and he'll tellyou all about it.     Since we decided on an air-conditioned restaurant nearby on SixthAvenue, we walked. The jam of cars didn't seem to be any less thanbefore and we saw Danny again. He was talking to a police lieutenant,and when he caught sight of us, he said something that made thelieutenant look at us with interest. Particularly at me.     If you want your umbrella, Mrs. Graham, Danny said, it's at thestation house. What there's left of it, that is.     Molly thanked him and there was a short pause, during which I feltthe speculative regard of the lieutenant. I pulled out a packet ofcigarettes, which I had opened, as always, by tearing off the top. Ihappened to have it upside down and all the cigarettes fell out. BeforeI could move my foot to obliterate what they had spelled out on thesidewalk, the two cops saw it. The lieutenant gave me a hard look, butsaid nothing. I quickly kicked the insulting cigarettes into the gutter.     When we got to the restaurant, it was crowded but cool—although itdidn't stay cool for long. We sat down at a side table near the doorand ordered Tom Collinses as we looked at the menu. Sitting at thenext table were a fat lady, wearing a very long, brilliant greenevening gown, and a dried-up sour-looking man in a tux. When the waiterreturned, they preempted him and began ordering dinner fussily: coldcuts for the man, and vichyssoise, lobster salad and strawberry parfaitfor the fat lady.     I tasted my drink. It was most peculiar; salt seemed to have been usedinstead of sugar. I mentioned this and my companions tried theirs, andmade faces.  The waiter was concerned and apologetic, and took the drinks back tothe bar across the room. The bartender looked over at us and tastedone of the drinks. Then he dumped them in his sink with a puzzledexpression and made a new batch. After shaking this up, he set out arow of glasses, put ice in them and began to pour.     That is to say he tilted the shaker over the first one, but nothingcame out. He bumped it against the side of the bar and tried again.Still nothing. Then he took off the top and pried into it with hispick, his face pink with exasperation.     I had the impression that the shaker had frozen solid. Well, ice      is     acrystal, I thought to myself.     The other bartender gave him a fresh shaker, but the same thinghappened, and I saw no more because the customers sitting at the barcrowded around in front of him, offering advice. Our waiter came back,baffled, saying he'd have the drinks in a moment, and went to thekitchen. When he returned, he had madame's vichyssoise and some rolls,which he put down, and then went to the bar, where the audience hadgrown larger.     Molly lit a cigarette and said, I suppose this is all part of it,Alec. Incidentally, it seems to be getting warmer in here.     It was, and I had the feeling the place was quieter—a background noisehad stopped. It dawned on me that I no longer heard the faint hum ofthe air-conditioner over the door, and as I started to say so, I madea gesture toward it. My hand collided with Molly's when she tapped hercigarette over the ashtray, and the cigarette landed in the neighboringvichyssoise.     Hey! What's the idea? snarled the sour-looking man.     I'm terribly sorry, I said. It was an accident. I—     Throwing cigarettes at people! the fat lady said.     I really didn't mean to, I began again, getting up. There must havebeen a hole in the edge of their tablecloth which one of my cuffbuttons caught in, because as I stepped out from between the closelyset tables, I pulled everything—tablecloth, silver, water glasses,ashtrays and the vichyssoise-à-la-nicotine—onto the floor.     The fat lady surged from the banquette and slapped me meatily. The manlicked his thumb and danced as boxers are popularly supposed to do. Theowner of the place, a man with thick black eyebrows, hustled toward uswith a determined manner. I tried to explain what had happened, but Iwas outshouted, and the owner frowned darkly.  ","Alec is tired, upset, and confused about the strange coincidences relating to him. When he first goes home, he is extremely tired and compares his day to be the same as being beaten down. Judging from the events throughout his workday, he does not understand how they all relate to him and thinks of them as extremely weird coincidences. He even thinks of himself as being coincidence-prone. After the soda incident, however, he no longer finds it surprising after all that has happened to him. As the events build up, Alec slowly realizes that he is the center of it all, and he knows that he cannot get out of it. No matter how hard he tries, he directly interacts with or is nearby becomes strange coincidences. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     THE AVENGER     By STUART FLEMING     Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird     super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was     forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, butthe dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair ata queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadowwhere his eyes had been.         There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing theblood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The greatbanks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they wouldnever come to life again.         I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were asbefore: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had notchanged, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were coldand alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, likethe machinery, and like Peter.         It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was whatPeter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled byeating or drinking.         It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwisethan they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, forreason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it.         But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I couldnot solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered withinme, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of mycheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly.         A tear was trickling down my cheek.    Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed withsatisfaction. His dream was perfect; the      Citadel     was complete, everyminutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would belaying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it layfinished, a living thing.     Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shiningship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a secondsatellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into itsinsatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level oflaboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; themeteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at thestern—all the children of his brain.     Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket ofatmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would bea laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled withthe sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctantether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry.     A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, consciousof the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at hisback.     There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staringimpassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just aface, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face wasblood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveledbody.     For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulgingeyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolvedslowly away and was gone.     Lord! he said.     He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the streetsomewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after amoment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everythingwas normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But theworld had grown suddenly unreal.     One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hidingfrom the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But theother part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, anddecided that this was probable.     Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His handswere shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to thenewsbox on his desk, and switched it on.     There were flaring red headlines.     Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only beglad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even moreterrible illusion.     INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON.     200 DEAD     Then lines of type, and farther down:     50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM     PARIS MATERNITY CENTER     He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them.     MOON SHIP DESTROYED     IN TRANSIT     NO COMMUNICATION FROM     ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS     STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS     PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA     WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING     The item below the last one said:     Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first timein fifty years. The order was made public early this morning byR. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part:     The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilizedpeoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in theirdepredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorizedLondon; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member stateand in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printedreports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friendshave not seen them.     The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know thatwe face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy      superior to ourselves in every way     .     Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hoursago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, orin any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. Theyhave treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, mighthave treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have notattacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, theyhave done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this ismore intolerable than any normal invasion.     I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet thischallenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual livesare threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroythe Invaders!     Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for thefirst time.           Will     we? he asked himself softly.  It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper'slaboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled toa halt in front of the door marked Radiation. She had set her doormechanism to Etaoin Shrdlu, principally because he hated double-talk.He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accentin the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it openedfar enough to admit him.     Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of greaseon her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. Oneblonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well.     What makes, Peter my love? she asked, and bent back to the ledger.Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,Darling, what's wrong?     He said, Have you seen the news recently?     She frowned. Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-sixhours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why?     You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox?     She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. Pete,you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whetherthere's trouble or not. What—     I'm sorry, I forgot, he said. But you have a scanner?     Yes, of course. But really, Pete—     You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei.     She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and thenwalked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain ofpapers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to Newsand pressed the stud.     A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, andsuddenly leapt into full brilliance.     Lorelei caught her breath.     It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded bythe warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past thetransport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should havebeen dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. Theydisappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in aheartbeat they were gone.     There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehowdefiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle offlesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, thosemen and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossiblyjoined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass ofhelpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was morehorrible than any cry of agony.     The Invaders are here, citizens, the commentator was saying in astrangled voice. Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off thestreets.... His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it.  Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.Peter! she said faintly. Why do they broadcast such things?     They have to, he told her grimly. There will be panics and suicides,and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, wherethe noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to beany noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know aboutthem, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough.     The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soaredaway from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reachedout to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his musclestense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floatingup the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated therest.     That's the Atlas building, she said unbelievingly. Us!     Yes.     Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gonethrough the solid wall, or simply melted away.     The man and woman clung together, waiting.     There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings andother faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a manscreamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throatygurgle and died, leaving silence again.     Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and armswere jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl awayfrom him and started toward the inner room.     Wait here, he mouthed.     She was after him, clinging to his arms. No, Peter! Don't go in there!      Peter!      But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward.     There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had beencleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked downthe narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animalcages, and paused just short of it.     The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, thedistorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside hisrange of vision.  Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by thebroad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. Hisglazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingnessstraight ahead of him.     The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen.     The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he wererelaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spreadlegs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skullgrew gradually flatter.     When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, bonelesspuddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it.     There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyondfear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and saidin a terrible voice, Why? Why?     The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering.     The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened.           Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami....          The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. Theears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lipsseemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. Therewere lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Onlythe eyes were alive.           ... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom....          I can't understand, he cried wildly. What do you want?           ... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous.          He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the firsttime he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveledslowly....           Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre.          His voice was hoarse. Don't look! Don't—Go back! The horrible,mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.His insides writhed to thrust it out.     She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to thefloor.     The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could holdit back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, hisfingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume inthe room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead.  Somebody said, Doctor!     He wanted to say, Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei— but his mouth onlytwitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly.     He tried again. Doctor.     Yes? A gentle, masculine voice.     He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrastedoddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,starched odor.     Where am I? he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm handpressed him back into the sheets.     You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please.     He tried to get up again. Where's Lorelei?     She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been avery sick man.     Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He lookedaround him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid.     Yes.... he said. How long have I been here, Doctor?     The man hesitated, looked at him intently. Three months, he said. Heturned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away.     Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metalstand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full ofmilky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all.     In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Justbefore he drifted off, he said sleepily, You can't—fool me. It's been      more     —than three—months.     He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but hekept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed itout of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'dbeen in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered muchsooner.     She was only suffering from ordinary shock, Arnold explained.Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with      them     for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's amiracle you're alive, and rational.     But where is she? Peter complained. You still haven't explained whyI haven't been able to see her.     Arnold frowned. All right, he said. I guess you're strong enough totake it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in sixmonths ago.     But why? Peter whispered.     Arnold's strong jaw knotted. We're hiding, he said. Everything elsehas failed.     Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went onafter a moment, musingly. We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn'teven take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That waswhen a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together atone time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. Itdidn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'dbeen annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's stillsmoldering.     And since then? Peter asked huskily.     Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would bean impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populatedareas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavateenough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the otherthree-quarters will be dead, or worse.     I wonder, Peter said shakily, if I am strong enough to take it.     Arnold laughed harshly. You are. You've got to be. You're part of ourlast hope, you see.     Our last hope?     Yes. You're a scientist.     I see, said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the      Citadel     . No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but,      maybe     , hethought,      there's a chance     ....  It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It laythere in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more thanfive hundred meters in diameter, where the      Citadel     was to have been athousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving intothe hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled withthe latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough tolast a lifetime.     It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there wasone other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solidmeters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmicrays, were gone.     A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, tothe left of the airlock—      The Avenger     . He stepped away now, and joinedthe group a little distance away, silently waiting.     Lorelei said, You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—     Darling, he began wearily.     Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way.     There's no other way, Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as ifhe could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,but that's only delaying the end.      They     still come down here, only notas many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birthrate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now.     They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're amillion years too far back even to understand what they are or wherethey came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer.     She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook herslender body. But he went remorselessly on.     Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. Theymake tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions ofpossible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. Wecan't fight      them     , but a superman could. That's our only chance.Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?     She choked, But why can't you take me along?     He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. You know why, hesaid bitterly. Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven ofstaying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,too. You'd be their murderer.     Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he nolonger had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was goneout of her body. All right, she said in a lifeless voice. You'llcome back, Peter.     He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. Aline from an old film kept echoing through his head.       They'll     comeback—but not as      boys     !     We'll come back, but not as men.     We'll come back, but not as elephants.     We'll come back, but not as octopi.  He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled intothe airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him.      We'll come back....     He heard the massive disk sink home, closing himoff. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head inshaking hands.     After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lockbehind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumpeddown before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate.     He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare wallsof the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators hadretired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poisedover the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down.     Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, theheavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closedsmoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped backinto place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done.     He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out,      TheAvenger     curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, andthe silence pressed in about him.     Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly throughhis flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, workingits slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changeswere unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed allthe mirrors in the ship.     The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspendedanimation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them tomature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that camefrom the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he washungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,searching for the million-to-one chance.     He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that wasEarth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in itsworm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. Butafter a time he ceased even to wonder.     And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to itseager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawninghope....  Peter closed the diary. The rest you know, Robert, he said.     Yes, I told him. I was that child. I am the millionth mutation youwere searching for.     His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. You are. Yourbrain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solveinstinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hoursof work. You are a superman.     I am without your imperfections, I said, flexing my arms.     He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as hestood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed butlittle in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggledover his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences offlesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He hada tiny sixth finger on his left hand.     He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had onceaccidentally drawn one of my talons across his face.     And now, he said softly, we will go home. I've waited solong—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away fromyou, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to besure. But now, the waiting is over.     They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. Youcan kill the Invaders, Robert.     He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctiveknowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, On Earth wehad a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be withyou. You are completely, coldly logical, just as      they     are. You canunderstand them, and so you can conquer them.     I said, That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth.     He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. What—what didyou say?     I repeated it patiently.     But why? he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In aninstant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand hissuffering, but I could recognize it.     You yourself have said it, I told him. I am a being of logic, justas the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend thethings which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If Iwent to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just asthe invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They aremore nearly kin to me than your people.  Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought thatthe shock had deranged his mind.     His voice trembled when he said, But if I ask you to kill them, andnot my people?     To do so would be illogical.     He waved his hands helplessly. Gratitude? he muttered.     No, you don't understand that, either.     Then he cried suddenly, But I am your friend, Robert!     I do not understand 'friend,' I said.     I did understand gratitude, a little. It was a reciprocalarrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not activelywant to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he couldnot comprehend it.     I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, withan expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastenedto the end that I knew was inevitable.   ","Peter Karson has finished planning out the blueprint for the Citadel. He is excited to see it be built and go off into space to collect new information. Something suddenly snaps him out of his fantasy. Fifty stories above the window, there is a blood-red and subtly inhuman face staring back at him. The face slowly disappears, but he is stunned by the image. He then shakingly lights a cigarette and turns on the newsbox to see that an invader has appeared in Boston. More disasters are listed below, and the World Police announces that the Invaders have already begun terrorizing the world since they appeared twenty-four hours ago. Peter is doubtful that they can take down the Invaders and goes to Lorelei Cooper’s laboratory. Lorelei does not know what is happening because Harry and she have been working for thirty-six hours straight. She does not have a newsbox, but he tells her to turn on her scanner to see the news. The panel shows the Science City of Manhattan, but the Invaders have come and snatched up men and women. Slowly, two Invaders make their way to the Atlas building, where Peter and Lorelei are. He goes into the inner room, even though she yells at him not to go. The Invaders have reduced Harry to nothing but a puddle of flesh, and Peter begins to ask why they are doing this desperately. They whisper to him in a strange language; he suddenly realizes that Lorelei has followed him. She drops to the floor after looking at the Invaders, which makes Peter scream. When he awakes again, a doctor named Arnold tells him to lie back down and that he is in a hospital. Although Dr. Arnold initially tells him that he has been in the hospital for three months, he eventually finds out that it has already been nine and a half months since he went into his coma. All of the survivors are underground because nobody knew how to kill the Invaders. Peter is considered their last hope because he is a scientist, and he thinks back to his plan of the Citadel. The ship is built, and it is called The Avenger instead. Lorelei tries to plead with Peter, but he refuses and says that it must be him who finds a superman that can destroy the Invaders. He goes into space until the ship curves into orbit. Peter kills many of the changeling children, but he allows one to live. The child is named Robert and is considered to be a super-intelligent being. Peter is hopeful that the changeling can kill the Invaders, but Robert says he will not return to Earth. He explains that they are like kin to him, and he logically has no reason to kill him. Peter is shocked and tries to plead with Robert, but the superman does not understand emotions. Robert does not feel good about the expression on Peter’s face, and he hastens to an inevitable end. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     THE AVENGER     By STUART FLEMING     Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird     super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was     forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, butthe dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair ata queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadowwhere his eyes had been.         There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing theblood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The greatbanks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they wouldnever come to life again.         I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were asbefore: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had notchanged, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were coldand alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, likethe machinery, and like Peter.         It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was whatPeter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled byeating or drinking.         It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwisethan they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, forreason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it.         But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I couldnot solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered withinme, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of mycheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly.         A tear was trickling down my cheek.    Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed withsatisfaction. His dream was perfect; the      Citadel     was complete, everyminutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would belaying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it layfinished, a living thing.     Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shiningship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a secondsatellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into itsinsatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level oflaboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; themeteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at thestern—all the children of his brain.     Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket ofatmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would bea laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled withthe sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctantether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry.     A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, consciousof the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at hisback.     There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staringimpassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just aface, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face wasblood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveledbody.     For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulgingeyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolvedslowly away and was gone.     Lord! he said.     He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the streetsomewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after amoment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everythingwas normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But theworld had grown suddenly unreal.     One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hidingfrom the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But theother part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, anddecided that this was probable.     Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His handswere shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to thenewsbox on his desk, and switched it on.     There were flaring red headlines.     Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only beglad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even moreterrible illusion.     INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON.     200 DEAD     Then lines of type, and farther down:     50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM     PARIS MATERNITY CENTER     He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them.     MOON SHIP DESTROYED     IN TRANSIT     NO COMMUNICATION FROM     ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS     STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS     PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA     WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING     The item below the last one said:     Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first timein fifty years. The order was made public early this morning byR. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part:     The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilizedpeoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in theirdepredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorizedLondon; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member stateand in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printedreports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friendshave not seen them.     The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know thatwe face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy      superior to ourselves in every way     .     Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hoursago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, orin any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. Theyhave treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, mighthave treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have notattacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, theyhave done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this ismore intolerable than any normal invasion.     I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet thischallenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual livesare threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroythe Invaders!     Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for thefirst time.           Will     we? he asked himself softly.  It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper'slaboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled toa halt in front of the door marked Radiation. She had set her doormechanism to Etaoin Shrdlu, principally because he hated double-talk.He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accentin the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it openedfar enough to admit him.     Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of greaseon her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. Oneblonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well.     What makes, Peter my love? she asked, and bent back to the ledger.Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,Darling, what's wrong?     He said, Have you seen the news recently?     She frowned. Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-sixhours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why?     You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox?     She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. Pete,you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whetherthere's trouble or not. What—     I'm sorry, I forgot, he said. But you have a scanner?     Yes, of course. But really, Pete—     You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei.     She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and thenwalked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain ofpapers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to Newsand pressed the stud.     A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, andsuddenly leapt into full brilliance.     Lorelei caught her breath.     It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded bythe warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past thetransport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should havebeen dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. Theydisappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in aheartbeat they were gone.     There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehowdefiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle offlesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, thosemen and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossiblyjoined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass ofhelpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was morehorrible than any cry of agony.     The Invaders are here, citizens, the commentator was saying in astrangled voice. Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off thestreets.... His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it.  Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.Peter! she said faintly. Why do they broadcast such things?     They have to, he told her grimly. There will be panics and suicides,and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, wherethe noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to beany noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know aboutthem, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough.     The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soaredaway from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reachedout to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his musclestense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floatingup the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated therest.     That's the Atlas building, she said unbelievingly. Us!     Yes.     Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gonethrough the solid wall, or simply melted away.     The man and woman clung together, waiting.     There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings andother faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a manscreamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throatygurgle and died, leaving silence again.     Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and armswere jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl awayfrom him and started toward the inner room.     Wait here, he mouthed.     She was after him, clinging to his arms. No, Peter! Don't go in there!      Peter!      But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward.     There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had beencleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked downthe narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animalcages, and paused just short of it.     The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, thedistorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside hisrange of vision.  Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by thebroad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. Hisglazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingnessstraight ahead of him.     The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen.     The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he wererelaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spreadlegs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skullgrew gradually flatter.     When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, bonelesspuddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it.     There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyondfear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and saidin a terrible voice, Why? Why?     The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering.     The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened.           Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami....          The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. Theears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lipsseemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. Therewere lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Onlythe eyes were alive.           ... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom....          I can't understand, he cried wildly. What do you want?           ... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous.          He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the firsttime he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveledslowly....           Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre.          His voice was hoarse. Don't look! Don't—Go back! The horrible,mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.His insides writhed to thrust it out.     She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to thefloor.     The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could holdit back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, hisfingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume inthe room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead.  Somebody said, Doctor!     He wanted to say, Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei— but his mouth onlytwitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly.     He tried again. Doctor.     Yes? A gentle, masculine voice.     He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrastedoddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,starched odor.     Where am I? he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm handpressed him back into the sheets.     You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please.     He tried to get up again. Where's Lorelei?     She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been avery sick man.     Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He lookedaround him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid.     Yes.... he said. How long have I been here, Doctor?     The man hesitated, looked at him intently. Three months, he said. Heturned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away.     Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metalstand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full ofmilky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all.     In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Justbefore he drifted off, he said sleepily, You can't—fool me. It's been      more     —than three—months.     He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but hekept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed itout of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'dbeen in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered muchsooner.     She was only suffering from ordinary shock, Arnold explained.Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with      them     for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's amiracle you're alive, and rational.     But where is she? Peter complained. You still haven't explained whyI haven't been able to see her.     Arnold frowned. All right, he said. I guess you're strong enough totake it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in sixmonths ago.     But why? Peter whispered.     Arnold's strong jaw knotted. We're hiding, he said. Everything elsehas failed.     Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went onafter a moment, musingly. We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn'teven take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That waswhen a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together atone time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. Itdidn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'dbeen annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's stillsmoldering.     And since then? Peter asked huskily.     Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would bean impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populatedareas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavateenough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the otherthree-quarters will be dead, or worse.     I wonder, Peter said shakily, if I am strong enough to take it.     Arnold laughed harshly. You are. You've got to be. You're part of ourlast hope, you see.     Our last hope?     Yes. You're a scientist.     I see, said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the      Citadel     . No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but,      maybe     , hethought,      there's a chance     ....  It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It laythere in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more thanfive hundred meters in diameter, where the      Citadel     was to have been athousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving intothe hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled withthe latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough tolast a lifetime.     It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there wasone other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solidmeters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmicrays, were gone.     A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, tothe left of the airlock—      The Avenger     . He stepped away now, and joinedthe group a little distance away, silently waiting.     Lorelei said, You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—     Darling, he began wearily.     Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way.     There's no other way, Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as ifhe could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,but that's only delaying the end.      They     still come down here, only notas many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birthrate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now.     They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're amillion years too far back even to understand what they are or wherethey came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer.     She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook herslender body. But he went remorselessly on.     Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. Theymake tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions ofpossible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. Wecan't fight      them     , but a superman could. That's our only chance.Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?     She choked, But why can't you take me along?     He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. You know why, hesaid bitterly. Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven ofstaying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,too. You'd be their murderer.     Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he nolonger had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was goneout of her body. All right, she said in a lifeless voice. You'llcome back, Peter.     He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. Aline from an old film kept echoing through his head.       They'll     comeback—but not as      boys     !     We'll come back, but not as men.     We'll come back, but not as elephants.     We'll come back, but not as octopi.  He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled intothe airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him.      We'll come back....     He heard the massive disk sink home, closing himoff. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head inshaking hands.     After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lockbehind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumpeddown before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate.     He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare wallsof the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators hadretired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poisedover the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down.     Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, theheavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closedsmoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped backinto place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done.     He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out,      TheAvenger     curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, andthe silence pressed in about him.     Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly throughhis flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, workingits slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changeswere unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed allthe mirrors in the ship.     The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspendedanimation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them tomature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that camefrom the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he washungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,searching for the million-to-one chance.     He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that wasEarth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in itsworm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. Butafter a time he ceased even to wonder.     And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to itseager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawninghope....  Peter closed the diary. The rest you know, Robert, he said.     Yes, I told him. I was that child. I am the millionth mutation youwere searching for.     His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. You are. Yourbrain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solveinstinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hoursof work. You are a superman.     I am without your imperfections, I said, flexing my arms.     He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as hestood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed butlittle in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggledover his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences offlesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He hada tiny sixth finger on his left hand.     He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had onceaccidentally drawn one of my talons across his face.     And now, he said softly, we will go home. I've waited solong—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away fromyou, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to besure. But now, the waiting is over.     They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. Youcan kill the Invaders, Robert.     He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctiveknowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, On Earth wehad a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be withyou. You are completely, coldly logical, just as      they     are. You canunderstand them, and so you can conquer them.     I said, That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth.     He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. What—what didyou say?     I repeated it patiently.     But why? he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In aninstant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand hissuffering, but I could recognize it.     You yourself have said it, I told him. I am a being of logic, justas the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend thethings which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If Iwent to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just asthe invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They aremore nearly kin to me than your people.  Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought thatthe shock had deranged his mind.     His voice trembled when he said, But if I ask you to kill them, andnot my people?     To do so would be illogical.     He waved his hands helplessly. Gratitude? he muttered.     No, you don't understand that, either.     Then he cried suddenly, But I am your friend, Robert!     I do not understand 'friend,' I said.     I did understand gratitude, a little. It was a reciprocalarrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not activelywant to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he couldnot comprehend it.     I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, withan expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastenedto the end that I knew was inevitable.   ","The story is first set inside Peter’s office. There is a window that he initially sees the Invader through. The window can see up to fifty stories high. There is also a desk with a newsbox on it, where he lights his cigarette. His office also has a chair. Many places worldwide are mentioned too, such as London, Hong Kong, Paris, and Boston. Lorelei’s laboratory is two stories down the moving ramp. It is behind a door marked “Radiation”, and there is also a door mechanism with a password set to “Etaoin Shrdlu”. Lorelei owns a scanner, a video panel on the wall that is initially covered in papers. There is also an inner room with an X-ray chamber. The building they are in is called the Atlas building. After Peter wakes from his coma, the story is set in a hospital underground. There is a metal stand and a bed for Peter to lie on. When he goes off with the mission to bring back a superman, the ship exits from the underground launch chamber and goes into space. Peter goes past the Moon, past Mars, and over the asteroid belt. From his distance, Earth is a tiny blue star. "
"What is the relationship between Peter and Lorelei? </s>     THE AVENGER     By STUART FLEMING     Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird     super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was     forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, butthe dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair ata queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadowwhere his eyes had been.         There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing theblood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The greatbanks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they wouldnever come to life again.         I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were asbefore: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had notchanged, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were coldand alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, likethe machinery, and like Peter.         It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was whatPeter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled byeating or drinking.         It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwisethan they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, forreason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it.         But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I couldnot solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered withinme, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of mycheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly.         A tear was trickling down my cheek.    Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed withsatisfaction. His dream was perfect; the      Citadel     was complete, everyminutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would belaying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it layfinished, a living thing.     Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shiningship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a secondsatellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into itsinsatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level oflaboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; themeteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at thestern—all the children of his brain.     Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket ofatmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would bea laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled withthe sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctantether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry.     A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, consciousof the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at hisback.     There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staringimpassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just aface, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face wasblood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveledbody.     For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulgingeyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolvedslowly away and was gone.     Lord! he said.     He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the streetsomewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after amoment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everythingwas normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But theworld had grown suddenly unreal.     One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hidingfrom the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But theother part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, anddecided that this was probable.     Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His handswere shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to thenewsbox on his desk, and switched it on.     There were flaring red headlines.     Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only beglad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even moreterrible illusion.     INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON.     200 DEAD     Then lines of type, and farther down:     50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM     PARIS MATERNITY CENTER     He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them.     MOON SHIP DESTROYED     IN TRANSIT     NO COMMUNICATION FROM     ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS     STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS     PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA     WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING     The item below the last one said:     Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first timein fifty years. The order was made public early this morning byR. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part:     The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilizedpeoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in theirdepredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorizedLondon; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member stateand in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printedreports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friendshave not seen them.     The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know thatwe face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy      superior to ourselves in every way     .     Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hoursago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, orin any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. Theyhave treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, mighthave treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have notattacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, theyhave done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this ismore intolerable than any normal invasion.     I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet thischallenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual livesare threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroythe Invaders!     Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for thefirst time.           Will     we? he asked himself softly.  It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper'slaboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled toa halt in front of the door marked Radiation. She had set her doormechanism to Etaoin Shrdlu, principally because he hated double-talk.He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accentin the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it openedfar enough to admit him.     Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of greaseon her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. Oneblonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well.     What makes, Peter my love? she asked, and bent back to the ledger.Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,Darling, what's wrong?     He said, Have you seen the news recently?     She frowned. Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-sixhours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why?     You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox?     She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. Pete,you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whetherthere's trouble or not. What—     I'm sorry, I forgot, he said. But you have a scanner?     Yes, of course. But really, Pete—     You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei.     She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and thenwalked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain ofpapers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to Newsand pressed the stud.     A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, andsuddenly leapt into full brilliance.     Lorelei caught her breath.     It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded bythe warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past thetransport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should havebeen dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. Theydisappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in aheartbeat they were gone.     There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehowdefiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle offlesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, thosemen and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossiblyjoined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass ofhelpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was morehorrible than any cry of agony.     The Invaders are here, citizens, the commentator was saying in astrangled voice. Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off thestreets.... His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it.  Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.Peter! she said faintly. Why do they broadcast such things?     They have to, he told her grimly. There will be panics and suicides,and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, wherethe noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to beany noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know aboutthem, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough.     The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soaredaway from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reachedout to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his musclestense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floatingup the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated therest.     That's the Atlas building, she said unbelievingly. Us!     Yes.     Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gonethrough the solid wall, or simply melted away.     The man and woman clung together, waiting.     There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings andother faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a manscreamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throatygurgle and died, leaving silence again.     Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and armswere jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl awayfrom him and started toward the inner room.     Wait here, he mouthed.     She was after him, clinging to his arms. No, Peter! Don't go in there!      Peter!      But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward.     There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had beencleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked downthe narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animalcages, and paused just short of it.     The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, thedistorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside hisrange of vision.  Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by thebroad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. Hisglazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingnessstraight ahead of him.     The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen.     The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he wererelaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spreadlegs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skullgrew gradually flatter.     When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, bonelesspuddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it.     There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyondfear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and saidin a terrible voice, Why? Why?     The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering.     The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened.           Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami....          The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. Theears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lipsseemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. Therewere lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Onlythe eyes were alive.           ... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom....          I can't understand, he cried wildly. What do you want?           ... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous.          He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the firsttime he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveledslowly....           Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre.          His voice was hoarse. Don't look! Don't—Go back! The horrible,mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.His insides writhed to thrust it out.     She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to thefloor.     The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could holdit back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, hisfingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume inthe room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead.  Somebody said, Doctor!     He wanted to say, Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei— but his mouth onlytwitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly.     He tried again. Doctor.     Yes? A gentle, masculine voice.     He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrastedoddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,starched odor.     Where am I? he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm handpressed him back into the sheets.     You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please.     He tried to get up again. Where's Lorelei?     She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been avery sick man.     Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He lookedaround him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid.     Yes.... he said. How long have I been here, Doctor?     The man hesitated, looked at him intently. Three months, he said. Heturned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away.     Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metalstand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full ofmilky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all.     In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Justbefore he drifted off, he said sleepily, You can't—fool me. It's been      more     —than three—months.     He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but hekept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed itout of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'dbeen in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered muchsooner.     She was only suffering from ordinary shock, Arnold explained.Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with      them     for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's amiracle you're alive, and rational.     But where is she? Peter complained. You still haven't explained whyI haven't been able to see her.     Arnold frowned. All right, he said. I guess you're strong enough totake it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in sixmonths ago.     But why? Peter whispered.     Arnold's strong jaw knotted. We're hiding, he said. Everything elsehas failed.     Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went onafter a moment, musingly. We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn'teven take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That waswhen a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together atone time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. Itdidn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'dbeen annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's stillsmoldering.     And since then? Peter asked huskily.     Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would bean impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populatedareas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavateenough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the otherthree-quarters will be dead, or worse.     I wonder, Peter said shakily, if I am strong enough to take it.     Arnold laughed harshly. You are. You've got to be. You're part of ourlast hope, you see.     Our last hope?     Yes. You're a scientist.     I see, said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the      Citadel     . No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but,      maybe     , hethought,      there's a chance     ....  It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It laythere in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more thanfive hundred meters in diameter, where the      Citadel     was to have been athousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving intothe hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled withthe latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough tolast a lifetime.     It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there wasone other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solidmeters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmicrays, were gone.     A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, tothe left of the airlock—      The Avenger     . He stepped away now, and joinedthe group a little distance away, silently waiting.     Lorelei said, You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—     Darling, he began wearily.     Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way.     There's no other way, Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as ifhe could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,but that's only delaying the end.      They     still come down here, only notas many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birthrate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now.     They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're amillion years too far back even to understand what they are or wherethey came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer.     She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook herslender body. But he went remorselessly on.     Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. Theymake tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions ofpossible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. Wecan't fight      them     , but a superman could. That's our only chance.Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?     She choked, But why can't you take me along?     He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. You know why, hesaid bitterly. Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven ofstaying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,too. You'd be their murderer.     Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he nolonger had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was goneout of her body. All right, she said in a lifeless voice. You'llcome back, Peter.     He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. Aline from an old film kept echoing through his head.       They'll     comeback—but not as      boys     !     We'll come back, but not as men.     We'll come back, but not as elephants.     We'll come back, but not as octopi.  He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled intothe airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him.      We'll come back....     He heard the massive disk sink home, closing himoff. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head inshaking hands.     After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lockbehind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumpeddown before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate.     He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare wallsof the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators hadretired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poisedover the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down.     Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, theheavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closedsmoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped backinto place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done.     He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out,      TheAvenger     curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, andthe silence pressed in about him.     Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly throughhis flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, workingits slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changeswere unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed allthe mirrors in the ship.     The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspendedanimation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them tomature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that camefrom the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he washungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,searching for the million-to-one chance.     He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that wasEarth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in itsworm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. Butafter a time he ceased even to wonder.     And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to itseager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawninghope....  Peter closed the diary. The rest you know, Robert, he said.     Yes, I told him. I was that child. I am the millionth mutation youwere searching for.     His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. You are. Yourbrain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solveinstinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hoursof work. You are a superman.     I am without your imperfections, I said, flexing my arms.     He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as hestood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed butlittle in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggledover his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences offlesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He hada tiny sixth finger on his left hand.     He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had onceaccidentally drawn one of my talons across his face.     And now, he said softly, we will go home. I've waited solong—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away fromyou, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to besure. But now, the waiting is over.     They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. Youcan kill the Invaders, Robert.     He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctiveknowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, On Earth wehad a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be withyou. You are completely, coldly logical, just as      they     are. You canunderstand them, and so you can conquer them.     I said, That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth.     He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. What—what didyou say?     I repeated it patiently.     But why? he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In aninstant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand hissuffering, but I could recognize it.     You yourself have said it, I told him. I am a being of logic, justas the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend thethings which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If Iwent to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just asthe invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They aremore nearly kin to me than your people.  Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought thatthe shock had deranged his mind.     His voice trembled when he said, But if I ask you to kill them, andnot my people?     To do so would be illogical.     He waved his hands helplessly. Gratitude? he muttered.     No, you don't understand that, either.     Then he cried suddenly, But I am your friend, Robert!     I do not understand 'friend,' I said.     I did understand gratitude, a little. It was a reciprocalarrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not activelywant to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he couldnot comprehend it.     I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, withan expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastenedto the end that I knew was inevitable.   ","Peter and Lorelei are romantically involved with each other. When Lorelei sees Peter, she calls him “my love” and “darling.” She puts her hands on his shoulders too and kisses him impulsively as a sign of affection. Peter cares greatly about Lorelei, too, as she was the first person he went to find after seeing the news about the Invaders. When he tries to investigate, she clings to him and pleads for him not to go. However, she follows along too, and he is horrified at what might happen to her. After Lorelei passes out, Peter cannot help but let out a scream. Even when he wakes up from his coma, the first thing he thinks about is Lorelei and repeatedly asks where she is. Lorelei continues to beg Peter not to leave on The Avenger and asks him to reconsider. He does not want to go, but he tells her that it is the only solution. She cries, and he goes on remorselessly even though it hurts him. Lorelei wants to come along too; Peter cares too much and tells her that he could not stand seeing her change from somebody beautiful because of the rays. Although they say farewell to each other and Lorelei affirms that he will come back, Peter does not trust himself to kiss her goodbye. "
"Describe The Avenger ship and its importance to the future of civilization. </s>     THE AVENGER     By STUART FLEMING     Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird     super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was     forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, butthe dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair ata queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadowwhere his eyes had been.         There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing theblood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The greatbanks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they wouldnever come to life again.         I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were asbefore: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had notchanged, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were coldand alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, likethe machinery, and like Peter.         It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was whatPeter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled byeating or drinking.         It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwisethan they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, forreason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it.         But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I couldnot solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered withinme, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of mycheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly.         A tear was trickling down my cheek.    Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed withsatisfaction. His dream was perfect; the      Citadel     was complete, everyminutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would belaying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it layfinished, a living thing.     Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shiningship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a secondsatellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into itsinsatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level oflaboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; themeteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at thestern—all the children of his brain.     Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket ofatmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would bea laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled withthe sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctantether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry.     A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, consciousof the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at hisback.     There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staringimpassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just aface, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face wasblood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveledbody.     For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulgingeyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolvedslowly away and was gone.     Lord! he said.     He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the streetsomewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after amoment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everythingwas normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But theworld had grown suddenly unreal.     One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hidingfrom the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But theother part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, anddecided that this was probable.     Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His handswere shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to thenewsbox on his desk, and switched it on.     There were flaring red headlines.     Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only beglad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even moreterrible illusion.     INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON.     200 DEAD     Then lines of type, and farther down:     50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM     PARIS MATERNITY CENTER     He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them.     MOON SHIP DESTROYED     IN TRANSIT     NO COMMUNICATION FROM     ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS     STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS     PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA     WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING     The item below the last one said:     Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first timein fifty years. The order was made public early this morning byR. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part:     The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilizedpeoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in theirdepredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorizedLondon; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member stateand in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printedreports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friendshave not seen them.     The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know thatwe face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy      superior to ourselves in every way     .     Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hoursago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, orin any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. Theyhave treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, mighthave treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have notattacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, theyhave done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this ismore intolerable than any normal invasion.     I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet thischallenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual livesare threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroythe Invaders!     Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for thefirst time.           Will     we? he asked himself softly.  It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper'slaboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled toa halt in front of the door marked Radiation. She had set her doormechanism to Etaoin Shrdlu, principally because he hated double-talk.He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accentin the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it openedfar enough to admit him.     Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of greaseon her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. Oneblonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well.     What makes, Peter my love? she asked, and bent back to the ledger.Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,Darling, what's wrong?     He said, Have you seen the news recently?     She frowned. Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-sixhours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why?     You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox?     She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. Pete,you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whetherthere's trouble or not. What—     I'm sorry, I forgot, he said. But you have a scanner?     Yes, of course. But really, Pete—     You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei.     She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and thenwalked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain ofpapers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to Newsand pressed the stud.     A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, andsuddenly leapt into full brilliance.     Lorelei caught her breath.     It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded bythe warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past thetransport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should havebeen dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. Theydisappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in aheartbeat they were gone.     There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehowdefiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle offlesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, thosemen and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossiblyjoined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass ofhelpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was morehorrible than any cry of agony.     The Invaders are here, citizens, the commentator was saying in astrangled voice. Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off thestreets.... His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it.  Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.Peter! she said faintly. Why do they broadcast such things?     They have to, he told her grimly. There will be panics and suicides,and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, wherethe noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to beany noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know aboutthem, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough.     The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soaredaway from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reachedout to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his musclestense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floatingup the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated therest.     That's the Atlas building, she said unbelievingly. Us!     Yes.     Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gonethrough the solid wall, or simply melted away.     The man and woman clung together, waiting.     There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings andother faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a manscreamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throatygurgle and died, leaving silence again.     Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and armswere jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl awayfrom him and started toward the inner room.     Wait here, he mouthed.     She was after him, clinging to his arms. No, Peter! Don't go in there!      Peter!      But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward.     There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had beencleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked downthe narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animalcages, and paused just short of it.     The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, thedistorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside hisrange of vision.  Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by thebroad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. Hisglazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingnessstraight ahead of him.     The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen.     The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he wererelaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spreadlegs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skullgrew gradually flatter.     When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, bonelesspuddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it.     There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyondfear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and saidin a terrible voice, Why? Why?     The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering.     The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened.           Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami....          The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. Theears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lipsseemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. Therewere lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Onlythe eyes were alive.           ... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom....          I can't understand, he cried wildly. What do you want?           ... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous.          He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the firsttime he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveledslowly....           Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre.          His voice was hoarse. Don't look! Don't—Go back! The horrible,mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.His insides writhed to thrust it out.     She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to thefloor.     The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could holdit back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, hisfingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume inthe room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead.  Somebody said, Doctor!     He wanted to say, Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei— but his mouth onlytwitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly.     He tried again. Doctor.     Yes? A gentle, masculine voice.     He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrastedoddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,starched odor.     Where am I? he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm handpressed him back into the sheets.     You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please.     He tried to get up again. Where's Lorelei?     She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been avery sick man.     Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He lookedaround him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid.     Yes.... he said. How long have I been here, Doctor?     The man hesitated, looked at him intently. Three months, he said. Heturned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away.     Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metalstand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full ofmilky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all.     In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Justbefore he drifted off, he said sleepily, You can't—fool me. It's been      more     —than three—months.     He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but hekept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed itout of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'dbeen in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered muchsooner.     She was only suffering from ordinary shock, Arnold explained.Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with      them     for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's amiracle you're alive, and rational.     But where is she? Peter complained. You still haven't explained whyI haven't been able to see her.     Arnold frowned. All right, he said. I guess you're strong enough totake it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in sixmonths ago.     But why? Peter whispered.     Arnold's strong jaw knotted. We're hiding, he said. Everything elsehas failed.     Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went onafter a moment, musingly. We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn'teven take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That waswhen a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together atone time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. Itdidn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'dbeen annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's stillsmoldering.     And since then? Peter asked huskily.     Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would bean impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populatedareas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavateenough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the otherthree-quarters will be dead, or worse.     I wonder, Peter said shakily, if I am strong enough to take it.     Arnold laughed harshly. You are. You've got to be. You're part of ourlast hope, you see.     Our last hope?     Yes. You're a scientist.     I see, said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the      Citadel     . No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but,      maybe     , hethought,      there's a chance     ....  It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It laythere in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more thanfive hundred meters in diameter, where the      Citadel     was to have been athousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving intothe hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled withthe latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough tolast a lifetime.     It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there wasone other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solidmeters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmicrays, were gone.     A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, tothe left of the airlock—      The Avenger     . He stepped away now, and joinedthe group a little distance away, silently waiting.     Lorelei said, You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—     Darling, he began wearily.     Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way.     There's no other way, Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as ifhe could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,but that's only delaying the end.      They     still come down here, only notas many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birthrate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now.     They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're amillion years too far back even to understand what they are or wherethey came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer.     She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook herslender body. But he went remorselessly on.     Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. Theymake tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions ofpossible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. Wecan't fight      them     , but a superman could. That's our only chance.Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?     She choked, But why can't you take me along?     He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. You know why, hesaid bitterly. Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven ofstaying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,too. You'd be their murderer.     Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he nolonger had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was goneout of her body. All right, she said in a lifeless voice. You'llcome back, Peter.     He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. Aline from an old film kept echoing through his head.       They'll     comeback—but not as      boys     !     We'll come back, but not as men.     We'll come back, but not as elephants.     We'll come back, but not as octopi.  He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled intothe airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him.      We'll come back....     He heard the massive disk sink home, closing himoff. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head inshaking hands.     After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lockbehind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumpeddown before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate.     He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare wallsof the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators hadretired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poisedover the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down.     Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, theheavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closedsmoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped backinto place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done.     He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out,      TheAvenger     curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, andthe silence pressed in about him.     Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly throughhis flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, workingits slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changeswere unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed allthe mirrors in the ship.     The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspendedanimation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them tomature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that camefrom the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he washungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,searching for the million-to-one chance.     He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that wasEarth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in itsworm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. Butafter a time he ceased even to wonder.     And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to itseager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawninghope....  Peter closed the diary. The rest you know, Robert, he said.     Yes, I told him. I was that child. I am the millionth mutation youwere searching for.     His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. You are. Yourbrain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solveinstinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hoursof work. You are a superman.     I am without your imperfections, I said, flexing my arms.     He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as hestood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed butlittle in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggledover his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences offlesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He hada tiny sixth finger on his left hand.     He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had onceaccidentally drawn one of my talons across his face.     And now, he said softly, we will go home. I've waited solong—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away fromyou, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to besure. But now, the waiting is over.     They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. Youcan kill the Invaders, Robert.     He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctiveknowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, On Earth wehad a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be withyou. You are completely, coldly logical, just as      they     are. You canunderstand them, and so you can conquer them.     I said, That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth.     He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. What—what didyou say?     I repeated it patiently.     But why? he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In aninstant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand hissuffering, but I could recognize it.     You yourself have said it, I told him. I am a being of logic, justas the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend thethings which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If Iwent to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just asthe invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They aremore nearly kin to me than your people.  Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought thatthe shock had deranged his mind.     His voice trembled when he said, But if I ask you to kill them, andnot my people?     To do so would be illogical.     He waved his hands helplessly. Gratitude? he muttered.     No, you don't understand that, either.     Then he cried suddenly, But I am your friend, Robert!     I do not understand 'friend,' I said.     I did understand gratitude, a little. It was a reciprocalarrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not activelywant to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he couldnot comprehend it.     I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, withan expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastenedto the end that I knew was inevitable.   ","The Avenger ship is what is built from Peter’s shining dream. It is much smaller than his initial blueprint, a globe of raw-dura steel no more than five hundred meters in diameter. It cannot house a thousand scientists, and the huge compartments are not filled with the latest equipment for experiments. Instead, it is filled with compressed oxygen and concentrated food to last a lifetime. There is also a control room, engine room, airlock, and inner lock. The Avenger ship is essential because it is the key to finding a superman who can save human civilization. Since the Invaders have caused the remaining population to burrow underground, this ship carries all hopes for the future. Peter believes that there is a chance that one embryo will be genetically modified enough to become a changeling who can save humanity. That is why he is willing to take the chance on the ship and realize his dream, even if it is not the dream he initially had in mind. "
"Who is Robert, and what are his traits in the story? </s>     THE AVENGER     By STUART FLEMING     Karson was creating a superman to fight the weird     super-monsters who had invaded Earth. But he was     forgetting one tiny thing—like calls to like.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Spring 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        Peter Karson was dead. He had been dead for some time now, butthe dark blood was still oozing from the crushed ruin of his face,trickling down into his sodden sleeve, and falling, drop by slow drop,from his fingertips. His head was tilted over the back of the chair ata queer, unnatural angle, so that the light made deep pools of shadowwhere his eyes had been.         There was no sound in the room except for the small splashing theblood made as it dropped into the sticky pool on the floor. The greatbanks of machinery around the walls were silent. I knew that they wouldnever come to life again.         I rose and walked over to the window. Outside, the stars were asbefore: tiny, myriad points of light, infinitely far away. They had notchanged, and yet they were suddenly no longer friendly. They were coldand alien. It was I who had changed: something inside me was dead, likethe machinery, and like Peter.         It was a kind of indefinable emptiness. I do not think it was whatPeter called an emotion; and yet it had nothing to do with logic,either. It was just an emptiness—a void that could not be filled byeating or drinking.         It was not a longing. I had no desire that things should be otherwisethan they were. I did not even wish that Peter were not dead, forreason had told me that he had to die. That was the end of it.         But the void was still there, unexplainable and impossible to ignore.For the first time in all my life I had found a problem that I couldnot solve. Strange, disturbing sensations stirred and whispered withinme, nagging, gnawing. And suddenly—something moved on the skin of mycheek. I raised a hand to it, slowly.         A tear was trickling down my cheek.    Young Peter Karson put the last black-print down and sighed withsatisfaction. His dream was perfect; the      Citadel     was complete, everyminutest detail provided for—on paper. In two weeks they would belaying the core, and then the metal giant itself would begin to grow,glittering, pulsing with each increment of power, until at last it layfinished, a living thing.     Then there would remain only the task of blasting the great, shiningship out into the carefully-calculated orbit that would be its home.In his mind's eye he could see it, slowly wheeling, like a secondsatellite, about the Earth; endlessly gathering knowledge into itsinsatiable mechanisms. He could see, too, the level on level oflaboratories and storerooms that filled its interlocking segments; themeteor deflectors, the air renewal system, the mighty engines at thestern—all the children of his brain.     Out there, away from the muffling, distorting, damnable blanket ofatmosphere, away from Earth's inexorable gravitational pull, would bea laboratory such as man had never seen. The ship would be filled withthe sounds of busy men and women, wresting secrets from the reluctantether. A new chemistry, a new physics; perhaps even a new biochemistry.     A discordant note suddenly entered his fantasy. He looked up, consciousof the walls of his office again, but could see nothing unusual. Still,that thin, dark whisper of dread was at the back of his mind. Slowly,as if reluctantly compelled, he turned around to face the window at hisback.     There, outside the window, fifty stories up, a face was staringimpassively in at him. That was the first impression he got; just aface, staring. Then he saw, with a queer, icy chill, that the face wasblood-red and subtly inhuman. It tapered off into a formless, shriveledbody.     For a moment or an eternity it hung there, unsupported, the bulgingeyes staring at him. Then it grew misty at the edges. It dissolvedslowly away and was gone.     Lord! he said.     He stared after it, stunned into immobility. Down in the streetsomewhere, a portable video was shrilling a popular song; after amoment he heard the faint swish of a tube car going past. Everythingwas normal. Nothing, on examination, seemed to have changed. But theworld had grown suddenly unreal.     One part of his brain had been shocked into its shell. It was hidingfrom the thing that had hurt it, and it refused to respond. But theother part was going calmly, lucidly on, quite without his volition.It considered the possibility that he had gone temporarily insane, anddecided that this was probable.     Hardly knowing what he did, he found a cigarette and lit it. His handswere shaking. He stared at them dully, and then he reached over to thenewsbox on his desk, and switched it on.     There were flaring red headlines.     Relief washed over him, leaving him breathless. He was horrified,of course, but only abstractedly. For the moment he could only beglad that what he had seen was terrible reality rather than even moreterrible illusion.     INVADERS APPEAR IN BOSTON.     200 DEAD     Then lines of type, and farther down:     50 CHILDREN DISAPPEAR FROM     PARIS MATERNITY CENTER     He pressed the stud. The roll was full of them.     MOON SHIP DESTROYED     IN TRANSIT     NO COMMUNICATION FROM     ANTARCTICA IN 6 HOURS     STRANGE FORCE DEFLECTS     PLANES FROM SAHARA AREA     WORLD POLICE MOBILIZING     The item below the last one said:     Pacifica, June 7—The World Police are mobilizing, for the first timein fifty years. The order was made public early this morning byR. Stein, Secretary of the Council, who said in part:     The reason for this ... order must be apparent to all civilizedpeoples. For the Invaders have spared no part of this planet in theirdepredations: they have laid Hong Kong waste; they have terrorizedLondon; they have destroyed the lives of citizens in every member stateand in every inhabited area. There can be few within reach of printedreports or my words who have not seen the Invaders, or whose friendshave not seen them.     The peoples of the world, then, know what they are, and know thatwe face the most momentous struggle in our history. We face an enemy      superior to ourselves in every way     .     Since the Invaders first appeared in Wood River, Oregon, 24 hoursago, they have not once acknowledged our attempts to communicate, orin any way taken notice of our existence as reasoning beings. Theyhave treated us precisely as we, in less enlightened days, mighthave treated a newly-discovered race of lower animals. They have notattacked our centers of government, nor immobilized our communications,nor laid siege to our defenses. But in instance after instance, theyhave done as they would with us. They have examined us, dissected us,driven us mad, killed us with no discernable provocation; and this ismore intolerable than any normal invasion.     I have no fear that the people of Earth will fail to meet thischallenge, for there is no alternative. Not only our individual livesare threatened, but our existence as a race. We must, and will, destroythe Invaders!     Peter sank back in his chair, the full shock of it striking him for thefirst time.           Will     we? he asked himself softly.  It was only two stories down the moving ramp to Lorelei Cooper'slaboratory. Peter took it in fifteen seconds, running, and stumbled toa halt in front of the door marked Radiation. She had set her doormechanism to Etaoin Shrdlu, principally because he hated double-talk.He mouthed the syllables, had to repeat them because he put an accentin the wrong place, and squeezed through the door as soon as it openedfar enough to admit him.     Lorelei, beautiful in spite of dark-circled eyes and a smear of greaseon her chin, looked up from a huge ledger at the end of the room. Oneblonde eyebrow arched in the quizzical expression he knew so well.     What makes, Peter my love? she asked, and bent back to the ledger.Then she did a double-take, looked at his face intently, and said,Darling, what's wrong?     He said, Have you seen the news recently?     She frowned. Why, no—Harry and I have been working for thirty-sixhours straight. Haven't seen anybody, haven't heard anything. Why?     You wouldn't believe me. Where's your newsbox?     She came around the desk and put her hands on his shoulders. Pete,you know I haven't one—it bores me or upsets me, depending on whetherthere's trouble or not. What—     I'm sorry, I forgot, he said. But you have a scanner?     Yes, of course. But really, Pete—     You'll understand in a minute. Turn it on, Lorelei.     She gazed at him levelly for a moment, kissed him impulsively, and thenwalked over to the video panel on the wall and swept a mountain ofpapers away from in front of it. She turned the selector dial to Newsand pressed the stud.     A faint wash of color appeared on the panel, strengthened slowly, andsuddenly leapt into full brilliance.     Lorelei caught her breath.     It was a street scene in the Science City of Manhattan, flooded bythe warm spring sunshine. Down on the lowest level, visible past thetransport and passenger tubes, the parks and moving ways should havebeen dotted with colorful, holiday crowds. The people were there,yes but they were flowing away in a swiftly-widening circle. Theydisappeared into buildings, and the ways snatched them up, and in aheartbeat they were gone.     There were left only two blood-red, malignant monstrosities somehowdefiling the air they floated in; and below them, a pitiful huddle offlesh no longer recognizable as human beings. They were not dead, thosemen and women, but they wanted to be. Their bodies had been impossiblyjoined, fused together into a single obscene, floundering mass ofhelpless protoplasm. The thin moaning that went up from them was morehorrible than any cry of agony.     The Invaders are here, citizens, the commentator was saying in astrangled voice. Stay off the streets. Hide yourselves. Stay off thestreets.... His voice droned on, but neither of them heard it.  Lorelei buried her head on his chest, clutching at him desperately.Peter! she said faintly. Why do they broadcast such things?     They have to, he told her grimly. There will be panics and suicides,and they know it; but they have to do it. This isn't like a war, wherethe noncombatants' morale has to be kept up. There aren't going to beany noncombatants, this time. Everybody in the world has to know aboutthem, so that he can fight them—and then it may not be enough.     The viewpoint of the teleo sender changed as the two red beings soaredaway from their victims and angled slowly up the street. Peter reachedout to switch off the scanner, and froze. The girl felt his musclestense abruptly, looked back at the scene. The Invaders were floatingup the sloping side of a tall, pure white structure that dominated therest.     That's the Atlas building, she said unbelievingly. Us!     Yes.     Silently, they counted stories as the two beings rose. Forty-five ...forty-six ... forty-seven ... forty-eight. Inevitably, they halted.Then they faded slowly. It was impossible to say whether they had gonethrough the solid wall, or simply melted away.     The man and woman clung together, waiting.     There was a thick, oppressive silence, full of small rustlings andother faint sounds that were no longer normal. Then, very near, a manscreamed in a high, inhuman voice. The screamed dwindled into a throatygurgle and died, leaving silence again.     Peter's lips were cold with sweat. Tiny nerves in his face and armswere jumping convulsively. His stomach crawled. He thrust the girl awayfrom him and started toward the inner room.     Wait here, he mouthed.     She was after him, clinging to his arms. No, Peter! Don't go in there!      Peter!      But he pushed her away again, woodenly, and stalked forward.     There was a space in the middle of the room where machinery had beencleared away to make room for an incompleted setup. Peter walked downthe narrow aisle, past bakelite-sheathed mechanisms and rows of animalcages, and paused just short of it.     The two red beings were there, formless bodies hazy in midair, thedistorted, hairless skulls in profile, staring at something outside hisrange of vision.  Peter forced himself forward another step. Little Harry Kanin,Lorelei's assistant, was crumpled in a corner, half supported by thebroad base of an X-ray chamber. His face was flaccid and bloated. Hisglazed eyes, impassive yet somehow pleading, stared at nothingnessstraight ahead of him.     The Invaders ignored Peter, staring expressionlessly down at Kanin.In a moment Peter realized what they were doing to him. He stood,paralyzed with horror, and watched it happen.     The little man's body was sagging, ever so slowly, as if he wererelaxing tiredly. His torso was telescoping, bit by bit; his spreadlegs grew wider and more shapeless, his cheeks caved in and his skullgrew gradually flatter.     When it was over, the thing that had been Kanin was a limp, bonelesspuddle of flesh. Peter could not look at it.     There was a scream in his throat that would not come out. He was beyondfear, beyond agony. He turned to the still-hovering monsters and saidin a terrible voice, Why? Why?     The nearest being turned slowly to regard him. Its lips did not move,but there was a tiny sound in Peter's brain, a thin, dry whispering.     The scream was welling up. He fought it down and listened.           Wurnkomellilonasendiktolsasangkanmiamiamimami....          The face was staring directly into his, the bulging eyes hypnotic. Theears were small, no more than excresences of skin. The narrow lipsseemed sealed together; a thin, slimy ichor drooled from them. Therewere lines in the face, but they were lines of age, not emotion. Onlythe eyes were alive.           ... raswilopreatadvuonistuwurncchtusanlgkelglawwalinom....          I can't understand, he cried wildly. What do you want?           ... morofelcovisyanmamiwurlectaunntous.          He heard a faint sound behind him, and whirled. It was the firsttime he had realized that Lorelei had followed him. She stood there,swaying, very pale, looking at the red Invaders. Her eyes swiveledslowly....           Opreniktoulestritifenrelngetnaktwiltoctpre.          His voice was hoarse. Don't look! Don't—Go back! The horrible,mindless noise in his throat was almost beyond his power to repress.His insides writhed to thrust it out.     She didn't see him. Her eyes glazed, and she dropped limply to thefloor.     The scream came out then. Before he knew, even, that he could holdit back no longer, his mouth was wide open, his muscles tensed, hisfingernails slicing his palms. It echoed with unbelievable volume inthe room. It was a scream to split eardrums; a scream to wake the dead.  Somebody said, Doctor!     He wanted to say, Yes, get a doctor. Lorelei— but his mouth onlytwitched feebly. He couldn't seem to get it to work properly.     He tried again. Doctor.     Yes? A gentle, masculine voice.     He opened his eyes with an effort. There was a blurred face before him;in a moment it grew clearer. The strong, clean-shaven chin contrastedoddly with the haggard circles under the eyes. There was a clean,starched odor.     Where am I? he said. He tried to turn his head, but a firm handpressed him back into the sheets.     You're in a hospital. Just lie quietly, please.     He tried to get up again. Where's Lorelei?     She's well, and you'll see her soon. Now lie quietly. You've been avery sick man.     Peter sank back in the bed. The room was coming into focus. He lookedaround him slowly. He felt very weak, but perfectly lucid.     Yes.... he said. How long have I been here, Doctor?     The man hesitated, looked at him intently. Three months, he said. Heturned and gave low-voiced instructions to a nurse, and then went away.     Peter's head began spinning just a little. Glass clinked from a metalstand near his head; the nurse bent over him with a glass half full ofmilky fluid. It tasted awful, but she made him drink it all.     In a moment he began to relax, and the room got fuzzy again. Justbefore he drifted off, he said sleepily, You can't—fool me. It's been      more     —than three—months.     He was right. All the nurses, and even Dr. Arnold, were evasive, but hekept asking them why he couldn't see Lorelei, and finally he wormed itout of them. It had been nine and a half months, not three, and he'dbeen in a coma all that time. Lorelei, it seemed, had recovered muchsooner.     She was only suffering from ordinary shock, Arnold explained.Seeing that assistant of hers—it was enough to knock anybody out,especially a woman. But you stood actual mental contact with      them     for approximately five minutes. Yes, we know—you talked a lot. It's amiracle you're alive, and rational.     But where is she? Peter complained. You still haven't explained whyI haven't been able to see her.     Arnold frowned. All right, he said. I guess you're strong enough totake it. She's underground, with the rest of the women and children,and a good two-thirds of the male population. That's where you'll go,as soon as you're well enough to be moved. We started digging in sixmonths ago.     But why? Peter whispered.     Arnold's strong jaw knotted. We're hiding, he said. Everything elsehas failed.     Peter couldn't think of anything to say. Dr. Arnold's voice went onafter a moment, musingly. We're burrowing into the earth, like worms.It didn't take us long to find out we couldn't kill them. They didn'teven take any notice of our attempts to do so, except once. That waswhen a squadron of the Police caught about fifty of them together atone time, and attacked with flame guns and a new secret weapon. Itdidn't hurt them, but it annoyed them. It was the first time they'dbeen annoyed, I think. They blew up half a state, and it's stillsmoldering.     And since then? Peter asked huskily.     Since then, we've been burrowing. All the big cities.... It would bean impossible task if we tried to include all the thinly-populatedareas, of course, but it doesn't matter. By the time we excavateenough to take care of a quarter of the earth's population, the otherthree-quarters will be dead, or worse.     I wonder, Peter said shakily, if I am strong enough to take it.     Arnold laughed harshly. You are. You've got to be. You're part of ourlast hope, you see.     Our last hope?     Yes. You're a scientist.     I see, said Peter. And for the first time, he thought of the      Citadel     . No plan leaped full-born into his mind, but,      maybe     , hethought,      there's a chance     ....  It wasn't very big, the thing that had been his shining dream. It laythere in its rough cradle, a globe of raw dura-steel not more thanfive hundred meters in diameter, where the      Citadel     was to have been athousand. It wouldn't house a hundred scientists, eagerly delving intothe hinterland of research. The huge compartments weren't filled withthe latest equipment for chemical and physical experiment; instead,there was compressed oxygen there, and concentrated food, enough tolast a lifetime.     It was a new world, all by itself; or else it was a tomb. And there wasone other change, one that you couldn't see from the outside. The solidmeters of lead in its outer skin, the shielding to keep out cosmicrays, were gone.     A man had just finished engraving the final stroke on its nameplate, tothe left of the airlock—      The Avenger     . He stepped away now, and joinedthe group a little distance away, silently waiting.     Lorelei said, You can't do it. I won't let you! Peter—     Darling, he began wearily.     Don't throw your life away! Give us time—there must be another way.     There's no other way, Peter said. He gripped her arms tightly, as ifhe could compel her to understand by the sheer pressure of his fingers.Darling, listen to me. We've tried everything. We've gone underground,but that's only delaying the end.      They     still come down here, only notas many. The mortality rate is up, the suicide rate is up, the birthrate is down, in spite of anything we can do. You've seen the figures:we're riding a curve that ends in extinction fifty years from now.     They'll live, and we'll die, because they're a superior race. We're amillion years too far back even to understand what they are or wherethey came from. Besides them, we're apes. There's only one answer.     She was crying now, silently, with great racking sobs that shook herslender body. But he went remorselessly on.     Out there, in space, the cosmics change unshielded life. Theymake tentacles out of arms; or scales out of hair; or twelve toes,or a dozen ears—or a better brain. Out of those millions ofpossible mutations, there's one that will save the human race. Wecan't fight      them     , but a superman could. That's our only chance.Lorelei—darling—don't you see that?     She choked, But why can't you take me along?     He stared unseeingly past her wet, upturned face. You know why, hesaid bitterly. Those rays are strong. They don't only work on embryos;they change adult life forms, too. I have one chance in seven ofstaying alive. You'd have one chance in a million of staying beautiful.I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself, and then humanity would die,too. You'd be their murderer.     Her sobs gradually died away. She straightened slowly until he nolonger had to support her, but all the vitality and resilience was goneout of her body. All right, she said in a lifeless voice. You'llcome back, Peter.     He turned away suddenly, not trusting himself to kiss her goodbye. Aline from an old film kept echoing through his head.       They'll     comeback—but not as      boys     !     We'll come back, but not as men.     We'll come back, but not as elephants.     We'll come back, but not as octopi.  He was trembling violently. He ran the last few steps, stumbled intothe airlock, and pressed the stud that would seal the door behind him.      We'll come back....     He heard the massive disk sink home, closing himoff. Then he sank down on the floor of the airlock and put his head inshaking hands.     After a while he roused himself, closed the inner door of the lockbehind him, and walked down the long corridor into the control chamber.The shining banks of keys were there, waiting for his touch; he slumpeddown before them and listlessly closed the contact of the visiplate.     He swung its field slowly, scanning for the last time the bare wallsof the underground chamber, making sure that all the spectators hadretired out of the way of the blast. Then his clawed fingers poisedover the keys, hovered a moment, and thrust down.     Acceleration pressed him deep into his chair. In the visiplate, theheavy doors that closed the tunnel above him flashed back, one by one.The energy-charged screen flickered off to let him pass, and closedsmoothly behind him. The last doors, cleverly camouflaged, slipped backinto place and then dwindled in the distance. It was done.     He flashed on out, past the moon, past Mars, over the asteroid belt.The days merged into weeks, then months, and finally, far out,      TheAvenger     curved into an orbit and held it. The great motors died, andthe silence pressed in about him.     Already he could feel the invisible rays burning resistlessly throughhis flesh as if it were water, shifting the cells of his body, workingits slow, monstrous alchemy upon him. Peter waited until the changeswere unmistakably evident in his skin and hair, and then he smashed allthe mirrors in the ship.     The embryos were pulsing with unnatural life, even in the suspendedanimation of their crystal cells. One by one he allowed them tomature, and after weeks or years destroyed the monstrosities that camefrom the incubators. Time went by, meaninglessly. He ate when he washungry, slept when his driving purpose let him, and worked unceasingly,searching for the million-to-one chance.     He stared sometimes through changed eyes at the tiny blue star that wasEarth, wondering if the race he had left behind still burrowed in itsworm-tunnels, digging deeper and deeper away from the sunlight. Butafter a time he ceased even to wonder.     And one changeling-child he did not destroy. He fed knowledge to itseager brain, and watched it through the swift years, with a dawninghope....  Peter closed the diary. The rest you know, Robert, he said.     Yes, I told him. I was that child. I am the millionth mutation youwere searching for.     His eyes glowed suddenly in their misshapen sockets. You are. Yourbrain is as superior to mine as mine is to an anthropoid's. You solveinstinctively problems that would take our mechanical computers hoursof work. You are a superman.     I am without your imperfections, I said, flexing my arms.     He rose and strode nervously over to the window. I watched him as hestood there, outlined against the blazing galaxies. He had changed butlittle in the years that I had known him. His lank gray hair straggledover his sunken eyes; his cheeks were blobbed with excresences offlesh; one corner of his mouth was drawn up in a perpetual grin. He hada tiny sixth finger on his left hand.     He turned again, and I saw the old scar on his cheek where I had onceaccidentally drawn one of my talons across his face.     And now, he said softly, we will go home. I've waited solong—keeping the control chamber and the engine room locked away fromyou, not telling you, even, about Earth until now—because I had to besure. But now, the waiting is over.     They're still there, I'm sure of it—the people, and the Invaders. Youcan kill the Invaders, Robert.     He looked at me, a little oddly, almost as if he had some instinctiveknowledge of what was to come. But he went on swiftly, On Earth wehad a saying: 'Fight fire with fire.' That is the way it will be withyou. You are completely, coldly logical, just as      they     are. You canunderstand them, and so you can conquer them.     I said, That is the reason why we will not go back to Earth.     He stared at me, his jaw slack, his hands trembling. What—what didyou say?     I repeated it patiently.     But why? he cried, sinking down into the chair before me. In aninstant all the joy had gone out of him. I could not understand hissuffering, but I could recognize it.     You yourself have said it, I told him. I am a being of logic, justas the beings who have invaded your planet are. I do not comprehend thethings which you call hate, fear, joy and love, as they do not. If Iwent to Earth, I would use your people to further my knowledge, just asthe invaders do. I would have no reason to kill the invaders. They aremore nearly kin to me than your people.  Peter's eyes were dull, his limbs slumped. For a moment I thought thatthe shock had deranged his mind.     His voice trembled when he said, But if I ask you to kill them, andnot my people?     To do so would be illogical.     He waved his hands helplessly. Gratitude? he muttered.     No, you don't understand that, either.     Then he cried suddenly, But I am your friend, Robert!     I do not understand 'friend,' I said.     I did understand gratitude, a little. It was a reciprocalarrangement: I did what Peter wished, so long as I did not activelywant to do otherwise, because he had done things for me. Very well,then we must not go back. It was very simple, but I knew that he couldnot comprehend it.     I tried to explain it to him, however. But he only stared at me, withan expression on his face that I had never seen there before, and that,somehow, I did not like to see. It was disquieting, and so I hastenedto the end that I knew was inevitable.   ","Robert is the one changeling child that Peter did not destroy. He is described to have an eager brain, and Peter keeps feeding knowledge to it. Robert also has a superior brain, capable of instinctively solving problems that would take mechanical computers hours of work. Physically, Robert also has talons. However, despite being a successful superman, Robert does not understand anything emotional. He refuses to go back to Earth to destroy the Invaders, citing that he is a being of logic. Robert says that he will use the people on Earth for his own gain, which the Invaders are already doing. Therefore, he finds it illogical when Peter asks him to kill the Invaders and not his people. Even when Peter says that he is his friend, Robert says he does not understand and believes that gratitude is a reciprocal arrangement. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     A Gift From Earth     By MANLY BANISTER     Illustrated by KOSSIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Except for transportation, it was absolutely       free ... but how much would the freight cost?        It is an outrage, said Koltan of the House of Masur, that theEarthmen land among the Thorabians!     Zotul, youngest of the Masur brothers, stirred uneasily. Personally, hewas in favor of the coming of the Earthmen to the world of Zur.     At the head of the long, shining table sat old Kalrab Masur, in hisdotage, but still giving what he could of aid and comfort to thePottery of Masur, even though nobody listened to him any more andhe knew it. Around the table sat the six brothers—Koltan, eldestand Director of the Pottery; Morvan, his vice-chief; Singula, theirtreasurer; Thendro, sales manager; Lubiosa, export chief; and last inthe rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design.     Behold, my sons, said Kalrab, stroking his scanty beard. What arethese Earthmen to worry about? Remember the clay. It is our strengthand our fortune. It is the muscle and bone of our trade. Earthmen maycome and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, thefame and fortune of the House of Masur.     It      is     a damned imposition, agreed Morvan, ignoring his father'sphilosophical attitude. They could have landed just as easily here inLor.     The Thorabians will lick up the gravy, said Singula, whose mind ranrather to matters of financial aspect, and leave us the grease.     By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen,which the Lorians would not. The truth was that all on Zur were pantingto get their hands on that marvelous ship, which was all of metal, avery scarce commodity on Zur, worth billions of ken.  Lubiosa, who had interests in Thorabia, and many agents there, kept hisown counsel. His people were active in the matter and that was enoughfor him. He would report when the time was ripe.     Doubtless, said Zotul unexpectedly, for the youngest at a conferencewas expected to keep his mouth shut and applaud the decisions of hiselders, the Earthmen used all the metal on their planet in buildingthat ship. We cannot possibly bilk them of it; it is their only meansof transport.     Such frank expression of motive was unheard of, even in the secretconclave of conference. Only the speaker's youth could account for it.The speech drew scowls from the brothers and stern rebuke from Koltan.     When your opinion is wanted, we will ask you for it. Meantime,remember your position in the family.     Zotul bowed his head meekly, but he burned with resentment.     Listen to the boy, said the aged father. There is more wisdom in hishead than in all the rest of you. Forget the Earthmen and think only ofthe clay.     Zotul did not appreciate his father's approval, for it only earned hima beating as soon as the old man went to bed. It was a common enoughthing among the brothers Masur, as among everybody, to be frustrated intheir desires. However, they had Zotul to take it out upon, and theydid.     Still smarting, Zotul went back to his designing quarters and thoughtabout the Earthmen. If it was impossible to hope for much in the wayof metal from the Earthmen, what could one get from them? If he couldfigure this problem out, he might rise somewhat in the estimation ofhis brothers. That wouldn't take him out of the rank of scapegoat, ofcourse, but the beatings might become fewer and less severe.  By and by, the Earthmen came to Lor, flying through the air in strangemetal contraptions. They paraded through the tile-paved streets of thecity, marveled here, as they had in Thorabia, at the buildings all oftile inside and out, and made a great show of themselves for all thepeople to see. Speeches were made through interpreters, who had muchtoo quickly learned the tongue of the aliens; hence these left much tobe desired in the way of clarity, though their sincerity was evident.     The Earthmen were going to do great things for the whole world ofZur. It required but the cooperation—an excellent word, that—of allZurians, and many blessings would rain down from the skies. This, ineffect, was what the Earthmen had to say. Zotul felt greatly cheered,for it refuted the attitude of his brothers without earning him awhaling for it.     There was also some talk going around about agreements made betweenthe Earthmen and officials of the Lorian government, but you heard onething one day and another the next. Accurate reporting, much less anewspaper, was unknown on Zur.     Finally, the Earthmen took off in their great, shining ship. Obviously,none had succeeded in chiseling them out of it, if, indeed, any hadtried. The anti-Earthmen Faction—in any culture complex, there isalways an anti faction to protest any movement of endeavor—crowedhappily that the Earthmen were gone for good, and a good thing, too.     Such jubilation proved premature, however. One day, a fleet of shipsarrived and after they had landed all over the planet, Zur waspractically acrawl with Earthmen.     Immediately, the Earthmen established what they calledcorporations—Zurian trading companies under terrestrial control. Theobject of the visit was trade.     In spite of the fact that a terrestrial ship had landed at every Zuriancity of major and minor importance, and all in a single day, it tooksome time for the news to spread.     The first awareness Zotul had was that, upon coming home from thepottery one evening, he found his wife Lania proudly brandishing analuminum pot at him.     What is that thing? he asked curiously.     A pot. I bought it at the market.     Did you now? Well, take it back. Am I made of money that you spend mysubstance for some fool's product of precious metal? Take it back, Isay!  The pretty young wife laughed at him. Up to your ears in clay, nowonder you hear nothing of news! The pot is very cheap. The Earthmenare selling them everywhere. They're much better than our old claypots; they're light and easy to handle and they don't break whendropped.     What good is it? asked Zotul, interested. How will it hold heat,being so light?     The Earthmen don't cook as we do, she explained patiently. There isa paper with each pot that explains how it is used. And you will haveto design a new ceramic stove for me to use the pots on.     Don't be idiotic! Do you suppose Koltan would agree to produce a newtype of stove when the old has sold well for centuries? Besides, why doyou need a whole new stove for one little pot?     A dozen pots. They come in sets and are cheaper that way. And Koltanwill have to produce the new stove because all the housewives arebuying these pots and there will be a big demand for it. The Earthmansaid so.     He did, did he? These pots are only a fad. You will soon enough goback to cooking with your old ones.     The Earthman took them in trade—one reason why the new ones are socheap. There isn't a pot in the house but these metal ones, and youwill have to design and produce a new stove if you expect me to usethem.     After he had beaten his wife thoroughly for her foolishness, Zotulstamped off in a rage and designed a new ceramic stove, one that wouldaccommodate the terrestrial pots very well.     And Koltan put the model into production.     Orders already are pouring in like mad, he said the next day. Itwas wise of you to foresee it and have the design ready. Already, I amsorry for thinking as I did about the Earthmen. They really intend todo well by us.     The kilns of the Pottery of Masur fired day and night to keep up withthe demand for the new porcelain stoves. In three years, more than amillion had been made and sold by the Masurs alone, not counting thehundreds of thousands of copies turned out by competitors in everyland.  In the meantime, however, more things than pots came from Earth.One was a printing press, the like of which none on Zur had everdreamed. This, for some unknown reason and much to the disgust ofthe Lorians, was set up in Thorabia. Books and magazines poured fromit in a fantastic stream. The populace fervidly brushed up on itsscanty reading ability and bought everything available, overcome bythe novelty of it. Even Zotul bought a book—a primer in the Lorianlanguage—and learned how to read and write. The remainder of thebrothers Masur, on the other hand, preferred to remain in ignorance.     Moreover, the Earthmen brought miles of copper wire—more than enoughin value to buy out the governorship of any country on Zur—and set uptelegraph lines from country to country and continent to continent.Within five years of the first landing of the Earthmen, every majorcity on the globe had a printing press, a daily newspaper, and enjoyedthe instantaneous transmission of news via telegraph. And the businessof the House of Masur continued to look up.     As I have always said from the beginning, chortled Director Koltan,this coming of the Earthmen had been a great thing for us, andespecially for the House of Masur.     You didn't think so at first, Zotul pointed out, and was immediatelysorry, for Koltan turned and gave him a hiding, single-handed, for hisunthinkable impertinence.     It would do no good, Zotul realized, to bring up the fact that theirproduction of ceramic cooking pots had dropped off to about two percent of its former volume. Of course, profits on the line of new stovesgreatly overbalanced the loss, so that actually they were ahead; buttheir business was now dependent upon the supply of the metal pots fromEarth.     About this time, plastic utensils—dishes, cups, knives, forks—madetheir appearance on Zur. It became very stylish to eat with thenewfangled paraphernalia ... and very cheap, too, because foreverything they sold, the Earthmen always took the old ware in trade.What they did with the stuff had been hard to believe at first. Theydestroyed it, which proved how valueless it really was.     The result of the new flood was that in the following year, the sale ofMasur ceramic table service dropped to less than a tenth.  Trembling with excitement at this news from their book-keeper, Koltancalled an emergency meeting. He even routed old Kalrab out of hissenile stupor for the occasion, on the off chance that the old manmight still have a little wit left that could be helpful.     Note, Koltan announced in a shaky voice, that the Earthmen undermineour business, and he read off the figures.     Perhaps, said Zotul, it is a good thing also, as you said before,and will result in something even better for us.     Koltan frowned, and Zotul, in fear of another beating, instantlysubsided.     They are replacing our high-quality ceramic ware with inferiorterrestrial junk, Koltan went on bitterly. It is only the glamor thatsells it, of course, but before the people get the shine out of theireyes, we can be ruined.     The brothers discussed the situation for an hour, and all the whileFather Kalrab sat and pulled his scanty whiskers. Seeing that they gotnowhere with their wrangle, he cleared his throat and spoke up.     My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottomof your trouble, but the      things     of Earth. Think of the telegraph andthe newspaper, how these spread news of every shipment from Earth.The merchandise of the Earthmen is put up for sale by means of thesenewspapers, which also are the property of the Earthmen. The people areintrigued by these advertisements, as they are called, and flock tobuy. Now, if you would pull a tooth from the kwi that bites you, youmight also have advertisements of your own.     Alas for that suggestion, no newspaper would accept advertisingfrom the House of Masur; all available space was occupied by theadvertisements of the Earthmen.     In their dozenth conference since that first and fateful one, thebrothers Masur decided upon drastic steps. In the meantime, severalthings had happened. For one, old Kalrab had passed on to his immortalrest, but this made no real difference. For another, the Earthmen hadprocured legal authority to prospect the planet for metals, of whichthey found a good deal, but they told no one on Zur of this. Whatthey did mention was the crude oil and natural gas they discoveredin the underlayers of the planet's crust. Crews of Zurians, workingunder supervision of the Earthmen, laid pipelines from the gas and oilregions to every major and minor city on Zur.  By the time ten years had passed since the landing of the firstterrestrial ship, the Earthmen were conducting a brisk business ingas-fired ranges, furnaces and heaters ... and the Masur stove businesswas gone. Moreover, the Earthmen sold the Zurians their own natural gasat a nice profit and everybody was happy with the situation except thebrothers Masur.     The drastic steps of the brothers applied, therefore, to making anenergetic protest to the governor of Lor.     At one edge of the city, an area had been turned over to the Earthmenfor a spaceport, and the great terrestrial spaceships came to it anddeparted from it at regular intervals. As the heirs of the House ofMasur walked by on their way to see the governor, Zotul observed thatmuch new building was taking place and wondered what it was.     Some new devilment of the Earthmen, you can be sure, said Koltanblackly.     In fact, the Earthmen were building an assembly plant for radioreceiving sets. The ship now standing on its fins upon the apron wasloaded with printed circuits, resistors, variable condensers and otherradio parts. This was Earth's first step toward flooding Zur with thenatural follow-up in its campaign of advertising—radio programs—withcommercials.     Happily for the brothers, they did not understand this at the time orthey would surely have gone back to be buried in their own clay.     I think, the governor told them, that you gentlemen have notpaused to consider the affair from all angles. You must learn to bemodern—keep up with the times! We heads of government on Zur are doingall in our power to aid the Earthmen and facilitate their bringing agreat, new culture that can only benefit us. See how Zur has changed inten short years! Imagine the world of tomorrow! Why, do you know theyare even bringing      autos     to Zur!     The brothers were fascinated with the governor's description of thesehitherto unheard-of vehicles.     It only remains, concluded the governor, to build highways, and theEarthmen are taking care of that.     At any rate, the brothers Masur were still able to console themselvesthat they had their tile business. Tile served well enough for housesand street surfacing; what better material could be devised for the newhighways the governor spoke of? There was a lot of money to be madeyet.  Radio stations went up all over Zur and began broadcasting. The peoplebought receiving sets like mad. The automobiles arrived and highwayswere constructed.     The last hope of the brothers was dashed. The Earthmen set up plantsand began to manufacture Portland cement.     You could build a house of concrete much cheaper than with tile. Ofcourse, since wood was scarce on Zur, it was no competition for eithertile or concrete. Concrete floors were smoother, too, and the stuffmade far better road surfacing.     The demand for Masur tile hit rock bottom.     The next time the brothers went to see the governor, he said, I cannothandle such complaints as yours. I must refer you to the MerchandisingCouncil.     What is that? asked Koltan.     It is an Earthman association that deals with complaints such asyours. In the matter of material progress, we must expect some strainin the fabric of our culture. Machinery has been set up to deal withit. Here is their address; go air your troubles to them.     The business of a formal complaint was turned over by the brothers toZotul. It took three weeks for the Earthmen to get around to callinghim in, as a representative of the Pottery of Masur, for an interview.     All the brothers could no longer be spared from the plant, even for thepurpose of pressing a complaint. Their days of idle wealth over, theyhad to get in and work with the clay with the rest of the help.     Zotul found the headquarters of the Merchandising Council as indicatedon their message. He had not been this way in some time, but was notsurprised to find that a number of old buildings had been torn down tomake room for the concrete Council House and a roomy parking lot, pavedwith something called blacktop and jammed with an array of glitteringnew automobiles.     An automobile was an expense none of the brothers could afford, nowthat they barely eked a living from the pottery. Still, Zotul achedwith desire at sight of so many shiny cars. Only a few had them andthey were the envied ones of Zur.     Kent Broderick, the Earthman in charge of the Council, shook handsjovially with Zotul. That alien custom conformed with, Zotul took abetter look at his host. Broderick was an affable, smiling individualwith genial laugh wrinkles at his eyes. A man of middle age, dressed inthe baggy costume of Zur, he looked almost like a Zurian, except foran indefinite sense of alienness about him.     Glad to have you call on us, Mr. Masur, boomed the Earthman, clappingZotul on the back. Just tell us your troubles and we'll have youstraightened out in no time.  All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for thisoccasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner.     Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had beenmade upon the business of the Pottery of Masur.     Once, he said formally, the Masur fortune was the greatest inthe world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous KalrabMasur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greaterreward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh andbones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how proneis the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, andall because of new things coming from Earth.     Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. Why didn't you cometo me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has,we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always todo right by the customer.     Divinity witness, Zorin said, that we ask only compensation fordamages.     Broderick shook his head. It is not possible to replace an immensefortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported yourtrouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Doyou own an automobile?     No.     A gas range? A gas-fired furnace? A radio?     Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. My wife Lania likesthe music, he explained. I cannot afford the other things.     Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford thebargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed.     To begin with, he said, I am going to make you a gift of all theseluxuries you do not have. As Zotul made to protest, he cut him offwith a wave of his hand. It is the least we can do for you. Pick a carfrom the lot outside. I will arrange to have the other things deliveredand installed in your home.     To receive gifts, said Zotul, incurs an obligation.     None at all, beamed the Earthman cheerily. Every item is given toyou absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask isthat you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not tomake profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout theGalaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working outthe full program takes time.     He chuckled deeply. We of Earth have a saying about one of ourextremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise,but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with themotto, 'Better times with better merchandise.'  The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, itwas no more than fair to pay transportation.     He said, How much does the freight cost?     Broderick told him.     It may seem high, said the Earthman, but remember that Earth issixty-odd light-years away. After all, we are absorbing the cost of themerchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, consideringthe cost of operating an interstellar spaceship.     Impossible, said Zotul drably. Not I and all my brothers togetherhave so much money any more.     You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer youcredit!     What is that? asked Zotul skeptically.     It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of therich, said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of theinvolutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles thatmight have had a discouraging effect.     On a world where credit was a totally new concept, it was enchanting.Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. What must I doto get credit?     Just sign this paper, said Broderick, and you become part of ourEasy Payment Plan.     Zotul drew back. I have five brothers. If I took all these things formyself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue.     Here. Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. Have eachof your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That isall there is to it.     It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotulwrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won.     I will talk it over with them, he said. Give me the total so I willhave the figures.     The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotulpointed this out politely.     Interest, Broderick explained. A mere fifteen per cent. After all,you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to bepaid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight.This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble.     I see. Zotul puzzled over it sadly. It is too much, he said. Ourplant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments.     I have a surprise for you, smiled Broderick. Here is a contract. Youwill start making ceramic parts for automobile spark plugs and certainparts for radios and gas ranges. It is our policy to encourage localmanufacture to help bring prices down.     We haven't the equipment.     We will equip your plant, beamed Broderick. It will require onlya quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrialcompany.  Zotul, anxious to possess the treasures promised by the Earthman,won over his brothers. They signed with marks and gave up a quarterinterest in the Pottery of Masur. They rolled in the luxuries of Earth.These, who had never known debt before, were in it up to their ears.     The retooled plant forged ahead and profits began to look up, but theEarthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry.     For a year, the brothers drove their shiny new cars about on thenew concrete highways the Earthmen had built. From pumps owned by aterrestrial company, they bought gas and oil that had been drawn fromthe crust of Zur and was sold to the Zurians at a magnificent profit.The food they ate was cooked in Earthly pots on Earth-type gas ranges,served up on metal plates that had been stamped out on Earth. In thewinter, they toasted their shins before handsome gas grates, thoughthey had gas-fired central heating.     About this time, the ships from Earth brought steam-powered electricgenerators. Lines went up, power was generated, and a flood ofelectrical gadgets and appliances hit the market. For some reason,batteries for the radios were no longer available and everybody had tobuy the new radios. And who could do without a radio in this modern age?     The homes of the brothers Masur blossomed on the Easy Payment Plan.They had refrigerators, washers, driers, toasters, grills, electricfans, air-conditioning equipment and everything else Earth couldpossibly sell them.     We will be forty years paying it all off, exulted Zotul, butmeantime we have the things and aren't they worth it?     But at the end of three years, the Earthmen dropped their option.The Pottery of Masur had no more contracts. Business languished. TheEarthmen, explained Broderick, had built a plant of their own becauseit was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth'sunswerving policy, greater and greater efficiency was demanded.Broderick was very sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do.     The introduction of television provided a further calamity. The setswere delicate and needed frequent repairs, hence were costly to own andmaintain. But all Zurians who had to keep up with the latest from Earthhad them. Now it was possible not only to hear about things of Earth,but to see them as they were broadcast from the video tapes.     The printing plants that turned out mortgage contracts did a lushbusiness.  For the common people of Zur, times were good everywhere. In a decadeand a half, the Earthmen had wrought magnificent changes on thisbackward world. As Broderick had said, the progress of the tortoise wasslow, but it was extremely sure.     The brothers Masur got along in spite of dropped options. They had lessmoney and felt the pinch of their debts more keenly, but televisionkept their wives and children amused and furnished an anodyne for thepangs of impoverishment.     The pottery income dropped to an impossible low, no matter how Zotuldesigned and the brothers produced. Their figurines and religious ikonswere a drug on the market. The Earthmen made them of plastic and soldthem for less.     The brothers, unable to meet the Payments that were not so Easy anymore, looked up Zotul and cuffed him around reproachfully.     You got us into this, they said, emphasizing their bitterness withfists. Go see Broderick. Tell him we are undone and must have somecontracts to continue operating.     Nursing bruises, Zotul unhappily went to the Council House again. Mr.Broderick was no longer with them, a suave assistant informed him.Would he like to see Mr. Siwicki instead? Zotul would.     Siwicki was tall, thin, dark and somber-looking. There was even a hintof toughness about the set of his jaw and the hardness of his glance.     So you can't pay, he said, tapping his teeth with a pencil. Helooked at Zotul coldly. It is well you have come to us instead ofmaking it necessary for us to approach you through the courts.     I don't know what you mean, said Zotul.     If we have to sue, we take back the merchandise and everythingattached to them. That means you would lose your houses, for they areattached to the furnaces. However, it is not as bad as that—yet. Wewill only require you to assign the remaining three-quarters of yourpottery to us.     The brothers, when they heard of this, were too stunned to think ofbeating Zotul, by which he assumed he had progressed a little and wassomewhat comforted.     To fail, said Koltan soberly, is not a Masur attribute. Go to thegovernor and tell him what we think of this business. The House ofMasur has long supported the government with heavy taxes. Now it istime for the government to do something for us.  The governor's palace was jammed with hurrying people, a scene ofconfusion that upset Zotul. The clerk who took his application foran interview was, he noticed only vaguely, a young Earthwoman. Itwas remarkable that he paid so little attention, for the femaleterrestrials were picked for physical assets that made Zurian mencovetous and Zurian women envious.     The governor will see you, she said sweetly. He has been expectingyou.     Me? marveled Zotul.     She ushered him into the magnificent private office of the governorof Lor. The man behind the desk stood up, extended his hand with afriendly smile.     Come in, come in! I'm glad to see you again.     Zotul stared blankly. This was not the governor. This was Broderick,the Earthman.     I—I came to see the governor, he said in confusion.     Broderick nodded agreeably. I am the governor and I am well acquaintedwith your case, Mr. Masur. Shall we talk it over? Please sit down.     I don't understand. The Earthmen.... Zotul paused, coloring. We areabout to lose our plant.     You were about to say that the Earthmen are taking your plant awayfrom you. That is true. Since the House of Masur was the largest andrichest on Zur, it has taken a long time—the longest of all, in fact.     What do you mean?     Yours is the last business on Zur to be taken over by us. We havebought you out.     Our government....     Your governments belong to us, too, said Broderick. When they couldnot pay for the roads, the telegraphs, the civic improvements, we tookthem over, just as we are taking you over.     You mean, exclaimed Zotul, aghast, that you Earthmen own everythingon Zur?     Even your armies.     But      why     ?  Broderick clasped his hands behind back, went to the window and stareddown moodily into the street.     You don't know what an overcrowded world is like, he said. A streetlike this, with so few people and vehicles on it, would be impossibleon Earth.     But it's mobbed, protested Zotul. It gave me a headache.     And to us it's almost empty. The pressure of population on Earth hasmade us range the Galaxy for places to put our extra people. The onlyhabitable planets, unfortunately, are populated ones. We take the leastpopulous worlds and—well, buy them out and move in.     And after that?     Broderick smiled gently. Zur will grow. Our people will intermarrywith yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zuriansnor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both.     Zotul sat in silent thought. But you did not have to buy us out. Youhad the power to conquer us, even to destroy us. The whole planet couldhave been yours alone. He stopped in alarm. Or am I suggesting anidea that didn't occur to you?     No, said Broderick, his usually smiling face almost pained withmemory. We know the history of conquest all too well. Our methodcauses more distress than we like to inflict, but it's better—and moresure—than war and invasion by force. Now that the unpleasant job isfinished, we can repair the dislocations.     At last I understand what you said about the tortoise.     Slow but sure. Broderick beamed again and clapped Zotul on theshoulder. Don't worry. You'll have your job back, the same as always,but you'll be working for us ... until the children of Earth and Zurare equal in knowledge and therefore equal partners. That's why we hadto break down your caste system.     Zotul's eyes widened. And that is why my brothers did not beat me whenI failed!     Of course. Are you ready now to take the assignment papers for you andyour brothers to sign?     Yes, said Zotul. I am ready.   ","The House of Masur is a family business in Zur, run by Koltan and his six sons. The business specializes in pottery and clay manufacturing for Zur. The family gathers as they deliberate the upcoming arrival of Earthmen. Some of the brothers express frustration that the Earthmen will be landing among the Thorabians rather than in Zur, disrupting their plan to steal the precious, scarce metals off their ship. Zotul, the youngest of the brothers, discourages the plan, saying that the Earthmen's ship is their only way of transport. After the meeting, Zotul ponders what other benefits the Earthmen could serve. The Earthmen eventually arrive at Zur, parading the streets and making speeches, and leaving shortly after. They return with multiple ships and establish corporations all over Zur. One day, Zotul's wife brings home a metal pot, which she had bought from Earthmen; she tells him that they are high in demand and that a new type of stove is essential to use them. Zotul protests, but later designs a ceramic stove, which becomes a successful development in their business. Earthmen continue introducing more technology to Zur, including a printing press and telegraphs. Zotul notes internally that though the business has made profit, it is dependent upon the pots from Earth. The business quickly begins declining, with sales dropping. They attempt to advertise their business, but advertisement has become fully occupied by Earth. After ten years, during which Koltan has passed on, the Masur business has dwindled. The brothers decide to go to the governor of Lor, who tells them that the developments are all beneficial, informing them of a new production of highways. The brothers are optimistic that they would be able to use their clay for the roads, but Earthmen begin using cement. The governor then refers the brothers to Earth's Merchandising Council, where Zotul meets Kent Broderick, where he expresses sympathy about the status of the Masur business and offers them the luxuries brought by Earthmen, completely free except for the cost of freight. The cost, however, is more than the brothers could ever afford, and so Broderick sets them up with a credit system, as well as a contract for the family to supply Earthmen with ceramic parts. The brothers enjoy their luxury, but it is short lived, as their contract expires and they find themselves in debt. Zotul then revisits the governor, who ends up being Broderick. Broderick informs Zotul that Earth has bought them, and every business in Zur, out, and that they own everything. Broderick tells Zotul that the family will work for Earth now, and that Earth will fully conquer Zur. "
"What is the relationship between Zotul and the rest of the brothers? </s>     A Gift From Earth     By MANLY BANISTER     Illustrated by KOSSIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Except for transportation, it was absolutely       free ... but how much would the freight cost?        It is an outrage, said Koltan of the House of Masur, that theEarthmen land among the Thorabians!     Zotul, youngest of the Masur brothers, stirred uneasily. Personally, hewas in favor of the coming of the Earthmen to the world of Zur.     At the head of the long, shining table sat old Kalrab Masur, in hisdotage, but still giving what he could of aid and comfort to thePottery of Masur, even though nobody listened to him any more andhe knew it. Around the table sat the six brothers—Koltan, eldestand Director of the Pottery; Morvan, his vice-chief; Singula, theirtreasurer; Thendro, sales manager; Lubiosa, export chief; and last inthe rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design.     Behold, my sons, said Kalrab, stroking his scanty beard. What arethese Earthmen to worry about? Remember the clay. It is our strengthand our fortune. It is the muscle and bone of our trade. Earthmen maycome and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, thefame and fortune of the House of Masur.     It      is     a damned imposition, agreed Morvan, ignoring his father'sphilosophical attitude. They could have landed just as easily here inLor.     The Thorabians will lick up the gravy, said Singula, whose mind ranrather to matters of financial aspect, and leave us the grease.     By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen,which the Lorians would not. The truth was that all on Zur were pantingto get their hands on that marvelous ship, which was all of metal, avery scarce commodity on Zur, worth billions of ken.  Lubiosa, who had interests in Thorabia, and many agents there, kept hisown counsel. His people were active in the matter and that was enoughfor him. He would report when the time was ripe.     Doubtless, said Zotul unexpectedly, for the youngest at a conferencewas expected to keep his mouth shut and applaud the decisions of hiselders, the Earthmen used all the metal on their planet in buildingthat ship. We cannot possibly bilk them of it; it is their only meansof transport.     Such frank expression of motive was unheard of, even in the secretconclave of conference. Only the speaker's youth could account for it.The speech drew scowls from the brothers and stern rebuke from Koltan.     When your opinion is wanted, we will ask you for it. Meantime,remember your position in the family.     Zotul bowed his head meekly, but he burned with resentment.     Listen to the boy, said the aged father. There is more wisdom in hishead than in all the rest of you. Forget the Earthmen and think only ofthe clay.     Zotul did not appreciate his father's approval, for it only earned hima beating as soon as the old man went to bed. It was a common enoughthing among the brothers Masur, as among everybody, to be frustrated intheir desires. However, they had Zotul to take it out upon, and theydid.     Still smarting, Zotul went back to his designing quarters and thoughtabout the Earthmen. If it was impossible to hope for much in the wayof metal from the Earthmen, what could one get from them? If he couldfigure this problem out, he might rise somewhat in the estimation ofhis brothers. That wouldn't take him out of the rank of scapegoat, ofcourse, but the beatings might become fewer and less severe.  By and by, the Earthmen came to Lor, flying through the air in strangemetal contraptions. They paraded through the tile-paved streets of thecity, marveled here, as they had in Thorabia, at the buildings all oftile inside and out, and made a great show of themselves for all thepeople to see. Speeches were made through interpreters, who had muchtoo quickly learned the tongue of the aliens; hence these left much tobe desired in the way of clarity, though their sincerity was evident.     The Earthmen were going to do great things for the whole world ofZur. It required but the cooperation—an excellent word, that—of allZurians, and many blessings would rain down from the skies. This, ineffect, was what the Earthmen had to say. Zotul felt greatly cheered,for it refuted the attitude of his brothers without earning him awhaling for it.     There was also some talk going around about agreements made betweenthe Earthmen and officials of the Lorian government, but you heard onething one day and another the next. Accurate reporting, much less anewspaper, was unknown on Zur.     Finally, the Earthmen took off in their great, shining ship. Obviously,none had succeeded in chiseling them out of it, if, indeed, any hadtried. The anti-Earthmen Faction—in any culture complex, there isalways an anti faction to protest any movement of endeavor—crowedhappily that the Earthmen were gone for good, and a good thing, too.     Such jubilation proved premature, however. One day, a fleet of shipsarrived and after they had landed all over the planet, Zur waspractically acrawl with Earthmen.     Immediately, the Earthmen established what they calledcorporations—Zurian trading companies under terrestrial control. Theobject of the visit was trade.     In spite of the fact that a terrestrial ship had landed at every Zuriancity of major and minor importance, and all in a single day, it tooksome time for the news to spread.     The first awareness Zotul had was that, upon coming home from thepottery one evening, he found his wife Lania proudly brandishing analuminum pot at him.     What is that thing? he asked curiously.     A pot. I bought it at the market.     Did you now? Well, take it back. Am I made of money that you spend mysubstance for some fool's product of precious metal? Take it back, Isay!  The pretty young wife laughed at him. Up to your ears in clay, nowonder you hear nothing of news! The pot is very cheap. The Earthmenare selling them everywhere. They're much better than our old claypots; they're light and easy to handle and they don't break whendropped.     What good is it? asked Zotul, interested. How will it hold heat,being so light?     The Earthmen don't cook as we do, she explained patiently. There isa paper with each pot that explains how it is used. And you will haveto design a new ceramic stove for me to use the pots on.     Don't be idiotic! Do you suppose Koltan would agree to produce a newtype of stove when the old has sold well for centuries? Besides, why doyou need a whole new stove for one little pot?     A dozen pots. They come in sets and are cheaper that way. And Koltanwill have to produce the new stove because all the housewives arebuying these pots and there will be a big demand for it. The Earthmansaid so.     He did, did he? These pots are only a fad. You will soon enough goback to cooking with your old ones.     The Earthman took them in trade—one reason why the new ones are socheap. There isn't a pot in the house but these metal ones, and youwill have to design and produce a new stove if you expect me to usethem.     After he had beaten his wife thoroughly for her foolishness, Zotulstamped off in a rage and designed a new ceramic stove, one that wouldaccommodate the terrestrial pots very well.     And Koltan put the model into production.     Orders already are pouring in like mad, he said the next day. Itwas wise of you to foresee it and have the design ready. Already, I amsorry for thinking as I did about the Earthmen. They really intend todo well by us.     The kilns of the Pottery of Masur fired day and night to keep up withthe demand for the new porcelain stoves. In three years, more than amillion had been made and sold by the Masurs alone, not counting thehundreds of thousands of copies turned out by competitors in everyland.  In the meantime, however, more things than pots came from Earth.One was a printing press, the like of which none on Zur had everdreamed. This, for some unknown reason and much to the disgust ofthe Lorians, was set up in Thorabia. Books and magazines poured fromit in a fantastic stream. The populace fervidly brushed up on itsscanty reading ability and bought everything available, overcome bythe novelty of it. Even Zotul bought a book—a primer in the Lorianlanguage—and learned how to read and write. The remainder of thebrothers Masur, on the other hand, preferred to remain in ignorance.     Moreover, the Earthmen brought miles of copper wire—more than enoughin value to buy out the governorship of any country on Zur—and set uptelegraph lines from country to country and continent to continent.Within five years of the first landing of the Earthmen, every majorcity on the globe had a printing press, a daily newspaper, and enjoyedthe instantaneous transmission of news via telegraph. And the businessof the House of Masur continued to look up.     As I have always said from the beginning, chortled Director Koltan,this coming of the Earthmen had been a great thing for us, andespecially for the House of Masur.     You didn't think so at first, Zotul pointed out, and was immediatelysorry, for Koltan turned and gave him a hiding, single-handed, for hisunthinkable impertinence.     It would do no good, Zotul realized, to bring up the fact that theirproduction of ceramic cooking pots had dropped off to about two percent of its former volume. Of course, profits on the line of new stovesgreatly overbalanced the loss, so that actually they were ahead; buttheir business was now dependent upon the supply of the metal pots fromEarth.     About this time, plastic utensils—dishes, cups, knives, forks—madetheir appearance on Zur. It became very stylish to eat with thenewfangled paraphernalia ... and very cheap, too, because foreverything they sold, the Earthmen always took the old ware in trade.What they did with the stuff had been hard to believe at first. Theydestroyed it, which proved how valueless it really was.     The result of the new flood was that in the following year, the sale ofMasur ceramic table service dropped to less than a tenth.  Trembling with excitement at this news from their book-keeper, Koltancalled an emergency meeting. He even routed old Kalrab out of hissenile stupor for the occasion, on the off chance that the old manmight still have a little wit left that could be helpful.     Note, Koltan announced in a shaky voice, that the Earthmen undermineour business, and he read off the figures.     Perhaps, said Zotul, it is a good thing also, as you said before,and will result in something even better for us.     Koltan frowned, and Zotul, in fear of another beating, instantlysubsided.     They are replacing our high-quality ceramic ware with inferiorterrestrial junk, Koltan went on bitterly. It is only the glamor thatsells it, of course, but before the people get the shine out of theireyes, we can be ruined.     The brothers discussed the situation for an hour, and all the whileFather Kalrab sat and pulled his scanty whiskers. Seeing that they gotnowhere with their wrangle, he cleared his throat and spoke up.     My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottomof your trouble, but the      things     of Earth. Think of the telegraph andthe newspaper, how these spread news of every shipment from Earth.The merchandise of the Earthmen is put up for sale by means of thesenewspapers, which also are the property of the Earthmen. The people areintrigued by these advertisements, as they are called, and flock tobuy. Now, if you would pull a tooth from the kwi that bites you, youmight also have advertisements of your own.     Alas for that suggestion, no newspaper would accept advertisingfrom the House of Masur; all available space was occupied by theadvertisements of the Earthmen.     In their dozenth conference since that first and fateful one, thebrothers Masur decided upon drastic steps. In the meantime, severalthings had happened. For one, old Kalrab had passed on to his immortalrest, but this made no real difference. For another, the Earthmen hadprocured legal authority to prospect the planet for metals, of whichthey found a good deal, but they told no one on Zur of this. Whatthey did mention was the crude oil and natural gas they discoveredin the underlayers of the planet's crust. Crews of Zurians, workingunder supervision of the Earthmen, laid pipelines from the gas and oilregions to every major and minor city on Zur.  By the time ten years had passed since the landing of the firstterrestrial ship, the Earthmen were conducting a brisk business ingas-fired ranges, furnaces and heaters ... and the Masur stove businesswas gone. Moreover, the Earthmen sold the Zurians their own natural gasat a nice profit and everybody was happy with the situation except thebrothers Masur.     The drastic steps of the brothers applied, therefore, to making anenergetic protest to the governor of Lor.     At one edge of the city, an area had been turned over to the Earthmenfor a spaceport, and the great terrestrial spaceships came to it anddeparted from it at regular intervals. As the heirs of the House ofMasur walked by on their way to see the governor, Zotul observed thatmuch new building was taking place and wondered what it was.     Some new devilment of the Earthmen, you can be sure, said Koltanblackly.     In fact, the Earthmen were building an assembly plant for radioreceiving sets. The ship now standing on its fins upon the apron wasloaded with printed circuits, resistors, variable condensers and otherradio parts. This was Earth's first step toward flooding Zur with thenatural follow-up in its campaign of advertising—radio programs—withcommercials.     Happily for the brothers, they did not understand this at the time orthey would surely have gone back to be buried in their own clay.     I think, the governor told them, that you gentlemen have notpaused to consider the affair from all angles. You must learn to bemodern—keep up with the times! We heads of government on Zur are doingall in our power to aid the Earthmen and facilitate their bringing agreat, new culture that can only benefit us. See how Zur has changed inten short years! Imagine the world of tomorrow! Why, do you know theyare even bringing      autos     to Zur!     The brothers were fascinated with the governor's description of thesehitherto unheard-of vehicles.     It only remains, concluded the governor, to build highways, and theEarthmen are taking care of that.     At any rate, the brothers Masur were still able to console themselvesthat they had their tile business. Tile served well enough for housesand street surfacing; what better material could be devised for the newhighways the governor spoke of? There was a lot of money to be madeyet.  Radio stations went up all over Zur and began broadcasting. The peoplebought receiving sets like mad. The automobiles arrived and highwayswere constructed.     The last hope of the brothers was dashed. The Earthmen set up plantsand began to manufacture Portland cement.     You could build a house of concrete much cheaper than with tile. Ofcourse, since wood was scarce on Zur, it was no competition for eithertile or concrete. Concrete floors were smoother, too, and the stuffmade far better road surfacing.     The demand for Masur tile hit rock bottom.     The next time the brothers went to see the governor, he said, I cannothandle such complaints as yours. I must refer you to the MerchandisingCouncil.     What is that? asked Koltan.     It is an Earthman association that deals with complaints such asyours. In the matter of material progress, we must expect some strainin the fabric of our culture. Machinery has been set up to deal withit. Here is their address; go air your troubles to them.     The business of a formal complaint was turned over by the brothers toZotul. It took three weeks for the Earthmen to get around to callinghim in, as a representative of the Pottery of Masur, for an interview.     All the brothers could no longer be spared from the plant, even for thepurpose of pressing a complaint. Their days of idle wealth over, theyhad to get in and work with the clay with the rest of the help.     Zotul found the headquarters of the Merchandising Council as indicatedon their message. He had not been this way in some time, but was notsurprised to find that a number of old buildings had been torn down tomake room for the concrete Council House and a roomy parking lot, pavedwith something called blacktop and jammed with an array of glitteringnew automobiles.     An automobile was an expense none of the brothers could afford, nowthat they barely eked a living from the pottery. Still, Zotul achedwith desire at sight of so many shiny cars. Only a few had them andthey were the envied ones of Zur.     Kent Broderick, the Earthman in charge of the Council, shook handsjovially with Zotul. That alien custom conformed with, Zotul took abetter look at his host. Broderick was an affable, smiling individualwith genial laugh wrinkles at his eyes. A man of middle age, dressed inthe baggy costume of Zur, he looked almost like a Zurian, except foran indefinite sense of alienness about him.     Glad to have you call on us, Mr. Masur, boomed the Earthman, clappingZotul on the back. Just tell us your troubles and we'll have youstraightened out in no time.  All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for thisoccasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner.     Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had beenmade upon the business of the Pottery of Masur.     Once, he said formally, the Masur fortune was the greatest inthe world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous KalrabMasur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greaterreward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh andbones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how proneis the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, andall because of new things coming from Earth.     Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. Why didn't you cometo me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has,we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always todo right by the customer.     Divinity witness, Zorin said, that we ask only compensation fordamages.     Broderick shook his head. It is not possible to replace an immensefortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported yourtrouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Doyou own an automobile?     No.     A gas range? A gas-fired furnace? A radio?     Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. My wife Lania likesthe music, he explained. I cannot afford the other things.     Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford thebargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed.     To begin with, he said, I am going to make you a gift of all theseluxuries you do not have. As Zotul made to protest, he cut him offwith a wave of his hand. It is the least we can do for you. Pick a carfrom the lot outside. I will arrange to have the other things deliveredand installed in your home.     To receive gifts, said Zotul, incurs an obligation.     None at all, beamed the Earthman cheerily. Every item is given toyou absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask isthat you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not tomake profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout theGalaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working outthe full program takes time.     He chuckled deeply. We of Earth have a saying about one of ourextremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise,but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with themotto, 'Better times with better merchandise.'  The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, itwas no more than fair to pay transportation.     He said, How much does the freight cost?     Broderick told him.     It may seem high, said the Earthman, but remember that Earth issixty-odd light-years away. After all, we are absorbing the cost of themerchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, consideringthe cost of operating an interstellar spaceship.     Impossible, said Zotul drably. Not I and all my brothers togetherhave so much money any more.     You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer youcredit!     What is that? asked Zotul skeptically.     It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of therich, said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of theinvolutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles thatmight have had a discouraging effect.     On a world where credit was a totally new concept, it was enchanting.Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. What must I doto get credit?     Just sign this paper, said Broderick, and you become part of ourEasy Payment Plan.     Zotul drew back. I have five brothers. If I took all these things formyself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue.     Here. Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. Have eachof your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That isall there is to it.     It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotulwrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won.     I will talk it over with them, he said. Give me the total so I willhave the figures.     The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotulpointed this out politely.     Interest, Broderick explained. A mere fifteen per cent. After all,you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to bepaid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight.This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble.     I see. Zotul puzzled over it sadly. It is too much, he said. Ourplant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments.     I have a surprise for you, smiled Broderick. Here is a contract. Youwill start making ceramic parts for automobile spark plugs and certainparts for radios and gas ranges. It is our policy to encourage localmanufacture to help bring prices down.     We haven't the equipment.     We will equip your plant, beamed Broderick. It will require onlya quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrialcompany.  Zotul, anxious to possess the treasures promised by the Earthman,won over his brothers. They signed with marks and gave up a quarterinterest in the Pottery of Masur. They rolled in the luxuries of Earth.These, who had never known debt before, were in it up to their ears.     The retooled plant forged ahead and profits began to look up, but theEarthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry.     For a year, the brothers drove their shiny new cars about on thenew concrete highways the Earthmen had built. From pumps owned by aterrestrial company, they bought gas and oil that had been drawn fromthe crust of Zur and was sold to the Zurians at a magnificent profit.The food they ate was cooked in Earthly pots on Earth-type gas ranges,served up on metal plates that had been stamped out on Earth. In thewinter, they toasted their shins before handsome gas grates, thoughthey had gas-fired central heating.     About this time, the ships from Earth brought steam-powered electricgenerators. Lines went up, power was generated, and a flood ofelectrical gadgets and appliances hit the market. For some reason,batteries for the radios were no longer available and everybody had tobuy the new radios. And who could do without a radio in this modern age?     The homes of the brothers Masur blossomed on the Easy Payment Plan.They had refrigerators, washers, driers, toasters, grills, electricfans, air-conditioning equipment and everything else Earth couldpossibly sell them.     We will be forty years paying it all off, exulted Zotul, butmeantime we have the things and aren't they worth it?     But at the end of three years, the Earthmen dropped their option.The Pottery of Masur had no more contracts. Business languished. TheEarthmen, explained Broderick, had built a plant of their own becauseit was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth'sunswerving policy, greater and greater efficiency was demanded.Broderick was very sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do.     The introduction of television provided a further calamity. The setswere delicate and needed frequent repairs, hence were costly to own andmaintain. But all Zurians who had to keep up with the latest from Earthhad them. Now it was possible not only to hear about things of Earth,but to see them as they were broadcast from the video tapes.     The printing plants that turned out mortgage contracts did a lushbusiness.  For the common people of Zur, times were good everywhere. In a decadeand a half, the Earthmen had wrought magnificent changes on thisbackward world. As Broderick had said, the progress of the tortoise wasslow, but it was extremely sure.     The brothers Masur got along in spite of dropped options. They had lessmoney and felt the pinch of their debts more keenly, but televisionkept their wives and children amused and furnished an anodyne for thepangs of impoverishment.     The pottery income dropped to an impossible low, no matter how Zotuldesigned and the brothers produced. Their figurines and religious ikonswere a drug on the market. The Earthmen made them of plastic and soldthem for less.     The brothers, unable to meet the Payments that were not so Easy anymore, looked up Zotul and cuffed him around reproachfully.     You got us into this, they said, emphasizing their bitterness withfists. Go see Broderick. Tell him we are undone and must have somecontracts to continue operating.     Nursing bruises, Zotul unhappily went to the Council House again. Mr.Broderick was no longer with them, a suave assistant informed him.Would he like to see Mr. Siwicki instead? Zotul would.     Siwicki was tall, thin, dark and somber-looking. There was even a hintof toughness about the set of his jaw and the hardness of his glance.     So you can't pay, he said, tapping his teeth with a pencil. Helooked at Zotul coldly. It is well you have come to us instead ofmaking it necessary for us to approach you through the courts.     I don't know what you mean, said Zotul.     If we have to sue, we take back the merchandise and everythingattached to them. That means you would lose your houses, for they areattached to the furnaces. However, it is not as bad as that—yet. Wewill only require you to assign the remaining three-quarters of yourpottery to us.     The brothers, when they heard of this, were too stunned to think ofbeating Zotul, by which he assumed he had progressed a little and wassomewhat comforted.     To fail, said Koltan soberly, is not a Masur attribute. Go to thegovernor and tell him what we think of this business. The House ofMasur has long supported the government with heavy taxes. Now it istime for the government to do something for us.  The governor's palace was jammed with hurrying people, a scene ofconfusion that upset Zotul. The clerk who took his application foran interview was, he noticed only vaguely, a young Earthwoman. Itwas remarkable that he paid so little attention, for the femaleterrestrials were picked for physical assets that made Zurian mencovetous and Zurian women envious.     The governor will see you, she said sweetly. He has been expectingyou.     Me? marveled Zotul.     She ushered him into the magnificent private office of the governorof Lor. The man behind the desk stood up, extended his hand with afriendly smile.     Come in, come in! I'm glad to see you again.     Zotul stared blankly. This was not the governor. This was Broderick,the Earthman.     I—I came to see the governor, he said in confusion.     Broderick nodded agreeably. I am the governor and I am well acquaintedwith your case, Mr. Masur. Shall we talk it over? Please sit down.     I don't understand. The Earthmen.... Zotul paused, coloring. We areabout to lose our plant.     You were about to say that the Earthmen are taking your plant awayfrom you. That is true. Since the House of Masur was the largest andrichest on Zur, it has taken a long time—the longest of all, in fact.     What do you mean?     Yours is the last business on Zur to be taken over by us. We havebought you out.     Our government....     Your governments belong to us, too, said Broderick. When they couldnot pay for the roads, the telegraphs, the civic improvements, we tookthem over, just as we are taking you over.     You mean, exclaimed Zotul, aghast, that you Earthmen own everythingon Zur?     Even your armies.     But      why     ?  Broderick clasped his hands behind back, went to the window and stareddown moodily into the street.     You don't know what an overcrowded world is like, he said. A streetlike this, with so few people and vehicles on it, would be impossibleon Earth.     But it's mobbed, protested Zotul. It gave me a headache.     And to us it's almost empty. The pressure of population on Earth hasmade us range the Galaxy for places to put our extra people. The onlyhabitable planets, unfortunately, are populated ones. We take the leastpopulous worlds and—well, buy them out and move in.     And after that?     Broderick smiled gently. Zur will grow. Our people will intermarrywith yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zuriansnor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both.     Zotul sat in silent thought. But you did not have to buy us out. Youhad the power to conquer us, even to destroy us. The whole planet couldhave been yours alone. He stopped in alarm. Or am I suggesting anidea that didn't occur to you?     No, said Broderick, his usually smiling face almost pained withmemory. We know the history of conquest all too well. Our methodcauses more distress than we like to inflict, but it's better—and moresure—than war and invasion by force. Now that the unpleasant job isfinished, we can repair the dislocations.     At last I understand what you said about the tortoise.     Slow but sure. Broderick beamed again and clapped Zotul on theshoulder. Don't worry. You'll have your job back, the same as always,but you'll be working for us ... until the children of Earth and Zurare equal in knowledge and therefore equal partners. That's why we hadto break down your caste system.     Zotul's eyes widened. And that is why my brothers did not beat me whenI failed!     Of course. Are you ready now to take the assignment papers for you andyour brothers to sign?     Yes, said Zotul. I am ready.   ","Each of the six brothers of the Masur business has their own specialty; a director, treasurer, vice-chief, sales manager, export chief, and Zotul, their designer. Despite their equal roles in the business, Zotul is the youngest brother, and for this reason is mistreated. In meetings and conferences, he is rarely allowed to speak without being scolded, and his input is never taken seriously. Zotul also experiences beatings by his brothers regularly. Even though Zotul experiences this treatment, the brothers still expect him to carry the weight of responsibilities for them, such as meeting with Broderick."
"Where does the story take place? </s>     A Gift From Earth     By MANLY BANISTER     Illustrated by KOSSIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Except for transportation, it was absolutely       free ... but how much would the freight cost?        It is an outrage, said Koltan of the House of Masur, that theEarthmen land among the Thorabians!     Zotul, youngest of the Masur brothers, stirred uneasily. Personally, hewas in favor of the coming of the Earthmen to the world of Zur.     At the head of the long, shining table sat old Kalrab Masur, in hisdotage, but still giving what he could of aid and comfort to thePottery of Masur, even though nobody listened to him any more andhe knew it. Around the table sat the six brothers—Koltan, eldestand Director of the Pottery; Morvan, his vice-chief; Singula, theirtreasurer; Thendro, sales manager; Lubiosa, export chief; and last inthe rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design.     Behold, my sons, said Kalrab, stroking his scanty beard. What arethese Earthmen to worry about? Remember the clay. It is our strengthand our fortune. It is the muscle and bone of our trade. Earthmen maycome and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, thefame and fortune of the House of Masur.     It      is     a damned imposition, agreed Morvan, ignoring his father'sphilosophical attitude. They could have landed just as easily here inLor.     The Thorabians will lick up the gravy, said Singula, whose mind ranrather to matters of financial aspect, and leave us the grease.     By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen,which the Lorians would not. The truth was that all on Zur were pantingto get their hands on that marvelous ship, which was all of metal, avery scarce commodity on Zur, worth billions of ken.  Lubiosa, who had interests in Thorabia, and many agents there, kept hisown counsel. His people were active in the matter and that was enoughfor him. He would report when the time was ripe.     Doubtless, said Zotul unexpectedly, for the youngest at a conferencewas expected to keep his mouth shut and applaud the decisions of hiselders, the Earthmen used all the metal on their planet in buildingthat ship. We cannot possibly bilk them of it; it is their only meansof transport.     Such frank expression of motive was unheard of, even in the secretconclave of conference. Only the speaker's youth could account for it.The speech drew scowls from the brothers and stern rebuke from Koltan.     When your opinion is wanted, we will ask you for it. Meantime,remember your position in the family.     Zotul bowed his head meekly, but he burned with resentment.     Listen to the boy, said the aged father. There is more wisdom in hishead than in all the rest of you. Forget the Earthmen and think only ofthe clay.     Zotul did not appreciate his father's approval, for it only earned hima beating as soon as the old man went to bed. It was a common enoughthing among the brothers Masur, as among everybody, to be frustrated intheir desires. However, they had Zotul to take it out upon, and theydid.     Still smarting, Zotul went back to his designing quarters and thoughtabout the Earthmen. If it was impossible to hope for much in the wayof metal from the Earthmen, what could one get from them? If he couldfigure this problem out, he might rise somewhat in the estimation ofhis brothers. That wouldn't take him out of the rank of scapegoat, ofcourse, but the beatings might become fewer and less severe.  By and by, the Earthmen came to Lor, flying through the air in strangemetal contraptions. They paraded through the tile-paved streets of thecity, marveled here, as they had in Thorabia, at the buildings all oftile inside and out, and made a great show of themselves for all thepeople to see. Speeches were made through interpreters, who had muchtoo quickly learned the tongue of the aliens; hence these left much tobe desired in the way of clarity, though their sincerity was evident.     The Earthmen were going to do great things for the whole world ofZur. It required but the cooperation—an excellent word, that—of allZurians, and many blessings would rain down from the skies. This, ineffect, was what the Earthmen had to say. Zotul felt greatly cheered,for it refuted the attitude of his brothers without earning him awhaling for it.     There was also some talk going around about agreements made betweenthe Earthmen and officials of the Lorian government, but you heard onething one day and another the next. Accurate reporting, much less anewspaper, was unknown on Zur.     Finally, the Earthmen took off in their great, shining ship. Obviously,none had succeeded in chiseling them out of it, if, indeed, any hadtried. The anti-Earthmen Faction—in any culture complex, there isalways an anti faction to protest any movement of endeavor—crowedhappily that the Earthmen were gone for good, and a good thing, too.     Such jubilation proved premature, however. One day, a fleet of shipsarrived and after they had landed all over the planet, Zur waspractically acrawl with Earthmen.     Immediately, the Earthmen established what they calledcorporations—Zurian trading companies under terrestrial control. Theobject of the visit was trade.     In spite of the fact that a terrestrial ship had landed at every Zuriancity of major and minor importance, and all in a single day, it tooksome time for the news to spread.     The first awareness Zotul had was that, upon coming home from thepottery one evening, he found his wife Lania proudly brandishing analuminum pot at him.     What is that thing? he asked curiously.     A pot. I bought it at the market.     Did you now? Well, take it back. Am I made of money that you spend mysubstance for some fool's product of precious metal? Take it back, Isay!  The pretty young wife laughed at him. Up to your ears in clay, nowonder you hear nothing of news! The pot is very cheap. The Earthmenare selling them everywhere. They're much better than our old claypots; they're light and easy to handle and they don't break whendropped.     What good is it? asked Zotul, interested. How will it hold heat,being so light?     The Earthmen don't cook as we do, she explained patiently. There isa paper with each pot that explains how it is used. And you will haveto design a new ceramic stove for me to use the pots on.     Don't be idiotic! Do you suppose Koltan would agree to produce a newtype of stove when the old has sold well for centuries? Besides, why doyou need a whole new stove for one little pot?     A dozen pots. They come in sets and are cheaper that way. And Koltanwill have to produce the new stove because all the housewives arebuying these pots and there will be a big demand for it. The Earthmansaid so.     He did, did he? These pots are only a fad. You will soon enough goback to cooking with your old ones.     The Earthman took them in trade—one reason why the new ones are socheap. There isn't a pot in the house but these metal ones, and youwill have to design and produce a new stove if you expect me to usethem.     After he had beaten his wife thoroughly for her foolishness, Zotulstamped off in a rage and designed a new ceramic stove, one that wouldaccommodate the terrestrial pots very well.     And Koltan put the model into production.     Orders already are pouring in like mad, he said the next day. Itwas wise of you to foresee it and have the design ready. Already, I amsorry for thinking as I did about the Earthmen. They really intend todo well by us.     The kilns of the Pottery of Masur fired day and night to keep up withthe demand for the new porcelain stoves. In three years, more than amillion had been made and sold by the Masurs alone, not counting thehundreds of thousands of copies turned out by competitors in everyland.  In the meantime, however, more things than pots came from Earth.One was a printing press, the like of which none on Zur had everdreamed. This, for some unknown reason and much to the disgust ofthe Lorians, was set up in Thorabia. Books and magazines poured fromit in a fantastic stream. The populace fervidly brushed up on itsscanty reading ability and bought everything available, overcome bythe novelty of it. Even Zotul bought a book—a primer in the Lorianlanguage—and learned how to read and write. The remainder of thebrothers Masur, on the other hand, preferred to remain in ignorance.     Moreover, the Earthmen brought miles of copper wire—more than enoughin value to buy out the governorship of any country on Zur—and set uptelegraph lines from country to country and continent to continent.Within five years of the first landing of the Earthmen, every majorcity on the globe had a printing press, a daily newspaper, and enjoyedthe instantaneous transmission of news via telegraph. And the businessof the House of Masur continued to look up.     As I have always said from the beginning, chortled Director Koltan,this coming of the Earthmen had been a great thing for us, andespecially for the House of Masur.     You didn't think so at first, Zotul pointed out, and was immediatelysorry, for Koltan turned and gave him a hiding, single-handed, for hisunthinkable impertinence.     It would do no good, Zotul realized, to bring up the fact that theirproduction of ceramic cooking pots had dropped off to about two percent of its former volume. Of course, profits on the line of new stovesgreatly overbalanced the loss, so that actually they were ahead; buttheir business was now dependent upon the supply of the metal pots fromEarth.     About this time, plastic utensils—dishes, cups, knives, forks—madetheir appearance on Zur. It became very stylish to eat with thenewfangled paraphernalia ... and very cheap, too, because foreverything they sold, the Earthmen always took the old ware in trade.What they did with the stuff had been hard to believe at first. Theydestroyed it, which proved how valueless it really was.     The result of the new flood was that in the following year, the sale ofMasur ceramic table service dropped to less than a tenth.  Trembling with excitement at this news from their book-keeper, Koltancalled an emergency meeting. He even routed old Kalrab out of hissenile stupor for the occasion, on the off chance that the old manmight still have a little wit left that could be helpful.     Note, Koltan announced in a shaky voice, that the Earthmen undermineour business, and he read off the figures.     Perhaps, said Zotul, it is a good thing also, as you said before,and will result in something even better for us.     Koltan frowned, and Zotul, in fear of another beating, instantlysubsided.     They are replacing our high-quality ceramic ware with inferiorterrestrial junk, Koltan went on bitterly. It is only the glamor thatsells it, of course, but before the people get the shine out of theireyes, we can be ruined.     The brothers discussed the situation for an hour, and all the whileFather Kalrab sat and pulled his scanty whiskers. Seeing that they gotnowhere with their wrangle, he cleared his throat and spoke up.     My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottomof your trouble, but the      things     of Earth. Think of the telegraph andthe newspaper, how these spread news of every shipment from Earth.The merchandise of the Earthmen is put up for sale by means of thesenewspapers, which also are the property of the Earthmen. The people areintrigued by these advertisements, as they are called, and flock tobuy. Now, if you would pull a tooth from the kwi that bites you, youmight also have advertisements of your own.     Alas for that suggestion, no newspaper would accept advertisingfrom the House of Masur; all available space was occupied by theadvertisements of the Earthmen.     In their dozenth conference since that first and fateful one, thebrothers Masur decided upon drastic steps. In the meantime, severalthings had happened. For one, old Kalrab had passed on to his immortalrest, but this made no real difference. For another, the Earthmen hadprocured legal authority to prospect the planet for metals, of whichthey found a good deal, but they told no one on Zur of this. Whatthey did mention was the crude oil and natural gas they discoveredin the underlayers of the planet's crust. Crews of Zurians, workingunder supervision of the Earthmen, laid pipelines from the gas and oilregions to every major and minor city on Zur.  By the time ten years had passed since the landing of the firstterrestrial ship, the Earthmen were conducting a brisk business ingas-fired ranges, furnaces and heaters ... and the Masur stove businesswas gone. Moreover, the Earthmen sold the Zurians their own natural gasat a nice profit and everybody was happy with the situation except thebrothers Masur.     The drastic steps of the brothers applied, therefore, to making anenergetic protest to the governor of Lor.     At one edge of the city, an area had been turned over to the Earthmenfor a spaceport, and the great terrestrial spaceships came to it anddeparted from it at regular intervals. As the heirs of the House ofMasur walked by on their way to see the governor, Zotul observed thatmuch new building was taking place and wondered what it was.     Some new devilment of the Earthmen, you can be sure, said Koltanblackly.     In fact, the Earthmen were building an assembly plant for radioreceiving sets. The ship now standing on its fins upon the apron wasloaded with printed circuits, resistors, variable condensers and otherradio parts. This was Earth's first step toward flooding Zur with thenatural follow-up in its campaign of advertising—radio programs—withcommercials.     Happily for the brothers, they did not understand this at the time orthey would surely have gone back to be buried in their own clay.     I think, the governor told them, that you gentlemen have notpaused to consider the affair from all angles. You must learn to bemodern—keep up with the times! We heads of government on Zur are doingall in our power to aid the Earthmen and facilitate their bringing agreat, new culture that can only benefit us. See how Zur has changed inten short years! Imagine the world of tomorrow! Why, do you know theyare even bringing      autos     to Zur!     The brothers were fascinated with the governor's description of thesehitherto unheard-of vehicles.     It only remains, concluded the governor, to build highways, and theEarthmen are taking care of that.     At any rate, the brothers Masur were still able to console themselvesthat they had their tile business. Tile served well enough for housesand street surfacing; what better material could be devised for the newhighways the governor spoke of? There was a lot of money to be madeyet.  Radio stations went up all over Zur and began broadcasting. The peoplebought receiving sets like mad. The automobiles arrived and highwayswere constructed.     The last hope of the brothers was dashed. The Earthmen set up plantsand began to manufacture Portland cement.     You could build a house of concrete much cheaper than with tile. Ofcourse, since wood was scarce on Zur, it was no competition for eithertile or concrete. Concrete floors were smoother, too, and the stuffmade far better road surfacing.     The demand for Masur tile hit rock bottom.     The next time the brothers went to see the governor, he said, I cannothandle such complaints as yours. I must refer you to the MerchandisingCouncil.     What is that? asked Koltan.     It is an Earthman association that deals with complaints such asyours. In the matter of material progress, we must expect some strainin the fabric of our culture. Machinery has been set up to deal withit. Here is their address; go air your troubles to them.     The business of a formal complaint was turned over by the brothers toZotul. It took three weeks for the Earthmen to get around to callinghim in, as a representative of the Pottery of Masur, for an interview.     All the brothers could no longer be spared from the plant, even for thepurpose of pressing a complaint. Their days of idle wealth over, theyhad to get in and work with the clay with the rest of the help.     Zotul found the headquarters of the Merchandising Council as indicatedon their message. He had not been this way in some time, but was notsurprised to find that a number of old buildings had been torn down tomake room for the concrete Council House and a roomy parking lot, pavedwith something called blacktop and jammed with an array of glitteringnew automobiles.     An automobile was an expense none of the brothers could afford, nowthat they barely eked a living from the pottery. Still, Zotul achedwith desire at sight of so many shiny cars. Only a few had them andthey were the envied ones of Zur.     Kent Broderick, the Earthman in charge of the Council, shook handsjovially with Zotul. That alien custom conformed with, Zotul took abetter look at his host. Broderick was an affable, smiling individualwith genial laugh wrinkles at his eyes. A man of middle age, dressed inthe baggy costume of Zur, he looked almost like a Zurian, except foran indefinite sense of alienness about him.     Glad to have you call on us, Mr. Masur, boomed the Earthman, clappingZotul on the back. Just tell us your troubles and we'll have youstraightened out in no time.  All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for thisoccasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner.     Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had beenmade upon the business of the Pottery of Masur.     Once, he said formally, the Masur fortune was the greatest inthe world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous KalrabMasur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greaterreward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh andbones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how proneis the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, andall because of new things coming from Earth.     Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. Why didn't you cometo me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has,we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always todo right by the customer.     Divinity witness, Zorin said, that we ask only compensation fordamages.     Broderick shook his head. It is not possible to replace an immensefortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported yourtrouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Doyou own an automobile?     No.     A gas range? A gas-fired furnace? A radio?     Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. My wife Lania likesthe music, he explained. I cannot afford the other things.     Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford thebargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed.     To begin with, he said, I am going to make you a gift of all theseluxuries you do not have. As Zotul made to protest, he cut him offwith a wave of his hand. It is the least we can do for you. Pick a carfrom the lot outside. I will arrange to have the other things deliveredand installed in your home.     To receive gifts, said Zotul, incurs an obligation.     None at all, beamed the Earthman cheerily. Every item is given toyou absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask isthat you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not tomake profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout theGalaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working outthe full program takes time.     He chuckled deeply. We of Earth have a saying about one of ourextremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise,but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with themotto, 'Better times with better merchandise.'  The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, itwas no more than fair to pay transportation.     He said, How much does the freight cost?     Broderick told him.     It may seem high, said the Earthman, but remember that Earth issixty-odd light-years away. After all, we are absorbing the cost of themerchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, consideringthe cost of operating an interstellar spaceship.     Impossible, said Zotul drably. Not I and all my brothers togetherhave so much money any more.     You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer youcredit!     What is that? asked Zotul skeptically.     It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of therich, said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of theinvolutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles thatmight have had a discouraging effect.     On a world where credit was a totally new concept, it was enchanting.Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. What must I doto get credit?     Just sign this paper, said Broderick, and you become part of ourEasy Payment Plan.     Zotul drew back. I have five brothers. If I took all these things formyself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue.     Here. Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. Have eachof your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That isall there is to it.     It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotulwrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won.     I will talk it over with them, he said. Give me the total so I willhave the figures.     The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotulpointed this out politely.     Interest, Broderick explained. A mere fifteen per cent. After all,you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to bepaid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight.This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble.     I see. Zotul puzzled over it sadly. It is too much, he said. Ourplant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments.     I have a surprise for you, smiled Broderick. Here is a contract. Youwill start making ceramic parts for automobile spark plugs and certainparts for radios and gas ranges. It is our policy to encourage localmanufacture to help bring prices down.     We haven't the equipment.     We will equip your plant, beamed Broderick. It will require onlya quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrialcompany.  Zotul, anxious to possess the treasures promised by the Earthman,won over his brothers. They signed with marks and gave up a quarterinterest in the Pottery of Masur. They rolled in the luxuries of Earth.These, who had never known debt before, were in it up to their ears.     The retooled plant forged ahead and profits began to look up, but theEarthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry.     For a year, the brothers drove their shiny new cars about on thenew concrete highways the Earthmen had built. From pumps owned by aterrestrial company, they bought gas and oil that had been drawn fromthe crust of Zur and was sold to the Zurians at a magnificent profit.The food they ate was cooked in Earthly pots on Earth-type gas ranges,served up on metal plates that had been stamped out on Earth. In thewinter, they toasted their shins before handsome gas grates, thoughthey had gas-fired central heating.     About this time, the ships from Earth brought steam-powered electricgenerators. Lines went up, power was generated, and a flood ofelectrical gadgets and appliances hit the market. For some reason,batteries for the radios were no longer available and everybody had tobuy the new radios. And who could do without a radio in this modern age?     The homes of the brothers Masur blossomed on the Easy Payment Plan.They had refrigerators, washers, driers, toasters, grills, electricfans, air-conditioning equipment and everything else Earth couldpossibly sell them.     We will be forty years paying it all off, exulted Zotul, butmeantime we have the things and aren't they worth it?     But at the end of three years, the Earthmen dropped their option.The Pottery of Masur had no more contracts. Business languished. TheEarthmen, explained Broderick, had built a plant of their own becauseit was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth'sunswerving policy, greater and greater efficiency was demanded.Broderick was very sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do.     The introduction of television provided a further calamity. The setswere delicate and needed frequent repairs, hence were costly to own andmaintain. But all Zurians who had to keep up with the latest from Earthhad them. Now it was possible not only to hear about things of Earth,but to see them as they were broadcast from the video tapes.     The printing plants that turned out mortgage contracts did a lushbusiness.  For the common people of Zur, times were good everywhere. In a decadeand a half, the Earthmen had wrought magnificent changes on thisbackward world. As Broderick had said, the progress of the tortoise wasslow, but it was extremely sure.     The brothers Masur got along in spite of dropped options. They had lessmoney and felt the pinch of their debts more keenly, but televisionkept their wives and children amused and furnished an anodyne for thepangs of impoverishment.     The pottery income dropped to an impossible low, no matter how Zotuldesigned and the brothers produced. Their figurines and religious ikonswere a drug on the market. The Earthmen made them of plastic and soldthem for less.     The brothers, unable to meet the Payments that were not so Easy anymore, looked up Zotul and cuffed him around reproachfully.     You got us into this, they said, emphasizing their bitterness withfists. Go see Broderick. Tell him we are undone and must have somecontracts to continue operating.     Nursing bruises, Zotul unhappily went to the Council House again. Mr.Broderick was no longer with them, a suave assistant informed him.Would he like to see Mr. Siwicki instead? Zotul would.     Siwicki was tall, thin, dark and somber-looking. There was even a hintof toughness about the set of his jaw and the hardness of his glance.     So you can't pay, he said, tapping his teeth with a pencil. Helooked at Zotul coldly. It is well you have come to us instead ofmaking it necessary for us to approach you through the courts.     I don't know what you mean, said Zotul.     If we have to sue, we take back the merchandise and everythingattached to them. That means you would lose your houses, for they areattached to the furnaces. However, it is not as bad as that—yet. Wewill only require you to assign the remaining three-quarters of yourpottery to us.     The brothers, when they heard of this, were too stunned to think ofbeating Zotul, by which he assumed he had progressed a little and wassomewhat comforted.     To fail, said Koltan soberly, is not a Masur attribute. Go to thegovernor and tell him what we think of this business. The House ofMasur has long supported the government with heavy taxes. Now it istime for the government to do something for us.  The governor's palace was jammed with hurrying people, a scene ofconfusion that upset Zotul. The clerk who took his application foran interview was, he noticed only vaguely, a young Earthwoman. Itwas remarkable that he paid so little attention, for the femaleterrestrials were picked for physical assets that made Zurian mencovetous and Zurian women envious.     The governor will see you, she said sweetly. He has been expectingyou.     Me? marveled Zotul.     She ushered him into the magnificent private office of the governorof Lor. The man behind the desk stood up, extended his hand with afriendly smile.     Come in, come in! I'm glad to see you again.     Zotul stared blankly. This was not the governor. This was Broderick,the Earthman.     I—I came to see the governor, he said in confusion.     Broderick nodded agreeably. I am the governor and I am well acquaintedwith your case, Mr. Masur. Shall we talk it over? Please sit down.     I don't understand. The Earthmen.... Zotul paused, coloring. We areabout to lose our plant.     You were about to say that the Earthmen are taking your plant awayfrom you. That is true. Since the House of Masur was the largest andrichest on Zur, it has taken a long time—the longest of all, in fact.     What do you mean?     Yours is the last business on Zur to be taken over by us. We havebought you out.     Our government....     Your governments belong to us, too, said Broderick. When they couldnot pay for the roads, the telegraphs, the civic improvements, we tookthem over, just as we are taking you over.     You mean, exclaimed Zotul, aghast, that you Earthmen own everythingon Zur?     Even your armies.     But      why     ?  Broderick clasped his hands behind back, went to the window and stareddown moodily into the street.     You don't know what an overcrowded world is like, he said. A streetlike this, with so few people and vehicles on it, would be impossibleon Earth.     But it's mobbed, protested Zotul. It gave me a headache.     And to us it's almost empty. The pressure of population on Earth hasmade us range the Galaxy for places to put our extra people. The onlyhabitable planets, unfortunately, are populated ones. We take the leastpopulous worlds and—well, buy them out and move in.     And after that?     Broderick smiled gently. Zur will grow. Our people will intermarrywith yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zuriansnor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both.     Zotul sat in silent thought. But you did not have to buy us out. Youhad the power to conquer us, even to destroy us. The whole planet couldhave been yours alone. He stopped in alarm. Or am I suggesting anidea that didn't occur to you?     No, said Broderick, his usually smiling face almost pained withmemory. We know the history of conquest all too well. Our methodcauses more distress than we like to inflict, but it's better—and moresure—than war and invasion by force. Now that the unpleasant job isfinished, we can repair the dislocations.     At last I understand what you said about the tortoise.     Slow but sure. Broderick beamed again and clapped Zotul on theshoulder. Don't worry. You'll have your job back, the same as always,but you'll be working for us ... until the children of Earth and Zurare equal in knowledge and therefore equal partners. That's why we hadto break down your caste system.     Zotul's eyes widened. And that is why my brothers did not beat me whenI failed!     Of course. Are you ready now to take the assignment papers for you andyour brothers to sign?     Yes, said Zotul. I am ready.   ","The story takes place in Zur, a region within Lor, on a foreign planet. There is a neighboring region, Thorabia, often seen as a rival. Zur is initially a mellow city, made of clay and tile. However, once Earth begins overtaking Zur, the city becomes more crowded and filled with large, corporate buildings, made of cement and metal. Much of the story occurs within the office of the Masur family business, as well as the governor's building, and the office of the Merchandising Council."
"How are the Earthmen able to expand on Zur? </s>     A Gift From Earth     By MANLY BANISTER     Illustrated by KOSSIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Except for transportation, it was absolutely       free ... but how much would the freight cost?        It is an outrage, said Koltan of the House of Masur, that theEarthmen land among the Thorabians!     Zotul, youngest of the Masur brothers, stirred uneasily. Personally, hewas in favor of the coming of the Earthmen to the world of Zur.     At the head of the long, shining table sat old Kalrab Masur, in hisdotage, but still giving what he could of aid and comfort to thePottery of Masur, even though nobody listened to him any more andhe knew it. Around the table sat the six brothers—Koltan, eldestand Director of the Pottery; Morvan, his vice-chief; Singula, theirtreasurer; Thendro, sales manager; Lubiosa, export chief; and last inthe rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design.     Behold, my sons, said Kalrab, stroking his scanty beard. What arethese Earthmen to worry about? Remember the clay. It is our strengthand our fortune. It is the muscle and bone of our trade. Earthmen maycome and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, thefame and fortune of the House of Masur.     It      is     a damned imposition, agreed Morvan, ignoring his father'sphilosophical attitude. They could have landed just as easily here inLor.     The Thorabians will lick up the gravy, said Singula, whose mind ranrather to matters of financial aspect, and leave us the grease.     By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen,which the Lorians would not. The truth was that all on Zur were pantingto get their hands on that marvelous ship, which was all of metal, avery scarce commodity on Zur, worth billions of ken.  Lubiosa, who had interests in Thorabia, and many agents there, kept hisown counsel. His people were active in the matter and that was enoughfor him. He would report when the time was ripe.     Doubtless, said Zotul unexpectedly, for the youngest at a conferencewas expected to keep his mouth shut and applaud the decisions of hiselders, the Earthmen used all the metal on their planet in buildingthat ship. We cannot possibly bilk them of it; it is their only meansof transport.     Such frank expression of motive was unheard of, even in the secretconclave of conference. Only the speaker's youth could account for it.The speech drew scowls from the brothers and stern rebuke from Koltan.     When your opinion is wanted, we will ask you for it. Meantime,remember your position in the family.     Zotul bowed his head meekly, but he burned with resentment.     Listen to the boy, said the aged father. There is more wisdom in hishead than in all the rest of you. Forget the Earthmen and think only ofthe clay.     Zotul did not appreciate his father's approval, for it only earned hima beating as soon as the old man went to bed. It was a common enoughthing among the brothers Masur, as among everybody, to be frustrated intheir desires. However, they had Zotul to take it out upon, and theydid.     Still smarting, Zotul went back to his designing quarters and thoughtabout the Earthmen. If it was impossible to hope for much in the wayof metal from the Earthmen, what could one get from them? If he couldfigure this problem out, he might rise somewhat in the estimation ofhis brothers. That wouldn't take him out of the rank of scapegoat, ofcourse, but the beatings might become fewer and less severe.  By and by, the Earthmen came to Lor, flying through the air in strangemetal contraptions. They paraded through the tile-paved streets of thecity, marveled here, as they had in Thorabia, at the buildings all oftile inside and out, and made a great show of themselves for all thepeople to see. Speeches were made through interpreters, who had muchtoo quickly learned the tongue of the aliens; hence these left much tobe desired in the way of clarity, though their sincerity was evident.     The Earthmen were going to do great things for the whole world ofZur. It required but the cooperation—an excellent word, that—of allZurians, and many blessings would rain down from the skies. This, ineffect, was what the Earthmen had to say. Zotul felt greatly cheered,for it refuted the attitude of his brothers without earning him awhaling for it.     There was also some talk going around about agreements made betweenthe Earthmen and officials of the Lorian government, but you heard onething one day and another the next. Accurate reporting, much less anewspaper, was unknown on Zur.     Finally, the Earthmen took off in their great, shining ship. Obviously,none had succeeded in chiseling them out of it, if, indeed, any hadtried. The anti-Earthmen Faction—in any culture complex, there isalways an anti faction to protest any movement of endeavor—crowedhappily that the Earthmen were gone for good, and a good thing, too.     Such jubilation proved premature, however. One day, a fleet of shipsarrived and after they had landed all over the planet, Zur waspractically acrawl with Earthmen.     Immediately, the Earthmen established what they calledcorporations—Zurian trading companies under terrestrial control. Theobject of the visit was trade.     In spite of the fact that a terrestrial ship had landed at every Zuriancity of major and minor importance, and all in a single day, it tooksome time for the news to spread.     The first awareness Zotul had was that, upon coming home from thepottery one evening, he found his wife Lania proudly brandishing analuminum pot at him.     What is that thing? he asked curiously.     A pot. I bought it at the market.     Did you now? Well, take it back. Am I made of money that you spend mysubstance for some fool's product of precious metal? Take it back, Isay!  The pretty young wife laughed at him. Up to your ears in clay, nowonder you hear nothing of news! The pot is very cheap. The Earthmenare selling them everywhere. They're much better than our old claypots; they're light and easy to handle and they don't break whendropped.     What good is it? asked Zotul, interested. How will it hold heat,being so light?     The Earthmen don't cook as we do, she explained patiently. There isa paper with each pot that explains how it is used. And you will haveto design a new ceramic stove for me to use the pots on.     Don't be idiotic! Do you suppose Koltan would agree to produce a newtype of stove when the old has sold well for centuries? Besides, why doyou need a whole new stove for one little pot?     A dozen pots. They come in sets and are cheaper that way. And Koltanwill have to produce the new stove because all the housewives arebuying these pots and there will be a big demand for it. The Earthmansaid so.     He did, did he? These pots are only a fad. You will soon enough goback to cooking with your old ones.     The Earthman took them in trade—one reason why the new ones are socheap. There isn't a pot in the house but these metal ones, and youwill have to design and produce a new stove if you expect me to usethem.     After he had beaten his wife thoroughly for her foolishness, Zotulstamped off in a rage and designed a new ceramic stove, one that wouldaccommodate the terrestrial pots very well.     And Koltan put the model into production.     Orders already are pouring in like mad, he said the next day. Itwas wise of you to foresee it and have the design ready. Already, I amsorry for thinking as I did about the Earthmen. They really intend todo well by us.     The kilns of the Pottery of Masur fired day and night to keep up withthe demand for the new porcelain stoves. In three years, more than amillion had been made and sold by the Masurs alone, not counting thehundreds of thousands of copies turned out by competitors in everyland.  In the meantime, however, more things than pots came from Earth.One was a printing press, the like of which none on Zur had everdreamed. This, for some unknown reason and much to the disgust ofthe Lorians, was set up in Thorabia. Books and magazines poured fromit in a fantastic stream. The populace fervidly brushed up on itsscanty reading ability and bought everything available, overcome bythe novelty of it. Even Zotul bought a book—a primer in the Lorianlanguage—and learned how to read and write. The remainder of thebrothers Masur, on the other hand, preferred to remain in ignorance.     Moreover, the Earthmen brought miles of copper wire—more than enoughin value to buy out the governorship of any country on Zur—and set uptelegraph lines from country to country and continent to continent.Within five years of the first landing of the Earthmen, every majorcity on the globe had a printing press, a daily newspaper, and enjoyedthe instantaneous transmission of news via telegraph. And the businessof the House of Masur continued to look up.     As I have always said from the beginning, chortled Director Koltan,this coming of the Earthmen had been a great thing for us, andespecially for the House of Masur.     You didn't think so at first, Zotul pointed out, and was immediatelysorry, for Koltan turned and gave him a hiding, single-handed, for hisunthinkable impertinence.     It would do no good, Zotul realized, to bring up the fact that theirproduction of ceramic cooking pots had dropped off to about two percent of its former volume. Of course, profits on the line of new stovesgreatly overbalanced the loss, so that actually they were ahead; buttheir business was now dependent upon the supply of the metal pots fromEarth.     About this time, plastic utensils—dishes, cups, knives, forks—madetheir appearance on Zur. It became very stylish to eat with thenewfangled paraphernalia ... and very cheap, too, because foreverything they sold, the Earthmen always took the old ware in trade.What they did with the stuff had been hard to believe at first. Theydestroyed it, which proved how valueless it really was.     The result of the new flood was that in the following year, the sale ofMasur ceramic table service dropped to less than a tenth.  Trembling with excitement at this news from their book-keeper, Koltancalled an emergency meeting. He even routed old Kalrab out of hissenile stupor for the occasion, on the off chance that the old manmight still have a little wit left that could be helpful.     Note, Koltan announced in a shaky voice, that the Earthmen undermineour business, and he read off the figures.     Perhaps, said Zotul, it is a good thing also, as you said before,and will result in something even better for us.     Koltan frowned, and Zotul, in fear of another beating, instantlysubsided.     They are replacing our high-quality ceramic ware with inferiorterrestrial junk, Koltan went on bitterly. It is only the glamor thatsells it, of course, but before the people get the shine out of theireyes, we can be ruined.     The brothers discussed the situation for an hour, and all the whileFather Kalrab sat and pulled his scanty whiskers. Seeing that they gotnowhere with their wrangle, he cleared his throat and spoke up.     My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottomof your trouble, but the      things     of Earth. Think of the telegraph andthe newspaper, how these spread news of every shipment from Earth.The merchandise of the Earthmen is put up for sale by means of thesenewspapers, which also are the property of the Earthmen. The people areintrigued by these advertisements, as they are called, and flock tobuy. Now, if you would pull a tooth from the kwi that bites you, youmight also have advertisements of your own.     Alas for that suggestion, no newspaper would accept advertisingfrom the House of Masur; all available space was occupied by theadvertisements of the Earthmen.     In their dozenth conference since that first and fateful one, thebrothers Masur decided upon drastic steps. In the meantime, severalthings had happened. For one, old Kalrab had passed on to his immortalrest, but this made no real difference. For another, the Earthmen hadprocured legal authority to prospect the planet for metals, of whichthey found a good deal, but they told no one on Zur of this. Whatthey did mention was the crude oil and natural gas they discoveredin the underlayers of the planet's crust. Crews of Zurians, workingunder supervision of the Earthmen, laid pipelines from the gas and oilregions to every major and minor city on Zur.  By the time ten years had passed since the landing of the firstterrestrial ship, the Earthmen were conducting a brisk business ingas-fired ranges, furnaces and heaters ... and the Masur stove businesswas gone. Moreover, the Earthmen sold the Zurians their own natural gasat a nice profit and everybody was happy with the situation except thebrothers Masur.     The drastic steps of the brothers applied, therefore, to making anenergetic protest to the governor of Lor.     At one edge of the city, an area had been turned over to the Earthmenfor a spaceport, and the great terrestrial spaceships came to it anddeparted from it at regular intervals. As the heirs of the House ofMasur walked by on their way to see the governor, Zotul observed thatmuch new building was taking place and wondered what it was.     Some new devilment of the Earthmen, you can be sure, said Koltanblackly.     In fact, the Earthmen were building an assembly plant for radioreceiving sets. The ship now standing on its fins upon the apron wasloaded with printed circuits, resistors, variable condensers and otherradio parts. This was Earth's first step toward flooding Zur with thenatural follow-up in its campaign of advertising—radio programs—withcommercials.     Happily for the brothers, they did not understand this at the time orthey would surely have gone back to be buried in their own clay.     I think, the governor told them, that you gentlemen have notpaused to consider the affair from all angles. You must learn to bemodern—keep up with the times! We heads of government on Zur are doingall in our power to aid the Earthmen and facilitate their bringing agreat, new culture that can only benefit us. See how Zur has changed inten short years! Imagine the world of tomorrow! Why, do you know theyare even bringing      autos     to Zur!     The brothers were fascinated with the governor's description of thesehitherto unheard-of vehicles.     It only remains, concluded the governor, to build highways, and theEarthmen are taking care of that.     At any rate, the brothers Masur were still able to console themselvesthat they had their tile business. Tile served well enough for housesand street surfacing; what better material could be devised for the newhighways the governor spoke of? There was a lot of money to be madeyet.  Radio stations went up all over Zur and began broadcasting. The peoplebought receiving sets like mad. The automobiles arrived and highwayswere constructed.     The last hope of the brothers was dashed. The Earthmen set up plantsand began to manufacture Portland cement.     You could build a house of concrete much cheaper than with tile. Ofcourse, since wood was scarce on Zur, it was no competition for eithertile or concrete. Concrete floors were smoother, too, and the stuffmade far better road surfacing.     The demand for Masur tile hit rock bottom.     The next time the brothers went to see the governor, he said, I cannothandle such complaints as yours. I must refer you to the MerchandisingCouncil.     What is that? asked Koltan.     It is an Earthman association that deals with complaints such asyours. In the matter of material progress, we must expect some strainin the fabric of our culture. Machinery has been set up to deal withit. Here is their address; go air your troubles to them.     The business of a formal complaint was turned over by the brothers toZotul. It took three weeks for the Earthmen to get around to callinghim in, as a representative of the Pottery of Masur, for an interview.     All the brothers could no longer be spared from the plant, even for thepurpose of pressing a complaint. Their days of idle wealth over, theyhad to get in and work with the clay with the rest of the help.     Zotul found the headquarters of the Merchandising Council as indicatedon their message. He had not been this way in some time, but was notsurprised to find that a number of old buildings had been torn down tomake room for the concrete Council House and a roomy parking lot, pavedwith something called blacktop and jammed with an array of glitteringnew automobiles.     An automobile was an expense none of the brothers could afford, nowthat they barely eked a living from the pottery. Still, Zotul achedwith desire at sight of so many shiny cars. Only a few had them andthey were the envied ones of Zur.     Kent Broderick, the Earthman in charge of the Council, shook handsjovially with Zotul. That alien custom conformed with, Zotul took abetter look at his host. Broderick was an affable, smiling individualwith genial laugh wrinkles at his eyes. A man of middle age, dressed inthe baggy costume of Zur, he looked almost like a Zurian, except foran indefinite sense of alienness about him.     Glad to have you call on us, Mr. Masur, boomed the Earthman, clappingZotul on the back. Just tell us your troubles and we'll have youstraightened out in no time.  All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for thisoccasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner.     Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had beenmade upon the business of the Pottery of Masur.     Once, he said formally, the Masur fortune was the greatest inthe world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous KalrabMasur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greaterreward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh andbones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how proneis the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, andall because of new things coming from Earth.     Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. Why didn't you cometo me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has,we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always todo right by the customer.     Divinity witness, Zorin said, that we ask only compensation fordamages.     Broderick shook his head. It is not possible to replace an immensefortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported yourtrouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Doyou own an automobile?     No.     A gas range? A gas-fired furnace? A radio?     Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. My wife Lania likesthe music, he explained. I cannot afford the other things.     Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford thebargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed.     To begin with, he said, I am going to make you a gift of all theseluxuries you do not have. As Zotul made to protest, he cut him offwith a wave of his hand. It is the least we can do for you. Pick a carfrom the lot outside. I will arrange to have the other things deliveredand installed in your home.     To receive gifts, said Zotul, incurs an obligation.     None at all, beamed the Earthman cheerily. Every item is given toyou absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask isthat you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not tomake profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout theGalaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working outthe full program takes time.     He chuckled deeply. We of Earth have a saying about one of ourextremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise,but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with themotto, 'Better times with better merchandise.'  The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, itwas no more than fair to pay transportation.     He said, How much does the freight cost?     Broderick told him.     It may seem high, said the Earthman, but remember that Earth issixty-odd light-years away. After all, we are absorbing the cost of themerchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, consideringthe cost of operating an interstellar spaceship.     Impossible, said Zotul drably. Not I and all my brothers togetherhave so much money any more.     You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer youcredit!     What is that? asked Zotul skeptically.     It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of therich, said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of theinvolutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles thatmight have had a discouraging effect.     On a world where credit was a totally new concept, it was enchanting.Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. What must I doto get credit?     Just sign this paper, said Broderick, and you become part of ourEasy Payment Plan.     Zotul drew back. I have five brothers. If I took all these things formyself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue.     Here. Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. Have eachof your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That isall there is to it.     It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotulwrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won.     I will talk it over with them, he said. Give me the total so I willhave the figures.     The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotulpointed this out politely.     Interest, Broderick explained. A mere fifteen per cent. After all,you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to bepaid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight.This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble.     I see. Zotul puzzled over it sadly. It is too much, he said. Ourplant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments.     I have a surprise for you, smiled Broderick. Here is a contract. Youwill start making ceramic parts for automobile spark plugs and certainparts for radios and gas ranges. It is our policy to encourage localmanufacture to help bring prices down.     We haven't the equipment.     We will equip your plant, beamed Broderick. It will require onlya quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrialcompany.  Zotul, anxious to possess the treasures promised by the Earthman,won over his brothers. They signed with marks and gave up a quarterinterest in the Pottery of Masur. They rolled in the luxuries of Earth.These, who had never known debt before, were in it up to their ears.     The retooled plant forged ahead and profits began to look up, but theEarthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry.     For a year, the brothers drove their shiny new cars about on thenew concrete highways the Earthmen had built. From pumps owned by aterrestrial company, they bought gas and oil that had been drawn fromthe crust of Zur and was sold to the Zurians at a magnificent profit.The food they ate was cooked in Earthly pots on Earth-type gas ranges,served up on metal plates that had been stamped out on Earth. In thewinter, they toasted their shins before handsome gas grates, thoughthey had gas-fired central heating.     About this time, the ships from Earth brought steam-powered electricgenerators. Lines went up, power was generated, and a flood ofelectrical gadgets and appliances hit the market. For some reason,batteries for the radios were no longer available and everybody had tobuy the new radios. And who could do without a radio in this modern age?     The homes of the brothers Masur blossomed on the Easy Payment Plan.They had refrigerators, washers, driers, toasters, grills, electricfans, air-conditioning equipment and everything else Earth couldpossibly sell them.     We will be forty years paying it all off, exulted Zotul, butmeantime we have the things and aren't they worth it?     But at the end of three years, the Earthmen dropped their option.The Pottery of Masur had no more contracts. Business languished. TheEarthmen, explained Broderick, had built a plant of their own becauseit was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth'sunswerving policy, greater and greater efficiency was demanded.Broderick was very sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do.     The introduction of television provided a further calamity. The setswere delicate and needed frequent repairs, hence were costly to own andmaintain. But all Zurians who had to keep up with the latest from Earthhad them. Now it was possible not only to hear about things of Earth,but to see them as they were broadcast from the video tapes.     The printing plants that turned out mortgage contracts did a lushbusiness.  For the common people of Zur, times were good everywhere. In a decadeand a half, the Earthmen had wrought magnificent changes on thisbackward world. As Broderick had said, the progress of the tortoise wasslow, but it was extremely sure.     The brothers Masur got along in spite of dropped options. They had lessmoney and felt the pinch of their debts more keenly, but televisionkept their wives and children amused and furnished an anodyne for thepangs of impoverishment.     The pottery income dropped to an impossible low, no matter how Zotuldesigned and the brothers produced. Their figurines and religious ikonswere a drug on the market. The Earthmen made them of plastic and soldthem for less.     The brothers, unable to meet the Payments that were not so Easy anymore, looked up Zotul and cuffed him around reproachfully.     You got us into this, they said, emphasizing their bitterness withfists. Go see Broderick. Tell him we are undone and must have somecontracts to continue operating.     Nursing bruises, Zotul unhappily went to the Council House again. Mr.Broderick was no longer with them, a suave assistant informed him.Would he like to see Mr. Siwicki instead? Zotul would.     Siwicki was tall, thin, dark and somber-looking. There was even a hintof toughness about the set of his jaw and the hardness of his glance.     So you can't pay, he said, tapping his teeth with a pencil. Helooked at Zotul coldly. It is well you have come to us instead ofmaking it necessary for us to approach you through the courts.     I don't know what you mean, said Zotul.     If we have to sue, we take back the merchandise and everythingattached to them. That means you would lose your houses, for they areattached to the furnaces. However, it is not as bad as that—yet. Wewill only require you to assign the remaining three-quarters of yourpottery to us.     The brothers, when they heard of this, were too stunned to think ofbeating Zotul, by which he assumed he had progressed a little and wassomewhat comforted.     To fail, said Koltan soberly, is not a Masur attribute. Go to thegovernor and tell him what we think of this business. The House ofMasur has long supported the government with heavy taxes. Now it istime for the government to do something for us.  The governor's palace was jammed with hurrying people, a scene ofconfusion that upset Zotul. The clerk who took his application foran interview was, he noticed only vaguely, a young Earthwoman. Itwas remarkable that he paid so little attention, for the femaleterrestrials were picked for physical assets that made Zurian mencovetous and Zurian women envious.     The governor will see you, she said sweetly. He has been expectingyou.     Me? marveled Zotul.     She ushered him into the magnificent private office of the governorof Lor. The man behind the desk stood up, extended his hand with afriendly smile.     Come in, come in! I'm glad to see you again.     Zotul stared blankly. This was not the governor. This was Broderick,the Earthman.     I—I came to see the governor, he said in confusion.     Broderick nodded agreeably. I am the governor and I am well acquaintedwith your case, Mr. Masur. Shall we talk it over? Please sit down.     I don't understand. The Earthmen.... Zotul paused, coloring. We areabout to lose our plant.     You were about to say that the Earthmen are taking your plant awayfrom you. That is true. Since the House of Masur was the largest andrichest on Zur, it has taken a long time—the longest of all, in fact.     What do you mean?     Yours is the last business on Zur to be taken over by us. We havebought you out.     Our government....     Your governments belong to us, too, said Broderick. When they couldnot pay for the roads, the telegraphs, the civic improvements, we tookthem over, just as we are taking you over.     You mean, exclaimed Zotul, aghast, that you Earthmen own everythingon Zur?     Even your armies.     But      why     ?  Broderick clasped his hands behind back, went to the window and stareddown moodily into the street.     You don't know what an overcrowded world is like, he said. A streetlike this, with so few people and vehicles on it, would be impossibleon Earth.     But it's mobbed, protested Zotul. It gave me a headache.     And to us it's almost empty. The pressure of population on Earth hasmade us range the Galaxy for places to put our extra people. The onlyhabitable planets, unfortunately, are populated ones. We take the leastpopulous worlds and—well, buy them out and move in.     And after that?     Broderick smiled gently. Zur will grow. Our people will intermarrywith yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zuriansnor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both.     Zotul sat in silent thought. But you did not have to buy us out. Youhad the power to conquer us, even to destroy us. The whole planet couldhave been yours alone. He stopped in alarm. Or am I suggesting anidea that didn't occur to you?     No, said Broderick, his usually smiling face almost pained withmemory. We know the history of conquest all too well. Our methodcauses more distress than we like to inflict, but it's better—and moresure—than war and invasion by force. Now that the unpleasant job isfinished, we can repair the dislocations.     At last I understand what you said about the tortoise.     Slow but sure. Broderick beamed again and clapped Zotul on theshoulder. Don't worry. You'll have your job back, the same as always,but you'll be working for us ... until the children of Earth and Zurare equal in knowledge and therefore equal partners. That's why we hadto break down your caste system.     Zotul's eyes widened. And that is why my brothers did not beat me whenI failed!     Of course. Are you ready now to take the assignment papers for you andyour brothers to sign?     Yes, said Zotul. I am ready.   ","The Earthmen first visit Zur as a small group, exploring the city and giving speeches declaring future prosperity for Zur. They return shortly after with more people, and establish corporations and a trade business. The Earthmen begin with small products, metal pots, but other businesses soon have to accommodate to Earth's goods. Earth quickly earns profit, with many Zurian businesses dependent on their production. They begin establishing more advanced forms of technology, such as printing, radio, and automobiles. The people of Zur are fascinated, and business booms even more. Eventually, Zur is completely remodeled with Earth products and services, driving other businesses to failure and resulting in the overtaking of the city."
"What happens to Broderick in the story? </s>     A Gift From Earth     By MANLY BANISTER     Illustrated by KOSSIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1955.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         Except for transportation, it was absolutely       free ... but how much would the freight cost?        It is an outrage, said Koltan of the House of Masur, that theEarthmen land among the Thorabians!     Zotul, youngest of the Masur brothers, stirred uneasily. Personally, hewas in favor of the coming of the Earthmen to the world of Zur.     At the head of the long, shining table sat old Kalrab Masur, in hisdotage, but still giving what he could of aid and comfort to thePottery of Masur, even though nobody listened to him any more andhe knew it. Around the table sat the six brothers—Koltan, eldestand Director of the Pottery; Morvan, his vice-chief; Singula, theirtreasurer; Thendro, sales manager; Lubiosa, export chief; and last inthe rank of age, Zotul, who was responsible for affairs of design.     Behold, my sons, said Kalrab, stroking his scanty beard. What arethese Earthmen to worry about? Remember the clay. It is our strengthand our fortune. It is the muscle and bone of our trade. Earthmen maycome and Earthmen may go, but clay goes on forever ... and with it, thefame and fortune of the House of Masur.     It      is     a damned imposition, agreed Morvan, ignoring his father'sphilosophical attitude. They could have landed just as easily here inLor.     The Thorabians will lick up the gravy, said Singula, whose mind ranrather to matters of financial aspect, and leave us the grease.     By this, he seemed to imply that the Thorabians would rob the Earthmen,which the Lorians would not. The truth was that all on Zur were pantingto get their hands on that marvelous ship, which was all of metal, avery scarce commodity on Zur, worth billions of ken.  Lubiosa, who had interests in Thorabia, and many agents there, kept hisown counsel. His people were active in the matter and that was enoughfor him. He would report when the time was ripe.     Doubtless, said Zotul unexpectedly, for the youngest at a conferencewas expected to keep his mouth shut and applaud the decisions of hiselders, the Earthmen used all the metal on their planet in buildingthat ship. We cannot possibly bilk them of it; it is their only meansof transport.     Such frank expression of motive was unheard of, even in the secretconclave of conference. Only the speaker's youth could account for it.The speech drew scowls from the brothers and stern rebuke from Koltan.     When your opinion is wanted, we will ask you for it. Meantime,remember your position in the family.     Zotul bowed his head meekly, but he burned with resentment.     Listen to the boy, said the aged father. There is more wisdom in hishead than in all the rest of you. Forget the Earthmen and think only ofthe clay.     Zotul did not appreciate his father's approval, for it only earned hima beating as soon as the old man went to bed. It was a common enoughthing among the brothers Masur, as among everybody, to be frustrated intheir desires. However, they had Zotul to take it out upon, and theydid.     Still smarting, Zotul went back to his designing quarters and thoughtabout the Earthmen. If it was impossible to hope for much in the wayof metal from the Earthmen, what could one get from them? If he couldfigure this problem out, he might rise somewhat in the estimation ofhis brothers. That wouldn't take him out of the rank of scapegoat, ofcourse, but the beatings might become fewer and less severe.  By and by, the Earthmen came to Lor, flying through the air in strangemetal contraptions. They paraded through the tile-paved streets of thecity, marveled here, as they had in Thorabia, at the buildings all oftile inside and out, and made a great show of themselves for all thepeople to see. Speeches were made through interpreters, who had muchtoo quickly learned the tongue of the aliens; hence these left much tobe desired in the way of clarity, though their sincerity was evident.     The Earthmen were going to do great things for the whole world ofZur. It required but the cooperation—an excellent word, that—of allZurians, and many blessings would rain down from the skies. This, ineffect, was what the Earthmen had to say. Zotul felt greatly cheered,for it refuted the attitude of his brothers without earning him awhaling for it.     There was also some talk going around about agreements made betweenthe Earthmen and officials of the Lorian government, but you heard onething one day and another the next. Accurate reporting, much less anewspaper, was unknown on Zur.     Finally, the Earthmen took off in their great, shining ship. Obviously,none had succeeded in chiseling them out of it, if, indeed, any hadtried. The anti-Earthmen Faction—in any culture complex, there isalways an anti faction to protest any movement of endeavor—crowedhappily that the Earthmen were gone for good, and a good thing, too.     Such jubilation proved premature, however. One day, a fleet of shipsarrived and after they had landed all over the planet, Zur waspractically acrawl with Earthmen.     Immediately, the Earthmen established what they calledcorporations—Zurian trading companies under terrestrial control. Theobject of the visit was trade.     In spite of the fact that a terrestrial ship had landed at every Zuriancity of major and minor importance, and all in a single day, it tooksome time for the news to spread.     The first awareness Zotul had was that, upon coming home from thepottery one evening, he found his wife Lania proudly brandishing analuminum pot at him.     What is that thing? he asked curiously.     A pot. I bought it at the market.     Did you now? Well, take it back. Am I made of money that you spend mysubstance for some fool's product of precious metal? Take it back, Isay!  The pretty young wife laughed at him. Up to your ears in clay, nowonder you hear nothing of news! The pot is very cheap. The Earthmenare selling them everywhere. They're much better than our old claypots; they're light and easy to handle and they don't break whendropped.     What good is it? asked Zotul, interested. How will it hold heat,being so light?     The Earthmen don't cook as we do, she explained patiently. There isa paper with each pot that explains how it is used. And you will haveto design a new ceramic stove for me to use the pots on.     Don't be idiotic! Do you suppose Koltan would agree to produce a newtype of stove when the old has sold well for centuries? Besides, why doyou need a whole new stove for one little pot?     A dozen pots. They come in sets and are cheaper that way. And Koltanwill have to produce the new stove because all the housewives arebuying these pots and there will be a big demand for it. The Earthmansaid so.     He did, did he? These pots are only a fad. You will soon enough goback to cooking with your old ones.     The Earthman took them in trade—one reason why the new ones are socheap. There isn't a pot in the house but these metal ones, and youwill have to design and produce a new stove if you expect me to usethem.     After he had beaten his wife thoroughly for her foolishness, Zotulstamped off in a rage and designed a new ceramic stove, one that wouldaccommodate the terrestrial pots very well.     And Koltan put the model into production.     Orders already are pouring in like mad, he said the next day. Itwas wise of you to foresee it and have the design ready. Already, I amsorry for thinking as I did about the Earthmen. They really intend todo well by us.     The kilns of the Pottery of Masur fired day and night to keep up withthe demand for the new porcelain stoves. In three years, more than amillion had been made and sold by the Masurs alone, not counting thehundreds of thousands of copies turned out by competitors in everyland.  In the meantime, however, more things than pots came from Earth.One was a printing press, the like of which none on Zur had everdreamed. This, for some unknown reason and much to the disgust ofthe Lorians, was set up in Thorabia. Books and magazines poured fromit in a fantastic stream. The populace fervidly brushed up on itsscanty reading ability and bought everything available, overcome bythe novelty of it. Even Zotul bought a book—a primer in the Lorianlanguage—and learned how to read and write. The remainder of thebrothers Masur, on the other hand, preferred to remain in ignorance.     Moreover, the Earthmen brought miles of copper wire—more than enoughin value to buy out the governorship of any country on Zur—and set uptelegraph lines from country to country and continent to continent.Within five years of the first landing of the Earthmen, every majorcity on the globe had a printing press, a daily newspaper, and enjoyedthe instantaneous transmission of news via telegraph. And the businessof the House of Masur continued to look up.     As I have always said from the beginning, chortled Director Koltan,this coming of the Earthmen had been a great thing for us, andespecially for the House of Masur.     You didn't think so at first, Zotul pointed out, and was immediatelysorry, for Koltan turned and gave him a hiding, single-handed, for hisunthinkable impertinence.     It would do no good, Zotul realized, to bring up the fact that theirproduction of ceramic cooking pots had dropped off to about two percent of its former volume. Of course, profits on the line of new stovesgreatly overbalanced the loss, so that actually they were ahead; buttheir business was now dependent upon the supply of the metal pots fromEarth.     About this time, plastic utensils—dishes, cups, knives, forks—madetheir appearance on Zur. It became very stylish to eat with thenewfangled paraphernalia ... and very cheap, too, because foreverything they sold, the Earthmen always took the old ware in trade.What they did with the stuff had been hard to believe at first. Theydestroyed it, which proved how valueless it really was.     The result of the new flood was that in the following year, the sale ofMasur ceramic table service dropped to less than a tenth.  Trembling with excitement at this news from their book-keeper, Koltancalled an emergency meeting. He even routed old Kalrab out of hissenile stupor for the occasion, on the off chance that the old manmight still have a little wit left that could be helpful.     Note, Koltan announced in a shaky voice, that the Earthmen undermineour business, and he read off the figures.     Perhaps, said Zotul, it is a good thing also, as you said before,and will result in something even better for us.     Koltan frowned, and Zotul, in fear of another beating, instantlysubsided.     They are replacing our high-quality ceramic ware with inferiorterrestrial junk, Koltan went on bitterly. It is only the glamor thatsells it, of course, but before the people get the shine out of theireyes, we can be ruined.     The brothers discussed the situation for an hour, and all the whileFather Kalrab sat and pulled his scanty whiskers. Seeing that they gotnowhere with their wrangle, he cleared his throat and spoke up.     My sons, you forget it is not the Earthmen themselves at the bottomof your trouble, but the      things     of Earth. Think of the telegraph andthe newspaper, how these spread news of every shipment from Earth.The merchandise of the Earthmen is put up for sale by means of thesenewspapers, which also are the property of the Earthmen. The people areintrigued by these advertisements, as they are called, and flock tobuy. Now, if you would pull a tooth from the kwi that bites you, youmight also have advertisements of your own.     Alas for that suggestion, no newspaper would accept advertisingfrom the House of Masur; all available space was occupied by theadvertisements of the Earthmen.     In their dozenth conference since that first and fateful one, thebrothers Masur decided upon drastic steps. In the meantime, severalthings had happened. For one, old Kalrab had passed on to his immortalrest, but this made no real difference. For another, the Earthmen hadprocured legal authority to prospect the planet for metals, of whichthey found a good deal, but they told no one on Zur of this. Whatthey did mention was the crude oil and natural gas they discoveredin the underlayers of the planet's crust. Crews of Zurians, workingunder supervision of the Earthmen, laid pipelines from the gas and oilregions to every major and minor city on Zur.  By the time ten years had passed since the landing of the firstterrestrial ship, the Earthmen were conducting a brisk business ingas-fired ranges, furnaces and heaters ... and the Masur stove businesswas gone. Moreover, the Earthmen sold the Zurians their own natural gasat a nice profit and everybody was happy with the situation except thebrothers Masur.     The drastic steps of the brothers applied, therefore, to making anenergetic protest to the governor of Lor.     At one edge of the city, an area had been turned over to the Earthmenfor a spaceport, and the great terrestrial spaceships came to it anddeparted from it at regular intervals. As the heirs of the House ofMasur walked by on their way to see the governor, Zotul observed thatmuch new building was taking place and wondered what it was.     Some new devilment of the Earthmen, you can be sure, said Koltanblackly.     In fact, the Earthmen were building an assembly plant for radioreceiving sets. The ship now standing on its fins upon the apron wasloaded with printed circuits, resistors, variable condensers and otherradio parts. This was Earth's first step toward flooding Zur with thenatural follow-up in its campaign of advertising—radio programs—withcommercials.     Happily for the brothers, they did not understand this at the time orthey would surely have gone back to be buried in their own clay.     I think, the governor told them, that you gentlemen have notpaused to consider the affair from all angles. You must learn to bemodern—keep up with the times! We heads of government on Zur are doingall in our power to aid the Earthmen and facilitate their bringing agreat, new culture that can only benefit us. See how Zur has changed inten short years! Imagine the world of tomorrow! Why, do you know theyare even bringing      autos     to Zur!     The brothers were fascinated with the governor's description of thesehitherto unheard-of vehicles.     It only remains, concluded the governor, to build highways, and theEarthmen are taking care of that.     At any rate, the brothers Masur were still able to console themselvesthat they had their tile business. Tile served well enough for housesand street surfacing; what better material could be devised for the newhighways the governor spoke of? There was a lot of money to be madeyet.  Radio stations went up all over Zur and began broadcasting. The peoplebought receiving sets like mad. The automobiles arrived and highwayswere constructed.     The last hope of the brothers was dashed. The Earthmen set up plantsand began to manufacture Portland cement.     You could build a house of concrete much cheaper than with tile. Ofcourse, since wood was scarce on Zur, it was no competition for eithertile or concrete. Concrete floors were smoother, too, and the stuffmade far better road surfacing.     The demand for Masur tile hit rock bottom.     The next time the brothers went to see the governor, he said, I cannothandle such complaints as yours. I must refer you to the MerchandisingCouncil.     What is that? asked Koltan.     It is an Earthman association that deals with complaints such asyours. In the matter of material progress, we must expect some strainin the fabric of our culture. Machinery has been set up to deal withit. Here is their address; go air your troubles to them.     The business of a formal complaint was turned over by the brothers toZotul. It took three weeks for the Earthmen to get around to callinghim in, as a representative of the Pottery of Masur, for an interview.     All the brothers could no longer be spared from the plant, even for thepurpose of pressing a complaint. Their days of idle wealth over, theyhad to get in and work with the clay with the rest of the help.     Zotul found the headquarters of the Merchandising Council as indicatedon their message. He had not been this way in some time, but was notsurprised to find that a number of old buildings had been torn down tomake room for the concrete Council House and a roomy parking lot, pavedwith something called blacktop and jammed with an array of glitteringnew automobiles.     An automobile was an expense none of the brothers could afford, nowthat they barely eked a living from the pottery. Still, Zotul achedwith desire at sight of so many shiny cars. Only a few had them andthey were the envied ones of Zur.     Kent Broderick, the Earthman in charge of the Council, shook handsjovially with Zotul. That alien custom conformed with, Zotul took abetter look at his host. Broderick was an affable, smiling individualwith genial laugh wrinkles at his eyes. A man of middle age, dressed inthe baggy costume of Zur, he looked almost like a Zurian, except foran indefinite sense of alienness about him.     Glad to have you call on us, Mr. Masur, boomed the Earthman, clappingZotul on the back. Just tell us your troubles and we'll have youstraightened out in no time.  All the chill recriminations and arguments Zotul had stored for thisoccasion were dissipated in the warmth of the Earthman's manner.     Almost apologetically, Zotul told of the encroachment that had beenmade upon the business of the Pottery of Masur.     Once, he said formally, the Masur fortune was the greatest inthe world of Zur. That was before my father, the famous KalrabMasur—Divinity protect him—departed this life to collect his greaterreward. He often told us, my father did, that the clay is the flesh andbones of our culture and our fortune. Now it has been shown how proneis the flesh to corruption and how feeble the bones. We are ruined, andall because of new things coming from Earth.     Broderick stroked his shaven chin and looked sad. Why didn't you cometo me sooner? This would never have happened. But now that it has,we're going to do right by you. That is the policy of Earth—always todo right by the customer.     Divinity witness, Zorin said, that we ask only compensation fordamages.     Broderick shook his head. It is not possible to replace an immensefortune at this late date. As I said, you should have reported yourtrouble sooner. However, we can give you an opportunity to rebuild. Doyou own an automobile?     No.     A gas range? A gas-fired furnace? A radio?     Zotul had to answer no to all except the radio. My wife Lania likesthe music, he explained. I cannot afford the other things.     Broderick clucked sympathetically. One who could not afford thebargain-priced merchandise of Earth must be poor indeed.     To begin with, he said, I am going to make you a gift of all theseluxuries you do not have. As Zotul made to protest, he cut him offwith a wave of his hand. It is the least we can do for you. Pick a carfrom the lot outside. I will arrange to have the other things deliveredand installed in your home.     To receive gifts, said Zotul, incurs an obligation.     None at all, beamed the Earthman cheerily. Every item is given toyou absolutely free—a gift from the people of Earth. All we ask isthat you pay the freight charges on the items. Our purpose is not tomake profit, but to spread technology and prosperity throughout theGalaxy. We have already done well on numerous worlds, but working outthe full program takes time.     He chuckled deeply. We of Earth have a saying about one of ourextremely slow-moving native animals. We say, 'Slow is the tortoise,but sure.' And so with us. Our goal is a long-range one, with themotto, 'Better times with better merchandise.'  The engaging manner of the man won Zotul's confidence. After all, itwas no more than fair to pay transportation.     He said, How much does the freight cost?     Broderick told him.     It may seem high, said the Earthman, but remember that Earth issixty-odd light-years away. After all, we are absorbing the cost of themerchandise. All you pay is the freight, which is cheap, consideringthe cost of operating an interstellar spaceship.     Impossible, said Zotul drably. Not I and all my brothers togetherhave so much money any more.     You don't know us of Earth very well yet, but you will. I offer youcredit!     What is that? asked Zotul skeptically.     It is how the poor are enabled to enjoy all the luxuries of therich, said Broderick, and went on to give a thumbnail sketch of theinvolutions and devolutions of credit, leaving out some angles thatmight have had a discouraging effect.     On a world where credit was a totally new concept, it was enchanting.Zotul grasped at the glittering promise with avidity. What must I doto get credit?     Just sign this paper, said Broderick, and you become part of ourEasy Payment Plan.     Zotul drew back. I have five brothers. If I took all these things formyself and nothing for them, they would beat me black and blue.     Here. Broderick handed him a sheaf of chattel mortgages. Have eachof your brothers sign one of these, then bring them back to me. That isall there is to it.     It sounded wonderful. But how would the brothers take it? Zotulwrestled with his misgivings and the misgivings won.     I will talk it over with them, he said. Give me the total so I willhave the figures.     The total was more than it ought to be by simple addition. Zotulpointed this out politely.     Interest, Broderick explained. A mere fifteen per cent. After all,you get the merchandise free. The transportation company has to bepaid, so another company loans you the money to pay for the freight.This small extra sum pays the lending company for its trouble.     I see. Zotul puzzled over it sadly. It is too much, he said. Ourplant doesn't make enough money for us to meet the payments.     I have a surprise for you, smiled Broderick. Here is a contract. Youwill start making ceramic parts for automobile spark plugs and certainparts for radios and gas ranges. It is our policy to encourage localmanufacture to help bring prices down.     We haven't the equipment.     We will equip your plant, beamed Broderick. It will require onlya quarter interest in your plant itself, assigned to our terrestrialcompany.  Zotul, anxious to possess the treasures promised by the Earthman,won over his brothers. They signed with marks and gave up a quarterinterest in the Pottery of Masur. They rolled in the luxuries of Earth.These, who had never known debt before, were in it up to their ears.     The retooled plant forged ahead and profits began to look up, but theEarthmen took a fourth of them as their share in the industry.     For a year, the brothers drove their shiny new cars about on thenew concrete highways the Earthmen had built. From pumps owned by aterrestrial company, they bought gas and oil that had been drawn fromthe crust of Zur and was sold to the Zurians at a magnificent profit.The food they ate was cooked in Earthly pots on Earth-type gas ranges,served up on metal plates that had been stamped out on Earth. In thewinter, they toasted their shins before handsome gas grates, thoughthey had gas-fired central heating.     About this time, the ships from Earth brought steam-powered electricgenerators. Lines went up, power was generated, and a flood ofelectrical gadgets and appliances hit the market. For some reason,batteries for the radios were no longer available and everybody had tobuy the new radios. And who could do without a radio in this modern age?     The homes of the brothers Masur blossomed on the Easy Payment Plan.They had refrigerators, washers, driers, toasters, grills, electricfans, air-conditioning equipment and everything else Earth couldpossibly sell them.     We will be forty years paying it all off, exulted Zotul, butmeantime we have the things and aren't they worth it?     But at the end of three years, the Earthmen dropped their option.The Pottery of Masur had no more contracts. Business languished. TheEarthmen, explained Broderick, had built a plant of their own becauseit was so much more efficient—and to lower prices, which was Earth'sunswerving policy, greater and greater efficiency was demanded.Broderick was very sympathetic, but there was nothing he could do.     The introduction of television provided a further calamity. The setswere delicate and needed frequent repairs, hence were costly to own andmaintain. But all Zurians who had to keep up with the latest from Earthhad them. Now it was possible not only to hear about things of Earth,but to see them as they were broadcast from the video tapes.     The printing plants that turned out mortgage contracts did a lushbusiness.  For the common people of Zur, times were good everywhere. In a decadeand a half, the Earthmen had wrought magnificent changes on thisbackward world. As Broderick had said, the progress of the tortoise wasslow, but it was extremely sure.     The brothers Masur got along in spite of dropped options. They had lessmoney and felt the pinch of their debts more keenly, but televisionkept their wives and children amused and furnished an anodyne for thepangs of impoverishment.     The pottery income dropped to an impossible low, no matter how Zotuldesigned and the brothers produced. Their figurines and religious ikonswere a drug on the market. The Earthmen made them of plastic and soldthem for less.     The brothers, unable to meet the Payments that were not so Easy anymore, looked up Zotul and cuffed him around reproachfully.     You got us into this, they said, emphasizing their bitterness withfists. Go see Broderick. Tell him we are undone and must have somecontracts to continue operating.     Nursing bruises, Zotul unhappily went to the Council House again. Mr.Broderick was no longer with them, a suave assistant informed him.Would he like to see Mr. Siwicki instead? Zotul would.     Siwicki was tall, thin, dark and somber-looking. There was even a hintof toughness about the set of his jaw and the hardness of his glance.     So you can't pay, he said, tapping his teeth with a pencil. Helooked at Zotul coldly. It is well you have come to us instead ofmaking it necessary for us to approach you through the courts.     I don't know what you mean, said Zotul.     If we have to sue, we take back the merchandise and everythingattached to them. That means you would lose your houses, for they areattached to the furnaces. However, it is not as bad as that—yet. Wewill only require you to assign the remaining three-quarters of yourpottery to us.     The brothers, when they heard of this, were too stunned to think ofbeating Zotul, by which he assumed he had progressed a little and wassomewhat comforted.     To fail, said Koltan soberly, is not a Masur attribute. Go to thegovernor and tell him what we think of this business. The House ofMasur has long supported the government with heavy taxes. Now it istime for the government to do something for us.  The governor's palace was jammed with hurrying people, a scene ofconfusion that upset Zotul. The clerk who took his application foran interview was, he noticed only vaguely, a young Earthwoman. Itwas remarkable that he paid so little attention, for the femaleterrestrials were picked for physical assets that made Zurian mencovetous and Zurian women envious.     The governor will see you, she said sweetly. He has been expectingyou.     Me? marveled Zotul.     She ushered him into the magnificent private office of the governorof Lor. The man behind the desk stood up, extended his hand with afriendly smile.     Come in, come in! I'm glad to see you again.     Zotul stared blankly. This was not the governor. This was Broderick,the Earthman.     I—I came to see the governor, he said in confusion.     Broderick nodded agreeably. I am the governor and I am well acquaintedwith your case, Mr. Masur. Shall we talk it over? Please sit down.     I don't understand. The Earthmen.... Zotul paused, coloring. We areabout to lose our plant.     You were about to say that the Earthmen are taking your plant awayfrom you. That is true. Since the House of Masur was the largest andrichest on Zur, it has taken a long time—the longest of all, in fact.     What do you mean?     Yours is the last business on Zur to be taken over by us. We havebought you out.     Our government....     Your governments belong to us, too, said Broderick. When they couldnot pay for the roads, the telegraphs, the civic improvements, we tookthem over, just as we are taking you over.     You mean, exclaimed Zotul, aghast, that you Earthmen own everythingon Zur?     Even your armies.     But      why     ?  Broderick clasped his hands behind back, went to the window and stareddown moodily into the street.     You don't know what an overcrowded world is like, he said. A streetlike this, with so few people and vehicles on it, would be impossibleon Earth.     But it's mobbed, protested Zotul. It gave me a headache.     And to us it's almost empty. The pressure of population on Earth hasmade us range the Galaxy for places to put our extra people. The onlyhabitable planets, unfortunately, are populated ones. We take the leastpopulous worlds and—well, buy them out and move in.     And after that?     Broderick smiled gently. Zur will grow. Our people will intermarrywith yours. The future population of Zur will be neither true Zuriansnor true Earthmen, but a mixture of both.     Zotul sat in silent thought. But you did not have to buy us out. Youhad the power to conquer us, even to destroy us. The whole planet couldhave been yours alone. He stopped in alarm. Or am I suggesting anidea that didn't occur to you?     No, said Broderick, his usually smiling face almost pained withmemory. We know the history of conquest all too well. Our methodcauses more distress than we like to inflict, but it's better—and moresure—than war and invasion by force. Now that the unpleasant job isfinished, we can repair the dislocations.     At last I understand what you said about the tortoise.     Slow but sure. Broderick beamed again and clapped Zotul on theshoulder. Don't worry. You'll have your job back, the same as always,but you'll be working for us ... until the children of Earth and Zurare equal in knowledge and therefore equal partners. That's why we hadto break down your caste system.     Zotul's eyes widened. And that is why my brothers did not beat me whenI failed!     Of course. Are you ready now to take the assignment papers for you andyour brothers to sign?     Yes, said Zotul. I am ready.   ","Broderick is an Earthman in charge of the Merchandising Council. He first meets with Zotul and hears his complaints about the failure of the Masur business due to Earth's expansion. Broderick, putting on a guise of sympathy, offers Zotul luxuries to enjoy with his family, in return for credit and their production of ceramics for automobiles. Broderick later moves up in hierarchy and becomes the governor of Zur, achieving power over all affairs. He meets Zotul again and gets the Masur family to work completely for him."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     Confidence Game     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by EPSTEIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        I admit it: I didn't know if I was coming or       going—but I know that if I stuck to the old       man, I was a comer ... even if he was a goner!        Doc had this solemn human by the throat when I caught up with him.     Tonight, Doc was saying in his old voice that was as crackled andimportant as parchment, tonight Man will reach the Moon. The goldenMoon and the silver ship, symbols of greed. Tonight is the night whenthis is to happen.     Sure, the man agreed severely, prying a little worriedly at Doc'sarthritic fingers that were clamped on his collar. No argument. Sure,up we go. But leave me go or, so help me, I'll fetch you one in theteeth!     I came alongside and carefully started to lever the old man loose,one finger at a time. It had to be done this way. I had learned thatduring all these weeks and months. His hands looked old and crippled,but I felt they were the strongest in the world. If a half dozen winosin Seattle hadn't helped me get them loose, Doc and I would have beenwanted for the murder of a North American Mountie.     It was easier this night and that made me afraid. Doc's thin frame,layered with lumpy fat, was beginning to muscle-dance against my side.One of his times was coming on him. Then at last he was free of thegreasy collar of the human.     I hope you'll forgive him, sir, I said, not meeting the man's eyes.He's my father and very old, as you can see. I laughed inside at theabsurd, easy lie. Old events seem recent to him.     The human nodded, Adam's apple jerking in the angry neon twilight.'Memory Jump,' you mean. All my great-grandfathers have it. ButGreat-great-grandmother Lupos, funny thing, is like a schoolgirl.Sharp, you know. I.... Say, the poor old guy looks sick. Want any help?     I told the human no, thanks, and walked Doc toward the flophouse threedoors down. I hoped we would make it. I didn't know what would happenif we didn't. Doc was liable to say something that might nova Sol, forall I knew.  Martians approaching the corner were sensing at Doc and me. Theywere just cheap tourists slumming down on Skid Row. I hated touristsand especially I hated Martian tourists because I especially hatedMartians. They were      aliens     . They weren't      men     like Doc and me.     Then I realized what was about to happen. It was foolish and awful andtrue. I was going to have one of mine at the same time Doc was havinghis. That was bad. It had happened a few times right after I firstfound him, but now it was worse. For some undefinable reason, I felt wekept getting closer each of the times.     I tried not to think about it and helped Doc through the fly-speckedflophouse doors.     The tubercular clerk looked up from the gaudy comics sections of one ofthose little tabloids that have the funnies a week in advance.     Fifteen cents a bed, he said mechanically.     We'll use one bed, I told him. I'll give you twenty cents. I feltthe round hard quarter in my pocket, sweaty hand against sticky lining.     Fifteen cents a bed, he played it back for me.     Doc was quivering against me, his legs boneless.     We can always make it over to the mission, I lied.     The clerk turned his upper lip as if he were going to spit. Awright,since we ain't full up. In      ad     vance.     I placed the quarter on the desk.     Give me a nickel.     The clerk's hand fell on the coin and slid it off into the unknownbefore I could move, what with holding up Doc.     You've got your nerve, he said at me with a fine mist of dew. Had aquarter all along and yet you Martian me down to twenty cents. He sawthe look on my face. I'll give you a      room     for the two bits. That'sbetter'n a bed for twenty.     I knew I was going to need that nickel.      Desperately.     I reached acrossthe desk with my free hand and hauled the scrawny human up against theregister hard. I'm not as strong in my hands as Doc, but I managed.     Give me a nickel, I said.     What nickel? His eyes were big, but they kept looking right at me.You don't have any nickel. You don't have any quarter, not if I sayso. Want I should call a cop and tell him you were flexing a muscle?     I let go of him. He didn't scare me, but Doc was beginning to mumbleand that      did     scare me. I had to get him alone.     Where's the room? I asked.  The room was six feet in all directions and the walls were five feethigh. The other foot was finished in chicken wire. There was a winosinging on the left, a wino praying on the right, and the door didn'thave any lock on it. At last, Doc and I were alone.     I laid Doc out on the gray-brown cot and put his forearm over his faceto shield it some from the glare of the light bulb. I swept off all thebedbugs in sight and stepped on them heavily.     Then I dropped down into the painted stool chair and let my burningeyes rest on the obscene wall drawings just to focus them. I was sodirty, I could feel the grime grinding together all over me. My shaggyscalp still smarted from the alcohol I had stolen from a convertible'sgas tank to get rid of Doc's and my cooties. Lucky that I never neededto shave and that my face was so dirty, no one would even notice that Ididn't need to.     The cramp hit me and I folded out of the chair onto the littered,uncovered floor.     It stopped hurting, but I knew it would begin if I moved. I stared at ajagged cut-out nude curled against a lump of dust and lint, giving itan unreal distortion.     Doc began to mumble louder.     I knew I had to move.     I waited just a moment, savoring the painless peace. Then, finally, Imoved.     I was bent double, but I got from the floor to the chair and foundmy notebook and orb-point in my hands. I found I couldn't focus bothmy mind and my eyes through the electric flashes of agony, so Iconcentrated on Doc's voice and trusted my hands would follow theirhabit pattern and construct the symbols for his words. They weresuddenly distinguishable.             Outsider     ...      Thoth     ...      Dyzan     ...      Seven     ...      Hsan     ...      Beyond Six, Seven, Eight     ...      Two boxes     ...      Ralston     ...      RichardWentworth     ...      Jimmy Christopher     ...      Kent Allard     ...      Ayem     ...      Oh, are     ...      see     ....  His voice rose to a meaningless wail that stretched into non-existence.The pen slid across the scribbled face of the notebook and both droppedfrom my numb hands. But I knew. Somehow, inside me,      I knew     that thesewords were what I had been waiting for. They told everything I neededto know to become the most powerful man in the Solar Federation.     That wasn't just an addict's dream. I knew who Doc was. When I gotto thinking it was just a dream and that I was dragging this old manaround North America for nothing, I remembered who he was.     I remembered that he was somebody very important whose name and work Ihad once known, even if now I knew him only as Doc.     Pain was a pendulum within me, swinging from low throbbing bass to highscreaming tenor. I had to get out and get some. But I didn't have anickel. Still, I had to get some.     I crawled to the door and raised myself by the knob, slick with greasydirt. The door opened and shut—there was no lock. I shouldn't leaveDoc alone, but I had to.     He was starting to cry. He didn't always do that.     I listened to him for a moment, then tested and tasted the craving thatcrawled through my veins. I got back inside somehow.     Doc was twisting on the cot, tears washing white streaks across hisface. I shoved Doc's face up against my chest. I held onto him and lethim bellow. I soothed the lanks of soiled white hair back over hislumpy skull.     He shut up at last and I laid him down again and put his arm backacross his face. (You can't turn the light off and on in places likethat. The old wiring will blow the bulb half the time.)     I don't remember how I got out onto the street.  She was pink and clean and her platinum hair was pulled straight back,drawing her cheek-bones tighter, straightening her wide, appealingmouth, drawing her lean, athletic, feminine body erect. She was wearinga powder-blue dress that covered all of her breasts and hips and theupper half of her legs.     The most wonderful thing about her was her perfume. Then I realized itwasn't perfume, only the scent of soap. Finally, I knew it wasn't that.It was just healthy, fresh-scrubbed skin.     I went to her at the bus stop, forcing my legs not to stagger. Nobodywould help a drunk. I don't know why, but nobody will help you if theythink you are blotto.     Ma'am, could you help a man who's not had work? I kept my eyes down.I couldn't look a human in the eye and ask for help. Just a dime for acup of coffee. I knew where I could get it for three cents, maybe twoand a half.     I felt her looking at me. She spoke in an educated voice, one she used,perhaps, as a teacher or supervising telephone operator. Do you wantit for coffee, or to apply, or a glass or hypo of something else?     I cringed and whined. She would expect it of me. I suddenly realizedthat anybody as clean as she was had to be a tourist here. I hatetourists.     Just coffee, ma'am. She was younger than I was, so I didn't have tocall her that. A little more for food, if you could spare it.     I hadn't eaten in a day and a half, but I didn't care much.     I'll buy you a dinner, she said carefully, provided I can go withyou and see for myself that you actually eat it.     I felt my face flushing red. You wouldn't want to be seen with a bumlike me, ma'am.     I'll be seen with you if you really want to eat.     It was certainly unfair and probably immoral. But I had no choicewhatever.     Okay, I said, tasting bitterness over the craving.  The coffee was in a thick white cup before me on the counter. It waspale, grayish brown and steaming faintly. I picked it up in both handsto feel its warmth.     Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman sitting on the stoolbeside me. She had no right to intrude. This moment should be mine, butthere she sat, marring it for me, a contemptible      tourist     .     I gulped down the thick, dark liquid brutally. It was all I coulddo. The cramp flowed out of my diaphragm. I took another swallow andwas able to think straight again. A third swallow and I felt—good.Not abnormally stimulated, but strong, alert, poised on the brink ofexhilaration.     That was what coffee did for me.     I was a caffeine addict.     Earth-norm humans sometimes have the addiction to a slight extent, butI knew that as a Centurian I had it infinitely worse. Caffeine affectedmy metabolism like a pure alkaloid. The immediate effects weren't thesame, but the      need     ran as deep.     I finished the cup. I didn't order another because I wasn't a puresensualist. I just needed release. Sometimes, when I didn't have theprice of a cup, I would look around in alleys and find cola bottleswith a few drops left in them. They have a little caffeine inthem—not enough, never enough, but better than nothing.     Now what do you want to eat? the woman asked.     I didn't look at her. She didn't know. She thought I was a human—an      Earth     human. I was a      man     , of course, not an      alien     like a Martian.Earthmen ran the whole Solar Federation, but I was just as good as anEarthman. With my suntan and short mane, I could pass, couldn't I? Thatproved it, didn't it?     Hamburger, I said. Well done. I knew that would probably be allthey had fit to eat at a place like this. It might be horse meat, butthen I didn't have the local prejudices.     I didn't look at the woman. I couldn't. But I kept remembering howclean she looked and I was aware of how clean she smelled. I was sodirty, so very dirty that I could never get clean if I bathed everyhour for the rest of my life.     The hamburger was engulfed by five black-crowned, broken fingernailsand raised to two rows of yellow ivory. I surrounded it like an ameba,almost in a single movement of my jaws.     Several other hamburgers followed the first. I lost count. I drank aglass of milk. I didn't want to black out on coffee with Doc waitingfor me.     Could I have a few to take with me, miss? I pleaded.     She smiled. I caught that out of the edge of my vision, but mostly Ijust felt it.     That's the first time you've called me anything but 'ma'am', shesaid. I'm not an old-maid schoolteacher, you know.     That probably meant she was a schoolteacher, though. No, miss, I said.     It's Miss Casey—Vivian Casey, she corrected. She was aschoolteacher, all right. No other girl would introduce herself as MissLast Name. Then there was something in her voice....     What's your name? she said to me.     I choked a little on a bite of stale bun.     I      had     a name,      of course     .  Everybody has a name, and I knew if I went off somewhere quiet andthought about it, mine would come to me. Meanwhile, I would tell thegirl that my name was ... Kevin O'Malley. Abruptly I realized that that      was     my name.     Kevin, I told her. John Kevin.     Mister Kevin, she said, her words dancing with bright absurdity likewaterhose mist on a summer afternoon, I wonder if you could help      me     .     Happy to, miss, I mumbled.     She pushed a white rectangle in front of me on the painted maroon bar.What do you think of this?     I looked at the piece of paper. It was a coupon from a magazine.       Dear Acolyte R. I. S.     :       Please send me FREE of obligation, in sealed wrapper, The ScarletBook revealing to me how I may gain Secret Mastery of the Universe.         Name     : ........................       Address     : .....................     The world disoriented itself and I was on the floor of the somber dinerand Miss Vivian Casey was out of sight and scent.     There was a five dollar bill tight in my fist. The counterman wastrying to pull it out.     I looked up at his stubbled face. I had half a dozen hamburgers, acup of coffee and a glass of milk. I want four more 'burgers to go anda pint of coffee. By your prices, that will be one sixty-five—if thelady didn't pay you.     She didn't, he stammered. Why do you think I was trying to get thatbill out of your hand?     I didn't say anything, just got up off the floor. After the countermanput down my change, I spread out the five dollar bill on the vacantbar, smoothing it.     I scooped up my change and walked out the door. There was no one on thesidewalk, only in the doorways.  First I opened the door on an amber world, then an azure one. Neonlight was coming from the chickenwire border of the room, from a windowsomewhere beyond. The wino on one side of the room was singing andthe one on the other side was praying, same as before. Only they hadchanged around—prayer came from the left, song from the right.     Doc sat on the floor in the half-darkness and he had made a      thing     .       My heart hammered at my lungs. I      knew     this last time had beendifferent. Whatever it was was getting closer. This was the first timeDoc had ever made anything. It didn't look like much, but it was astart.     He had broken the light bulb and used the filament and screw bottom.His strong hands had unraveled some of the bed springs—metalwebbing—and fashioned them to his needs. My orb-point pen haddissolved under his touch. All of them, useless parts, were made into ameaningful whole.     I knew the thing had meaning, but when I tried to follow its design, Ibecame lost.     I put the paper container of warm coffee and the greasy bag ofhamburgers on the wooden chair, hoping the odor wouldn't bring anyhungry rats out of the walls.     I knelt beside Doc.     An order, my boy, an order, he whispered.     I didn't know what he meant. Was he suddenly trying to give me orders?     He held something out to me. It was my notebook. He had used my pen,before dismantling it, to write something. I tilted the notebookagainst the neon light, now red wine, now fresh grape. I read it.     Concentrate, Doc said hoarsely. Concentrate....     I wondered what the words meant. Wondering takes a kind ofconcentration.     The words First Edition were what I was thinking about most.  The heavy-set man in the ornate armchair was saying, The bullet struckme as I was pulling on my boot....     I was kneeling on the floor of a Victorian living room. I'm quitefamiliar with Earth history and I recognized the period immediately.     Then I realized what I had been trying to get from Doc all thesemonths—time travel.     A thin, sickly man was sprawled in the other chair in a rumpleddressing gown. My eyes held to his face, his pinpoint pupils andwhitened nose. He was a condemned snowbird! If there was anything Ihated or held in more contempt than tourists or Martians, it was asnowbird.     My clients have occasioned singular methods of entry into theserooms, the thin man remarked, but never before have they usedinstantaneous materialization.     The heavier man was half choking, half laughing. I say—I say, I wouldlike to see you explain this, my dear fellow.     I have no data, the thin man answered coolly. In such instance, onebegins to twist theories into fact, or facts into theories. I must askthis unemployed, former professional man who has gone through a seriousillness and is suffering a more serious addiction to tell me the placeand      time     from which he comes.     The surprise stung. How did you know? I asked.     He gestured with a pale hand. To maintain a logical approach, I mustreject the supernatural. Your arrival, unless hallucinatory—anddespite my voluntary use of one drug and my involuntary experiencesrecently with another, I must accept the evidence of my senses orretire from my profession—your arrival was then super-normal. I mightsay super-scientific, of a science not of my or the good doctor's time,clearly. Time travel is a familiar folk legend and I have been readingan article by the entertaining Mr. Wells. Perhaps he will expand itinto one of his novels of scientific romance.     I knew who these two men were, with a tormenting doubt. But theother—     Your hands, though unclean, have never seen physical labor. Yourcranial construction is of a superior type, or even if you reject mytheories, concentration does set the facial features. I judge you havesuffered an illness because of the inhibition of your beard growth.Your over-fondness for rum or opium, perhaps, is self-evident. Youare at too resilient an age to be so sunk by even an amour. Why elsethen would you let yourself fall into such an underfed and unsanitarystate?  He was so smug and so sure, this snowbird. I hated him. Because Icouldn't trust to my own senses as he did.     You don't exist, I said slowly, painfully. You are fictionalcreations.     The doctor flushed darkly. You give my literary agent too much creditfor the addition of professional polish to my works.     The other man was filling a large, curved pipe from something thatlooked vaguely like an ice-skate. Interesting. Perhaps if our visitorwould tell us something of his age with special reference to the theoryand practice of temporal transference, Doctor, we would be betterequipped to judge whether we exist.     There was no theory or practice of time travel. I told them all I hadever heard theorized from Hindu yoga through Extra-sensory Perceptionto Relativity and the positron and negatron.     Interesting. He breathed out suffocating black clouds of smoke.Presume that the people of your time by their 'Extra-sensoryPerception' have altered the past to make it as they suppose it to be.The great historical figures are made the larger than life-size that weknow them. The great literary creations assume reality.     I thought of Cleopatra and Helen of Troy and wondered if they would bethe goddesses of love that people imagined or the scrawny, big-nosedredhead and fading old woman of scholarship. Then I noticed thedetective's hand that had been resting idly on a round brass weight ofunknown sort to me. His tapered fingertips had indented the metal.     His bright eyes followed mine and he smiled faintly. Withdrawalsymptoms.     The admiration and affection for this man that had been slowly buildingup behind my hatred unbrinked. I remembered now that he had stopped. Hewas not      really     a snowbird.     After a time, I asked the doctor a question.     Why, yes. I'm flattered. This is the first manuscript. Considering myprofessional handwriting, I recopied it more laboriously.       Accepting the sheaf of papers and not looking back at these two greatand good men, I concentrated on my own time and Doc. Nothing happened.My heart raced, but I saw something dancing before me like a dust motein sunlight and stepped toward it....     ... into the effective range of Miss Casey's tiny gun.  She inclined the lethal silver toy. Let me see those papers, Kevin.     I handed her the doctor's manuscript.     Her breath escaped slowly and loudly. It's all right. It's all right.It exists. It's real. Not even one of the unwritten ones. I've readthis myself.     Doc was lying on the cot, half his face twisted into horror.     Don't move, Kevin, she said. I'll have to shoot you—maybe not tokill, but painfully.     I watched her face flash blue, red, blue and knew she meant it. But Ihad known too much in too short a time. I had to help Doc, but therewas something else.     I just want a drink of coffee from that container on the chair, Itold her.     She shook her head. I don't know what you think it does to you.     It was getting hard for me to think. Who are you?     She showed me a card from her wrist purse. Vivian Casey, Constable,North American Mounted Police.     I had to help Doc. I had to have some coffee. What do you want?     Listen, Kevin. Listen carefully to what I am saying. Doc founda method of time travel. It was almost a purely mathematical,topographical way divorced from modern physical sciences. He kept itsecret and he wanted to make money with it. He was an idealist—he hadhis crusades. How can you make money with time travel?     I didn't know whether she was asking me, but I didn't know. All I knewwas that I had to help Doc and get some coffee.     It takes money—money Doc didn't have—to make money, Miss Caseysaid, even if you know what horse will come in and what stock willprosper. Besides, horse-racing and the stock market weren't a part ofDoc's character. He was a scholar.     Why did she keep using the past tense in reference to Doc? It scaredme. He was lying so still with the left side of his face so twisted. Ineeded some coffee.     He became a book finder. He got rare editions of books and magazinesfor his clients in absolutely mint condition. That was all right—untilhe started obtaining books that      did not exist     .  I didn't know what all that was supposed to mean. I got to the chair,snatched up the coffee container, tore it open and gulped down thesoothing liquid.     I turned toward her and threw the rest of the coffee into her face.     The coffee splashed out over her platinum hair and powder-blue dressthat looked white when the neon was azure, purple when it was amber.The coffee stained and soiled and ruined, and I was fiercely glad,unreasonably happy.     I tore the gun away from her by the short barrel, not letting my filthyhands touch her scrubbed pink ones.     I pointed the gun generally at her and backed around the      thing     on thefloor to the cot. Doc had a pulse, but it was irregular. I checked fora fever and there wasn't one. After that, I didn't know what to do.     I looked up finally and saw a Martian in or about the doorway.     Call me Andre, the Martian said. A common name but foreign. Itshould serve as a point of reference.     I had always wondered how a thing like a Martian could talk. SometimesI wondered if they really could.     You won't need the gun, Andre said conversationally.     I'll keep it, thanks. What do      you     want?     I'll begin as Miss Casey did—by telling you things. Hundreds ofpeople disappeared from North America a few months ago.     They always do, I told him.     They ceased to exist—as human beings—shortly after they received abook from Doc, the Martian said.     Something seemed to strike me in the back of the neck. I staggered, butmanaged to hold onto the gun and stand up.     Use one of those sneaky Martian weapons again, I warned him,and I'll kill the girl. Martians were supposed to be against thedestruction of any life-form, I had read someplace. I doubted it, butit was worth a try.     Kevin, Andre said, why don't you take a bath?     The Martian weapon staggered me again. I tried to say something. Itried to explain that I was so dirty that I could never get clean nomatter how often I bathed. No words formed.     But, Kevin, Andre said, you aren't      that     dirty.  The blow shook the gun from my fingers. It almost fell into the      thing     on the floor, but at the last moment seemed to change direction andmiss it.     I knew something. I don't wash because I drink coffee.     It's all right to drink coffee, isn't it? he asked.     Of course, I said, and added absurdly, That's why I don't wash.     You mean, Andre said slowly, ploddingly, that if you bathed, youwould be admitting that drinking coffee was in the same class as anyother solitary vice that makes people wash frequently.     I was knocked to my knees.     Kevin, the Martian said, drinking coffee represents a major viceonly in Centurian humanoids, not Earth-norm human beings.      Which areyou?          Nothing came out of my gabbling mouth.           What is Doc's full name?          I almost fell in, but at the last instant I caught myself and said,Doctor Kevin O'Malley, Senior.     From the bed, Doc said a word. Son.     Then he disappeared.     I looked at that which he had made. I wondered where he had gone, insearch of what.     He didn't use that, Andre said.     So I was an Earthman, Doc's son. So my addiction to coffee was all inmy mind. That didn't change anything. They say sex is all in your mind.I didn't want to be cured. I wouldn't be. Doc was gone. That was all Ihad now. That and the      thing     he left.     The rest is simple, Andre said. Doc O'Malley bought up all the stockin a certain ancient metaphysical order and started supplying memberswith certain books. Can you imagine the effect of the      Book of Dyzan     or the      Book of Thoth     or the      Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan     or the      Necronomican     itself on human beings?     But they don't exist, I said wearily.     Exactly, Kevin, exactly. They have never existed any more than yourVictorian detective friend. But the unconscious racial mind has reachedback into time and created them. And that unconscious mind, deeper thanpsychology terms the subconscious, has always known about the powersof ESP, telepathy, telekinesis, precognition. Through these books,the human race can tell itself how to achieve a state of pure logic,without food, without sex, without conflict—just as Doc has achievedsuch a state—a little late, true. He had a powerful guilt complex,even stronger than your withdrawal, over releasing this blessing onthe inhabited universe, but reason finally prevailed. He had reached astate of pure thought.     The North American government      has     to have this secret, Kevin, thegirl said. You can't let it fall into the hands of the Martians.  Andre did not deny that he wanted it to fall into his hands.     I knew I could not let Doc's—Dad's—time travel      thing     fall intoanyone's hands. I remembered that all the copies of the books haddisappeared with their readers now. There must not be any more, I knew.     Miss Casey did her duty and tried to stop me with a judo hold, but Idon't think her heart was in it, because I reversed and broke it.     I kicked the      thing     to pieces and stomped on the pieces. Maybe youcan't stop the progress of science, but I knew it might be millenniumsbefore Doc's genes and creative environment were recreated and timetravel was rediscovered. Maybe we would be ready for it then. I knew weweren't now.     Miss Casey leaned against my dirty chest and cried into it. I didn'tmind her touching me.     I'm glad, she said.     Andre flowed out of the doorway with a sigh. Of relief?     I would never know. I supposed I had destroyed      it     because I didn'twant the human race to become a thing of pure reason without purpose,direction or love, but I would never know for sure. I thought I couldkick the habit—perhaps with Miss Casey's help—but I wasn't reallyconfident.     Maybe I had destroyed the time machine because a world without materialneeds would not grow and roast coffee.   ","John Kevin catches up with Doc, who has grabbed a human by the throat. He tells the human that man will reach the moon tonight, and the man agrees, so Doc will let him go. Kevin apologizes to the human and says that his father has trouble differentiating old events. They see Martian tourists approaching the corner, and Kevin recalls how he hates Martian tourists because they are aliens. The two go to a flophouse, where Kevin bargains with the clerk over the price of a room. He threatens the human but stops when he hears Doc mumbling. They go to the room, and he lays Doc out on the cot. Doc begins to mumble more, while Kevin begins to copy down the words in his notebook again. Kevin knows that what Doc is mumbling will make him the most powerful man in the Solar Federation, especially because Doc was once somebody extremely important. Doc then begins to cry, and Kevin decides to comfort him slightly. Kevin then meets a woman by the bus stop and asks her for a dime for coffee. He realizes that she is a human tourist and recalls how he hates tourists. She offers to buy him dinner too, and they go to get a coffee. Kevin is revealed to be a caffeine addict, and he tells the woman that he wants a hamburger. One hamburger becomes several, and he drinks a glass of milk. Kevin asks the woman for a few to take home, and she introduces herself as Miss Vivian Casey. Kevin tells her his name too, and she hands him a coupon from a magazine. When he comes back to his senses, the counterman is pulling a five-dollar bill from under his hand. When he goes back, Doc has made something. It is revealed that Kevin has been trying to get time travel from Doc for the past few months and sees a condemned snowbird. The two thin and heavy men talk to him, asking him to tell them where he came from. The doctor explains his condition and hands him a manuscript, and Kevin steps into the range of Miss Casey’s gun in real life. He asks her for coffee again, and she re-introduces herself as a North American Mounted Police member. She explains that Doc wanted to profit off of his time travel, but he did not have money. He wrestles the gun from her; suddenly, a Martian by the name of Andre appears. Andre makes Kevin realize that he is not a Centurian humanoid because he is the son of Doc. Kevin destroys the thing that Doc creates because he knows nobody is ready for time travel to be rediscovered. Miss Casey and Andre are relieved, while Kevin ponders why he destroyed the machine. He thinks it may be because of emotions or roast coffee. "
"Who is Vivian Casey, and what are her characteristics? </s>     Confidence Game     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by EPSTEIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        I admit it: I didn't know if I was coming or       going—but I know that if I stuck to the old       man, I was a comer ... even if he was a goner!        Doc had this solemn human by the throat when I caught up with him.     Tonight, Doc was saying in his old voice that was as crackled andimportant as parchment, tonight Man will reach the Moon. The goldenMoon and the silver ship, symbols of greed. Tonight is the night whenthis is to happen.     Sure, the man agreed severely, prying a little worriedly at Doc'sarthritic fingers that were clamped on his collar. No argument. Sure,up we go. But leave me go or, so help me, I'll fetch you one in theteeth!     I came alongside and carefully started to lever the old man loose,one finger at a time. It had to be done this way. I had learned thatduring all these weeks and months. His hands looked old and crippled,but I felt they were the strongest in the world. If a half dozen winosin Seattle hadn't helped me get them loose, Doc and I would have beenwanted for the murder of a North American Mountie.     It was easier this night and that made me afraid. Doc's thin frame,layered with lumpy fat, was beginning to muscle-dance against my side.One of his times was coming on him. Then at last he was free of thegreasy collar of the human.     I hope you'll forgive him, sir, I said, not meeting the man's eyes.He's my father and very old, as you can see. I laughed inside at theabsurd, easy lie. Old events seem recent to him.     The human nodded, Adam's apple jerking in the angry neon twilight.'Memory Jump,' you mean. All my great-grandfathers have it. ButGreat-great-grandmother Lupos, funny thing, is like a schoolgirl.Sharp, you know. I.... Say, the poor old guy looks sick. Want any help?     I told the human no, thanks, and walked Doc toward the flophouse threedoors down. I hoped we would make it. I didn't know what would happenif we didn't. Doc was liable to say something that might nova Sol, forall I knew.  Martians approaching the corner were sensing at Doc and me. Theywere just cheap tourists slumming down on Skid Row. I hated touristsand especially I hated Martian tourists because I especially hatedMartians. They were      aliens     . They weren't      men     like Doc and me.     Then I realized what was about to happen. It was foolish and awful andtrue. I was going to have one of mine at the same time Doc was havinghis. That was bad. It had happened a few times right after I firstfound him, but now it was worse. For some undefinable reason, I felt wekept getting closer each of the times.     I tried not to think about it and helped Doc through the fly-speckedflophouse doors.     The tubercular clerk looked up from the gaudy comics sections of one ofthose little tabloids that have the funnies a week in advance.     Fifteen cents a bed, he said mechanically.     We'll use one bed, I told him. I'll give you twenty cents. I feltthe round hard quarter in my pocket, sweaty hand against sticky lining.     Fifteen cents a bed, he played it back for me.     Doc was quivering against me, his legs boneless.     We can always make it over to the mission, I lied.     The clerk turned his upper lip as if he were going to spit. Awright,since we ain't full up. In      ad     vance.     I placed the quarter on the desk.     Give me a nickel.     The clerk's hand fell on the coin and slid it off into the unknownbefore I could move, what with holding up Doc.     You've got your nerve, he said at me with a fine mist of dew. Had aquarter all along and yet you Martian me down to twenty cents. He sawthe look on my face. I'll give you a      room     for the two bits. That'sbetter'n a bed for twenty.     I knew I was going to need that nickel.      Desperately.     I reached acrossthe desk with my free hand and hauled the scrawny human up against theregister hard. I'm not as strong in my hands as Doc, but I managed.     Give me a nickel, I said.     What nickel? His eyes were big, but they kept looking right at me.You don't have any nickel. You don't have any quarter, not if I sayso. Want I should call a cop and tell him you were flexing a muscle?     I let go of him. He didn't scare me, but Doc was beginning to mumbleand that      did     scare me. I had to get him alone.     Where's the room? I asked.  The room was six feet in all directions and the walls were five feethigh. The other foot was finished in chicken wire. There was a winosinging on the left, a wino praying on the right, and the door didn'thave any lock on it. At last, Doc and I were alone.     I laid Doc out on the gray-brown cot and put his forearm over his faceto shield it some from the glare of the light bulb. I swept off all thebedbugs in sight and stepped on them heavily.     Then I dropped down into the painted stool chair and let my burningeyes rest on the obscene wall drawings just to focus them. I was sodirty, I could feel the grime grinding together all over me. My shaggyscalp still smarted from the alcohol I had stolen from a convertible'sgas tank to get rid of Doc's and my cooties. Lucky that I never neededto shave and that my face was so dirty, no one would even notice that Ididn't need to.     The cramp hit me and I folded out of the chair onto the littered,uncovered floor.     It stopped hurting, but I knew it would begin if I moved. I stared at ajagged cut-out nude curled against a lump of dust and lint, giving itan unreal distortion.     Doc began to mumble louder.     I knew I had to move.     I waited just a moment, savoring the painless peace. Then, finally, Imoved.     I was bent double, but I got from the floor to the chair and foundmy notebook and orb-point in my hands. I found I couldn't focus bothmy mind and my eyes through the electric flashes of agony, so Iconcentrated on Doc's voice and trusted my hands would follow theirhabit pattern and construct the symbols for his words. They weresuddenly distinguishable.             Outsider     ...      Thoth     ...      Dyzan     ...      Seven     ...      Hsan     ...      Beyond Six, Seven, Eight     ...      Two boxes     ...      Ralston     ...      RichardWentworth     ...      Jimmy Christopher     ...      Kent Allard     ...      Ayem     ...      Oh, are     ...      see     ....  His voice rose to a meaningless wail that stretched into non-existence.The pen slid across the scribbled face of the notebook and both droppedfrom my numb hands. But I knew. Somehow, inside me,      I knew     that thesewords were what I had been waiting for. They told everything I neededto know to become the most powerful man in the Solar Federation.     That wasn't just an addict's dream. I knew who Doc was. When I gotto thinking it was just a dream and that I was dragging this old manaround North America for nothing, I remembered who he was.     I remembered that he was somebody very important whose name and work Ihad once known, even if now I knew him only as Doc.     Pain was a pendulum within me, swinging from low throbbing bass to highscreaming tenor. I had to get out and get some. But I didn't have anickel. Still, I had to get some.     I crawled to the door and raised myself by the knob, slick with greasydirt. The door opened and shut—there was no lock. I shouldn't leaveDoc alone, but I had to.     He was starting to cry. He didn't always do that.     I listened to him for a moment, then tested and tasted the craving thatcrawled through my veins. I got back inside somehow.     Doc was twisting on the cot, tears washing white streaks across hisface. I shoved Doc's face up against my chest. I held onto him and lethim bellow. I soothed the lanks of soiled white hair back over hislumpy skull.     He shut up at last and I laid him down again and put his arm backacross his face. (You can't turn the light off and on in places likethat. The old wiring will blow the bulb half the time.)     I don't remember how I got out onto the street.  She was pink and clean and her platinum hair was pulled straight back,drawing her cheek-bones tighter, straightening her wide, appealingmouth, drawing her lean, athletic, feminine body erect. She was wearinga powder-blue dress that covered all of her breasts and hips and theupper half of her legs.     The most wonderful thing about her was her perfume. Then I realized itwasn't perfume, only the scent of soap. Finally, I knew it wasn't that.It was just healthy, fresh-scrubbed skin.     I went to her at the bus stop, forcing my legs not to stagger. Nobodywould help a drunk. I don't know why, but nobody will help you if theythink you are blotto.     Ma'am, could you help a man who's not had work? I kept my eyes down.I couldn't look a human in the eye and ask for help. Just a dime for acup of coffee. I knew where I could get it for three cents, maybe twoand a half.     I felt her looking at me. She spoke in an educated voice, one she used,perhaps, as a teacher or supervising telephone operator. Do you wantit for coffee, or to apply, or a glass or hypo of something else?     I cringed and whined. She would expect it of me. I suddenly realizedthat anybody as clean as she was had to be a tourist here. I hatetourists.     Just coffee, ma'am. She was younger than I was, so I didn't have tocall her that. A little more for food, if you could spare it.     I hadn't eaten in a day and a half, but I didn't care much.     I'll buy you a dinner, she said carefully, provided I can go withyou and see for myself that you actually eat it.     I felt my face flushing red. You wouldn't want to be seen with a bumlike me, ma'am.     I'll be seen with you if you really want to eat.     It was certainly unfair and probably immoral. But I had no choicewhatever.     Okay, I said, tasting bitterness over the craving.  The coffee was in a thick white cup before me on the counter. It waspale, grayish brown and steaming faintly. I picked it up in both handsto feel its warmth.     Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman sitting on the stoolbeside me. She had no right to intrude. This moment should be mine, butthere she sat, marring it for me, a contemptible      tourist     .     I gulped down the thick, dark liquid brutally. It was all I coulddo. The cramp flowed out of my diaphragm. I took another swallow andwas able to think straight again. A third swallow and I felt—good.Not abnormally stimulated, but strong, alert, poised on the brink ofexhilaration.     That was what coffee did for me.     I was a caffeine addict.     Earth-norm humans sometimes have the addiction to a slight extent, butI knew that as a Centurian I had it infinitely worse. Caffeine affectedmy metabolism like a pure alkaloid. The immediate effects weren't thesame, but the      need     ran as deep.     I finished the cup. I didn't order another because I wasn't a puresensualist. I just needed release. Sometimes, when I didn't have theprice of a cup, I would look around in alleys and find cola bottleswith a few drops left in them. They have a little caffeine inthem—not enough, never enough, but better than nothing.     Now what do you want to eat? the woman asked.     I didn't look at her. She didn't know. She thought I was a human—an      Earth     human. I was a      man     , of course, not an      alien     like a Martian.Earthmen ran the whole Solar Federation, but I was just as good as anEarthman. With my suntan and short mane, I could pass, couldn't I? Thatproved it, didn't it?     Hamburger, I said. Well done. I knew that would probably be allthey had fit to eat at a place like this. It might be horse meat, butthen I didn't have the local prejudices.     I didn't look at the woman. I couldn't. But I kept remembering howclean she looked and I was aware of how clean she smelled. I was sodirty, so very dirty that I could never get clean if I bathed everyhour for the rest of my life.     The hamburger was engulfed by five black-crowned, broken fingernailsand raised to two rows of yellow ivory. I surrounded it like an ameba,almost in a single movement of my jaws.     Several other hamburgers followed the first. I lost count. I drank aglass of milk. I didn't want to black out on coffee with Doc waitingfor me.     Could I have a few to take with me, miss? I pleaded.     She smiled. I caught that out of the edge of my vision, but mostly Ijust felt it.     That's the first time you've called me anything but 'ma'am', shesaid. I'm not an old-maid schoolteacher, you know.     That probably meant she was a schoolteacher, though. No, miss, I said.     It's Miss Casey—Vivian Casey, she corrected. She was aschoolteacher, all right. No other girl would introduce herself as MissLast Name. Then there was something in her voice....     What's your name? she said to me.     I choked a little on a bite of stale bun.     I      had     a name,      of course     .  Everybody has a name, and I knew if I went off somewhere quiet andthought about it, mine would come to me. Meanwhile, I would tell thegirl that my name was ... Kevin O'Malley. Abruptly I realized that that      was     my name.     Kevin, I told her. John Kevin.     Mister Kevin, she said, her words dancing with bright absurdity likewaterhose mist on a summer afternoon, I wonder if you could help      me     .     Happy to, miss, I mumbled.     She pushed a white rectangle in front of me on the painted maroon bar.What do you think of this?     I looked at the piece of paper. It was a coupon from a magazine.       Dear Acolyte R. I. S.     :       Please send me FREE of obligation, in sealed wrapper, The ScarletBook revealing to me how I may gain Secret Mastery of the Universe.         Name     : ........................       Address     : .....................     The world disoriented itself and I was on the floor of the somber dinerand Miss Vivian Casey was out of sight and scent.     There was a five dollar bill tight in my fist. The counterman wastrying to pull it out.     I looked up at his stubbled face. I had half a dozen hamburgers, acup of coffee and a glass of milk. I want four more 'burgers to go anda pint of coffee. By your prices, that will be one sixty-five—if thelady didn't pay you.     She didn't, he stammered. Why do you think I was trying to get thatbill out of your hand?     I didn't say anything, just got up off the floor. After the countermanput down my change, I spread out the five dollar bill on the vacantbar, smoothing it.     I scooped up my change and walked out the door. There was no one on thesidewalk, only in the doorways.  First I opened the door on an amber world, then an azure one. Neonlight was coming from the chickenwire border of the room, from a windowsomewhere beyond. The wino on one side of the room was singing andthe one on the other side was praying, same as before. Only they hadchanged around—prayer came from the left, song from the right.     Doc sat on the floor in the half-darkness and he had made a      thing     .       My heart hammered at my lungs. I      knew     this last time had beendifferent. Whatever it was was getting closer. This was the first timeDoc had ever made anything. It didn't look like much, but it was astart.     He had broken the light bulb and used the filament and screw bottom.His strong hands had unraveled some of the bed springs—metalwebbing—and fashioned them to his needs. My orb-point pen haddissolved under his touch. All of them, useless parts, were made into ameaningful whole.     I knew the thing had meaning, but when I tried to follow its design, Ibecame lost.     I put the paper container of warm coffee and the greasy bag ofhamburgers on the wooden chair, hoping the odor wouldn't bring anyhungry rats out of the walls.     I knelt beside Doc.     An order, my boy, an order, he whispered.     I didn't know what he meant. Was he suddenly trying to give me orders?     He held something out to me. It was my notebook. He had used my pen,before dismantling it, to write something. I tilted the notebookagainst the neon light, now red wine, now fresh grape. I read it.     Concentrate, Doc said hoarsely. Concentrate....     I wondered what the words meant. Wondering takes a kind ofconcentration.     The words First Edition were what I was thinking about most.  The heavy-set man in the ornate armchair was saying, The bullet struckme as I was pulling on my boot....     I was kneeling on the floor of a Victorian living room. I'm quitefamiliar with Earth history and I recognized the period immediately.     Then I realized what I had been trying to get from Doc all thesemonths—time travel.     A thin, sickly man was sprawled in the other chair in a rumpleddressing gown. My eyes held to his face, his pinpoint pupils andwhitened nose. He was a condemned snowbird! If there was anything Ihated or held in more contempt than tourists or Martians, it was asnowbird.     My clients have occasioned singular methods of entry into theserooms, the thin man remarked, but never before have they usedinstantaneous materialization.     The heavier man was half choking, half laughing. I say—I say, I wouldlike to see you explain this, my dear fellow.     I have no data, the thin man answered coolly. In such instance, onebegins to twist theories into fact, or facts into theories. I must askthis unemployed, former professional man who has gone through a seriousillness and is suffering a more serious addiction to tell me the placeand      time     from which he comes.     The surprise stung. How did you know? I asked.     He gestured with a pale hand. To maintain a logical approach, I mustreject the supernatural. Your arrival, unless hallucinatory—anddespite my voluntary use of one drug and my involuntary experiencesrecently with another, I must accept the evidence of my senses orretire from my profession—your arrival was then super-normal. I mightsay super-scientific, of a science not of my or the good doctor's time,clearly. Time travel is a familiar folk legend and I have been readingan article by the entertaining Mr. Wells. Perhaps he will expand itinto one of his novels of scientific romance.     I knew who these two men were, with a tormenting doubt. But theother—     Your hands, though unclean, have never seen physical labor. Yourcranial construction is of a superior type, or even if you reject mytheories, concentration does set the facial features. I judge you havesuffered an illness because of the inhibition of your beard growth.Your over-fondness for rum or opium, perhaps, is self-evident. Youare at too resilient an age to be so sunk by even an amour. Why elsethen would you let yourself fall into such an underfed and unsanitarystate?  He was so smug and so sure, this snowbird. I hated him. Because Icouldn't trust to my own senses as he did.     You don't exist, I said slowly, painfully. You are fictionalcreations.     The doctor flushed darkly. You give my literary agent too much creditfor the addition of professional polish to my works.     The other man was filling a large, curved pipe from something thatlooked vaguely like an ice-skate. Interesting. Perhaps if our visitorwould tell us something of his age with special reference to the theoryand practice of temporal transference, Doctor, we would be betterequipped to judge whether we exist.     There was no theory or practice of time travel. I told them all I hadever heard theorized from Hindu yoga through Extra-sensory Perceptionto Relativity and the positron and negatron.     Interesting. He breathed out suffocating black clouds of smoke.Presume that the people of your time by their 'Extra-sensoryPerception' have altered the past to make it as they suppose it to be.The great historical figures are made the larger than life-size that weknow them. The great literary creations assume reality.     I thought of Cleopatra and Helen of Troy and wondered if they would bethe goddesses of love that people imagined or the scrawny, big-nosedredhead and fading old woman of scholarship. Then I noticed thedetective's hand that had been resting idly on a round brass weight ofunknown sort to me. His tapered fingertips had indented the metal.     His bright eyes followed mine and he smiled faintly. Withdrawalsymptoms.     The admiration and affection for this man that had been slowly buildingup behind my hatred unbrinked. I remembered now that he had stopped. Hewas not      really     a snowbird.     After a time, I asked the doctor a question.     Why, yes. I'm flattered. This is the first manuscript. Considering myprofessional handwriting, I recopied it more laboriously.       Accepting the sheaf of papers and not looking back at these two greatand good men, I concentrated on my own time and Doc. Nothing happened.My heart raced, but I saw something dancing before me like a dust motein sunlight and stepped toward it....     ... into the effective range of Miss Casey's tiny gun.  She inclined the lethal silver toy. Let me see those papers, Kevin.     I handed her the doctor's manuscript.     Her breath escaped slowly and loudly. It's all right. It's all right.It exists. It's real. Not even one of the unwritten ones. I've readthis myself.     Doc was lying on the cot, half his face twisted into horror.     Don't move, Kevin, she said. I'll have to shoot you—maybe not tokill, but painfully.     I watched her face flash blue, red, blue and knew she meant it. But Ihad known too much in too short a time. I had to help Doc, but therewas something else.     I just want a drink of coffee from that container on the chair, Itold her.     She shook her head. I don't know what you think it does to you.     It was getting hard for me to think. Who are you?     She showed me a card from her wrist purse. Vivian Casey, Constable,North American Mounted Police.     I had to help Doc. I had to have some coffee. What do you want?     Listen, Kevin. Listen carefully to what I am saying. Doc founda method of time travel. It was almost a purely mathematical,topographical way divorced from modern physical sciences. He kept itsecret and he wanted to make money with it. He was an idealist—he hadhis crusades. How can you make money with time travel?     I didn't know whether she was asking me, but I didn't know. All I knewwas that I had to help Doc and get some coffee.     It takes money—money Doc didn't have—to make money, Miss Caseysaid, even if you know what horse will come in and what stock willprosper. Besides, horse-racing and the stock market weren't a part ofDoc's character. He was a scholar.     Why did she keep using the past tense in reference to Doc? It scaredme. He was lying so still with the left side of his face so twisted. Ineeded some coffee.     He became a book finder. He got rare editions of books and magazinesfor his clients in absolutely mint condition. That was all right—untilhe started obtaining books that      did not exist     .  I didn't know what all that was supposed to mean. I got to the chair,snatched up the coffee container, tore it open and gulped down thesoothing liquid.     I turned toward her and threw the rest of the coffee into her face.     The coffee splashed out over her platinum hair and powder-blue dressthat looked white when the neon was azure, purple when it was amber.The coffee stained and soiled and ruined, and I was fiercely glad,unreasonably happy.     I tore the gun away from her by the short barrel, not letting my filthyhands touch her scrubbed pink ones.     I pointed the gun generally at her and backed around the      thing     on thefloor to the cot. Doc had a pulse, but it was irregular. I checked fora fever and there wasn't one. After that, I didn't know what to do.     I looked up finally and saw a Martian in or about the doorway.     Call me Andre, the Martian said. A common name but foreign. Itshould serve as a point of reference.     I had always wondered how a thing like a Martian could talk. SometimesI wondered if they really could.     You won't need the gun, Andre said conversationally.     I'll keep it, thanks. What do      you     want?     I'll begin as Miss Casey did—by telling you things. Hundreds ofpeople disappeared from North America a few months ago.     They always do, I told him.     They ceased to exist—as human beings—shortly after they received abook from Doc, the Martian said.     Something seemed to strike me in the back of the neck. I staggered, butmanaged to hold onto the gun and stand up.     Use one of those sneaky Martian weapons again, I warned him,and I'll kill the girl. Martians were supposed to be against thedestruction of any life-form, I had read someplace. I doubted it, butit was worth a try.     Kevin, Andre said, why don't you take a bath?     The Martian weapon staggered me again. I tried to say something. Itried to explain that I was so dirty that I could never get clean nomatter how often I bathed. No words formed.     But, Kevin, Andre said, you aren't      that     dirty.  The blow shook the gun from my fingers. It almost fell into the      thing     on the floor, but at the last moment seemed to change direction andmiss it.     I knew something. I don't wash because I drink coffee.     It's all right to drink coffee, isn't it? he asked.     Of course, I said, and added absurdly, That's why I don't wash.     You mean, Andre said slowly, ploddingly, that if you bathed, youwould be admitting that drinking coffee was in the same class as anyother solitary vice that makes people wash frequently.     I was knocked to my knees.     Kevin, the Martian said, drinking coffee represents a major viceonly in Centurian humanoids, not Earth-norm human beings.      Which areyou?          Nothing came out of my gabbling mouth.           What is Doc's full name?          I almost fell in, but at the last instant I caught myself and said,Doctor Kevin O'Malley, Senior.     From the bed, Doc said a word. Son.     Then he disappeared.     I looked at that which he had made. I wondered where he had gone, insearch of what.     He didn't use that, Andre said.     So I was an Earthman, Doc's son. So my addiction to coffee was all inmy mind. That didn't change anything. They say sex is all in your mind.I didn't want to be cured. I wouldn't be. Doc was gone. That was all Ihad now. That and the      thing     he left.     The rest is simple, Andre said. Doc O'Malley bought up all the stockin a certain ancient metaphysical order and started supplying memberswith certain books. Can you imagine the effect of the      Book of Dyzan     or the      Book of Thoth     or the      Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan     or the      Necronomican     itself on human beings?     But they don't exist, I said wearily.     Exactly, Kevin, exactly. They have never existed any more than yourVictorian detective friend. But the unconscious racial mind has reachedback into time and created them. And that unconscious mind, deeper thanpsychology terms the subconscious, has always known about the powersof ESP, telepathy, telekinesis, precognition. Through these books,the human race can tell itself how to achieve a state of pure logic,without food, without sex, without conflict—just as Doc has achievedsuch a state—a little late, true. He had a powerful guilt complex,even stronger than your withdrawal, over releasing this blessing onthe inhabited universe, but reason finally prevailed. He had reached astate of pure thought.     The North American government      has     to have this secret, Kevin, thegirl said. You can't let it fall into the hands of the Martians.  Andre did not deny that he wanted it to fall into his hands.     I knew I could not let Doc's—Dad's—time travel      thing     fall intoanyone's hands. I remembered that all the copies of the books haddisappeared with their readers now. There must not be any more, I knew.     Miss Casey did her duty and tried to stop me with a judo hold, but Idon't think her heart was in it, because I reversed and broke it.     I kicked the      thing     to pieces and stomped on the pieces. Maybe youcan't stop the progress of science, but I knew it might be millenniumsbefore Doc's genes and creative environment were recreated and timetravel was rediscovered. Maybe we would be ready for it then. I knew weweren't now.     Miss Casey leaned against my dirty chest and cried into it. I didn'tmind her touching me.     I'm glad, she said.     Andre flowed out of the doorway with a sigh. Of relief?     I would never know. I supposed I had destroyed      it     because I didn'twant the human race to become a thing of pure reason without purpose,direction or love, but I would never know for sure. I thought I couldkick the habit—perhaps with Miss Casey's help—but I wasn't reallyconfident.     Maybe I had destroyed the time machine because a world without materialneeds would not grow and roast coffee.   ","Vivian Casey is described as a pink and clean woman who smells of clean soap. Her hair is platinum, pulled straight back to draw her cheek-bones tighter. She has an appealing mouth; Kevin also notes that her body is lean, athletic, and feminine. She also wears a powder-blue dress that goes down to the lower-half of her legs. She speaks in an educated voice and is kind enough to take Kevin to get some food. Although he is annoyed she decided to tag along, she lets him order multiple hamburgers to satisfy his hunger. When she introduces herself, he assumes that she is a schoolteacher. Kevin later realizes that she did not pay for his dinner at all. Miss Casey then comes back with a tiny gun. She is shown to be proficient with the firearm, introducing her true identity as a Constable of the North American Mounted Police. She is also very intelligent, being fully aware of what Doc has tried to do in the past. Although she uses force to judo hold Kevin, she doesn’t put her heart into it. Finally, she is shown to be proud of Kevin when he does the right thing and destroys the time machine. "
"What are some of the harmful consequences caused by Doc’s use of time travel? </s>     Confidence Game     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by EPSTEIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        I admit it: I didn't know if I was coming or       going—but I know that if I stuck to the old       man, I was a comer ... even if he was a goner!        Doc had this solemn human by the throat when I caught up with him.     Tonight, Doc was saying in his old voice that was as crackled andimportant as parchment, tonight Man will reach the Moon. The goldenMoon and the silver ship, symbols of greed. Tonight is the night whenthis is to happen.     Sure, the man agreed severely, prying a little worriedly at Doc'sarthritic fingers that were clamped on his collar. No argument. Sure,up we go. But leave me go or, so help me, I'll fetch you one in theteeth!     I came alongside and carefully started to lever the old man loose,one finger at a time. It had to be done this way. I had learned thatduring all these weeks and months. His hands looked old and crippled,but I felt they were the strongest in the world. If a half dozen winosin Seattle hadn't helped me get them loose, Doc and I would have beenwanted for the murder of a North American Mountie.     It was easier this night and that made me afraid. Doc's thin frame,layered with lumpy fat, was beginning to muscle-dance against my side.One of his times was coming on him. Then at last he was free of thegreasy collar of the human.     I hope you'll forgive him, sir, I said, not meeting the man's eyes.He's my father and very old, as you can see. I laughed inside at theabsurd, easy lie. Old events seem recent to him.     The human nodded, Adam's apple jerking in the angry neon twilight.'Memory Jump,' you mean. All my great-grandfathers have it. ButGreat-great-grandmother Lupos, funny thing, is like a schoolgirl.Sharp, you know. I.... Say, the poor old guy looks sick. Want any help?     I told the human no, thanks, and walked Doc toward the flophouse threedoors down. I hoped we would make it. I didn't know what would happenif we didn't. Doc was liable to say something that might nova Sol, forall I knew.  Martians approaching the corner were sensing at Doc and me. Theywere just cheap tourists slumming down on Skid Row. I hated touristsand especially I hated Martian tourists because I especially hatedMartians. They were      aliens     . They weren't      men     like Doc and me.     Then I realized what was about to happen. It was foolish and awful andtrue. I was going to have one of mine at the same time Doc was havinghis. That was bad. It had happened a few times right after I firstfound him, but now it was worse. For some undefinable reason, I felt wekept getting closer each of the times.     I tried not to think about it and helped Doc through the fly-speckedflophouse doors.     The tubercular clerk looked up from the gaudy comics sections of one ofthose little tabloids that have the funnies a week in advance.     Fifteen cents a bed, he said mechanically.     We'll use one bed, I told him. I'll give you twenty cents. I feltthe round hard quarter in my pocket, sweaty hand against sticky lining.     Fifteen cents a bed, he played it back for me.     Doc was quivering against me, his legs boneless.     We can always make it over to the mission, I lied.     The clerk turned his upper lip as if he were going to spit. Awright,since we ain't full up. In      ad     vance.     I placed the quarter on the desk.     Give me a nickel.     The clerk's hand fell on the coin and slid it off into the unknownbefore I could move, what with holding up Doc.     You've got your nerve, he said at me with a fine mist of dew. Had aquarter all along and yet you Martian me down to twenty cents. He sawthe look on my face. I'll give you a      room     for the two bits. That'sbetter'n a bed for twenty.     I knew I was going to need that nickel.      Desperately.     I reached acrossthe desk with my free hand and hauled the scrawny human up against theregister hard. I'm not as strong in my hands as Doc, but I managed.     Give me a nickel, I said.     What nickel? His eyes were big, but they kept looking right at me.You don't have any nickel. You don't have any quarter, not if I sayso. Want I should call a cop and tell him you were flexing a muscle?     I let go of him. He didn't scare me, but Doc was beginning to mumbleand that      did     scare me. I had to get him alone.     Where's the room? I asked.  The room was six feet in all directions and the walls were five feethigh. The other foot was finished in chicken wire. There was a winosinging on the left, a wino praying on the right, and the door didn'thave any lock on it. At last, Doc and I were alone.     I laid Doc out on the gray-brown cot and put his forearm over his faceto shield it some from the glare of the light bulb. I swept off all thebedbugs in sight and stepped on them heavily.     Then I dropped down into the painted stool chair and let my burningeyes rest on the obscene wall drawings just to focus them. I was sodirty, I could feel the grime grinding together all over me. My shaggyscalp still smarted from the alcohol I had stolen from a convertible'sgas tank to get rid of Doc's and my cooties. Lucky that I never neededto shave and that my face was so dirty, no one would even notice that Ididn't need to.     The cramp hit me and I folded out of the chair onto the littered,uncovered floor.     It stopped hurting, but I knew it would begin if I moved. I stared at ajagged cut-out nude curled against a lump of dust and lint, giving itan unreal distortion.     Doc began to mumble louder.     I knew I had to move.     I waited just a moment, savoring the painless peace. Then, finally, Imoved.     I was bent double, but I got from the floor to the chair and foundmy notebook and orb-point in my hands. I found I couldn't focus bothmy mind and my eyes through the electric flashes of agony, so Iconcentrated on Doc's voice and trusted my hands would follow theirhabit pattern and construct the symbols for his words. They weresuddenly distinguishable.             Outsider     ...      Thoth     ...      Dyzan     ...      Seven     ...      Hsan     ...      Beyond Six, Seven, Eight     ...      Two boxes     ...      Ralston     ...      RichardWentworth     ...      Jimmy Christopher     ...      Kent Allard     ...      Ayem     ...      Oh, are     ...      see     ....  His voice rose to a meaningless wail that stretched into non-existence.The pen slid across the scribbled face of the notebook and both droppedfrom my numb hands. But I knew. Somehow, inside me,      I knew     that thesewords were what I had been waiting for. They told everything I neededto know to become the most powerful man in the Solar Federation.     That wasn't just an addict's dream. I knew who Doc was. When I gotto thinking it was just a dream and that I was dragging this old manaround North America for nothing, I remembered who he was.     I remembered that he was somebody very important whose name and work Ihad once known, even if now I knew him only as Doc.     Pain was a pendulum within me, swinging from low throbbing bass to highscreaming tenor. I had to get out and get some. But I didn't have anickel. Still, I had to get some.     I crawled to the door and raised myself by the knob, slick with greasydirt. The door opened and shut—there was no lock. I shouldn't leaveDoc alone, but I had to.     He was starting to cry. He didn't always do that.     I listened to him for a moment, then tested and tasted the craving thatcrawled through my veins. I got back inside somehow.     Doc was twisting on the cot, tears washing white streaks across hisface. I shoved Doc's face up against my chest. I held onto him and lethim bellow. I soothed the lanks of soiled white hair back over hislumpy skull.     He shut up at last and I laid him down again and put his arm backacross his face. (You can't turn the light off and on in places likethat. The old wiring will blow the bulb half the time.)     I don't remember how I got out onto the street.  She was pink and clean and her platinum hair was pulled straight back,drawing her cheek-bones tighter, straightening her wide, appealingmouth, drawing her lean, athletic, feminine body erect. She was wearinga powder-blue dress that covered all of her breasts and hips and theupper half of her legs.     The most wonderful thing about her was her perfume. Then I realized itwasn't perfume, only the scent of soap. Finally, I knew it wasn't that.It was just healthy, fresh-scrubbed skin.     I went to her at the bus stop, forcing my legs not to stagger. Nobodywould help a drunk. I don't know why, but nobody will help you if theythink you are blotto.     Ma'am, could you help a man who's not had work? I kept my eyes down.I couldn't look a human in the eye and ask for help. Just a dime for acup of coffee. I knew where I could get it for three cents, maybe twoand a half.     I felt her looking at me. She spoke in an educated voice, one she used,perhaps, as a teacher or supervising telephone operator. Do you wantit for coffee, or to apply, or a glass or hypo of something else?     I cringed and whined. She would expect it of me. I suddenly realizedthat anybody as clean as she was had to be a tourist here. I hatetourists.     Just coffee, ma'am. She was younger than I was, so I didn't have tocall her that. A little more for food, if you could spare it.     I hadn't eaten in a day and a half, but I didn't care much.     I'll buy you a dinner, she said carefully, provided I can go withyou and see for myself that you actually eat it.     I felt my face flushing red. You wouldn't want to be seen with a bumlike me, ma'am.     I'll be seen with you if you really want to eat.     It was certainly unfair and probably immoral. But I had no choicewhatever.     Okay, I said, tasting bitterness over the craving.  The coffee was in a thick white cup before me on the counter. It waspale, grayish brown and steaming faintly. I picked it up in both handsto feel its warmth.     Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman sitting on the stoolbeside me. She had no right to intrude. This moment should be mine, butthere she sat, marring it for me, a contemptible      tourist     .     I gulped down the thick, dark liquid brutally. It was all I coulddo. The cramp flowed out of my diaphragm. I took another swallow andwas able to think straight again. A third swallow and I felt—good.Not abnormally stimulated, but strong, alert, poised on the brink ofexhilaration.     That was what coffee did for me.     I was a caffeine addict.     Earth-norm humans sometimes have the addiction to a slight extent, butI knew that as a Centurian I had it infinitely worse. Caffeine affectedmy metabolism like a pure alkaloid. The immediate effects weren't thesame, but the      need     ran as deep.     I finished the cup. I didn't order another because I wasn't a puresensualist. I just needed release. Sometimes, when I didn't have theprice of a cup, I would look around in alleys and find cola bottleswith a few drops left in them. They have a little caffeine inthem—not enough, never enough, but better than nothing.     Now what do you want to eat? the woman asked.     I didn't look at her. She didn't know. She thought I was a human—an      Earth     human. I was a      man     , of course, not an      alien     like a Martian.Earthmen ran the whole Solar Federation, but I was just as good as anEarthman. With my suntan and short mane, I could pass, couldn't I? Thatproved it, didn't it?     Hamburger, I said. Well done. I knew that would probably be allthey had fit to eat at a place like this. It might be horse meat, butthen I didn't have the local prejudices.     I didn't look at the woman. I couldn't. But I kept remembering howclean she looked and I was aware of how clean she smelled. I was sodirty, so very dirty that I could never get clean if I bathed everyhour for the rest of my life.     The hamburger was engulfed by five black-crowned, broken fingernailsand raised to two rows of yellow ivory. I surrounded it like an ameba,almost in a single movement of my jaws.     Several other hamburgers followed the first. I lost count. I drank aglass of milk. I didn't want to black out on coffee with Doc waitingfor me.     Could I have a few to take with me, miss? I pleaded.     She smiled. I caught that out of the edge of my vision, but mostly Ijust felt it.     That's the first time you've called me anything but 'ma'am', shesaid. I'm not an old-maid schoolteacher, you know.     That probably meant she was a schoolteacher, though. No, miss, I said.     It's Miss Casey—Vivian Casey, she corrected. She was aschoolteacher, all right. No other girl would introduce herself as MissLast Name. Then there was something in her voice....     What's your name? she said to me.     I choked a little on a bite of stale bun.     I      had     a name,      of course     .  Everybody has a name, and I knew if I went off somewhere quiet andthought about it, mine would come to me. Meanwhile, I would tell thegirl that my name was ... Kevin O'Malley. Abruptly I realized that that      was     my name.     Kevin, I told her. John Kevin.     Mister Kevin, she said, her words dancing with bright absurdity likewaterhose mist on a summer afternoon, I wonder if you could help      me     .     Happy to, miss, I mumbled.     She pushed a white rectangle in front of me on the painted maroon bar.What do you think of this?     I looked at the piece of paper. It was a coupon from a magazine.       Dear Acolyte R. I. S.     :       Please send me FREE of obligation, in sealed wrapper, The ScarletBook revealing to me how I may gain Secret Mastery of the Universe.         Name     : ........................       Address     : .....................     The world disoriented itself and I was on the floor of the somber dinerand Miss Vivian Casey was out of sight and scent.     There was a five dollar bill tight in my fist. The counterman wastrying to pull it out.     I looked up at his stubbled face. I had half a dozen hamburgers, acup of coffee and a glass of milk. I want four more 'burgers to go anda pint of coffee. By your prices, that will be one sixty-five—if thelady didn't pay you.     She didn't, he stammered. Why do you think I was trying to get thatbill out of your hand?     I didn't say anything, just got up off the floor. After the countermanput down my change, I spread out the five dollar bill on the vacantbar, smoothing it.     I scooped up my change and walked out the door. There was no one on thesidewalk, only in the doorways.  First I opened the door on an amber world, then an azure one. Neonlight was coming from the chickenwire border of the room, from a windowsomewhere beyond. The wino on one side of the room was singing andthe one on the other side was praying, same as before. Only they hadchanged around—prayer came from the left, song from the right.     Doc sat on the floor in the half-darkness and he had made a      thing     .       My heart hammered at my lungs. I      knew     this last time had beendifferent. Whatever it was was getting closer. This was the first timeDoc had ever made anything. It didn't look like much, but it was astart.     He had broken the light bulb and used the filament and screw bottom.His strong hands had unraveled some of the bed springs—metalwebbing—and fashioned them to his needs. My orb-point pen haddissolved under his touch. All of them, useless parts, were made into ameaningful whole.     I knew the thing had meaning, but when I tried to follow its design, Ibecame lost.     I put the paper container of warm coffee and the greasy bag ofhamburgers on the wooden chair, hoping the odor wouldn't bring anyhungry rats out of the walls.     I knelt beside Doc.     An order, my boy, an order, he whispered.     I didn't know what he meant. Was he suddenly trying to give me orders?     He held something out to me. It was my notebook. He had used my pen,before dismantling it, to write something. I tilted the notebookagainst the neon light, now red wine, now fresh grape. I read it.     Concentrate, Doc said hoarsely. Concentrate....     I wondered what the words meant. Wondering takes a kind ofconcentration.     The words First Edition were what I was thinking about most.  The heavy-set man in the ornate armchair was saying, The bullet struckme as I was pulling on my boot....     I was kneeling on the floor of a Victorian living room. I'm quitefamiliar with Earth history and I recognized the period immediately.     Then I realized what I had been trying to get from Doc all thesemonths—time travel.     A thin, sickly man was sprawled in the other chair in a rumpleddressing gown. My eyes held to his face, his pinpoint pupils andwhitened nose. He was a condemned snowbird! If there was anything Ihated or held in more contempt than tourists or Martians, it was asnowbird.     My clients have occasioned singular methods of entry into theserooms, the thin man remarked, but never before have they usedinstantaneous materialization.     The heavier man was half choking, half laughing. I say—I say, I wouldlike to see you explain this, my dear fellow.     I have no data, the thin man answered coolly. In such instance, onebegins to twist theories into fact, or facts into theories. I must askthis unemployed, former professional man who has gone through a seriousillness and is suffering a more serious addiction to tell me the placeand      time     from which he comes.     The surprise stung. How did you know? I asked.     He gestured with a pale hand. To maintain a logical approach, I mustreject the supernatural. Your arrival, unless hallucinatory—anddespite my voluntary use of one drug and my involuntary experiencesrecently with another, I must accept the evidence of my senses orretire from my profession—your arrival was then super-normal. I mightsay super-scientific, of a science not of my or the good doctor's time,clearly. Time travel is a familiar folk legend and I have been readingan article by the entertaining Mr. Wells. Perhaps he will expand itinto one of his novels of scientific romance.     I knew who these two men were, with a tormenting doubt. But theother—     Your hands, though unclean, have never seen physical labor. Yourcranial construction is of a superior type, or even if you reject mytheories, concentration does set the facial features. I judge you havesuffered an illness because of the inhibition of your beard growth.Your over-fondness for rum or opium, perhaps, is self-evident. Youare at too resilient an age to be so sunk by even an amour. Why elsethen would you let yourself fall into such an underfed and unsanitarystate?  He was so smug and so sure, this snowbird. I hated him. Because Icouldn't trust to my own senses as he did.     You don't exist, I said slowly, painfully. You are fictionalcreations.     The doctor flushed darkly. You give my literary agent too much creditfor the addition of professional polish to my works.     The other man was filling a large, curved pipe from something thatlooked vaguely like an ice-skate. Interesting. Perhaps if our visitorwould tell us something of his age with special reference to the theoryand practice of temporal transference, Doctor, we would be betterequipped to judge whether we exist.     There was no theory or practice of time travel. I told them all I hadever heard theorized from Hindu yoga through Extra-sensory Perceptionto Relativity and the positron and negatron.     Interesting. He breathed out suffocating black clouds of smoke.Presume that the people of your time by their 'Extra-sensoryPerception' have altered the past to make it as they suppose it to be.The great historical figures are made the larger than life-size that weknow them. The great literary creations assume reality.     I thought of Cleopatra and Helen of Troy and wondered if they would bethe goddesses of love that people imagined or the scrawny, big-nosedredhead and fading old woman of scholarship. Then I noticed thedetective's hand that had been resting idly on a round brass weight ofunknown sort to me. His tapered fingertips had indented the metal.     His bright eyes followed mine and he smiled faintly. Withdrawalsymptoms.     The admiration and affection for this man that had been slowly buildingup behind my hatred unbrinked. I remembered now that he had stopped. Hewas not      really     a snowbird.     After a time, I asked the doctor a question.     Why, yes. I'm flattered. This is the first manuscript. Considering myprofessional handwriting, I recopied it more laboriously.       Accepting the sheaf of papers and not looking back at these two greatand good men, I concentrated on my own time and Doc. Nothing happened.My heart raced, but I saw something dancing before me like a dust motein sunlight and stepped toward it....     ... into the effective range of Miss Casey's tiny gun.  She inclined the lethal silver toy. Let me see those papers, Kevin.     I handed her the doctor's manuscript.     Her breath escaped slowly and loudly. It's all right. It's all right.It exists. It's real. Not even one of the unwritten ones. I've readthis myself.     Doc was lying on the cot, half his face twisted into horror.     Don't move, Kevin, she said. I'll have to shoot you—maybe not tokill, but painfully.     I watched her face flash blue, red, blue and knew she meant it. But Ihad known too much in too short a time. I had to help Doc, but therewas something else.     I just want a drink of coffee from that container on the chair, Itold her.     She shook her head. I don't know what you think it does to you.     It was getting hard for me to think. Who are you?     She showed me a card from her wrist purse. Vivian Casey, Constable,North American Mounted Police.     I had to help Doc. I had to have some coffee. What do you want?     Listen, Kevin. Listen carefully to what I am saying. Doc founda method of time travel. It was almost a purely mathematical,topographical way divorced from modern physical sciences. He kept itsecret and he wanted to make money with it. He was an idealist—he hadhis crusades. How can you make money with time travel?     I didn't know whether she was asking me, but I didn't know. All I knewwas that I had to help Doc and get some coffee.     It takes money—money Doc didn't have—to make money, Miss Caseysaid, even if you know what horse will come in and what stock willprosper. Besides, horse-racing and the stock market weren't a part ofDoc's character. He was a scholar.     Why did she keep using the past tense in reference to Doc? It scaredme. He was lying so still with the left side of his face so twisted. Ineeded some coffee.     He became a book finder. He got rare editions of books and magazinesfor his clients in absolutely mint condition. That was all right—untilhe started obtaining books that      did not exist     .  I didn't know what all that was supposed to mean. I got to the chair,snatched up the coffee container, tore it open and gulped down thesoothing liquid.     I turned toward her and threw the rest of the coffee into her face.     The coffee splashed out over her platinum hair and powder-blue dressthat looked white when the neon was azure, purple when it was amber.The coffee stained and soiled and ruined, and I was fiercely glad,unreasonably happy.     I tore the gun away from her by the short barrel, not letting my filthyhands touch her scrubbed pink ones.     I pointed the gun generally at her and backed around the      thing     on thefloor to the cot. Doc had a pulse, but it was irregular. I checked fora fever and there wasn't one. After that, I didn't know what to do.     I looked up finally and saw a Martian in or about the doorway.     Call me Andre, the Martian said. A common name but foreign. Itshould serve as a point of reference.     I had always wondered how a thing like a Martian could talk. SometimesI wondered if they really could.     You won't need the gun, Andre said conversationally.     I'll keep it, thanks. What do      you     want?     I'll begin as Miss Casey did—by telling you things. Hundreds ofpeople disappeared from North America a few months ago.     They always do, I told him.     They ceased to exist—as human beings—shortly after they received abook from Doc, the Martian said.     Something seemed to strike me in the back of the neck. I staggered, butmanaged to hold onto the gun and stand up.     Use one of those sneaky Martian weapons again, I warned him,and I'll kill the girl. Martians were supposed to be against thedestruction of any life-form, I had read someplace. I doubted it, butit was worth a try.     Kevin, Andre said, why don't you take a bath?     The Martian weapon staggered me again. I tried to say something. Itried to explain that I was so dirty that I could never get clean nomatter how often I bathed. No words formed.     But, Kevin, Andre said, you aren't      that     dirty.  The blow shook the gun from my fingers. It almost fell into the      thing     on the floor, but at the last moment seemed to change direction andmiss it.     I knew something. I don't wash because I drink coffee.     It's all right to drink coffee, isn't it? he asked.     Of course, I said, and added absurdly, That's why I don't wash.     You mean, Andre said slowly, ploddingly, that if you bathed, youwould be admitting that drinking coffee was in the same class as anyother solitary vice that makes people wash frequently.     I was knocked to my knees.     Kevin, the Martian said, drinking coffee represents a major viceonly in Centurian humanoids, not Earth-norm human beings.      Which areyou?          Nothing came out of my gabbling mouth.           What is Doc's full name?          I almost fell in, but at the last instant I caught myself and said,Doctor Kevin O'Malley, Senior.     From the bed, Doc said a word. Son.     Then he disappeared.     I looked at that which he had made. I wondered where he had gone, insearch of what.     He didn't use that, Andre said.     So I was an Earthman, Doc's son. So my addiction to coffee was all inmy mind. That didn't change anything. They say sex is all in your mind.I didn't want to be cured. I wouldn't be. Doc was gone. That was all Ihad now. That and the      thing     he left.     The rest is simple, Andre said. Doc O'Malley bought up all the stockin a certain ancient metaphysical order and started supplying memberswith certain books. Can you imagine the effect of the      Book of Dyzan     or the      Book of Thoth     or the      Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan     or the      Necronomican     itself on human beings?     But they don't exist, I said wearily.     Exactly, Kevin, exactly. They have never existed any more than yourVictorian detective friend. But the unconscious racial mind has reachedback into time and created them. And that unconscious mind, deeper thanpsychology terms the subconscious, has always known about the powersof ESP, telepathy, telekinesis, precognition. Through these books,the human race can tell itself how to achieve a state of pure logic,without food, without sex, without conflict—just as Doc has achievedsuch a state—a little late, true. He had a powerful guilt complex,even stronger than your withdrawal, over releasing this blessing onthe inhabited universe, but reason finally prevailed. He had reached astate of pure thought.     The North American government      has     to have this secret, Kevin, thegirl said. You can't let it fall into the hands of the Martians.  Andre did not deny that he wanted it to fall into his hands.     I knew I could not let Doc's—Dad's—time travel      thing     fall intoanyone's hands. I remembered that all the copies of the books haddisappeared with their readers now. There must not be any more, I knew.     Miss Casey did her duty and tried to stop me with a judo hold, but Idon't think her heart was in it, because I reversed and broke it.     I kicked the      thing     to pieces and stomped on the pieces. Maybe youcan't stop the progress of science, but I knew it might be millenniumsbefore Doc's genes and creative environment were recreated and timetravel was rediscovered. Maybe we would be ready for it then. I knew weweren't now.     Miss Casey leaned against my dirty chest and cried into it. I didn'tmind her touching me.     I'm glad, she said.     Andre flowed out of the doorway with a sigh. Of relief?     I would never know. I supposed I had destroyed      it     because I didn'twant the human race to become a thing of pure reason without purpose,direction or love, but I would never know for sure. I thought I couldkick the habit—perhaps with Miss Casey's help—but I wasn't reallyconfident.     Maybe I had destroyed the time machine because a world without materialneeds would not grow and roast coffee.   ","Doc’s use of time travel has caused hundreds of people to disappear from North America a few months ago. He initially starts off using time travel to get rare editions of books and magazines in mint condition. However, he derails and starts getting books that do not exist. For many of his clients, they shortly ceased to exist after obtaining a book from Doc. Doc also had bought the entire stock of an ancient metaphysical order, which he then supplied to his clients. Books such as the Book of Dyzan, Book of Thoth, Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan, and the Necromican were given away even if they do not exist in the present-day. These books are extremely harmful because they essentially instruct the human race on how to achieve a state of pure logic without requiring food, sex, or conflict. "
"Who is Kevin, and what are his characteristics? </s>     Confidence Game     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by EPSTEIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        I admit it: I didn't know if I was coming or       going—but I know that if I stuck to the old       man, I was a comer ... even if he was a goner!        Doc had this solemn human by the throat when I caught up with him.     Tonight, Doc was saying in his old voice that was as crackled andimportant as parchment, tonight Man will reach the Moon. The goldenMoon and the silver ship, symbols of greed. Tonight is the night whenthis is to happen.     Sure, the man agreed severely, prying a little worriedly at Doc'sarthritic fingers that were clamped on his collar. No argument. Sure,up we go. But leave me go or, so help me, I'll fetch you one in theteeth!     I came alongside and carefully started to lever the old man loose,one finger at a time. It had to be done this way. I had learned thatduring all these weeks and months. His hands looked old and crippled,but I felt they were the strongest in the world. If a half dozen winosin Seattle hadn't helped me get them loose, Doc and I would have beenwanted for the murder of a North American Mountie.     It was easier this night and that made me afraid. Doc's thin frame,layered with lumpy fat, was beginning to muscle-dance against my side.One of his times was coming on him. Then at last he was free of thegreasy collar of the human.     I hope you'll forgive him, sir, I said, not meeting the man's eyes.He's my father and very old, as you can see. I laughed inside at theabsurd, easy lie. Old events seem recent to him.     The human nodded, Adam's apple jerking in the angry neon twilight.'Memory Jump,' you mean. All my great-grandfathers have it. ButGreat-great-grandmother Lupos, funny thing, is like a schoolgirl.Sharp, you know. I.... Say, the poor old guy looks sick. Want any help?     I told the human no, thanks, and walked Doc toward the flophouse threedoors down. I hoped we would make it. I didn't know what would happenif we didn't. Doc was liable to say something that might nova Sol, forall I knew.  Martians approaching the corner were sensing at Doc and me. Theywere just cheap tourists slumming down on Skid Row. I hated touristsand especially I hated Martian tourists because I especially hatedMartians. They were      aliens     . They weren't      men     like Doc and me.     Then I realized what was about to happen. It was foolish and awful andtrue. I was going to have one of mine at the same time Doc was havinghis. That was bad. It had happened a few times right after I firstfound him, but now it was worse. For some undefinable reason, I felt wekept getting closer each of the times.     I tried not to think about it and helped Doc through the fly-speckedflophouse doors.     The tubercular clerk looked up from the gaudy comics sections of one ofthose little tabloids that have the funnies a week in advance.     Fifteen cents a bed, he said mechanically.     We'll use one bed, I told him. I'll give you twenty cents. I feltthe round hard quarter in my pocket, sweaty hand against sticky lining.     Fifteen cents a bed, he played it back for me.     Doc was quivering against me, his legs boneless.     We can always make it over to the mission, I lied.     The clerk turned his upper lip as if he were going to spit. Awright,since we ain't full up. In      ad     vance.     I placed the quarter on the desk.     Give me a nickel.     The clerk's hand fell on the coin and slid it off into the unknownbefore I could move, what with holding up Doc.     You've got your nerve, he said at me with a fine mist of dew. Had aquarter all along and yet you Martian me down to twenty cents. He sawthe look on my face. I'll give you a      room     for the two bits. That'sbetter'n a bed for twenty.     I knew I was going to need that nickel.      Desperately.     I reached acrossthe desk with my free hand and hauled the scrawny human up against theregister hard. I'm not as strong in my hands as Doc, but I managed.     Give me a nickel, I said.     What nickel? His eyes were big, but they kept looking right at me.You don't have any nickel. You don't have any quarter, not if I sayso. Want I should call a cop and tell him you were flexing a muscle?     I let go of him. He didn't scare me, but Doc was beginning to mumbleand that      did     scare me. I had to get him alone.     Where's the room? I asked.  The room was six feet in all directions and the walls were five feethigh. The other foot was finished in chicken wire. There was a winosinging on the left, a wino praying on the right, and the door didn'thave any lock on it. At last, Doc and I were alone.     I laid Doc out on the gray-brown cot and put his forearm over his faceto shield it some from the glare of the light bulb. I swept off all thebedbugs in sight and stepped on them heavily.     Then I dropped down into the painted stool chair and let my burningeyes rest on the obscene wall drawings just to focus them. I was sodirty, I could feel the grime grinding together all over me. My shaggyscalp still smarted from the alcohol I had stolen from a convertible'sgas tank to get rid of Doc's and my cooties. Lucky that I never neededto shave and that my face was so dirty, no one would even notice that Ididn't need to.     The cramp hit me and I folded out of the chair onto the littered,uncovered floor.     It stopped hurting, but I knew it would begin if I moved. I stared at ajagged cut-out nude curled against a lump of dust and lint, giving itan unreal distortion.     Doc began to mumble louder.     I knew I had to move.     I waited just a moment, savoring the painless peace. Then, finally, Imoved.     I was bent double, but I got from the floor to the chair and foundmy notebook and orb-point in my hands. I found I couldn't focus bothmy mind and my eyes through the electric flashes of agony, so Iconcentrated on Doc's voice and trusted my hands would follow theirhabit pattern and construct the symbols for his words. They weresuddenly distinguishable.             Outsider     ...      Thoth     ...      Dyzan     ...      Seven     ...      Hsan     ...      Beyond Six, Seven, Eight     ...      Two boxes     ...      Ralston     ...      RichardWentworth     ...      Jimmy Christopher     ...      Kent Allard     ...      Ayem     ...      Oh, are     ...      see     ....  His voice rose to a meaningless wail that stretched into non-existence.The pen slid across the scribbled face of the notebook and both droppedfrom my numb hands. But I knew. Somehow, inside me,      I knew     that thesewords were what I had been waiting for. They told everything I neededto know to become the most powerful man in the Solar Federation.     That wasn't just an addict's dream. I knew who Doc was. When I gotto thinking it was just a dream and that I was dragging this old manaround North America for nothing, I remembered who he was.     I remembered that he was somebody very important whose name and work Ihad once known, even if now I knew him only as Doc.     Pain was a pendulum within me, swinging from low throbbing bass to highscreaming tenor. I had to get out and get some. But I didn't have anickel. Still, I had to get some.     I crawled to the door and raised myself by the knob, slick with greasydirt. The door opened and shut—there was no lock. I shouldn't leaveDoc alone, but I had to.     He was starting to cry. He didn't always do that.     I listened to him for a moment, then tested and tasted the craving thatcrawled through my veins. I got back inside somehow.     Doc was twisting on the cot, tears washing white streaks across hisface. I shoved Doc's face up against my chest. I held onto him and lethim bellow. I soothed the lanks of soiled white hair back over hislumpy skull.     He shut up at last and I laid him down again and put his arm backacross his face. (You can't turn the light off and on in places likethat. The old wiring will blow the bulb half the time.)     I don't remember how I got out onto the street.  She was pink and clean and her platinum hair was pulled straight back,drawing her cheek-bones tighter, straightening her wide, appealingmouth, drawing her lean, athletic, feminine body erect. She was wearinga powder-blue dress that covered all of her breasts and hips and theupper half of her legs.     The most wonderful thing about her was her perfume. Then I realized itwasn't perfume, only the scent of soap. Finally, I knew it wasn't that.It was just healthy, fresh-scrubbed skin.     I went to her at the bus stop, forcing my legs not to stagger. Nobodywould help a drunk. I don't know why, but nobody will help you if theythink you are blotto.     Ma'am, could you help a man who's not had work? I kept my eyes down.I couldn't look a human in the eye and ask for help. Just a dime for acup of coffee. I knew where I could get it for three cents, maybe twoand a half.     I felt her looking at me. She spoke in an educated voice, one she used,perhaps, as a teacher or supervising telephone operator. Do you wantit for coffee, or to apply, or a glass or hypo of something else?     I cringed and whined. She would expect it of me. I suddenly realizedthat anybody as clean as she was had to be a tourist here. I hatetourists.     Just coffee, ma'am. She was younger than I was, so I didn't have tocall her that. A little more for food, if you could spare it.     I hadn't eaten in a day and a half, but I didn't care much.     I'll buy you a dinner, she said carefully, provided I can go withyou and see for myself that you actually eat it.     I felt my face flushing red. You wouldn't want to be seen with a bumlike me, ma'am.     I'll be seen with you if you really want to eat.     It was certainly unfair and probably immoral. But I had no choicewhatever.     Okay, I said, tasting bitterness over the craving.  The coffee was in a thick white cup before me on the counter. It waspale, grayish brown and steaming faintly. I picked it up in both handsto feel its warmth.     Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman sitting on the stoolbeside me. She had no right to intrude. This moment should be mine, butthere she sat, marring it for me, a contemptible      tourist     .     I gulped down the thick, dark liquid brutally. It was all I coulddo. The cramp flowed out of my diaphragm. I took another swallow andwas able to think straight again. A third swallow and I felt—good.Not abnormally stimulated, but strong, alert, poised on the brink ofexhilaration.     That was what coffee did for me.     I was a caffeine addict.     Earth-norm humans sometimes have the addiction to a slight extent, butI knew that as a Centurian I had it infinitely worse. Caffeine affectedmy metabolism like a pure alkaloid. The immediate effects weren't thesame, but the      need     ran as deep.     I finished the cup. I didn't order another because I wasn't a puresensualist. I just needed release. Sometimes, when I didn't have theprice of a cup, I would look around in alleys and find cola bottleswith a few drops left in them. They have a little caffeine inthem—not enough, never enough, but better than nothing.     Now what do you want to eat? the woman asked.     I didn't look at her. She didn't know. She thought I was a human—an      Earth     human. I was a      man     , of course, not an      alien     like a Martian.Earthmen ran the whole Solar Federation, but I was just as good as anEarthman. With my suntan and short mane, I could pass, couldn't I? Thatproved it, didn't it?     Hamburger, I said. Well done. I knew that would probably be allthey had fit to eat at a place like this. It might be horse meat, butthen I didn't have the local prejudices.     I didn't look at the woman. I couldn't. But I kept remembering howclean she looked and I was aware of how clean she smelled. I was sodirty, so very dirty that I could never get clean if I bathed everyhour for the rest of my life.     The hamburger was engulfed by five black-crowned, broken fingernailsand raised to two rows of yellow ivory. I surrounded it like an ameba,almost in a single movement of my jaws.     Several other hamburgers followed the first. I lost count. I drank aglass of milk. I didn't want to black out on coffee with Doc waitingfor me.     Could I have a few to take with me, miss? I pleaded.     She smiled. I caught that out of the edge of my vision, but mostly Ijust felt it.     That's the first time you've called me anything but 'ma'am', shesaid. I'm not an old-maid schoolteacher, you know.     That probably meant she was a schoolteacher, though. No, miss, I said.     It's Miss Casey—Vivian Casey, she corrected. She was aschoolteacher, all right. No other girl would introduce herself as MissLast Name. Then there was something in her voice....     What's your name? she said to me.     I choked a little on a bite of stale bun.     I      had     a name,      of course     .  Everybody has a name, and I knew if I went off somewhere quiet andthought about it, mine would come to me. Meanwhile, I would tell thegirl that my name was ... Kevin O'Malley. Abruptly I realized that that      was     my name.     Kevin, I told her. John Kevin.     Mister Kevin, she said, her words dancing with bright absurdity likewaterhose mist on a summer afternoon, I wonder if you could help      me     .     Happy to, miss, I mumbled.     She pushed a white rectangle in front of me on the painted maroon bar.What do you think of this?     I looked at the piece of paper. It was a coupon from a magazine.       Dear Acolyte R. I. S.     :       Please send me FREE of obligation, in sealed wrapper, The ScarletBook revealing to me how I may gain Secret Mastery of the Universe.         Name     : ........................       Address     : .....................     The world disoriented itself and I was on the floor of the somber dinerand Miss Vivian Casey was out of sight and scent.     There was a five dollar bill tight in my fist. The counterman wastrying to pull it out.     I looked up at his stubbled face. I had half a dozen hamburgers, acup of coffee and a glass of milk. I want four more 'burgers to go anda pint of coffee. By your prices, that will be one sixty-five—if thelady didn't pay you.     She didn't, he stammered. Why do you think I was trying to get thatbill out of your hand?     I didn't say anything, just got up off the floor. After the countermanput down my change, I spread out the five dollar bill on the vacantbar, smoothing it.     I scooped up my change and walked out the door. There was no one on thesidewalk, only in the doorways.  First I opened the door on an amber world, then an azure one. Neonlight was coming from the chickenwire border of the room, from a windowsomewhere beyond. The wino on one side of the room was singing andthe one on the other side was praying, same as before. Only they hadchanged around—prayer came from the left, song from the right.     Doc sat on the floor in the half-darkness and he had made a      thing     .       My heart hammered at my lungs. I      knew     this last time had beendifferent. Whatever it was was getting closer. This was the first timeDoc had ever made anything. It didn't look like much, but it was astart.     He had broken the light bulb and used the filament and screw bottom.His strong hands had unraveled some of the bed springs—metalwebbing—and fashioned them to his needs. My orb-point pen haddissolved under his touch. All of them, useless parts, were made into ameaningful whole.     I knew the thing had meaning, but when I tried to follow its design, Ibecame lost.     I put the paper container of warm coffee and the greasy bag ofhamburgers on the wooden chair, hoping the odor wouldn't bring anyhungry rats out of the walls.     I knelt beside Doc.     An order, my boy, an order, he whispered.     I didn't know what he meant. Was he suddenly trying to give me orders?     He held something out to me. It was my notebook. He had used my pen,before dismantling it, to write something. I tilted the notebookagainst the neon light, now red wine, now fresh grape. I read it.     Concentrate, Doc said hoarsely. Concentrate....     I wondered what the words meant. Wondering takes a kind ofconcentration.     The words First Edition were what I was thinking about most.  The heavy-set man in the ornate armchair was saying, The bullet struckme as I was pulling on my boot....     I was kneeling on the floor of a Victorian living room. I'm quitefamiliar with Earth history and I recognized the period immediately.     Then I realized what I had been trying to get from Doc all thesemonths—time travel.     A thin, sickly man was sprawled in the other chair in a rumpleddressing gown. My eyes held to his face, his pinpoint pupils andwhitened nose. He was a condemned snowbird! If there was anything Ihated or held in more contempt than tourists or Martians, it was asnowbird.     My clients have occasioned singular methods of entry into theserooms, the thin man remarked, but never before have they usedinstantaneous materialization.     The heavier man was half choking, half laughing. I say—I say, I wouldlike to see you explain this, my dear fellow.     I have no data, the thin man answered coolly. In such instance, onebegins to twist theories into fact, or facts into theories. I must askthis unemployed, former professional man who has gone through a seriousillness and is suffering a more serious addiction to tell me the placeand      time     from which he comes.     The surprise stung. How did you know? I asked.     He gestured with a pale hand. To maintain a logical approach, I mustreject the supernatural. Your arrival, unless hallucinatory—anddespite my voluntary use of one drug and my involuntary experiencesrecently with another, I must accept the evidence of my senses orretire from my profession—your arrival was then super-normal. I mightsay super-scientific, of a science not of my or the good doctor's time,clearly. Time travel is a familiar folk legend and I have been readingan article by the entertaining Mr. Wells. Perhaps he will expand itinto one of his novels of scientific romance.     I knew who these two men were, with a tormenting doubt. But theother—     Your hands, though unclean, have never seen physical labor. Yourcranial construction is of a superior type, or even if you reject mytheories, concentration does set the facial features. I judge you havesuffered an illness because of the inhibition of your beard growth.Your over-fondness for rum or opium, perhaps, is self-evident. Youare at too resilient an age to be so sunk by even an amour. Why elsethen would you let yourself fall into such an underfed and unsanitarystate?  He was so smug and so sure, this snowbird. I hated him. Because Icouldn't trust to my own senses as he did.     You don't exist, I said slowly, painfully. You are fictionalcreations.     The doctor flushed darkly. You give my literary agent too much creditfor the addition of professional polish to my works.     The other man was filling a large, curved pipe from something thatlooked vaguely like an ice-skate. Interesting. Perhaps if our visitorwould tell us something of his age with special reference to the theoryand practice of temporal transference, Doctor, we would be betterequipped to judge whether we exist.     There was no theory or practice of time travel. I told them all I hadever heard theorized from Hindu yoga through Extra-sensory Perceptionto Relativity and the positron and negatron.     Interesting. He breathed out suffocating black clouds of smoke.Presume that the people of your time by their 'Extra-sensoryPerception' have altered the past to make it as they suppose it to be.The great historical figures are made the larger than life-size that weknow them. The great literary creations assume reality.     I thought of Cleopatra and Helen of Troy and wondered if they would bethe goddesses of love that people imagined or the scrawny, big-nosedredhead and fading old woman of scholarship. Then I noticed thedetective's hand that had been resting idly on a round brass weight ofunknown sort to me. His tapered fingertips had indented the metal.     His bright eyes followed mine and he smiled faintly. Withdrawalsymptoms.     The admiration and affection for this man that had been slowly buildingup behind my hatred unbrinked. I remembered now that he had stopped. Hewas not      really     a snowbird.     After a time, I asked the doctor a question.     Why, yes. I'm flattered. This is the first manuscript. Considering myprofessional handwriting, I recopied it more laboriously.       Accepting the sheaf of papers and not looking back at these two greatand good men, I concentrated on my own time and Doc. Nothing happened.My heart raced, but I saw something dancing before me like a dust motein sunlight and stepped toward it....     ... into the effective range of Miss Casey's tiny gun.  She inclined the lethal silver toy. Let me see those papers, Kevin.     I handed her the doctor's manuscript.     Her breath escaped slowly and loudly. It's all right. It's all right.It exists. It's real. Not even one of the unwritten ones. I've readthis myself.     Doc was lying on the cot, half his face twisted into horror.     Don't move, Kevin, she said. I'll have to shoot you—maybe not tokill, but painfully.     I watched her face flash blue, red, blue and knew she meant it. But Ihad known too much in too short a time. I had to help Doc, but therewas something else.     I just want a drink of coffee from that container on the chair, Itold her.     She shook her head. I don't know what you think it does to you.     It was getting hard for me to think. Who are you?     She showed me a card from her wrist purse. Vivian Casey, Constable,North American Mounted Police.     I had to help Doc. I had to have some coffee. What do you want?     Listen, Kevin. Listen carefully to what I am saying. Doc founda method of time travel. It was almost a purely mathematical,topographical way divorced from modern physical sciences. He kept itsecret and he wanted to make money with it. He was an idealist—he hadhis crusades. How can you make money with time travel?     I didn't know whether she was asking me, but I didn't know. All I knewwas that I had to help Doc and get some coffee.     It takes money—money Doc didn't have—to make money, Miss Caseysaid, even if you know what horse will come in and what stock willprosper. Besides, horse-racing and the stock market weren't a part ofDoc's character. He was a scholar.     Why did she keep using the past tense in reference to Doc? It scaredme. He was lying so still with the left side of his face so twisted. Ineeded some coffee.     He became a book finder. He got rare editions of books and magazinesfor his clients in absolutely mint condition. That was all right—untilhe started obtaining books that      did not exist     .  I didn't know what all that was supposed to mean. I got to the chair,snatched up the coffee container, tore it open and gulped down thesoothing liquid.     I turned toward her and threw the rest of the coffee into her face.     The coffee splashed out over her platinum hair and powder-blue dressthat looked white when the neon was azure, purple when it was amber.The coffee stained and soiled and ruined, and I was fiercely glad,unreasonably happy.     I tore the gun away from her by the short barrel, not letting my filthyhands touch her scrubbed pink ones.     I pointed the gun generally at her and backed around the      thing     on thefloor to the cot. Doc had a pulse, but it was irregular. I checked fora fever and there wasn't one. After that, I didn't know what to do.     I looked up finally and saw a Martian in or about the doorway.     Call me Andre, the Martian said. A common name but foreign. Itshould serve as a point of reference.     I had always wondered how a thing like a Martian could talk. SometimesI wondered if they really could.     You won't need the gun, Andre said conversationally.     I'll keep it, thanks. What do      you     want?     I'll begin as Miss Casey did—by telling you things. Hundreds ofpeople disappeared from North America a few months ago.     They always do, I told him.     They ceased to exist—as human beings—shortly after they received abook from Doc, the Martian said.     Something seemed to strike me in the back of the neck. I staggered, butmanaged to hold onto the gun and stand up.     Use one of those sneaky Martian weapons again, I warned him,and I'll kill the girl. Martians were supposed to be against thedestruction of any life-form, I had read someplace. I doubted it, butit was worth a try.     Kevin, Andre said, why don't you take a bath?     The Martian weapon staggered me again. I tried to say something. Itried to explain that I was so dirty that I could never get clean nomatter how often I bathed. No words formed.     But, Kevin, Andre said, you aren't      that     dirty.  The blow shook the gun from my fingers. It almost fell into the      thing     on the floor, but at the last moment seemed to change direction andmiss it.     I knew something. I don't wash because I drink coffee.     It's all right to drink coffee, isn't it? he asked.     Of course, I said, and added absurdly, That's why I don't wash.     You mean, Andre said slowly, ploddingly, that if you bathed, youwould be admitting that drinking coffee was in the same class as anyother solitary vice that makes people wash frequently.     I was knocked to my knees.     Kevin, the Martian said, drinking coffee represents a major viceonly in Centurian humanoids, not Earth-norm human beings.      Which areyou?          Nothing came out of my gabbling mouth.           What is Doc's full name?          I almost fell in, but at the last instant I caught myself and said,Doctor Kevin O'Malley, Senior.     From the bed, Doc said a word. Son.     Then he disappeared.     I looked at that which he had made. I wondered where he had gone, insearch of what.     He didn't use that, Andre said.     So I was an Earthman, Doc's son. So my addiction to coffee was all inmy mind. That didn't change anything. They say sex is all in your mind.I didn't want to be cured. I wouldn't be. Doc was gone. That was all Ihad now. That and the      thing     he left.     The rest is simple, Andre said. Doc O'Malley bought up all the stockin a certain ancient metaphysical order and started supplying memberswith certain books. Can you imagine the effect of the      Book of Dyzan     or the      Book of Thoth     or the      Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan     or the      Necronomican     itself on human beings?     But they don't exist, I said wearily.     Exactly, Kevin, exactly. They have never existed any more than yourVictorian detective friend. But the unconscious racial mind has reachedback into time and created them. And that unconscious mind, deeper thanpsychology terms the subconscious, has always known about the powersof ESP, telepathy, telekinesis, precognition. Through these books,the human race can tell itself how to achieve a state of pure logic,without food, without sex, without conflict—just as Doc has achievedsuch a state—a little late, true. He had a powerful guilt complex,even stronger than your withdrawal, over releasing this blessing onthe inhabited universe, but reason finally prevailed. He had reached astate of pure thought.     The North American government      has     to have this secret, Kevin, thegirl said. You can't let it fall into the hands of the Martians.  Andre did not deny that he wanted it to fall into his hands.     I knew I could not let Doc's—Dad's—time travel      thing     fall intoanyone's hands. I remembered that all the copies of the books haddisappeared with their readers now. There must not be any more, I knew.     Miss Casey did her duty and tried to stop me with a judo hold, but Idon't think her heart was in it, because I reversed and broke it.     I kicked the      thing     to pieces and stomped on the pieces. Maybe youcan't stop the progress of science, but I knew it might be millenniumsbefore Doc's genes and creative environment were recreated and timetravel was rediscovered. Maybe we would be ready for it then. I knew weweren't now.     Miss Casey leaned against my dirty chest and cried into it. I didn'tmind her touching me.     I'm glad, she said.     Andre flowed out of the doorway with a sigh. Of relief?     I would never know. I supposed I had destroyed      it     because I didn'twant the human race to become a thing of pure reason without purpose,direction or love, but I would never know for sure. I thought I couldkick the habit—perhaps with Miss Casey's help—but I wasn't reallyconfident.     Maybe I had destroyed the time machine because a world without materialneeds would not grow and roast coffee.   ","Kevin initially believes that he is a Centurian who must carry Doc around in order to achieve something powerful from the man. He firmly believes him and Doc to be superior to the Earthmen and Martian tourists. Kevin is filthy, but he refuses to take a bath. He also has an addiction to caffeine, mistakenly believing that it is the side effect of being a Centurian. Although he looks down on humans, he is desperate enough to ask one for help and for some food. His fingernails are black-crowned and broken, while his teeth are of yellow ivory. He is also suntan and sprouts a short mane. Although he lies to Miss Casey and says his name is John Kevin, he realizes that his name is actually Kevin O’Malley. While Kevin does admit that he wants something from Doc, he also is clearly shown to care for the old man. It is later revealed that Doc is his father, Kevin O’Malley Sr. Even after Miss Casey reveals she is a member of the police, Kevin is still brave enough to throw the rest of the coffee in her face. Later, he realizes that he is actually an Earth human and not a Centurian. His caffeine addiction comes from the mind. Even though he cares for his father, Kevin does choose to make the right decision to destroy the time machine because he does not want humanity to become purely logical. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     Confidence Game     By JIM HARMON     Illustrated by EPSTEIN     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        I admit it: I didn't know if I was coming or       going—but I know that if I stuck to the old       man, I was a comer ... even if he was a goner!        Doc had this solemn human by the throat when I caught up with him.     Tonight, Doc was saying in his old voice that was as crackled andimportant as parchment, tonight Man will reach the Moon. The goldenMoon and the silver ship, symbols of greed. Tonight is the night whenthis is to happen.     Sure, the man agreed severely, prying a little worriedly at Doc'sarthritic fingers that were clamped on his collar. No argument. Sure,up we go. But leave me go or, so help me, I'll fetch you one in theteeth!     I came alongside and carefully started to lever the old man loose,one finger at a time. It had to be done this way. I had learned thatduring all these weeks and months. His hands looked old and crippled,but I felt they were the strongest in the world. If a half dozen winosin Seattle hadn't helped me get them loose, Doc and I would have beenwanted for the murder of a North American Mountie.     It was easier this night and that made me afraid. Doc's thin frame,layered with lumpy fat, was beginning to muscle-dance against my side.One of his times was coming on him. Then at last he was free of thegreasy collar of the human.     I hope you'll forgive him, sir, I said, not meeting the man's eyes.He's my father and very old, as you can see. I laughed inside at theabsurd, easy lie. Old events seem recent to him.     The human nodded, Adam's apple jerking in the angry neon twilight.'Memory Jump,' you mean. All my great-grandfathers have it. ButGreat-great-grandmother Lupos, funny thing, is like a schoolgirl.Sharp, you know. I.... Say, the poor old guy looks sick. Want any help?     I told the human no, thanks, and walked Doc toward the flophouse threedoors down. I hoped we would make it. I didn't know what would happenif we didn't. Doc was liable to say something that might nova Sol, forall I knew.  Martians approaching the corner were sensing at Doc and me. Theywere just cheap tourists slumming down on Skid Row. I hated touristsand especially I hated Martian tourists because I especially hatedMartians. They were      aliens     . They weren't      men     like Doc and me.     Then I realized what was about to happen. It was foolish and awful andtrue. I was going to have one of mine at the same time Doc was havinghis. That was bad. It had happened a few times right after I firstfound him, but now it was worse. For some undefinable reason, I felt wekept getting closer each of the times.     I tried not to think about it and helped Doc through the fly-speckedflophouse doors.     The tubercular clerk looked up from the gaudy comics sections of one ofthose little tabloids that have the funnies a week in advance.     Fifteen cents a bed, he said mechanically.     We'll use one bed, I told him. I'll give you twenty cents. I feltthe round hard quarter in my pocket, sweaty hand against sticky lining.     Fifteen cents a bed, he played it back for me.     Doc was quivering against me, his legs boneless.     We can always make it over to the mission, I lied.     The clerk turned his upper lip as if he were going to spit. Awright,since we ain't full up. In      ad     vance.     I placed the quarter on the desk.     Give me a nickel.     The clerk's hand fell on the coin and slid it off into the unknownbefore I could move, what with holding up Doc.     You've got your nerve, he said at me with a fine mist of dew. Had aquarter all along and yet you Martian me down to twenty cents. He sawthe look on my face. I'll give you a      room     for the two bits. That'sbetter'n a bed for twenty.     I knew I was going to need that nickel.      Desperately.     I reached acrossthe desk with my free hand and hauled the scrawny human up against theregister hard. I'm not as strong in my hands as Doc, but I managed.     Give me a nickel, I said.     What nickel? His eyes were big, but they kept looking right at me.You don't have any nickel. You don't have any quarter, not if I sayso. Want I should call a cop and tell him you were flexing a muscle?     I let go of him. He didn't scare me, but Doc was beginning to mumbleand that      did     scare me. I had to get him alone.     Where's the room? I asked.  The room was six feet in all directions and the walls were five feethigh. The other foot was finished in chicken wire. There was a winosinging on the left, a wino praying on the right, and the door didn'thave any lock on it. At last, Doc and I were alone.     I laid Doc out on the gray-brown cot and put his forearm over his faceto shield it some from the glare of the light bulb. I swept off all thebedbugs in sight and stepped on them heavily.     Then I dropped down into the painted stool chair and let my burningeyes rest on the obscene wall drawings just to focus them. I was sodirty, I could feel the grime grinding together all over me. My shaggyscalp still smarted from the alcohol I had stolen from a convertible'sgas tank to get rid of Doc's and my cooties. Lucky that I never neededto shave and that my face was so dirty, no one would even notice that Ididn't need to.     The cramp hit me and I folded out of the chair onto the littered,uncovered floor.     It stopped hurting, but I knew it would begin if I moved. I stared at ajagged cut-out nude curled against a lump of dust and lint, giving itan unreal distortion.     Doc began to mumble louder.     I knew I had to move.     I waited just a moment, savoring the painless peace. Then, finally, Imoved.     I was bent double, but I got from the floor to the chair and foundmy notebook and orb-point in my hands. I found I couldn't focus bothmy mind and my eyes through the electric flashes of agony, so Iconcentrated on Doc's voice and trusted my hands would follow theirhabit pattern and construct the symbols for his words. They weresuddenly distinguishable.             Outsider     ...      Thoth     ...      Dyzan     ...      Seven     ...      Hsan     ...      Beyond Six, Seven, Eight     ...      Two boxes     ...      Ralston     ...      RichardWentworth     ...      Jimmy Christopher     ...      Kent Allard     ...      Ayem     ...      Oh, are     ...      see     ....  His voice rose to a meaningless wail that stretched into non-existence.The pen slid across the scribbled face of the notebook and both droppedfrom my numb hands. But I knew. Somehow, inside me,      I knew     that thesewords were what I had been waiting for. They told everything I neededto know to become the most powerful man in the Solar Federation.     That wasn't just an addict's dream. I knew who Doc was. When I gotto thinking it was just a dream and that I was dragging this old manaround North America for nothing, I remembered who he was.     I remembered that he was somebody very important whose name and work Ihad once known, even if now I knew him only as Doc.     Pain was a pendulum within me, swinging from low throbbing bass to highscreaming tenor. I had to get out and get some. But I didn't have anickel. Still, I had to get some.     I crawled to the door and raised myself by the knob, slick with greasydirt. The door opened and shut—there was no lock. I shouldn't leaveDoc alone, but I had to.     He was starting to cry. He didn't always do that.     I listened to him for a moment, then tested and tasted the craving thatcrawled through my veins. I got back inside somehow.     Doc was twisting on the cot, tears washing white streaks across hisface. I shoved Doc's face up against my chest. I held onto him and lethim bellow. I soothed the lanks of soiled white hair back over hislumpy skull.     He shut up at last and I laid him down again and put his arm backacross his face. (You can't turn the light off and on in places likethat. The old wiring will blow the bulb half the time.)     I don't remember how I got out onto the street.  She was pink and clean and her platinum hair was pulled straight back,drawing her cheek-bones tighter, straightening her wide, appealingmouth, drawing her lean, athletic, feminine body erect. She was wearinga powder-blue dress that covered all of her breasts and hips and theupper half of her legs.     The most wonderful thing about her was her perfume. Then I realized itwasn't perfume, only the scent of soap. Finally, I knew it wasn't that.It was just healthy, fresh-scrubbed skin.     I went to her at the bus stop, forcing my legs not to stagger. Nobodywould help a drunk. I don't know why, but nobody will help you if theythink you are blotto.     Ma'am, could you help a man who's not had work? I kept my eyes down.I couldn't look a human in the eye and ask for help. Just a dime for acup of coffee. I knew where I could get it for three cents, maybe twoand a half.     I felt her looking at me. She spoke in an educated voice, one she used,perhaps, as a teacher or supervising telephone operator. Do you wantit for coffee, or to apply, or a glass or hypo of something else?     I cringed and whined. She would expect it of me. I suddenly realizedthat anybody as clean as she was had to be a tourist here. I hatetourists.     Just coffee, ma'am. She was younger than I was, so I didn't have tocall her that. A little more for food, if you could spare it.     I hadn't eaten in a day and a half, but I didn't care much.     I'll buy you a dinner, she said carefully, provided I can go withyou and see for myself that you actually eat it.     I felt my face flushing red. You wouldn't want to be seen with a bumlike me, ma'am.     I'll be seen with you if you really want to eat.     It was certainly unfair and probably immoral. But I had no choicewhatever.     Okay, I said, tasting bitterness over the craving.  The coffee was in a thick white cup before me on the counter. It waspale, grayish brown and steaming faintly. I picked it up in both handsto feel its warmth.     Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the woman sitting on the stoolbeside me. She had no right to intrude. This moment should be mine, butthere she sat, marring it for me, a contemptible      tourist     .     I gulped down the thick, dark liquid brutally. It was all I coulddo. The cramp flowed out of my diaphragm. I took another swallow andwas able to think straight again. A third swallow and I felt—good.Not abnormally stimulated, but strong, alert, poised on the brink ofexhilaration.     That was what coffee did for me.     I was a caffeine addict.     Earth-norm humans sometimes have the addiction to a slight extent, butI knew that as a Centurian I had it infinitely worse. Caffeine affectedmy metabolism like a pure alkaloid. The immediate effects weren't thesame, but the      need     ran as deep.     I finished the cup. I didn't order another because I wasn't a puresensualist. I just needed release. Sometimes, when I didn't have theprice of a cup, I would look around in alleys and find cola bottleswith a few drops left in them. They have a little caffeine inthem—not enough, never enough, but better than nothing.     Now what do you want to eat? the woman asked.     I didn't look at her. She didn't know. She thought I was a human—an      Earth     human. I was a      man     , of course, not an      alien     like a Martian.Earthmen ran the whole Solar Federation, but I was just as good as anEarthman. With my suntan and short mane, I could pass, couldn't I? Thatproved it, didn't it?     Hamburger, I said. Well done. I knew that would probably be allthey had fit to eat at a place like this. It might be horse meat, butthen I didn't have the local prejudices.     I didn't look at the woman. I couldn't. But I kept remembering howclean she looked and I was aware of how clean she smelled. I was sodirty, so very dirty that I could never get clean if I bathed everyhour for the rest of my life.     The hamburger was engulfed by five black-crowned, broken fingernailsand raised to two rows of yellow ivory. I surrounded it like an ameba,almost in a single movement of my jaws.     Several other hamburgers followed the first. I lost count. I drank aglass of milk. I didn't want to black out on coffee with Doc waitingfor me.     Could I have a few to take with me, miss? I pleaded.     She smiled. I caught that out of the edge of my vision, but mostly Ijust felt it.     That's the first time you've called me anything but 'ma'am', shesaid. I'm not an old-maid schoolteacher, you know.     That probably meant she was a schoolteacher, though. No, miss, I said.     It's Miss Casey—Vivian Casey, she corrected. She was aschoolteacher, all right. No other girl would introduce herself as MissLast Name. Then there was something in her voice....     What's your name? she said to me.     I choked a little on a bite of stale bun.     I      had     a name,      of course     .  Everybody has a name, and I knew if I went off somewhere quiet andthought about it, mine would come to me. Meanwhile, I would tell thegirl that my name was ... Kevin O'Malley. Abruptly I realized that that      was     my name.     Kevin, I told her. John Kevin.     Mister Kevin, she said, her words dancing with bright absurdity likewaterhose mist on a summer afternoon, I wonder if you could help      me     .     Happy to, miss, I mumbled.     She pushed a white rectangle in front of me on the painted maroon bar.What do you think of this?     I looked at the piece of paper. It was a coupon from a magazine.       Dear Acolyte R. I. S.     :       Please send me FREE of obligation, in sealed wrapper, The ScarletBook revealing to me how I may gain Secret Mastery of the Universe.         Name     : ........................       Address     : .....................     The world disoriented itself and I was on the floor of the somber dinerand Miss Vivian Casey was out of sight and scent.     There was a five dollar bill tight in my fist. The counterman wastrying to pull it out.     I looked up at his stubbled face. I had half a dozen hamburgers, acup of coffee and a glass of milk. I want four more 'burgers to go anda pint of coffee. By your prices, that will be one sixty-five—if thelady didn't pay you.     She didn't, he stammered. Why do you think I was trying to get thatbill out of your hand?     I didn't say anything, just got up off the floor. After the countermanput down my change, I spread out the five dollar bill on the vacantbar, smoothing it.     I scooped up my change and walked out the door. There was no one on thesidewalk, only in the doorways.  First I opened the door on an amber world, then an azure one. Neonlight was coming from the chickenwire border of the room, from a windowsomewhere beyond. The wino on one side of the room was singing andthe one on the other side was praying, same as before. Only they hadchanged around—prayer came from the left, song from the right.     Doc sat on the floor in the half-darkness and he had made a      thing     .       My heart hammered at my lungs. I      knew     this last time had beendifferent. Whatever it was was getting closer. This was the first timeDoc had ever made anything. It didn't look like much, but it was astart.     He had broken the light bulb and used the filament and screw bottom.His strong hands had unraveled some of the bed springs—metalwebbing—and fashioned them to his needs. My orb-point pen haddissolved under his touch. All of them, useless parts, were made into ameaningful whole.     I knew the thing had meaning, but when I tried to follow its design, Ibecame lost.     I put the paper container of warm coffee and the greasy bag ofhamburgers on the wooden chair, hoping the odor wouldn't bring anyhungry rats out of the walls.     I knelt beside Doc.     An order, my boy, an order, he whispered.     I didn't know what he meant. Was he suddenly trying to give me orders?     He held something out to me. It was my notebook. He had used my pen,before dismantling it, to write something. I tilted the notebookagainst the neon light, now red wine, now fresh grape. I read it.     Concentrate, Doc said hoarsely. Concentrate....     I wondered what the words meant. Wondering takes a kind ofconcentration.     The words First Edition were what I was thinking about most.  The heavy-set man in the ornate armchair was saying, The bullet struckme as I was pulling on my boot....     I was kneeling on the floor of a Victorian living room. I'm quitefamiliar with Earth history and I recognized the period immediately.     Then I realized what I had been trying to get from Doc all thesemonths—time travel.     A thin, sickly man was sprawled in the other chair in a rumpleddressing gown. My eyes held to his face, his pinpoint pupils andwhitened nose. He was a condemned snowbird! If there was anything Ihated or held in more contempt than tourists or Martians, it was asnowbird.     My clients have occasioned singular methods of entry into theserooms, the thin man remarked, but never before have they usedinstantaneous materialization.     The heavier man was half choking, half laughing. I say—I say, I wouldlike to see you explain this, my dear fellow.     I have no data, the thin man answered coolly. In such instance, onebegins to twist theories into fact, or facts into theories. I must askthis unemployed, former professional man who has gone through a seriousillness and is suffering a more serious addiction to tell me the placeand      time     from which he comes.     The surprise stung. How did you know? I asked.     He gestured with a pale hand. To maintain a logical approach, I mustreject the supernatural. Your arrival, unless hallucinatory—anddespite my voluntary use of one drug and my involuntary experiencesrecently with another, I must accept the evidence of my senses orretire from my profession—your arrival was then super-normal. I mightsay super-scientific, of a science not of my or the good doctor's time,clearly. Time travel is a familiar folk legend and I have been readingan article by the entertaining Mr. Wells. Perhaps he will expand itinto one of his novels of scientific romance.     I knew who these two men were, with a tormenting doubt. But theother—     Your hands, though unclean, have never seen physical labor. Yourcranial construction is of a superior type, or even if you reject mytheories, concentration does set the facial features. I judge you havesuffered an illness because of the inhibition of your beard growth.Your over-fondness for rum or opium, perhaps, is self-evident. Youare at too resilient an age to be so sunk by even an amour. Why elsethen would you let yourself fall into such an underfed and unsanitarystate?  He was so smug and so sure, this snowbird. I hated him. Because Icouldn't trust to my own senses as he did.     You don't exist, I said slowly, painfully. You are fictionalcreations.     The doctor flushed darkly. You give my literary agent too much creditfor the addition of professional polish to my works.     The other man was filling a large, curved pipe from something thatlooked vaguely like an ice-skate. Interesting. Perhaps if our visitorwould tell us something of his age with special reference to the theoryand practice of temporal transference, Doctor, we would be betterequipped to judge whether we exist.     There was no theory or practice of time travel. I told them all I hadever heard theorized from Hindu yoga through Extra-sensory Perceptionto Relativity and the positron and negatron.     Interesting. He breathed out suffocating black clouds of smoke.Presume that the people of your time by their 'Extra-sensoryPerception' have altered the past to make it as they suppose it to be.The great historical figures are made the larger than life-size that weknow them. The great literary creations assume reality.     I thought of Cleopatra and Helen of Troy and wondered if they would bethe goddesses of love that people imagined or the scrawny, big-nosedredhead and fading old woman of scholarship. Then I noticed thedetective's hand that had been resting idly on a round brass weight ofunknown sort to me. His tapered fingertips had indented the metal.     His bright eyes followed mine and he smiled faintly. Withdrawalsymptoms.     The admiration and affection for this man that had been slowly buildingup behind my hatred unbrinked. I remembered now that he had stopped. Hewas not      really     a snowbird.     After a time, I asked the doctor a question.     Why, yes. I'm flattered. This is the first manuscript. Considering myprofessional handwriting, I recopied it more laboriously.       Accepting the sheaf of papers and not looking back at these two greatand good men, I concentrated on my own time and Doc. Nothing happened.My heart raced, but I saw something dancing before me like a dust motein sunlight and stepped toward it....     ... into the effective range of Miss Casey's tiny gun.  She inclined the lethal silver toy. Let me see those papers, Kevin.     I handed her the doctor's manuscript.     Her breath escaped slowly and loudly. It's all right. It's all right.It exists. It's real. Not even one of the unwritten ones. I've readthis myself.     Doc was lying on the cot, half his face twisted into horror.     Don't move, Kevin, she said. I'll have to shoot you—maybe not tokill, but painfully.     I watched her face flash blue, red, blue and knew she meant it. But Ihad known too much in too short a time. I had to help Doc, but therewas something else.     I just want a drink of coffee from that container on the chair, Itold her.     She shook her head. I don't know what you think it does to you.     It was getting hard for me to think. Who are you?     She showed me a card from her wrist purse. Vivian Casey, Constable,North American Mounted Police.     I had to help Doc. I had to have some coffee. What do you want?     Listen, Kevin. Listen carefully to what I am saying. Doc founda method of time travel. It was almost a purely mathematical,topographical way divorced from modern physical sciences. He kept itsecret and he wanted to make money with it. He was an idealist—he hadhis crusades. How can you make money with time travel?     I didn't know whether she was asking me, but I didn't know. All I knewwas that I had to help Doc and get some coffee.     It takes money—money Doc didn't have—to make money, Miss Caseysaid, even if you know what horse will come in and what stock willprosper. Besides, horse-racing and the stock market weren't a part ofDoc's character. He was a scholar.     Why did she keep using the past tense in reference to Doc? It scaredme. He was lying so still with the left side of his face so twisted. Ineeded some coffee.     He became a book finder. He got rare editions of books and magazinesfor his clients in absolutely mint condition. That was all right—untilhe started obtaining books that      did not exist     .  I didn't know what all that was supposed to mean. I got to the chair,snatched up the coffee container, tore it open and gulped down thesoothing liquid.     I turned toward her and threw the rest of the coffee into her face.     The coffee splashed out over her platinum hair and powder-blue dressthat looked white when the neon was azure, purple when it was amber.The coffee stained and soiled and ruined, and I was fiercely glad,unreasonably happy.     I tore the gun away from her by the short barrel, not letting my filthyhands touch her scrubbed pink ones.     I pointed the gun generally at her and backed around the      thing     on thefloor to the cot. Doc had a pulse, but it was irregular. I checked fora fever and there wasn't one. After that, I didn't know what to do.     I looked up finally and saw a Martian in or about the doorway.     Call me Andre, the Martian said. A common name but foreign. Itshould serve as a point of reference.     I had always wondered how a thing like a Martian could talk. SometimesI wondered if they really could.     You won't need the gun, Andre said conversationally.     I'll keep it, thanks. What do      you     want?     I'll begin as Miss Casey did—by telling you things. Hundreds ofpeople disappeared from North America a few months ago.     They always do, I told him.     They ceased to exist—as human beings—shortly after they received abook from Doc, the Martian said.     Something seemed to strike me in the back of the neck. I staggered, butmanaged to hold onto the gun and stand up.     Use one of those sneaky Martian weapons again, I warned him,and I'll kill the girl. Martians were supposed to be against thedestruction of any life-form, I had read someplace. I doubted it, butit was worth a try.     Kevin, Andre said, why don't you take a bath?     The Martian weapon staggered me again. I tried to say something. Itried to explain that I was so dirty that I could never get clean nomatter how often I bathed. No words formed.     But, Kevin, Andre said, you aren't      that     dirty.  The blow shook the gun from my fingers. It almost fell into the      thing     on the floor, but at the last moment seemed to change direction andmiss it.     I knew something. I don't wash because I drink coffee.     It's all right to drink coffee, isn't it? he asked.     Of course, I said, and added absurdly, That's why I don't wash.     You mean, Andre said slowly, ploddingly, that if you bathed, youwould be admitting that drinking coffee was in the same class as anyother solitary vice that makes people wash frequently.     I was knocked to my knees.     Kevin, the Martian said, drinking coffee represents a major viceonly in Centurian humanoids, not Earth-norm human beings.      Which areyou?          Nothing came out of my gabbling mouth.           What is Doc's full name?          I almost fell in, but at the last instant I caught myself and said,Doctor Kevin O'Malley, Senior.     From the bed, Doc said a word. Son.     Then he disappeared.     I looked at that which he had made. I wondered where he had gone, insearch of what.     He didn't use that, Andre said.     So I was an Earthman, Doc's son. So my addiction to coffee was all inmy mind. That didn't change anything. They say sex is all in your mind.I didn't want to be cured. I wouldn't be. Doc was gone. That was all Ihad now. That and the      thing     he left.     The rest is simple, Andre said. Doc O'Malley bought up all the stockin a certain ancient metaphysical order and started supplying memberswith certain books. Can you imagine the effect of the      Book of Dyzan     or the      Book of Thoth     or the      Seven Cryptical Books of Hsan     or the      Necronomican     itself on human beings?     But they don't exist, I said wearily.     Exactly, Kevin, exactly. They have never existed any more than yourVictorian detective friend. But the unconscious racial mind has reachedback into time and created them. And that unconscious mind, deeper thanpsychology terms the subconscious, has always known about the powersof ESP, telepathy, telekinesis, precognition. Through these books,the human race can tell itself how to achieve a state of pure logic,without food, without sex, without conflict—just as Doc has achievedsuch a state—a little late, true. He had a powerful guilt complex,even stronger than your withdrawal, over releasing this blessing onthe inhabited universe, but reason finally prevailed. He had reached astate of pure thought.     The North American government      has     to have this secret, Kevin, thegirl said. You can't let it fall into the hands of the Martians.  Andre did not deny that he wanted it to fall into his hands.     I knew I could not let Doc's—Dad's—time travel      thing     fall intoanyone's hands. I remembered that all the copies of the books haddisappeared with their readers now. There must not be any more, I knew.     Miss Casey did her duty and tried to stop me with a judo hold, but Idon't think her heart was in it, because I reversed and broke it.     I kicked the      thing     to pieces and stomped on the pieces. Maybe youcan't stop the progress of science, but I knew it might be millenniumsbefore Doc's genes and creative environment were recreated and timetravel was rediscovered. Maybe we would be ready for it then. I knew weweren't now.     Miss Casey leaned against my dirty chest and cried into it. I didn'tmind her touching me.     I'm glad, she said.     Andre flowed out of the doorway with a sigh. Of relief?     I would never know. I supposed I had destroyed      it     because I didn'twant the human race to become a thing of pure reason without purpose,direction or love, but I would never know for sure. I thought I couldkick the habit—perhaps with Miss Casey's help—but I wasn't reallyconfident.     Maybe I had destroyed the time machine because a world without materialneeds would not grow and roast coffee.   ","The story first begins with Doc and Kevin going to a flophouse three doors down from where Doc has his confrontation. As they turn around the corner, many Martian tourists walk by. The flophouse door is fly-specked, and a tubercular clerk is sitting in a gaudy comics section. The room they later go to is six feet in all directions with five feet high walls. The other foot is finished in chickenwire; there is also a wino singing on the left, wino praying on the right, and a door with no lock. There is also a gray-brown cot that Kevin lays Doc on, and a light bulb for light. Kevin also sits in a chair; the floor is littered and uncovered. The knob of the door is slick with greasy dirt. Later, Kevin goes out to the streets. They go to a restaurant, where he sits at the counter with a cup of coffee. There is also a stool for Miss Casey to sit in next to his stool. As he leaves, he notices that there is nobody on the sidewalks. Kevin describes himself opening the door to an amber world and then an azure one. Neon light also comes from the chickenwire border of the room, from a window somewhere beyond. When Kevin brings back food to the flophouse, he mentions that there are rats in the walls. Inside his mind, one man sits on an ornate armchair. Another man is sprawled in the other chair. Later, as Kevin goes back to reality, the confrontation between Miss Casey, Andre, and him happens in the same room with Doc still on the cot. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     THE MAN OUTSIDE     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        No one, least of all Martin, could dispute       that a man's life should be guarded by his       kin—but by those who hadn't been born yet?        Nobody in the neighborhood was surprised when Martin's motherdisappeared and Ninian came to take care of him. Mothers had a wayof disappearing around those parts and the kids were often betteroff without them. Martin was no exception. He'd never had it thisgood while he was living with his old lady. As for his father, Martinhad never had one. He'd been a war baby, born of one of the tides ofsoldiers—enemies and allies, both—that had engulfed the country insuccessive waves and bought or taken the women. So there was no troublethat way.     Sometimes he wondered who Ninian really was. Obviously that storyabout her coming from the future was just a gag. Besides, if she reallywas his great-great-grand-daughter, as she said, why would she tellhim to call her       Aunt Ninian     ? Maybe he was only eleven, but he'dbeen around and he knew just what the score was. At first he'd thoughtmaybe she was some new kind of social worker, but she acted a littletoo crazy for that.     He loved to bait her, as he had loved to bait his mother. It was saferwith Ninian, though, because when he pushed her too far, she would cryinstead of mopping up the floor with him.     But I can't understand, he would say, keeping his face straight. Whydo you have to come from the future to protect me against your cousinConrad?     Because he's coming to kill you.     Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing.     Ninian sighed. He's dissatisfied with the current social order andkilling you is part of an elaborate plan he's formulated to change it.You wouldn't understand.     You're damn right. I      don't     understand. What's it all about instraight gas?     Oh, just don't ask any questions, Ninian said petulantly. When youget older, someone will explain the whole thing to you.  So Martin held his peace, because, on the whole, he liked things theway they were. Ninian really was the limit, though. All the people heknew lived in scabrous tenement apartments like his, but she seemed tothink it was disgusting.     So if you don't like it, clean it up, he suggested.     She looked at him as if he were out of his mind.     Hire a maid, then! he jeered.     And darned if that dope didn't go out and get a woman to come clean upthe place! He was so embarrassed, he didn't even dare show his face inthe streets—especially with the women buttonholing him and demandingto know what gave. They tried talking to Ninian, but she certainly knewhow to give them the cold shoulder.     One day the truant officer came to ask why Martin hadn't been comingto school. Very few of the neighborhood kids attended classes veryregularly, so this was just routine. But Ninian didn't know that andshe went into a real tizzy, babbling that Martin had been sick andwould make up the work. Martin nearly did get sick from laughing sohard inside.     But he laughed out of the other side of his mouth when she went out andhired a private tutor for him. A tutor—in that neighborhood! Martinhad to beat up every kid on the block before he could walk a stepwithout hearing Fancy Pants! yelled after him.     Ninian worried all the time. It wasn't that she cared what these peoplethought of her, for she made no secret of regarding them as littlebetter than animals, but she was shy of attracting attention. Therewere an awful lot of people in that neighborhood who felt exactly thesame way, only she didn't know that, either. She was really prettydumb, Martin thought, for all her fancy lingo.     It's so hard to think these things out without any prior practicalapplication to go by, she told him.     He nodded, knowing what she meant was that everything was coming outwrong. But he didn't try to help her; he just watched to see whatshe'd do next. Already he had begun to assume the detached role of aspectator.     When it became clear that his mother was never going to show up again,Ninian bought one of those smallish, almost identical houses thatmushroom on the fringes of a city after every war, particularly whereintensive bombing has created a number of desirable building sites.     This is a much better neighborhood for a boy to grow up in, shedeclared. Besides, it's easier to keep an eye on you here.     And keep an eye on him she did—she or a rather foppish young man whocame to stay with them occasionally. Martin was told to call him UncleRaymond.     From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives andBartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and manymore—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his.  Martin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to playwith the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parentswould have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that ifa one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must besomething pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just asconspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; shewas supposed to know better than he did.     He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded bymore luxury than he knew what to do with.     The furniture was the latest New Grand Rapids African modern. Therewere tidy, colorful Picasso and Braque prints on the walls. And everyinch of the floor was modestly covered by carpeting, though the wallswere mostly unabashed glass. There were hot water and heat all the timeand a freezer well stocked with food—somewhat erratically chosen, forNinian didn't know much about meals.     The non-glass part of the house was of neat, natural-toned wood, with aneat green lawn in front and a neat parti-colored garden in back.     Martin missed the old neighborhood, though. He missed having otherkids to play with. He even missed his mother. Sure, she hadn't givenhim enough to eat and she'd beaten him up so hard sometimes that she'dnearly killed him—but then there had also been times when she'd huggedand kissed him and soaked his collar with her tears. She'd done allshe could for him, supporting him in the only way she knew how—and ifrespectable society didn't like it, the hell with respectable society.     From Ninian and her cousins, there was only an impersonal kindness.They made no bones about the fact that they were there only to carryout a rather unpleasant duty. Though they were in the house with him,in their minds and in their talk they were living in another world—aworld of warmth and peace and plenty where nobody worked, except in thegovernment service or the essential professions. And they seemed tothink even that kind of job was pretty low-class, though better thanactually doing anything with the hands.     In their world, Martin came to understand, nobody worked with hands;everything was done by machinery. All the people ever did was wearpretty clothes and have good times and eat all they wanted. There wasno devastation, no war, no unhappiness, none of the concomitants ofnormal living.     It was then that Martin began to realize that either the whole lot ofthem were insane, or what Ninian had told him at first was the truth.They came from the future.  When Martin was sixteen, Raymond took him aside for the talk Ninian hadpromised five years before.     The whole thing's all my brother Conrad's fault. You see, he's anidealist, Raymond explained, pronouncing the last word with distaste.     Martin nodded gravely. He was a quiet boy now, his brief past a dim andrather ridiculous memory. Who could ever imagine him robbing a grocerystore or wielding a broken bottle now? He still was rather undersizedand he'd read so much that he'd weakened his eyes and had to wearglasses. His face was pallid, because he spent little time in the sun,and his speech rather overbred, his mentors from the future havingcarefully eradicated all current vulgarities.     And Conrad really got upset over the way Earth has been exploitingthe not so intelligent life-forms on the other planets, Raymondcontinued. Which      is     distressing—though, of course, it's not asif they were people. Besides, the government has been talking aboutpassing laws to do away with the—well, abuses and things like that,and I'm sure someday everything will come out all right. However,Conrad is so impatient.     I thought, in your world, machines did all the work, Martin suggested.     I've told you—our world is precisely the same as this one! Raymondsnapped. We just come a couple of centuries or so later, that's all.But remember, our interests are identical. We're virtually the samepeople ... although it is amazing what a difference two hundred oddyears of progress and polish can make in a species, isn't it?     He continued more mildly: However, even you ought to be able tounderstand that we can't make machinery without metal. We need food.All that sort of thing comes from the out-system planets. And, on thoseworlds, it's far cheaper to use native labor than to ship out all thatexpensive machinery. After all, if we didn't give the natives jobs, howwould they manage to live?     How did they live before? Come to think of it, if you don't work, howdo      you     live now?... I don't mean in the now for me, but the now foryou, Martin explained laboriously. It was so difficult to live in thepast and think in the future.     I'm trying to talk to you as if you were an adult, Raymond said, butif you will persist in these childish interruptions—     I'm sorry, Martin said.     But he wasn't, for by now he had little respect left for any ofhis descendants. They were all exceedingly handsome and cultivatedyoung people, with superior educations, smooth ways of speaking andconsiderable self-confidence, but they just weren't very bright. Andhe had discovered that Raymond was perhaps the most intelligent of thelot. Somewhere in that relatively short span of time, his line or—morefrightening—his race had lost something vital.     Unaware of the near-contempt in which his young ancestor held him,Raymond went on blandly: Anyhow, Conrad took it upon himself tofeel particularly guilty, because, he decided, if it hadn't been forthe fact that our great-grandfather discovered the super-drive, wemight never have reached the stars. Which is ridiculous—his feelingguilty, I mean. Perhaps a great-grandfather is responsible for hisgreat-grandchildren, but a great-grandchild can hardly be heldaccountable for his great-grandfather.     How about a great-great-grandchild? Martin couldn't help asking.  Raymond flushed a delicate pink. Do you want to hear the rest of thisor don't you?     Oh, I do! Martin said. He had pieced the whole thing together forhimself long since, but he wanted to hear how Raymond would put it.     Unfortunately, Professor Farkas has just perfected the timetransmitter. Those government scientists are so infernallyofficious—always inventing such senseless things. It's supposed tobe hush-hush, but you know how news will leak out when one is alwaysdesperate for a fresh topic of conversation.     Anyhow, Raymond went on to explain, Conrad had bribed one of Farkas'assistants for a set of the plans. Conrad's idea had been to go backin time and eliminate! their common great-grandfather. In that way,there would be no space-drive, and, hence, the Terrestrials would neverget to the other planets and oppress the local aborigines.     Sounds like a good way of dealing with the problem, Martin observed.     Raymond looked annoyed. It's the      adolescent     way, he said, to doaway with it, rather than find a solution. Would you destroy a wholesociety in order to root out a single injustice?     Not if it were a good one otherwise.     Well, there's your answer. Conrad got the apparatus built, or perhapshe built it himself. One doesn't inquire too closely into suchmatters. But when it came to the point, Conrad couldn't bear the ideaof eliminating our great-grandfather—because our great-grandfatherwas such a      good     man, you know. Raymond's expressive upper lipcurled. So Conrad decided to go further back still and get rid ofhis great-grandfather's father—who'd been, by all accounts, a prettyworthless character.     That would be me, I suppose, Martin said quietly.     Raymond turned a deep rose. Well, doesn't that just go to prove youmustn't believe everything you hear? The next sentence tumbled out ina rush. I wormed the whole thing out of him and all of us—the othercousins and me—held a council of war, as it were, and we decided itwas our moral duty to go back in time ourselves and protect you. Hebeamed at Martin.     The boy smiled slowly. Of course. You had to. If Conrad succeeded in      eliminating     me, then none of you would exist, would you?     Raymond frowned. Then he shrugged cheerfully. Well, you didn't reallysuppose we were going to all this trouble and expense out of sheeraltruism, did you? he asked, turning on the charm which all thecousins possessed to a consternating degree.  Martin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned longago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise.     We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor'sassistants, Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered,and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us.       Induced     , Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to theuse of the iron maiden.     Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded younight and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we madeour counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and herewe are!     I see, Martin said.     Raymond didn't seem to think he really did. After all, he pointedout defensively, whatever our motives, it has turned into a goodthing for you. Nice home, cultured companions, all the contemporaryconveniences, plus some handy anachronisms—I don't see what more youcould ask for. You're getting the best of all possible worlds. Ofcourse Ninian      was     a ninny to locate in a mercantile suburb where anylittle thing out of the way will cause talk. How thankful I am that ourera has completely disposed of the mercantiles—     What did you do with them? Martin asked.     But Raymond rushed on: Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,the more eccentricity you can get away with. And, he added, I mightas well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through thiswretched historical stint.     So Ninian's going, said Martin, wondering why the news made him feelcuriously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in aremote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, forhim.     Well, five years is rather a long stretch for any girl to spend inexile, Raymond explained, even though our life spans are a bit longerthan yours. Besides, you're getting too old now to be under petticoatgovernment. He looked inquisitively at Martin. You're not going togo all weepy and make a scene when she leaves, are you?     No.... Martin said hesitantly. Oh, I suppose I will miss her. But wearen't very close, so it won't make a real difference. That was thesad part: he already knew it wouldn't make a difference.     Raymond clapped him on the shoulder. I knew you weren't a sloppysentimentalist like Conrad. Though you do have rather a look of him,you know.     Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirringof alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. How do you plan toprotect me when he comes?     Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course, Raymond saidwith modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child'scombination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had nodoubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. And we've got arather elaborate burglar alarm system.     Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiringwhich, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he wasdubious. Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this      house     ,but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this      time     ?     Never fear—it has a temporal radius, Raymond replied. Factoryguarantee and all that.     Just to be on the safe side, Martin said, I think I'd better haveone of those guns, too.     A splendid idea! enthused Raymond. I was just about to think of thatmyself!  When it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears ather own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillfulat understanding his descendants, far better than they at understandinghim. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on thecheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right andthat she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at thevery last.     Raymond and Martin moved into a luxurious mansion in a remote area. Thesite proved a well-chosen one; when the Second Atomic War came, half adozen years later, they weren't touched. Martin was never sure whetherthis had been sheer luck or expert planning. Probably luck, because hisdescendants were exceedingly inept planners.     Few people in the world then could afford to live as stylishly asMartin and his guardian. The place not only contained every possibleconvenience and gadget but was crammed with bibelots and antiques,carefully chosen by Raymond and disputed by Martin, for, to the manfrom the future, all available artifacts were antiques. Otherwise,Martin accepted his new surroundings. His sense of wonder had becomedulled by now and the pink pseudo-Spanish castle—architecturallydreadful, of course, Raymond had said, but so hilariouslytypical—impressed him far less than had the suburban split-levelaquarium.     How about a moat? Martin suggested when they first came. It seems togo with a castle.       Do you think a moat could stop Conrad? Raymond asked, amused.     No, Martin smiled, feeling rather silly, but it would make the placeseem safer somehow.     The threat of Conrad was beginning to make him grow more and morenervous. He got Raymond's permission to take two suits of armor thatstood in the front hall and present them to a local museum, becauseseveral times he fancied he saw them move. He also became an adept withthe ray gun and changed the surrounding landscape quite a bit with it,until Raymond warned that this might lead Conrad to them.     During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for thehigher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitablyarose of what the youth's vocation in that life was going to be. Atleast twenty of the cousins came back through time to hold one oftheir vigorous family councils. Martin was still young enough to enjoysuch occasions, finding them vastly superior to all other forms ofentertainment.  This sort of problem wouldn't arise in our day, Martin, Raymondcommented as he took his place at the head of the table, because,unless one specifically feels a call to some profession or other, onejust—well, drifts along happily.     Ours is a wonderful world, Grania sighed at Martin. I only wish wecould take you there. I'm sure you would like it.     Don't be a fool, Grania! Raymond snapped. Well, Martin, have youmade up your mind what you want to be?     Martin affected to think. A physicist, he said, not without malice.Or perhaps an engineer.     There was a loud, excited chorus of dissent. He chuckled inwardly.     Can't do that, Ives said. Might pick up some concepts from us. Don'tknow how; none of us knows a thing about science. But it could happen.Subconscious osmosis, if there is such a thing. That way, you mightinvent something ahead of time. And the fellow we got the plans fromparticularly cautioned us against that. Changing history. Dangerous.     Might mess up our time frightfully, Bartholomew contributed, though,to be perfectly frank, I can't quite understand how.     I am not going to sit down and explain the whole thing to you all overagain, Bart! Raymond said impatiently. Well, Martin?     What would you suggest? Martin asked.     How about becoming a painter? Art is eternal. And quite gentlemanly.Besides, artists are always expected to be either behind or ahead oftheir times.     Furthermore, Ottillie added, one more artist couldn't make muchdifference in history. There were so many of them all through the ages.     Martin couldn't hold back his question. What was I, actually, in thatother time?     There was a chilly silence.     Let's not talk about it, dear, Lalage finally said. Let's just bethankful we've saved you from      that     !     So drawing teachers were engaged and Martin became a very competentsecond-rate artist. He knew he would never be able to achieve firstrank because, even though he was still so young, his work was almostpurely intellectual. The only emotion he seemed able to feel wasfear—the ever-present fear that someday he would turn a corridor andwalk into a man who looked like him—a man who wanted to kill him forthe sake of an ideal.     But the fear did not show in Martin's pictures. They were prettypictures.  Cousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call thedescendants      cousin     —next assumed guardianship. Ives took hisresponsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arrangedto have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings receivedcritical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modestsale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were notinterested.     Takes time, Ives tried to reassure him. One day they'll be buyingyour pictures, Martin. Wait and see.     Ives was the only one of the descendants who seemed to think of Martinas an individual. When his efforts to make contact with the other youngman failed, he got worried and decided that what Martin needed was achange of air and scenery.     'Course you can't go on the Grand Tour. Your son hasn't inventedspace travel yet. But we can go see this world. What's left of it.Tourists always like ruins best, anyway.     So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,which Martin christened      The Interregnum     . They traveled about from seato ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and makingtrips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; thenearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much thesame as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormousmuseum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more.     The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,largely because they could spend so much time far away from thecontemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. Sothey never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on      The Interregnum     . He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, althoughthere was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler throughtime.     More cousins were in residence at once than ever before, becausethey came for the ocean voyage. They spent most of their time aboardship, giving each other parties and playing an      avant-garde     form ofshuffleboard and gambling on future sporting events. That last usuallyended in a brawl, because one cousin was sure to accuse another ofhaving got advance information about the results.     Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them onlywhen not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, thoughthey were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't courthis society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable.  He rather liked Ives, though. Sometimes the two of them would be alonetogether; then Ives would tell Martin of the future world he had comefrom. The picture drawn by Raymond and Ninian had not been entirelyaccurate, Ives admitted. True, there was no war or poverty on Earthproper, but that was because there were only a couple of million peopleleft on the planet. It was an enclave for the highly privileged, highlyinterbred aristocracy, to which Martin's descendants belonged by virtueof their distinguished ancestry.     Rather feudal, isn't it? Martin asked.     Ives agreed, adding that the system had, however, been deliberatelyplanned, rather than the result of haphazard natural development.Everything potentially unpleasant, like the mercantiles, had beendeported.     Not only natives livin' on the other worlds, Ives said as the twoof them stood at the ship's rail, surrounded by the limitless expanseof some ocean or other. People, too. Mostly lower classes, exceptfor officials and things. With wars and want and suffering, he addedregretfully, same as in your day.... Like now, I mean, he correctedhimself. Maybe it      is     worse, the way Conrad thinks. More planetsfor us to make trouble on. Three that were habitable aren't any more.Bombed. Very thorough job.     Oh, Martin murmured, trying to sound shocked, horrified—interested,even.     Sometimes I'm not altogether sure Conrad was wrong, Ives said, aftera pause. Tried to keep us from getting to the stars, hurting thepeople—I expect you could call them people—there. Still— he smiledshamefacedly—couldn't stand by and see my own way of life destroyed,could I?     I suppose not, Martin said.     Would take moral courage. I don't have it. None of us does, exceptConrad, and even he— Ives looked out over the sea. Must be a betterway out than Conrad's, he said without conviction. And everythingwill work out all right in the end. Bound to. No sense to—to anything,if it doesn't. He glanced wistfully at Martin.     I hope so, said Martin. But he couldn't hope; he couldn't feel; hecouldn't even seem to care.     During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martinhad gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almostwished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking....     He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realizethe basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would havebeen Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego onebitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor fromthe future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough totake a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body wasburied in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of thecontinent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth.     A great many of the cousins turned up at the simple ceremony. All weredressed in overwhelming black and showed a great deal of grief. Raymondread the burial service, because they didn't dare summon a clericalcousin from the future; they were afraid he might prove rather stuffyabout the entire undertaking.     He died for all of us, Raymond concluded his funeral eulogy overIves, so his death was not in vain.     But Martin disagreed.  The ceaseless voyaging began again.      The Interregnum     voyaged to everyocean and every sea. Some were blue and some green and some dun. Aftera while, Martin couldn't tell one from another. Cousin after cousincame to watch over him and eventually they were as hard for him to tellapart as the different oceans.       All the cousins were young, for, though they came at different times inhis life, they had all started out from the same time in theirs. Onlythe young ones had been included in the venture; they did not trusttheir elders.     As the years went by, Martin began to lose even his detached interestin the land and its doings. Although the yacht frequently touched portfor fuel or supplies—it was more economical to purchase them in thatera than to have them shipped from the future—he seldom went ashore,and then only at the urging of a newly assigned cousin anxious to seethe sights. Most of the time Martin spent in watching the sea—andsometimes he painted it. There seemed to be a depth to his seascapesthat his other work lacked.     When he was pressed by the current cousin to make a land visitsomewhere, he decided to exhibit a few of his sea paintings. That way,he could fool himself into thinking that there was some purpose to thisjourney. He'd come to believe that perhaps what his life lacked waspurpose, and for a while he kept looking for meaning everywhere, to thecousin's utter disgust.     Eat, drink and be merry, or whatever you Romans say when you do as youdo, the cousin—who was rather woolly in history; the descendants werescraping bottom now—advised.     Martin showed his work in Italy, so that the cousin could bedisillusioned by the current crop of Romans. He found that neitherpurpose nor malice was enough; he was still immeasurably bored.However, a museum bought two of the paintings. Martin thought of Ivesand felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longerunderstand.     Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time? Martin idly askedthe current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now.     The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. Conrad'sa very shrewd fellow, he whispered. He's biding his time—waitinguntil we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack!     Oh, I see, Martin said.     He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulatingmember of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he wouldever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than oneconversation, anyhow.     When he does show up, I'll protect you, the cousin vowed, touchinghis ray gun. You haven't a thing to worry about.     Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. Ihave every confidence in you, he told his descendant. He himself hadgiven up carrying a gun long ago.     There was a war in the Northern Hemisphere and so      The Interregnum     voyaged to southern waters. There was a war in the south and they hidout in the Arctic. All the nations became too drained of power—fueland man and will—to fight, so there was a sterile peace for a longtime.      The Interregnum     roamed the seas restlessly, with her load ofpassengers from the future, plus one bored and aging contemporary. Shebore big guns now, because of the ever-present danger of pirates.  Perhaps it was the traditionally bracing effect of sea air—perhaps itwas the sheltered life—but Martin lived to be a very old man. He was ahundred and four when his last illness came. It was a great relief whenthe family doctor, called in again from the future, said there was nohope. Martin didn't think he could have borne another year of life.     All the cousins gathered at the yacht to pay their last respects totheir progenitor. He saw Ninian again, after all these years, andRaymond—all the others, dozens of them, thronging around his bed,spilling out of the cabin and into the passageways and out onto thedeck, making their usual clamor, even though their voices were hushed.     Only Ives was missing. He'd been the lucky one, Martin knew. He hadbeen spared the tragedy that was going to befall these blooming youngpeople—all the same age as when Martin had last seen them and doomednever to grow any older. Underneath their masks of woe, he could seerelief at the thought that at last they were going to be rid of theirresponsibility. And underneath Martin's death mask lay an impersonalpity for those poor, stupid descendants of his who had blundered soirretrievably.       There was only one face which Martin had never seen before. It wasn'ta strange face, however, because Martin had seen one very like it inthe looking glass when he was a young man.     You must be Conrad, Martin called across the cabin in a voice thatwas still clear. I've been looking forward to meeting you for sometime.     The other cousins whirled to face the newcomer.     You're too late, Con, Raymond gloated for the whole generation. He'slived out his life.     But he hasn't lived out his life, Conrad contradicted. He's livedout the life      you     created for him. And for yourselves, too.     For the first time, Martin saw compassion in the eyes of one of hislineage and found it vaguely disturbing. It didn't seem to belong there.     Don't you realize even yet, Conrad went on, that as soon as he goes,you'll go, too—present, past, future, wherever you are, you'll go upin the air like puffs of smoke?     What do you mean? Ninian quavered, her soft, pretty face alarmed.     Martin answered Conrad's rueful smile, but left the explanations up tohim. It was his show, after all.     Because you will never have existed, Conrad said. You have no rightto existence; it was you yourselves who watched him all the time,so he didn't have a chance to lead a normal life, get married,      havechildren     ....  Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  Was Conrad telling him the truth, Martin wondered, or was he justgiving the conventional reassurance to the dying? More than that, washe trying to convince himself that what he had done was the rightthing? Every cousin had assured Martin that things were going to be allright.     Was Conrad      actually     different from the rest?     His plan had worked and the others' hadn't, but then all his plan hadconsisted of was doing nothing. That was all he and Martin had done ...nothing. Were they absolved of all responsibility merely because theyhad stood aside and taken advantage of the others' weaknesses?     Why, Martin said to himself, in a sense, it could be said that Ihave fulfilled my original destiny—that I am a criminal.     Well, it didn't matter; whatever happened, no one could hold him toblame. He held no stake in the future that was to come. It was othermen's future—other men's problem. He died very peacefully then, and,since he was the only one left on the ship, there was nobody to buryhim.     The unmanned yacht drifted about the seas for years and gave rise tomany legends, none of them as unbelievable as the truth.  ","This story follows the life of Martin from a young boy living in a rough neighborhood to an old man dying aboard an unmanned ship. We first see Martin following the disappearance of his mother - and lack of a father - which are commonplace in the neighborhood he grows up in where the kids rarely attend school and their living conditions are poor. Martin is taken in by a young woman, Ninian, who instructs him to call her Aunt Ninian despite being identified as his future descendant. Ninian has traveled back in time to her great-great-grandfather - Martin - in order to protect him from his future son Conrad. Conrad, described as an idealist, is dismayed by the future generations exploitation of Earth and destructive social order that casts out anyone and everything that doesn't encompass the privileged and elite. To correct the wrongdoings of the future, Conrad plans to kill Martin. The rest of Conrad’s cousins intercept this plan and instead, all decide to travel into the past to accompany Martin and protect him from an assassination attempt. Martin’s formative years are accompanied by Ninian, Raymond and Ives where he picks up art as a career, forms impersonal relationships with his descendants and learns more about the past and future quality of life. As years pass with no threat of Conrad in sight, Martin begins to explore his world alongside Ives on a yacht named The Interregnum. Soon though, the cousins that come and go begin to blur together and Martin picks up a detached view of the world as his interest wanes in his sheltered life. Martin lives to a very old age, and on his deathbed aboard the yacht, he is surrounded by all his descendants besides Ives, who passed of sickness earlier before. It is at this moment that Conrad appears, seemingly to finish his murder plot. However, it is revealed that no action was required to be taken by Conrad, as his fellow cousins have already achieved the mission of erasing their lineage. By containing Martin to a sheltered life, the cousins prevented Martin from living his normal life with a wife and kids, thus removing the possibility of their existence in the past, present and future. Furthermore, it is revealed that Martin had come to the same conclusion years ago, and chose instead to keep quiet out of his disdain for his descendants. With the cousins horrified at the knowledge, Conrad reassures Martin that their inaction resulted in hope, and Martin ponders to wonder if the assurance was genuine as he peacefully dies alone on the boat. "
"What is the relationship between Martin and Ives? </s>     THE MAN OUTSIDE     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        No one, least of all Martin, could dispute       that a man's life should be guarded by his       kin—but by those who hadn't been born yet?        Nobody in the neighborhood was surprised when Martin's motherdisappeared and Ninian came to take care of him. Mothers had a wayof disappearing around those parts and the kids were often betteroff without them. Martin was no exception. He'd never had it thisgood while he was living with his old lady. As for his father, Martinhad never had one. He'd been a war baby, born of one of the tides ofsoldiers—enemies and allies, both—that had engulfed the country insuccessive waves and bought or taken the women. So there was no troublethat way.     Sometimes he wondered who Ninian really was. Obviously that storyabout her coming from the future was just a gag. Besides, if she reallywas his great-great-grand-daughter, as she said, why would she tellhim to call her       Aunt Ninian     ? Maybe he was only eleven, but he'dbeen around and he knew just what the score was. At first he'd thoughtmaybe she was some new kind of social worker, but she acted a littletoo crazy for that.     He loved to bait her, as he had loved to bait his mother. It was saferwith Ninian, though, because when he pushed her too far, she would cryinstead of mopping up the floor with him.     But I can't understand, he would say, keeping his face straight. Whydo you have to come from the future to protect me against your cousinConrad?     Because he's coming to kill you.     Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing.     Ninian sighed. He's dissatisfied with the current social order andkilling you is part of an elaborate plan he's formulated to change it.You wouldn't understand.     You're damn right. I      don't     understand. What's it all about instraight gas?     Oh, just don't ask any questions, Ninian said petulantly. When youget older, someone will explain the whole thing to you.  So Martin held his peace, because, on the whole, he liked things theway they were. Ninian really was the limit, though. All the people heknew lived in scabrous tenement apartments like his, but she seemed tothink it was disgusting.     So if you don't like it, clean it up, he suggested.     She looked at him as if he were out of his mind.     Hire a maid, then! he jeered.     And darned if that dope didn't go out and get a woman to come clean upthe place! He was so embarrassed, he didn't even dare show his face inthe streets—especially with the women buttonholing him and demandingto know what gave. They tried talking to Ninian, but she certainly knewhow to give them the cold shoulder.     One day the truant officer came to ask why Martin hadn't been comingto school. Very few of the neighborhood kids attended classes veryregularly, so this was just routine. But Ninian didn't know that andshe went into a real tizzy, babbling that Martin had been sick andwould make up the work. Martin nearly did get sick from laughing sohard inside.     But he laughed out of the other side of his mouth when she went out andhired a private tutor for him. A tutor—in that neighborhood! Martinhad to beat up every kid on the block before he could walk a stepwithout hearing Fancy Pants! yelled after him.     Ninian worried all the time. It wasn't that she cared what these peoplethought of her, for she made no secret of regarding them as littlebetter than animals, but she was shy of attracting attention. Therewere an awful lot of people in that neighborhood who felt exactly thesame way, only she didn't know that, either. She was really prettydumb, Martin thought, for all her fancy lingo.     It's so hard to think these things out without any prior practicalapplication to go by, she told him.     He nodded, knowing what she meant was that everything was coming outwrong. But he didn't try to help her; he just watched to see whatshe'd do next. Already he had begun to assume the detached role of aspectator.     When it became clear that his mother was never going to show up again,Ninian bought one of those smallish, almost identical houses thatmushroom on the fringes of a city after every war, particularly whereintensive bombing has created a number of desirable building sites.     This is a much better neighborhood for a boy to grow up in, shedeclared. Besides, it's easier to keep an eye on you here.     And keep an eye on him she did—she or a rather foppish young man whocame to stay with them occasionally. Martin was told to call him UncleRaymond.     From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives andBartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and manymore—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his.  Martin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to playwith the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parentswould have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that ifa one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must besomething pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just asconspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; shewas supposed to know better than he did.     He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded bymore luxury than he knew what to do with.     The furniture was the latest New Grand Rapids African modern. Therewere tidy, colorful Picasso and Braque prints on the walls. And everyinch of the floor was modestly covered by carpeting, though the wallswere mostly unabashed glass. There were hot water and heat all the timeand a freezer well stocked with food—somewhat erratically chosen, forNinian didn't know much about meals.     The non-glass part of the house was of neat, natural-toned wood, with aneat green lawn in front and a neat parti-colored garden in back.     Martin missed the old neighborhood, though. He missed having otherkids to play with. He even missed his mother. Sure, she hadn't givenhim enough to eat and she'd beaten him up so hard sometimes that she'dnearly killed him—but then there had also been times when she'd huggedand kissed him and soaked his collar with her tears. She'd done allshe could for him, supporting him in the only way she knew how—and ifrespectable society didn't like it, the hell with respectable society.     From Ninian and her cousins, there was only an impersonal kindness.They made no bones about the fact that they were there only to carryout a rather unpleasant duty. Though they were in the house with him,in their minds and in their talk they were living in another world—aworld of warmth and peace and plenty where nobody worked, except in thegovernment service or the essential professions. And they seemed tothink even that kind of job was pretty low-class, though better thanactually doing anything with the hands.     In their world, Martin came to understand, nobody worked with hands;everything was done by machinery. All the people ever did was wearpretty clothes and have good times and eat all they wanted. There wasno devastation, no war, no unhappiness, none of the concomitants ofnormal living.     It was then that Martin began to realize that either the whole lot ofthem were insane, or what Ninian had told him at first was the truth.They came from the future.  When Martin was sixteen, Raymond took him aside for the talk Ninian hadpromised five years before.     The whole thing's all my brother Conrad's fault. You see, he's anidealist, Raymond explained, pronouncing the last word with distaste.     Martin nodded gravely. He was a quiet boy now, his brief past a dim andrather ridiculous memory. Who could ever imagine him robbing a grocerystore or wielding a broken bottle now? He still was rather undersizedand he'd read so much that he'd weakened his eyes and had to wearglasses. His face was pallid, because he spent little time in the sun,and his speech rather overbred, his mentors from the future havingcarefully eradicated all current vulgarities.     And Conrad really got upset over the way Earth has been exploitingthe not so intelligent life-forms on the other planets, Raymondcontinued. Which      is     distressing—though, of course, it's not asif they were people. Besides, the government has been talking aboutpassing laws to do away with the—well, abuses and things like that,and I'm sure someday everything will come out all right. However,Conrad is so impatient.     I thought, in your world, machines did all the work, Martin suggested.     I've told you—our world is precisely the same as this one! Raymondsnapped. We just come a couple of centuries or so later, that's all.But remember, our interests are identical. We're virtually the samepeople ... although it is amazing what a difference two hundred oddyears of progress and polish can make in a species, isn't it?     He continued more mildly: However, even you ought to be able tounderstand that we can't make machinery without metal. We need food.All that sort of thing comes from the out-system planets. And, on thoseworlds, it's far cheaper to use native labor than to ship out all thatexpensive machinery. After all, if we didn't give the natives jobs, howwould they manage to live?     How did they live before? Come to think of it, if you don't work, howdo      you     live now?... I don't mean in the now for me, but the now foryou, Martin explained laboriously. It was so difficult to live in thepast and think in the future.     I'm trying to talk to you as if you were an adult, Raymond said, butif you will persist in these childish interruptions—     I'm sorry, Martin said.     But he wasn't, for by now he had little respect left for any ofhis descendants. They were all exceedingly handsome and cultivatedyoung people, with superior educations, smooth ways of speaking andconsiderable self-confidence, but they just weren't very bright. Andhe had discovered that Raymond was perhaps the most intelligent of thelot. Somewhere in that relatively short span of time, his line or—morefrightening—his race had lost something vital.     Unaware of the near-contempt in which his young ancestor held him,Raymond went on blandly: Anyhow, Conrad took it upon himself tofeel particularly guilty, because, he decided, if it hadn't been forthe fact that our great-grandfather discovered the super-drive, wemight never have reached the stars. Which is ridiculous—his feelingguilty, I mean. Perhaps a great-grandfather is responsible for hisgreat-grandchildren, but a great-grandchild can hardly be heldaccountable for his great-grandfather.     How about a great-great-grandchild? Martin couldn't help asking.  Raymond flushed a delicate pink. Do you want to hear the rest of thisor don't you?     Oh, I do! Martin said. He had pieced the whole thing together forhimself long since, but he wanted to hear how Raymond would put it.     Unfortunately, Professor Farkas has just perfected the timetransmitter. Those government scientists are so infernallyofficious—always inventing such senseless things. It's supposed tobe hush-hush, but you know how news will leak out when one is alwaysdesperate for a fresh topic of conversation.     Anyhow, Raymond went on to explain, Conrad had bribed one of Farkas'assistants for a set of the plans. Conrad's idea had been to go backin time and eliminate! their common great-grandfather. In that way,there would be no space-drive, and, hence, the Terrestrials would neverget to the other planets and oppress the local aborigines.     Sounds like a good way of dealing with the problem, Martin observed.     Raymond looked annoyed. It's the      adolescent     way, he said, to doaway with it, rather than find a solution. Would you destroy a wholesociety in order to root out a single injustice?     Not if it were a good one otherwise.     Well, there's your answer. Conrad got the apparatus built, or perhapshe built it himself. One doesn't inquire too closely into suchmatters. But when it came to the point, Conrad couldn't bear the ideaof eliminating our great-grandfather—because our great-grandfatherwas such a      good     man, you know. Raymond's expressive upper lipcurled. So Conrad decided to go further back still and get rid ofhis great-grandfather's father—who'd been, by all accounts, a prettyworthless character.     That would be me, I suppose, Martin said quietly.     Raymond turned a deep rose. Well, doesn't that just go to prove youmustn't believe everything you hear? The next sentence tumbled out ina rush. I wormed the whole thing out of him and all of us—the othercousins and me—held a council of war, as it were, and we decided itwas our moral duty to go back in time ourselves and protect you. Hebeamed at Martin.     The boy smiled slowly. Of course. You had to. If Conrad succeeded in      eliminating     me, then none of you would exist, would you?     Raymond frowned. Then he shrugged cheerfully. Well, you didn't reallysuppose we were going to all this trouble and expense out of sheeraltruism, did you? he asked, turning on the charm which all thecousins possessed to a consternating degree.  Martin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned longago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise.     We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor'sassistants, Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered,and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us.       Induced     , Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to theuse of the iron maiden.     Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded younight and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we madeour counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and herewe are!     I see, Martin said.     Raymond didn't seem to think he really did. After all, he pointedout defensively, whatever our motives, it has turned into a goodthing for you. Nice home, cultured companions, all the contemporaryconveniences, plus some handy anachronisms—I don't see what more youcould ask for. You're getting the best of all possible worlds. Ofcourse Ninian      was     a ninny to locate in a mercantile suburb where anylittle thing out of the way will cause talk. How thankful I am that ourera has completely disposed of the mercantiles—     What did you do with them? Martin asked.     But Raymond rushed on: Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,the more eccentricity you can get away with. And, he added, I mightas well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through thiswretched historical stint.     So Ninian's going, said Martin, wondering why the news made him feelcuriously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in aremote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, forhim.     Well, five years is rather a long stretch for any girl to spend inexile, Raymond explained, even though our life spans are a bit longerthan yours. Besides, you're getting too old now to be under petticoatgovernment. He looked inquisitively at Martin. You're not going togo all weepy and make a scene when she leaves, are you?     No.... Martin said hesitantly. Oh, I suppose I will miss her. But wearen't very close, so it won't make a real difference. That was thesad part: he already knew it wouldn't make a difference.     Raymond clapped him on the shoulder. I knew you weren't a sloppysentimentalist like Conrad. Though you do have rather a look of him,you know.     Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirringof alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. How do you plan toprotect me when he comes?     Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course, Raymond saidwith modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child'scombination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had nodoubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. And we've got arather elaborate burglar alarm system.     Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiringwhich, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he wasdubious. Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this      house     ,but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this      time     ?     Never fear—it has a temporal radius, Raymond replied. Factoryguarantee and all that.     Just to be on the safe side, Martin said, I think I'd better haveone of those guns, too.     A splendid idea! enthused Raymond. I was just about to think of thatmyself!  When it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears ather own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillfulat understanding his descendants, far better than they at understandinghim. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on thecheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right andthat she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at thevery last.     Raymond and Martin moved into a luxurious mansion in a remote area. Thesite proved a well-chosen one; when the Second Atomic War came, half adozen years later, they weren't touched. Martin was never sure whetherthis had been sheer luck or expert planning. Probably luck, because hisdescendants were exceedingly inept planners.     Few people in the world then could afford to live as stylishly asMartin and his guardian. The place not only contained every possibleconvenience and gadget but was crammed with bibelots and antiques,carefully chosen by Raymond and disputed by Martin, for, to the manfrom the future, all available artifacts were antiques. Otherwise,Martin accepted his new surroundings. His sense of wonder had becomedulled by now and the pink pseudo-Spanish castle—architecturallydreadful, of course, Raymond had said, but so hilariouslytypical—impressed him far less than had the suburban split-levelaquarium.     How about a moat? Martin suggested when they first came. It seems togo with a castle.       Do you think a moat could stop Conrad? Raymond asked, amused.     No, Martin smiled, feeling rather silly, but it would make the placeseem safer somehow.     The threat of Conrad was beginning to make him grow more and morenervous. He got Raymond's permission to take two suits of armor thatstood in the front hall and present them to a local museum, becauseseveral times he fancied he saw them move. He also became an adept withthe ray gun and changed the surrounding landscape quite a bit with it,until Raymond warned that this might lead Conrad to them.     During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for thehigher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitablyarose of what the youth's vocation in that life was going to be. Atleast twenty of the cousins came back through time to hold one oftheir vigorous family councils. Martin was still young enough to enjoysuch occasions, finding them vastly superior to all other forms ofentertainment.  This sort of problem wouldn't arise in our day, Martin, Raymondcommented as he took his place at the head of the table, because,unless one specifically feels a call to some profession or other, onejust—well, drifts along happily.     Ours is a wonderful world, Grania sighed at Martin. I only wish wecould take you there. I'm sure you would like it.     Don't be a fool, Grania! Raymond snapped. Well, Martin, have youmade up your mind what you want to be?     Martin affected to think. A physicist, he said, not without malice.Or perhaps an engineer.     There was a loud, excited chorus of dissent. He chuckled inwardly.     Can't do that, Ives said. Might pick up some concepts from us. Don'tknow how; none of us knows a thing about science. But it could happen.Subconscious osmosis, if there is such a thing. That way, you mightinvent something ahead of time. And the fellow we got the plans fromparticularly cautioned us against that. Changing history. Dangerous.     Might mess up our time frightfully, Bartholomew contributed, though,to be perfectly frank, I can't quite understand how.     I am not going to sit down and explain the whole thing to you all overagain, Bart! Raymond said impatiently. Well, Martin?     What would you suggest? Martin asked.     How about becoming a painter? Art is eternal. And quite gentlemanly.Besides, artists are always expected to be either behind or ahead oftheir times.     Furthermore, Ottillie added, one more artist couldn't make muchdifference in history. There were so many of them all through the ages.     Martin couldn't hold back his question. What was I, actually, in thatother time?     There was a chilly silence.     Let's not talk about it, dear, Lalage finally said. Let's just bethankful we've saved you from      that     !     So drawing teachers were engaged and Martin became a very competentsecond-rate artist. He knew he would never be able to achieve firstrank because, even though he was still so young, his work was almostpurely intellectual. The only emotion he seemed able to feel wasfear—the ever-present fear that someday he would turn a corridor andwalk into a man who looked like him—a man who wanted to kill him forthe sake of an ideal.     But the fear did not show in Martin's pictures. They were prettypictures.  Cousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call thedescendants      cousin     —next assumed guardianship. Ives took hisresponsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arrangedto have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings receivedcritical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modestsale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were notinterested.     Takes time, Ives tried to reassure him. One day they'll be buyingyour pictures, Martin. Wait and see.     Ives was the only one of the descendants who seemed to think of Martinas an individual. When his efforts to make contact with the other youngman failed, he got worried and decided that what Martin needed was achange of air and scenery.     'Course you can't go on the Grand Tour. Your son hasn't inventedspace travel yet. But we can go see this world. What's left of it.Tourists always like ruins best, anyway.     So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,which Martin christened      The Interregnum     . They traveled about from seato ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and makingtrips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; thenearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much thesame as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormousmuseum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more.     The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,largely because they could spend so much time far away from thecontemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. Sothey never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on      The Interregnum     . He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, althoughthere was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler throughtime.     More cousins were in residence at once than ever before, becausethey came for the ocean voyage. They spent most of their time aboardship, giving each other parties and playing an      avant-garde     form ofshuffleboard and gambling on future sporting events. That last usuallyended in a brawl, because one cousin was sure to accuse another ofhaving got advance information about the results.     Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them onlywhen not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, thoughthey were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't courthis society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable.  He rather liked Ives, though. Sometimes the two of them would be alonetogether; then Ives would tell Martin of the future world he had comefrom. The picture drawn by Raymond and Ninian had not been entirelyaccurate, Ives admitted. True, there was no war or poverty on Earthproper, but that was because there were only a couple of million peopleleft on the planet. It was an enclave for the highly privileged, highlyinterbred aristocracy, to which Martin's descendants belonged by virtueof their distinguished ancestry.     Rather feudal, isn't it? Martin asked.     Ives agreed, adding that the system had, however, been deliberatelyplanned, rather than the result of haphazard natural development.Everything potentially unpleasant, like the mercantiles, had beendeported.     Not only natives livin' on the other worlds, Ives said as the twoof them stood at the ship's rail, surrounded by the limitless expanseof some ocean or other. People, too. Mostly lower classes, exceptfor officials and things. With wars and want and suffering, he addedregretfully, same as in your day.... Like now, I mean, he correctedhimself. Maybe it      is     worse, the way Conrad thinks. More planetsfor us to make trouble on. Three that were habitable aren't any more.Bombed. Very thorough job.     Oh, Martin murmured, trying to sound shocked, horrified—interested,even.     Sometimes I'm not altogether sure Conrad was wrong, Ives said, aftera pause. Tried to keep us from getting to the stars, hurting thepeople—I expect you could call them people—there. Still— he smiledshamefacedly—couldn't stand by and see my own way of life destroyed,could I?     I suppose not, Martin said.     Would take moral courage. I don't have it. None of us does, exceptConrad, and even he— Ives looked out over the sea. Must be a betterway out than Conrad's, he said without conviction. And everythingwill work out all right in the end. Bound to. No sense to—to anything,if it doesn't. He glanced wistfully at Martin.     I hope so, said Martin. But he couldn't hope; he couldn't feel; hecouldn't even seem to care.     During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martinhad gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almostwished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking....     He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realizethe basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would havebeen Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego onebitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor fromthe future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough totake a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body wasburied in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of thecontinent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth.     A great many of the cousins turned up at the simple ceremony. All weredressed in overwhelming black and showed a great deal of grief. Raymondread the burial service, because they didn't dare summon a clericalcousin from the future; they were afraid he might prove rather stuffyabout the entire undertaking.     He died for all of us, Raymond concluded his funeral eulogy overIves, so his death was not in vain.     But Martin disagreed.  The ceaseless voyaging began again.      The Interregnum     voyaged to everyocean and every sea. Some were blue and some green and some dun. Aftera while, Martin couldn't tell one from another. Cousin after cousincame to watch over him and eventually they were as hard for him to tellapart as the different oceans.       All the cousins were young, for, though they came at different times inhis life, they had all started out from the same time in theirs. Onlythe young ones had been included in the venture; they did not trusttheir elders.     As the years went by, Martin began to lose even his detached interestin the land and its doings. Although the yacht frequently touched portfor fuel or supplies—it was more economical to purchase them in thatera than to have them shipped from the future—he seldom went ashore,and then only at the urging of a newly assigned cousin anxious to seethe sights. Most of the time Martin spent in watching the sea—andsometimes he painted it. There seemed to be a depth to his seascapesthat his other work lacked.     When he was pressed by the current cousin to make a land visitsomewhere, he decided to exhibit a few of his sea paintings. That way,he could fool himself into thinking that there was some purpose to thisjourney. He'd come to believe that perhaps what his life lacked waspurpose, and for a while he kept looking for meaning everywhere, to thecousin's utter disgust.     Eat, drink and be merry, or whatever you Romans say when you do as youdo, the cousin—who was rather woolly in history; the descendants werescraping bottom now—advised.     Martin showed his work in Italy, so that the cousin could bedisillusioned by the current crop of Romans. He found that neitherpurpose nor malice was enough; he was still immeasurably bored.However, a museum bought two of the paintings. Martin thought of Ivesand felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longerunderstand.     Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time? Martin idly askedthe current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now.     The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. Conrad'sa very shrewd fellow, he whispered. He's biding his time—waitinguntil we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack!     Oh, I see, Martin said.     He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulatingmember of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he wouldever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than oneconversation, anyhow.     When he does show up, I'll protect you, the cousin vowed, touchinghis ray gun. You haven't a thing to worry about.     Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. Ihave every confidence in you, he told his descendant. He himself hadgiven up carrying a gun long ago.     There was a war in the Northern Hemisphere and so      The Interregnum     voyaged to southern waters. There was a war in the south and they hidout in the Arctic. All the nations became too drained of power—fueland man and will—to fight, so there was a sterile peace for a longtime.      The Interregnum     roamed the seas restlessly, with her load ofpassengers from the future, plus one bored and aging contemporary. Shebore big guns now, because of the ever-present danger of pirates.  Perhaps it was the traditionally bracing effect of sea air—perhaps itwas the sheltered life—but Martin lived to be a very old man. He was ahundred and four when his last illness came. It was a great relief whenthe family doctor, called in again from the future, said there was nohope. Martin didn't think he could have borne another year of life.     All the cousins gathered at the yacht to pay their last respects totheir progenitor. He saw Ninian again, after all these years, andRaymond—all the others, dozens of them, thronging around his bed,spilling out of the cabin and into the passageways and out onto thedeck, making their usual clamor, even though their voices were hushed.     Only Ives was missing. He'd been the lucky one, Martin knew. He hadbeen spared the tragedy that was going to befall these blooming youngpeople—all the same age as when Martin had last seen them and doomednever to grow any older. Underneath their masks of woe, he could seerelief at the thought that at last they were going to be rid of theirresponsibility. And underneath Martin's death mask lay an impersonalpity for those poor, stupid descendants of his who had blundered soirretrievably.       There was only one face which Martin had never seen before. It wasn'ta strange face, however, because Martin had seen one very like it inthe looking glass when he was a young man.     You must be Conrad, Martin called across the cabin in a voice thatwas still clear. I've been looking forward to meeting you for sometime.     The other cousins whirled to face the newcomer.     You're too late, Con, Raymond gloated for the whole generation. He'slived out his life.     But he hasn't lived out his life, Conrad contradicted. He's livedout the life      you     created for him. And for yourselves, too.     For the first time, Martin saw compassion in the eyes of one of hislineage and found it vaguely disturbing. It didn't seem to belong there.     Don't you realize even yet, Conrad went on, that as soon as he goes,you'll go, too—present, past, future, wherever you are, you'll go upin the air like puffs of smoke?     What do you mean? Ninian quavered, her soft, pretty face alarmed.     Martin answered Conrad's rueful smile, but left the explanations up tohim. It was his show, after all.     Because you will never have existed, Conrad said. You have no rightto existence; it was you yourselves who watched him all the time,so he didn't have a chance to lead a normal life, get married,      havechildren     ....  Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  Was Conrad telling him the truth, Martin wondered, or was he justgiving the conventional reassurance to the dying? More than that, washe trying to convince himself that what he had done was the rightthing? Every cousin had assured Martin that things were going to be allright.     Was Conrad      actually     different from the rest?     His plan had worked and the others' hadn't, but then all his plan hadconsisted of was doing nothing. That was all he and Martin had done ...nothing. Were they absolved of all responsibility merely because theyhad stood aside and taken advantage of the others' weaknesses?     Why, Martin said to himself, in a sense, it could be said that Ihave fulfilled my original destiny—that I am a criminal.     Well, it didn't matter; whatever happened, no one could hold him toblame. He held no stake in the future that was to come. It was othermen's future—other men's problem. He died very peacefully then, and,since he was the only one left on the ship, there was nobody to buryhim.     The unmanned yacht drifted about the seas for years and gave rise tomany legends, none of them as unbelievable as the truth.  ","Cousin Ives enters Martin’s life when he is a little older, and is the third descendant to accompany him as his guardian. Out of all his descendants to assume guardianship, Martin forms the closest relationship with Ives. Rather than seeing Martin as a responsibility and duty, Ives sees Martin as an individual and seeks ways to connect and encourage his passions. For one, Ives buys a yacht named The Interregnum to which the pair take upon themselves to explore the current world in. They traveled across the waters and inland to see both the civilized and uncivilized world, with Martin taking it all in. When it was just the two of them, their relationship progressed further. Ives began to open up about the future world that he and his descendants come from and explain the nuances of the social order that rules. Ives is the first to explicitly and honestly describe the feudal and privileged social class that Martin’s descendants take part in, only due to their fortunate ancestry. Additionally, Ives is the only cousin to admit the potential truth in Conrad’s intentions, noting the dilemma between achieving moral good and selfishing maintaining their own good life. Martin even comments his confidence in Ives being able to see the obvious flaw in the cousins’ plans. However, during one winter, Ives fell ill to a severe chill and passed away before his own birth. After Ives’ death, Martin relently voyages across oceans and soon as they and the cousins blur, he begins to live detachedly. "
"What is the role of the ‘cousins’ in the story? </s>     THE MAN OUTSIDE     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        No one, least of all Martin, could dispute       that a man's life should be guarded by his       kin—but by those who hadn't been born yet?        Nobody in the neighborhood was surprised when Martin's motherdisappeared and Ninian came to take care of him. Mothers had a wayof disappearing around those parts and the kids were often betteroff without them. Martin was no exception. He'd never had it thisgood while he was living with his old lady. As for his father, Martinhad never had one. He'd been a war baby, born of one of the tides ofsoldiers—enemies and allies, both—that had engulfed the country insuccessive waves and bought or taken the women. So there was no troublethat way.     Sometimes he wondered who Ninian really was. Obviously that storyabout her coming from the future was just a gag. Besides, if she reallywas his great-great-grand-daughter, as she said, why would she tellhim to call her       Aunt Ninian     ? Maybe he was only eleven, but he'dbeen around and he knew just what the score was. At first he'd thoughtmaybe she was some new kind of social worker, but she acted a littletoo crazy for that.     He loved to bait her, as he had loved to bait his mother. It was saferwith Ninian, though, because when he pushed her too far, she would cryinstead of mopping up the floor with him.     But I can't understand, he would say, keeping his face straight. Whydo you have to come from the future to protect me against your cousinConrad?     Because he's coming to kill you.     Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing.     Ninian sighed. He's dissatisfied with the current social order andkilling you is part of an elaborate plan he's formulated to change it.You wouldn't understand.     You're damn right. I      don't     understand. What's it all about instraight gas?     Oh, just don't ask any questions, Ninian said petulantly. When youget older, someone will explain the whole thing to you.  So Martin held his peace, because, on the whole, he liked things theway they were. Ninian really was the limit, though. All the people heknew lived in scabrous tenement apartments like his, but she seemed tothink it was disgusting.     So if you don't like it, clean it up, he suggested.     She looked at him as if he were out of his mind.     Hire a maid, then! he jeered.     And darned if that dope didn't go out and get a woman to come clean upthe place! He was so embarrassed, he didn't even dare show his face inthe streets—especially with the women buttonholing him and demandingto know what gave. They tried talking to Ninian, but she certainly knewhow to give them the cold shoulder.     One day the truant officer came to ask why Martin hadn't been comingto school. Very few of the neighborhood kids attended classes veryregularly, so this was just routine. But Ninian didn't know that andshe went into a real tizzy, babbling that Martin had been sick andwould make up the work. Martin nearly did get sick from laughing sohard inside.     But he laughed out of the other side of his mouth when she went out andhired a private tutor for him. A tutor—in that neighborhood! Martinhad to beat up every kid on the block before he could walk a stepwithout hearing Fancy Pants! yelled after him.     Ninian worried all the time. It wasn't that she cared what these peoplethought of her, for she made no secret of regarding them as littlebetter than animals, but she was shy of attracting attention. Therewere an awful lot of people in that neighborhood who felt exactly thesame way, only she didn't know that, either. She was really prettydumb, Martin thought, for all her fancy lingo.     It's so hard to think these things out without any prior practicalapplication to go by, she told him.     He nodded, knowing what she meant was that everything was coming outwrong. But he didn't try to help her; he just watched to see whatshe'd do next. Already he had begun to assume the detached role of aspectator.     When it became clear that his mother was never going to show up again,Ninian bought one of those smallish, almost identical houses thatmushroom on the fringes of a city after every war, particularly whereintensive bombing has created a number of desirable building sites.     This is a much better neighborhood for a boy to grow up in, shedeclared. Besides, it's easier to keep an eye on you here.     And keep an eye on him she did—she or a rather foppish young man whocame to stay with them occasionally. Martin was told to call him UncleRaymond.     From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives andBartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and manymore—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his.  Martin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to playwith the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parentswould have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that ifa one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must besomething pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just asconspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; shewas supposed to know better than he did.     He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded bymore luxury than he knew what to do with.     The furniture was the latest New Grand Rapids African modern. Therewere tidy, colorful Picasso and Braque prints on the walls. And everyinch of the floor was modestly covered by carpeting, though the wallswere mostly unabashed glass. There were hot water and heat all the timeand a freezer well stocked with food—somewhat erratically chosen, forNinian didn't know much about meals.     The non-glass part of the house was of neat, natural-toned wood, with aneat green lawn in front and a neat parti-colored garden in back.     Martin missed the old neighborhood, though. He missed having otherkids to play with. He even missed his mother. Sure, she hadn't givenhim enough to eat and she'd beaten him up so hard sometimes that she'dnearly killed him—but then there had also been times when she'd huggedand kissed him and soaked his collar with her tears. She'd done allshe could for him, supporting him in the only way she knew how—and ifrespectable society didn't like it, the hell with respectable society.     From Ninian and her cousins, there was only an impersonal kindness.They made no bones about the fact that they were there only to carryout a rather unpleasant duty. Though they were in the house with him,in their minds and in their talk they were living in another world—aworld of warmth and peace and plenty where nobody worked, except in thegovernment service or the essential professions. And they seemed tothink even that kind of job was pretty low-class, though better thanactually doing anything with the hands.     In their world, Martin came to understand, nobody worked with hands;everything was done by machinery. All the people ever did was wearpretty clothes and have good times and eat all they wanted. There wasno devastation, no war, no unhappiness, none of the concomitants ofnormal living.     It was then that Martin began to realize that either the whole lot ofthem were insane, or what Ninian had told him at first was the truth.They came from the future.  When Martin was sixteen, Raymond took him aside for the talk Ninian hadpromised five years before.     The whole thing's all my brother Conrad's fault. You see, he's anidealist, Raymond explained, pronouncing the last word with distaste.     Martin nodded gravely. He was a quiet boy now, his brief past a dim andrather ridiculous memory. Who could ever imagine him robbing a grocerystore or wielding a broken bottle now? He still was rather undersizedand he'd read so much that he'd weakened his eyes and had to wearglasses. His face was pallid, because he spent little time in the sun,and his speech rather overbred, his mentors from the future havingcarefully eradicated all current vulgarities.     And Conrad really got upset over the way Earth has been exploitingthe not so intelligent life-forms on the other planets, Raymondcontinued. Which      is     distressing—though, of course, it's not asif they were people. Besides, the government has been talking aboutpassing laws to do away with the—well, abuses and things like that,and I'm sure someday everything will come out all right. However,Conrad is so impatient.     I thought, in your world, machines did all the work, Martin suggested.     I've told you—our world is precisely the same as this one! Raymondsnapped. We just come a couple of centuries or so later, that's all.But remember, our interests are identical. We're virtually the samepeople ... although it is amazing what a difference two hundred oddyears of progress and polish can make in a species, isn't it?     He continued more mildly: However, even you ought to be able tounderstand that we can't make machinery without metal. We need food.All that sort of thing comes from the out-system planets. And, on thoseworlds, it's far cheaper to use native labor than to ship out all thatexpensive machinery. After all, if we didn't give the natives jobs, howwould they manage to live?     How did they live before? Come to think of it, if you don't work, howdo      you     live now?... I don't mean in the now for me, but the now foryou, Martin explained laboriously. It was so difficult to live in thepast and think in the future.     I'm trying to talk to you as if you were an adult, Raymond said, butif you will persist in these childish interruptions—     I'm sorry, Martin said.     But he wasn't, for by now he had little respect left for any ofhis descendants. They were all exceedingly handsome and cultivatedyoung people, with superior educations, smooth ways of speaking andconsiderable self-confidence, but they just weren't very bright. Andhe had discovered that Raymond was perhaps the most intelligent of thelot. Somewhere in that relatively short span of time, his line or—morefrightening—his race had lost something vital.     Unaware of the near-contempt in which his young ancestor held him,Raymond went on blandly: Anyhow, Conrad took it upon himself tofeel particularly guilty, because, he decided, if it hadn't been forthe fact that our great-grandfather discovered the super-drive, wemight never have reached the stars. Which is ridiculous—his feelingguilty, I mean. Perhaps a great-grandfather is responsible for hisgreat-grandchildren, but a great-grandchild can hardly be heldaccountable for his great-grandfather.     How about a great-great-grandchild? Martin couldn't help asking.  Raymond flushed a delicate pink. Do you want to hear the rest of thisor don't you?     Oh, I do! Martin said. He had pieced the whole thing together forhimself long since, but he wanted to hear how Raymond would put it.     Unfortunately, Professor Farkas has just perfected the timetransmitter. Those government scientists are so infernallyofficious—always inventing such senseless things. It's supposed tobe hush-hush, but you know how news will leak out when one is alwaysdesperate for a fresh topic of conversation.     Anyhow, Raymond went on to explain, Conrad had bribed one of Farkas'assistants for a set of the plans. Conrad's idea had been to go backin time and eliminate! their common great-grandfather. In that way,there would be no space-drive, and, hence, the Terrestrials would neverget to the other planets and oppress the local aborigines.     Sounds like a good way of dealing with the problem, Martin observed.     Raymond looked annoyed. It's the      adolescent     way, he said, to doaway with it, rather than find a solution. Would you destroy a wholesociety in order to root out a single injustice?     Not if it were a good one otherwise.     Well, there's your answer. Conrad got the apparatus built, or perhapshe built it himself. One doesn't inquire too closely into suchmatters. But when it came to the point, Conrad couldn't bear the ideaof eliminating our great-grandfather—because our great-grandfatherwas such a      good     man, you know. Raymond's expressive upper lipcurled. So Conrad decided to go further back still and get rid ofhis great-grandfather's father—who'd been, by all accounts, a prettyworthless character.     That would be me, I suppose, Martin said quietly.     Raymond turned a deep rose. Well, doesn't that just go to prove youmustn't believe everything you hear? The next sentence tumbled out ina rush. I wormed the whole thing out of him and all of us—the othercousins and me—held a council of war, as it were, and we decided itwas our moral duty to go back in time ourselves and protect you. Hebeamed at Martin.     The boy smiled slowly. Of course. You had to. If Conrad succeeded in      eliminating     me, then none of you would exist, would you?     Raymond frowned. Then he shrugged cheerfully. Well, you didn't reallysuppose we were going to all this trouble and expense out of sheeraltruism, did you? he asked, turning on the charm which all thecousins possessed to a consternating degree.  Martin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned longago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise.     We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor'sassistants, Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered,and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us.       Induced     , Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to theuse of the iron maiden.     Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded younight and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we madeour counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and herewe are!     I see, Martin said.     Raymond didn't seem to think he really did. After all, he pointedout defensively, whatever our motives, it has turned into a goodthing for you. Nice home, cultured companions, all the contemporaryconveniences, plus some handy anachronisms—I don't see what more youcould ask for. You're getting the best of all possible worlds. Ofcourse Ninian      was     a ninny to locate in a mercantile suburb where anylittle thing out of the way will cause talk. How thankful I am that ourera has completely disposed of the mercantiles—     What did you do with them? Martin asked.     But Raymond rushed on: Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,the more eccentricity you can get away with. And, he added, I mightas well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through thiswretched historical stint.     So Ninian's going, said Martin, wondering why the news made him feelcuriously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in aremote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, forhim.     Well, five years is rather a long stretch for any girl to spend inexile, Raymond explained, even though our life spans are a bit longerthan yours. Besides, you're getting too old now to be under petticoatgovernment. He looked inquisitively at Martin. You're not going togo all weepy and make a scene when she leaves, are you?     No.... Martin said hesitantly. Oh, I suppose I will miss her. But wearen't very close, so it won't make a real difference. That was thesad part: he already knew it wouldn't make a difference.     Raymond clapped him on the shoulder. I knew you weren't a sloppysentimentalist like Conrad. Though you do have rather a look of him,you know.     Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirringof alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. How do you plan toprotect me when he comes?     Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course, Raymond saidwith modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child'scombination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had nodoubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. And we've got arather elaborate burglar alarm system.     Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiringwhich, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he wasdubious. Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this      house     ,but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this      time     ?     Never fear—it has a temporal radius, Raymond replied. Factoryguarantee and all that.     Just to be on the safe side, Martin said, I think I'd better haveone of those guns, too.     A splendid idea! enthused Raymond. I was just about to think of thatmyself!  When it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears ather own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillfulat understanding his descendants, far better than they at understandinghim. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on thecheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right andthat she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at thevery last.     Raymond and Martin moved into a luxurious mansion in a remote area. Thesite proved a well-chosen one; when the Second Atomic War came, half adozen years later, they weren't touched. Martin was never sure whetherthis had been sheer luck or expert planning. Probably luck, because hisdescendants were exceedingly inept planners.     Few people in the world then could afford to live as stylishly asMartin and his guardian. The place not only contained every possibleconvenience and gadget but was crammed with bibelots and antiques,carefully chosen by Raymond and disputed by Martin, for, to the manfrom the future, all available artifacts were antiques. Otherwise,Martin accepted his new surroundings. His sense of wonder had becomedulled by now and the pink pseudo-Spanish castle—architecturallydreadful, of course, Raymond had said, but so hilariouslytypical—impressed him far less than had the suburban split-levelaquarium.     How about a moat? Martin suggested when they first came. It seems togo with a castle.       Do you think a moat could stop Conrad? Raymond asked, amused.     No, Martin smiled, feeling rather silly, but it would make the placeseem safer somehow.     The threat of Conrad was beginning to make him grow more and morenervous. He got Raymond's permission to take two suits of armor thatstood in the front hall and present them to a local museum, becauseseveral times he fancied he saw them move. He also became an adept withthe ray gun and changed the surrounding landscape quite a bit with it,until Raymond warned that this might lead Conrad to them.     During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for thehigher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitablyarose of what the youth's vocation in that life was going to be. Atleast twenty of the cousins came back through time to hold one oftheir vigorous family councils. Martin was still young enough to enjoysuch occasions, finding them vastly superior to all other forms ofentertainment.  This sort of problem wouldn't arise in our day, Martin, Raymondcommented as he took his place at the head of the table, because,unless one specifically feels a call to some profession or other, onejust—well, drifts along happily.     Ours is a wonderful world, Grania sighed at Martin. I only wish wecould take you there. I'm sure you would like it.     Don't be a fool, Grania! Raymond snapped. Well, Martin, have youmade up your mind what you want to be?     Martin affected to think. A physicist, he said, not without malice.Or perhaps an engineer.     There was a loud, excited chorus of dissent. He chuckled inwardly.     Can't do that, Ives said. Might pick up some concepts from us. Don'tknow how; none of us knows a thing about science. But it could happen.Subconscious osmosis, if there is such a thing. That way, you mightinvent something ahead of time. And the fellow we got the plans fromparticularly cautioned us against that. Changing history. Dangerous.     Might mess up our time frightfully, Bartholomew contributed, though,to be perfectly frank, I can't quite understand how.     I am not going to sit down and explain the whole thing to you all overagain, Bart! Raymond said impatiently. Well, Martin?     What would you suggest? Martin asked.     How about becoming a painter? Art is eternal. And quite gentlemanly.Besides, artists are always expected to be either behind or ahead oftheir times.     Furthermore, Ottillie added, one more artist couldn't make muchdifference in history. There were so many of them all through the ages.     Martin couldn't hold back his question. What was I, actually, in thatother time?     There was a chilly silence.     Let's not talk about it, dear, Lalage finally said. Let's just bethankful we've saved you from      that     !     So drawing teachers were engaged and Martin became a very competentsecond-rate artist. He knew he would never be able to achieve firstrank because, even though he was still so young, his work was almostpurely intellectual. The only emotion he seemed able to feel wasfear—the ever-present fear that someday he would turn a corridor andwalk into a man who looked like him—a man who wanted to kill him forthe sake of an ideal.     But the fear did not show in Martin's pictures. They were prettypictures.  Cousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call thedescendants      cousin     —next assumed guardianship. Ives took hisresponsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arrangedto have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings receivedcritical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modestsale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were notinterested.     Takes time, Ives tried to reassure him. One day they'll be buyingyour pictures, Martin. Wait and see.     Ives was the only one of the descendants who seemed to think of Martinas an individual. When his efforts to make contact with the other youngman failed, he got worried and decided that what Martin needed was achange of air and scenery.     'Course you can't go on the Grand Tour. Your son hasn't inventedspace travel yet. But we can go see this world. What's left of it.Tourists always like ruins best, anyway.     So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,which Martin christened      The Interregnum     . They traveled about from seato ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and makingtrips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; thenearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much thesame as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormousmuseum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more.     The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,largely because they could spend so much time far away from thecontemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. Sothey never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on      The Interregnum     . He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, althoughthere was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler throughtime.     More cousins were in residence at once than ever before, becausethey came for the ocean voyage. They spent most of their time aboardship, giving each other parties and playing an      avant-garde     form ofshuffleboard and gambling on future sporting events. That last usuallyended in a brawl, because one cousin was sure to accuse another ofhaving got advance information about the results.     Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them onlywhen not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, thoughthey were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't courthis society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable.  He rather liked Ives, though. Sometimes the two of them would be alonetogether; then Ives would tell Martin of the future world he had comefrom. The picture drawn by Raymond and Ninian had not been entirelyaccurate, Ives admitted. True, there was no war or poverty on Earthproper, but that was because there were only a couple of million peopleleft on the planet. It was an enclave for the highly privileged, highlyinterbred aristocracy, to which Martin's descendants belonged by virtueof their distinguished ancestry.     Rather feudal, isn't it? Martin asked.     Ives agreed, adding that the system had, however, been deliberatelyplanned, rather than the result of haphazard natural development.Everything potentially unpleasant, like the mercantiles, had beendeported.     Not only natives livin' on the other worlds, Ives said as the twoof them stood at the ship's rail, surrounded by the limitless expanseof some ocean or other. People, too. Mostly lower classes, exceptfor officials and things. With wars and want and suffering, he addedregretfully, same as in your day.... Like now, I mean, he correctedhimself. Maybe it      is     worse, the way Conrad thinks. More planetsfor us to make trouble on. Three that were habitable aren't any more.Bombed. Very thorough job.     Oh, Martin murmured, trying to sound shocked, horrified—interested,even.     Sometimes I'm not altogether sure Conrad was wrong, Ives said, aftera pause. Tried to keep us from getting to the stars, hurting thepeople—I expect you could call them people—there. Still— he smiledshamefacedly—couldn't stand by and see my own way of life destroyed,could I?     I suppose not, Martin said.     Would take moral courage. I don't have it. None of us does, exceptConrad, and even he— Ives looked out over the sea. Must be a betterway out than Conrad's, he said without conviction. And everythingwill work out all right in the end. Bound to. No sense to—to anything,if it doesn't. He glanced wistfully at Martin.     I hope so, said Martin. But he couldn't hope; he couldn't feel; hecouldn't even seem to care.     During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martinhad gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almostwished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking....     He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realizethe basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would havebeen Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego onebitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor fromthe future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough totake a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body wasburied in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of thecontinent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth.     A great many of the cousins turned up at the simple ceremony. All weredressed in overwhelming black and showed a great deal of grief. Raymondread the burial service, because they didn't dare summon a clericalcousin from the future; they were afraid he might prove rather stuffyabout the entire undertaking.     He died for all of us, Raymond concluded his funeral eulogy overIves, so his death was not in vain.     But Martin disagreed.  The ceaseless voyaging began again.      The Interregnum     voyaged to everyocean and every sea. Some were blue and some green and some dun. Aftera while, Martin couldn't tell one from another. Cousin after cousincame to watch over him and eventually they were as hard for him to tellapart as the different oceans.       All the cousins were young, for, though they came at different times inhis life, they had all started out from the same time in theirs. Onlythe young ones had been included in the venture; they did not trusttheir elders.     As the years went by, Martin began to lose even his detached interestin the land and its doings. Although the yacht frequently touched portfor fuel or supplies—it was more economical to purchase them in thatera than to have them shipped from the future—he seldom went ashore,and then only at the urging of a newly assigned cousin anxious to seethe sights. Most of the time Martin spent in watching the sea—andsometimes he painted it. There seemed to be a depth to his seascapesthat his other work lacked.     When he was pressed by the current cousin to make a land visitsomewhere, he decided to exhibit a few of his sea paintings. That way,he could fool himself into thinking that there was some purpose to thisjourney. He'd come to believe that perhaps what his life lacked waspurpose, and for a while he kept looking for meaning everywhere, to thecousin's utter disgust.     Eat, drink and be merry, or whatever you Romans say when you do as youdo, the cousin—who was rather woolly in history; the descendants werescraping bottom now—advised.     Martin showed his work in Italy, so that the cousin could bedisillusioned by the current crop of Romans. He found that neitherpurpose nor malice was enough; he was still immeasurably bored.However, a museum bought two of the paintings. Martin thought of Ivesand felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longerunderstand.     Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time? Martin idly askedthe current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now.     The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. Conrad'sa very shrewd fellow, he whispered. He's biding his time—waitinguntil we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack!     Oh, I see, Martin said.     He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulatingmember of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he wouldever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than oneconversation, anyhow.     When he does show up, I'll protect you, the cousin vowed, touchinghis ray gun. You haven't a thing to worry about.     Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. Ihave every confidence in you, he told his descendant. He himself hadgiven up carrying a gun long ago.     There was a war in the Northern Hemisphere and so      The Interregnum     voyaged to southern waters. There was a war in the south and they hidout in the Arctic. All the nations became too drained of power—fueland man and will—to fight, so there was a sterile peace for a longtime.      The Interregnum     roamed the seas restlessly, with her load ofpassengers from the future, plus one bored and aging contemporary. Shebore big guns now, because of the ever-present danger of pirates.  Perhaps it was the traditionally bracing effect of sea air—perhaps itwas the sheltered life—but Martin lived to be a very old man. He was ahundred and four when his last illness came. It was a great relief whenthe family doctor, called in again from the future, said there was nohope. Martin didn't think he could have borne another year of life.     All the cousins gathered at the yacht to pay their last respects totheir progenitor. He saw Ninian again, after all these years, andRaymond—all the others, dozens of them, thronging around his bed,spilling out of the cabin and into the passageways and out onto thedeck, making their usual clamor, even though their voices were hushed.     Only Ives was missing. He'd been the lucky one, Martin knew. He hadbeen spared the tragedy that was going to befall these blooming youngpeople—all the same age as when Martin had last seen them and doomednever to grow any older. Underneath their masks of woe, he could seerelief at the thought that at last they were going to be rid of theirresponsibility. And underneath Martin's death mask lay an impersonalpity for those poor, stupid descendants of his who had blundered soirretrievably.       There was only one face which Martin had never seen before. It wasn'ta strange face, however, because Martin had seen one very like it inthe looking glass when he was a young man.     You must be Conrad, Martin called across the cabin in a voice thatwas still clear. I've been looking forward to meeting you for sometime.     The other cousins whirled to face the newcomer.     You're too late, Con, Raymond gloated for the whole generation. He'slived out his life.     But he hasn't lived out his life, Conrad contradicted. He's livedout the life      you     created for him. And for yourselves, too.     For the first time, Martin saw compassion in the eyes of one of hislineage and found it vaguely disturbing. It didn't seem to belong there.     Don't you realize even yet, Conrad went on, that as soon as he goes,you'll go, too—present, past, future, wherever you are, you'll go upin the air like puffs of smoke?     What do you mean? Ninian quavered, her soft, pretty face alarmed.     Martin answered Conrad's rueful smile, but left the explanations up tohim. It was his show, after all.     Because you will never have existed, Conrad said. You have no rightto existence; it was you yourselves who watched him all the time,so he didn't have a chance to lead a normal life, get married,      havechildren     ....  Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  Was Conrad telling him the truth, Martin wondered, or was he justgiving the conventional reassurance to the dying? More than that, washe trying to convince himself that what he had done was the rightthing? Every cousin had assured Martin that things were going to be allright.     Was Conrad      actually     different from the rest?     His plan had worked and the others' hadn't, but then all his plan hadconsisted of was doing nothing. That was all he and Martin had done ...nothing. Were they absolved of all responsibility merely because theyhad stood aside and taken advantage of the others' weaknesses?     Why, Martin said to himself, in a sense, it could be said that Ihave fulfilled my original destiny—that I am a criminal.     Well, it didn't matter; whatever happened, no one could hold him toblame. He held no stake in the future that was to come. It was othermen's future—other men's problem. He died very peacefully then, and,since he was the only one left on the ship, there was nobody to buryhim.     The unmanned yacht drifted about the seas for years and gave rise tomany legends, none of them as unbelievable as the truth.  ","The ‘cousins’ featured in this story are all direct descendants of Martin, identified to be great-great-granddaughters and -sons. Instructed to be called Aunts and Uncles by a young Martin and then later cousins by a mature Martin, they have rallied together to travel into the past in order to protect and guard Martin from an assassination attempt by Conrad. Conrad, a fellow cousin, is thought to be an idealist by his fellow cousins and adamantly wrong in his belief that the right thing to do is to erase their lineage in order to correct injustice in their future society. Despite the heroic protection of Martin, we find out that the cousins’ guardianship of Martin is selfish in nature. Aside from Ives, Martin holds largely impersonal relationships with his cousins, who appear to view Martin as a reluctant duty. Because of Conrad as a looming threat over Martin’s livelihood, a rotation of cousins traveling from the future assume guardianship over Martin and dictates his life in his hobbies or the information he knows - all to protect their own livelihood. At Martin’s deathbed, we find out that the cousins have had the wrong idea this entire time. In their insistence at protecting Martin and shaping his life to what they created for him, they signed their own death warrant. In all their planning and supposed intelligence and worthiness, the cousins have failed to observe the flaw in the plan: that if Martin had no wife and no children, then their very existence would be naught. Their forced presence in Martin’s life had rid Martin’s potential exciting existence - and in return - Martin’s lackluster existence had rid the cousins of any kind of existence. "
"What is the significance of time in this story? </s>     THE MAN OUTSIDE     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        No one, least of all Martin, could dispute       that a man's life should be guarded by his       kin—but by those who hadn't been born yet?        Nobody in the neighborhood was surprised when Martin's motherdisappeared and Ninian came to take care of him. Mothers had a wayof disappearing around those parts and the kids were often betteroff without them. Martin was no exception. He'd never had it thisgood while he was living with his old lady. As for his father, Martinhad never had one. He'd been a war baby, born of one of the tides ofsoldiers—enemies and allies, both—that had engulfed the country insuccessive waves and bought or taken the women. So there was no troublethat way.     Sometimes he wondered who Ninian really was. Obviously that storyabout her coming from the future was just a gag. Besides, if she reallywas his great-great-grand-daughter, as she said, why would she tellhim to call her       Aunt Ninian     ? Maybe he was only eleven, but he'dbeen around and he knew just what the score was. At first he'd thoughtmaybe she was some new kind of social worker, but she acted a littletoo crazy for that.     He loved to bait her, as he had loved to bait his mother. It was saferwith Ninian, though, because when he pushed her too far, she would cryinstead of mopping up the floor with him.     But I can't understand, he would say, keeping his face straight. Whydo you have to come from the future to protect me against your cousinConrad?     Because he's coming to kill you.     Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing.     Ninian sighed. He's dissatisfied with the current social order andkilling you is part of an elaborate plan he's formulated to change it.You wouldn't understand.     You're damn right. I      don't     understand. What's it all about instraight gas?     Oh, just don't ask any questions, Ninian said petulantly. When youget older, someone will explain the whole thing to you.  So Martin held his peace, because, on the whole, he liked things theway they were. Ninian really was the limit, though. All the people heknew lived in scabrous tenement apartments like his, but she seemed tothink it was disgusting.     So if you don't like it, clean it up, he suggested.     She looked at him as if he were out of his mind.     Hire a maid, then! he jeered.     And darned if that dope didn't go out and get a woman to come clean upthe place! He was so embarrassed, he didn't even dare show his face inthe streets—especially with the women buttonholing him and demandingto know what gave. They tried talking to Ninian, but she certainly knewhow to give them the cold shoulder.     One day the truant officer came to ask why Martin hadn't been comingto school. Very few of the neighborhood kids attended classes veryregularly, so this was just routine. But Ninian didn't know that andshe went into a real tizzy, babbling that Martin had been sick andwould make up the work. Martin nearly did get sick from laughing sohard inside.     But he laughed out of the other side of his mouth when she went out andhired a private tutor for him. A tutor—in that neighborhood! Martinhad to beat up every kid on the block before he could walk a stepwithout hearing Fancy Pants! yelled after him.     Ninian worried all the time. It wasn't that she cared what these peoplethought of her, for she made no secret of regarding them as littlebetter than animals, but she was shy of attracting attention. Therewere an awful lot of people in that neighborhood who felt exactly thesame way, only she didn't know that, either. She was really prettydumb, Martin thought, for all her fancy lingo.     It's so hard to think these things out without any prior practicalapplication to go by, she told him.     He nodded, knowing what she meant was that everything was coming outwrong. But he didn't try to help her; he just watched to see whatshe'd do next. Already he had begun to assume the detached role of aspectator.     When it became clear that his mother was never going to show up again,Ninian bought one of those smallish, almost identical houses thatmushroom on the fringes of a city after every war, particularly whereintensive bombing has created a number of desirable building sites.     This is a much better neighborhood for a boy to grow up in, shedeclared. Besides, it's easier to keep an eye on you here.     And keep an eye on him she did—she or a rather foppish young man whocame to stay with them occasionally. Martin was told to call him UncleRaymond.     From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives andBartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and manymore—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his.  Martin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to playwith the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parentswould have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that ifa one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must besomething pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just asconspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; shewas supposed to know better than he did.     He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded bymore luxury than he knew what to do with.     The furniture was the latest New Grand Rapids African modern. Therewere tidy, colorful Picasso and Braque prints on the walls. And everyinch of the floor was modestly covered by carpeting, though the wallswere mostly unabashed glass. There were hot water and heat all the timeand a freezer well stocked with food—somewhat erratically chosen, forNinian didn't know much about meals.     The non-glass part of the house was of neat, natural-toned wood, with aneat green lawn in front and a neat parti-colored garden in back.     Martin missed the old neighborhood, though. He missed having otherkids to play with. He even missed his mother. Sure, she hadn't givenhim enough to eat and she'd beaten him up so hard sometimes that she'dnearly killed him—but then there had also been times when she'd huggedand kissed him and soaked his collar with her tears. She'd done allshe could for him, supporting him in the only way she knew how—and ifrespectable society didn't like it, the hell with respectable society.     From Ninian and her cousins, there was only an impersonal kindness.They made no bones about the fact that they were there only to carryout a rather unpleasant duty. Though they were in the house with him,in their minds and in their talk they were living in another world—aworld of warmth and peace and plenty where nobody worked, except in thegovernment service or the essential professions. And they seemed tothink even that kind of job was pretty low-class, though better thanactually doing anything with the hands.     In their world, Martin came to understand, nobody worked with hands;everything was done by machinery. All the people ever did was wearpretty clothes and have good times and eat all they wanted. There wasno devastation, no war, no unhappiness, none of the concomitants ofnormal living.     It was then that Martin began to realize that either the whole lot ofthem were insane, or what Ninian had told him at first was the truth.They came from the future.  When Martin was sixteen, Raymond took him aside for the talk Ninian hadpromised five years before.     The whole thing's all my brother Conrad's fault. You see, he's anidealist, Raymond explained, pronouncing the last word with distaste.     Martin nodded gravely. He was a quiet boy now, his brief past a dim andrather ridiculous memory. Who could ever imagine him robbing a grocerystore or wielding a broken bottle now? He still was rather undersizedand he'd read so much that he'd weakened his eyes and had to wearglasses. His face was pallid, because he spent little time in the sun,and his speech rather overbred, his mentors from the future havingcarefully eradicated all current vulgarities.     And Conrad really got upset over the way Earth has been exploitingthe not so intelligent life-forms on the other planets, Raymondcontinued. Which      is     distressing—though, of course, it's not asif they were people. Besides, the government has been talking aboutpassing laws to do away with the—well, abuses and things like that,and I'm sure someday everything will come out all right. However,Conrad is so impatient.     I thought, in your world, machines did all the work, Martin suggested.     I've told you—our world is precisely the same as this one! Raymondsnapped. We just come a couple of centuries or so later, that's all.But remember, our interests are identical. We're virtually the samepeople ... although it is amazing what a difference two hundred oddyears of progress and polish can make in a species, isn't it?     He continued more mildly: However, even you ought to be able tounderstand that we can't make machinery without metal. We need food.All that sort of thing comes from the out-system planets. And, on thoseworlds, it's far cheaper to use native labor than to ship out all thatexpensive machinery. After all, if we didn't give the natives jobs, howwould they manage to live?     How did they live before? Come to think of it, if you don't work, howdo      you     live now?... I don't mean in the now for me, but the now foryou, Martin explained laboriously. It was so difficult to live in thepast and think in the future.     I'm trying to talk to you as if you were an adult, Raymond said, butif you will persist in these childish interruptions—     I'm sorry, Martin said.     But he wasn't, for by now he had little respect left for any ofhis descendants. They were all exceedingly handsome and cultivatedyoung people, with superior educations, smooth ways of speaking andconsiderable self-confidence, but they just weren't very bright. Andhe had discovered that Raymond was perhaps the most intelligent of thelot. Somewhere in that relatively short span of time, his line or—morefrightening—his race had lost something vital.     Unaware of the near-contempt in which his young ancestor held him,Raymond went on blandly: Anyhow, Conrad took it upon himself tofeel particularly guilty, because, he decided, if it hadn't been forthe fact that our great-grandfather discovered the super-drive, wemight never have reached the stars. Which is ridiculous—his feelingguilty, I mean. Perhaps a great-grandfather is responsible for hisgreat-grandchildren, but a great-grandchild can hardly be heldaccountable for his great-grandfather.     How about a great-great-grandchild? Martin couldn't help asking.  Raymond flushed a delicate pink. Do you want to hear the rest of thisor don't you?     Oh, I do! Martin said. He had pieced the whole thing together forhimself long since, but he wanted to hear how Raymond would put it.     Unfortunately, Professor Farkas has just perfected the timetransmitter. Those government scientists are so infernallyofficious—always inventing such senseless things. It's supposed tobe hush-hush, but you know how news will leak out when one is alwaysdesperate for a fresh topic of conversation.     Anyhow, Raymond went on to explain, Conrad had bribed one of Farkas'assistants for a set of the plans. Conrad's idea had been to go backin time and eliminate! their common great-grandfather. In that way,there would be no space-drive, and, hence, the Terrestrials would neverget to the other planets and oppress the local aborigines.     Sounds like a good way of dealing with the problem, Martin observed.     Raymond looked annoyed. It's the      adolescent     way, he said, to doaway with it, rather than find a solution. Would you destroy a wholesociety in order to root out a single injustice?     Not if it were a good one otherwise.     Well, there's your answer. Conrad got the apparatus built, or perhapshe built it himself. One doesn't inquire too closely into suchmatters. But when it came to the point, Conrad couldn't bear the ideaof eliminating our great-grandfather—because our great-grandfatherwas such a      good     man, you know. Raymond's expressive upper lipcurled. So Conrad decided to go further back still and get rid ofhis great-grandfather's father—who'd been, by all accounts, a prettyworthless character.     That would be me, I suppose, Martin said quietly.     Raymond turned a deep rose. Well, doesn't that just go to prove youmustn't believe everything you hear? The next sentence tumbled out ina rush. I wormed the whole thing out of him and all of us—the othercousins and me—held a council of war, as it were, and we decided itwas our moral duty to go back in time ourselves and protect you. Hebeamed at Martin.     The boy smiled slowly. Of course. You had to. If Conrad succeeded in      eliminating     me, then none of you would exist, would you?     Raymond frowned. Then he shrugged cheerfully. Well, you didn't reallysuppose we were going to all this trouble and expense out of sheeraltruism, did you? he asked, turning on the charm which all thecousins possessed to a consternating degree.  Martin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned longago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise.     We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor'sassistants, Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered,and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us.       Induced     , Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to theuse of the iron maiden.     Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded younight and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we madeour counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and herewe are!     I see, Martin said.     Raymond didn't seem to think he really did. After all, he pointedout defensively, whatever our motives, it has turned into a goodthing for you. Nice home, cultured companions, all the contemporaryconveniences, plus some handy anachronisms—I don't see what more youcould ask for. You're getting the best of all possible worlds. Ofcourse Ninian      was     a ninny to locate in a mercantile suburb where anylittle thing out of the way will cause talk. How thankful I am that ourera has completely disposed of the mercantiles—     What did you do with them? Martin asked.     But Raymond rushed on: Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,the more eccentricity you can get away with. And, he added, I mightas well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through thiswretched historical stint.     So Ninian's going, said Martin, wondering why the news made him feelcuriously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in aremote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, forhim.     Well, five years is rather a long stretch for any girl to spend inexile, Raymond explained, even though our life spans are a bit longerthan yours. Besides, you're getting too old now to be under petticoatgovernment. He looked inquisitively at Martin. You're not going togo all weepy and make a scene when she leaves, are you?     No.... Martin said hesitantly. Oh, I suppose I will miss her. But wearen't very close, so it won't make a real difference. That was thesad part: he already knew it wouldn't make a difference.     Raymond clapped him on the shoulder. I knew you weren't a sloppysentimentalist like Conrad. Though you do have rather a look of him,you know.     Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirringof alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. How do you plan toprotect me when he comes?     Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course, Raymond saidwith modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child'scombination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had nodoubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. And we've got arather elaborate burglar alarm system.     Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiringwhich, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he wasdubious. Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this      house     ,but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this      time     ?     Never fear—it has a temporal radius, Raymond replied. Factoryguarantee and all that.     Just to be on the safe side, Martin said, I think I'd better haveone of those guns, too.     A splendid idea! enthused Raymond. I was just about to think of thatmyself!  When it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears ather own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillfulat understanding his descendants, far better than they at understandinghim. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on thecheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right andthat she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at thevery last.     Raymond and Martin moved into a luxurious mansion in a remote area. Thesite proved a well-chosen one; when the Second Atomic War came, half adozen years later, they weren't touched. Martin was never sure whetherthis had been sheer luck or expert planning. Probably luck, because hisdescendants were exceedingly inept planners.     Few people in the world then could afford to live as stylishly asMartin and his guardian. The place not only contained every possibleconvenience and gadget but was crammed with bibelots and antiques,carefully chosen by Raymond and disputed by Martin, for, to the manfrom the future, all available artifacts were antiques. Otherwise,Martin accepted his new surroundings. His sense of wonder had becomedulled by now and the pink pseudo-Spanish castle—architecturallydreadful, of course, Raymond had said, but so hilariouslytypical—impressed him far less than had the suburban split-levelaquarium.     How about a moat? Martin suggested when they first came. It seems togo with a castle.       Do you think a moat could stop Conrad? Raymond asked, amused.     No, Martin smiled, feeling rather silly, but it would make the placeseem safer somehow.     The threat of Conrad was beginning to make him grow more and morenervous. He got Raymond's permission to take two suits of armor thatstood in the front hall and present them to a local museum, becauseseveral times he fancied he saw them move. He also became an adept withthe ray gun and changed the surrounding landscape quite a bit with it,until Raymond warned that this might lead Conrad to them.     During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for thehigher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitablyarose of what the youth's vocation in that life was going to be. Atleast twenty of the cousins came back through time to hold one oftheir vigorous family councils. Martin was still young enough to enjoysuch occasions, finding them vastly superior to all other forms ofentertainment.  This sort of problem wouldn't arise in our day, Martin, Raymondcommented as he took his place at the head of the table, because,unless one specifically feels a call to some profession or other, onejust—well, drifts along happily.     Ours is a wonderful world, Grania sighed at Martin. I only wish wecould take you there. I'm sure you would like it.     Don't be a fool, Grania! Raymond snapped. Well, Martin, have youmade up your mind what you want to be?     Martin affected to think. A physicist, he said, not without malice.Or perhaps an engineer.     There was a loud, excited chorus of dissent. He chuckled inwardly.     Can't do that, Ives said. Might pick up some concepts from us. Don'tknow how; none of us knows a thing about science. But it could happen.Subconscious osmosis, if there is such a thing. That way, you mightinvent something ahead of time. And the fellow we got the plans fromparticularly cautioned us against that. Changing history. Dangerous.     Might mess up our time frightfully, Bartholomew contributed, though,to be perfectly frank, I can't quite understand how.     I am not going to sit down and explain the whole thing to you all overagain, Bart! Raymond said impatiently. Well, Martin?     What would you suggest? Martin asked.     How about becoming a painter? Art is eternal. And quite gentlemanly.Besides, artists are always expected to be either behind or ahead oftheir times.     Furthermore, Ottillie added, one more artist couldn't make muchdifference in history. There were so many of them all through the ages.     Martin couldn't hold back his question. What was I, actually, in thatother time?     There was a chilly silence.     Let's not talk about it, dear, Lalage finally said. Let's just bethankful we've saved you from      that     !     So drawing teachers were engaged and Martin became a very competentsecond-rate artist. He knew he would never be able to achieve firstrank because, even though he was still so young, his work was almostpurely intellectual. The only emotion he seemed able to feel wasfear—the ever-present fear that someday he would turn a corridor andwalk into a man who looked like him—a man who wanted to kill him forthe sake of an ideal.     But the fear did not show in Martin's pictures. They were prettypictures.  Cousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call thedescendants      cousin     —next assumed guardianship. Ives took hisresponsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arrangedto have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings receivedcritical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modestsale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were notinterested.     Takes time, Ives tried to reassure him. One day they'll be buyingyour pictures, Martin. Wait and see.     Ives was the only one of the descendants who seemed to think of Martinas an individual. When his efforts to make contact with the other youngman failed, he got worried and decided that what Martin needed was achange of air and scenery.     'Course you can't go on the Grand Tour. Your son hasn't inventedspace travel yet. But we can go see this world. What's left of it.Tourists always like ruins best, anyway.     So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,which Martin christened      The Interregnum     . They traveled about from seato ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and makingtrips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; thenearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much thesame as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormousmuseum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more.     The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,largely because they could spend so much time far away from thecontemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. Sothey never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on      The Interregnum     . He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, althoughthere was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler throughtime.     More cousins were in residence at once than ever before, becausethey came for the ocean voyage. They spent most of their time aboardship, giving each other parties and playing an      avant-garde     form ofshuffleboard and gambling on future sporting events. That last usuallyended in a brawl, because one cousin was sure to accuse another ofhaving got advance information about the results.     Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them onlywhen not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, thoughthey were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't courthis society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable.  He rather liked Ives, though. Sometimes the two of them would be alonetogether; then Ives would tell Martin of the future world he had comefrom. The picture drawn by Raymond and Ninian had not been entirelyaccurate, Ives admitted. True, there was no war or poverty on Earthproper, but that was because there were only a couple of million peopleleft on the planet. It was an enclave for the highly privileged, highlyinterbred aristocracy, to which Martin's descendants belonged by virtueof their distinguished ancestry.     Rather feudal, isn't it? Martin asked.     Ives agreed, adding that the system had, however, been deliberatelyplanned, rather than the result of haphazard natural development.Everything potentially unpleasant, like the mercantiles, had beendeported.     Not only natives livin' on the other worlds, Ives said as the twoof them stood at the ship's rail, surrounded by the limitless expanseof some ocean or other. People, too. Mostly lower classes, exceptfor officials and things. With wars and want and suffering, he addedregretfully, same as in your day.... Like now, I mean, he correctedhimself. Maybe it      is     worse, the way Conrad thinks. More planetsfor us to make trouble on. Three that were habitable aren't any more.Bombed. Very thorough job.     Oh, Martin murmured, trying to sound shocked, horrified—interested,even.     Sometimes I'm not altogether sure Conrad was wrong, Ives said, aftera pause. Tried to keep us from getting to the stars, hurting thepeople—I expect you could call them people—there. Still— he smiledshamefacedly—couldn't stand by and see my own way of life destroyed,could I?     I suppose not, Martin said.     Would take moral courage. I don't have it. None of us does, exceptConrad, and even he— Ives looked out over the sea. Must be a betterway out than Conrad's, he said without conviction. And everythingwill work out all right in the end. Bound to. No sense to—to anything,if it doesn't. He glanced wistfully at Martin.     I hope so, said Martin. But he couldn't hope; he couldn't feel; hecouldn't even seem to care.     During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martinhad gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almostwished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking....     He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realizethe basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would havebeen Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego onebitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor fromthe future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough totake a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body wasburied in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of thecontinent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth.     A great many of the cousins turned up at the simple ceremony. All weredressed in overwhelming black and showed a great deal of grief. Raymondread the burial service, because they didn't dare summon a clericalcousin from the future; they were afraid he might prove rather stuffyabout the entire undertaking.     He died for all of us, Raymond concluded his funeral eulogy overIves, so his death was not in vain.     But Martin disagreed.  The ceaseless voyaging began again.      The Interregnum     voyaged to everyocean and every sea. Some were blue and some green and some dun. Aftera while, Martin couldn't tell one from another. Cousin after cousincame to watch over him and eventually they were as hard for him to tellapart as the different oceans.       All the cousins were young, for, though they came at different times inhis life, they had all started out from the same time in theirs. Onlythe young ones had been included in the venture; they did not trusttheir elders.     As the years went by, Martin began to lose even his detached interestin the land and its doings. Although the yacht frequently touched portfor fuel or supplies—it was more economical to purchase them in thatera than to have them shipped from the future—he seldom went ashore,and then only at the urging of a newly assigned cousin anxious to seethe sights. Most of the time Martin spent in watching the sea—andsometimes he painted it. There seemed to be a depth to his seascapesthat his other work lacked.     When he was pressed by the current cousin to make a land visitsomewhere, he decided to exhibit a few of his sea paintings. That way,he could fool himself into thinking that there was some purpose to thisjourney. He'd come to believe that perhaps what his life lacked waspurpose, and for a while he kept looking for meaning everywhere, to thecousin's utter disgust.     Eat, drink and be merry, or whatever you Romans say when you do as youdo, the cousin—who was rather woolly in history; the descendants werescraping bottom now—advised.     Martin showed his work in Italy, so that the cousin could bedisillusioned by the current crop of Romans. He found that neitherpurpose nor malice was enough; he was still immeasurably bored.However, a museum bought two of the paintings. Martin thought of Ivesand felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longerunderstand.     Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time? Martin idly askedthe current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now.     The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. Conrad'sa very shrewd fellow, he whispered. He's biding his time—waitinguntil we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack!     Oh, I see, Martin said.     He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulatingmember of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he wouldever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than oneconversation, anyhow.     When he does show up, I'll protect you, the cousin vowed, touchinghis ray gun. You haven't a thing to worry about.     Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. Ihave every confidence in you, he told his descendant. He himself hadgiven up carrying a gun long ago.     There was a war in the Northern Hemisphere and so      The Interregnum     voyaged to southern waters. There was a war in the south and they hidout in the Arctic. All the nations became too drained of power—fueland man and will—to fight, so there was a sterile peace for a longtime.      The Interregnum     roamed the seas restlessly, with her load ofpassengers from the future, plus one bored and aging contemporary. Shebore big guns now, because of the ever-present danger of pirates.  Perhaps it was the traditionally bracing effect of sea air—perhaps itwas the sheltered life—but Martin lived to be a very old man. He was ahundred and four when his last illness came. It was a great relief whenthe family doctor, called in again from the future, said there was nohope. Martin didn't think he could have borne another year of life.     All the cousins gathered at the yacht to pay their last respects totheir progenitor. He saw Ninian again, after all these years, andRaymond—all the others, dozens of them, thronging around his bed,spilling out of the cabin and into the passageways and out onto thedeck, making their usual clamor, even though their voices were hushed.     Only Ives was missing. He'd been the lucky one, Martin knew. He hadbeen spared the tragedy that was going to befall these blooming youngpeople—all the same age as when Martin had last seen them and doomednever to grow any older. Underneath their masks of woe, he could seerelief at the thought that at last they were going to be rid of theirresponsibility. And underneath Martin's death mask lay an impersonalpity for those poor, stupid descendants of his who had blundered soirretrievably.       There was only one face which Martin had never seen before. It wasn'ta strange face, however, because Martin had seen one very like it inthe looking glass when he was a young man.     You must be Conrad, Martin called across the cabin in a voice thatwas still clear. I've been looking forward to meeting you for sometime.     The other cousins whirled to face the newcomer.     You're too late, Con, Raymond gloated for the whole generation. He'slived out his life.     But he hasn't lived out his life, Conrad contradicted. He's livedout the life      you     created for him. And for yourselves, too.     For the first time, Martin saw compassion in the eyes of one of hislineage and found it vaguely disturbing. It didn't seem to belong there.     Don't you realize even yet, Conrad went on, that as soon as he goes,you'll go, too—present, past, future, wherever you are, you'll go upin the air like puffs of smoke?     What do you mean? Ninian quavered, her soft, pretty face alarmed.     Martin answered Conrad's rueful smile, but left the explanations up tohim. It was his show, after all.     Because you will never have existed, Conrad said. You have no rightto existence; it was you yourselves who watched him all the time,so he didn't have a chance to lead a normal life, get married,      havechildren     ....  Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  Was Conrad telling him the truth, Martin wondered, or was he justgiving the conventional reassurance to the dying? More than that, washe trying to convince himself that what he had done was the rightthing? Every cousin had assured Martin that things were going to be allright.     Was Conrad      actually     different from the rest?     His plan had worked and the others' hadn't, but then all his plan hadconsisted of was doing nothing. That was all he and Martin had done ...nothing. Were they absolved of all responsibility merely because theyhad stood aside and taken advantage of the others' weaknesses?     Why, Martin said to himself, in a sense, it could be said that Ihave fulfilled my original destiny—that I am a criminal.     Well, it didn't matter; whatever happened, no one could hold him toblame. He held no stake in the future that was to come. It was othermen's future—other men's problem. He died very peacefully then, and,since he was the only one left on the ship, there was nobody to buryhim.     The unmanned yacht drifted about the seas for years and gave rise tomany legends, none of them as unbelievable as the truth.  ","First, time is significant in this story as the main plotline to the cousins' interactions with Martin. With the future having time travel as a reality, characters in this story like Ninian are able to jump back and forth between the past - to bring Martin out of poverty and vulgar background - and the future to her present time. Although the characters in this story utilize time as an unchangeable and linear concept, we find out through hints in the story and at the final moment that time here is fluid and flexible. Anything that occurs in the past will affect the reality of the future. This is a startling pocket of truth that the cousins fail to realize until Martin’s deathbed - where they are horrified to find out that their selfish desire to protect their comfortable reality in the future had actually led to their own demise and ridded their entire existence. Additionally, time is used to explore the ruling ideologies of the social class both in present and in future. Despite the cousins proclaiming the future world to be free of poverty and highly privileged, Ives reveals that the realities of both worlds are similar in having wars and want and suffering. Only, with the latter future world dealing with these unsavory characters in exiling them and maintaining a feudal class system. "
"Does Martin’s attitudes towards the cousins change throughout the story, and why? </s>     THE MAN OUTSIDE     By EVELYN E. SMITH     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction August 1957.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        No one, least of all Martin, could dispute       that a man's life should be guarded by his       kin—but by those who hadn't been born yet?        Nobody in the neighborhood was surprised when Martin's motherdisappeared and Ninian came to take care of him. Mothers had a wayof disappearing around those parts and the kids were often betteroff without them. Martin was no exception. He'd never had it thisgood while he was living with his old lady. As for his father, Martinhad never had one. He'd been a war baby, born of one of the tides ofsoldiers—enemies and allies, both—that had engulfed the country insuccessive waves and bought or taken the women. So there was no troublethat way.     Sometimes he wondered who Ninian really was. Obviously that storyabout her coming from the future was just a gag. Besides, if she reallywas his great-great-grand-daughter, as she said, why would she tellhim to call her       Aunt Ninian     ? Maybe he was only eleven, but he'dbeen around and he knew just what the score was. At first he'd thoughtmaybe she was some new kind of social worker, but she acted a littletoo crazy for that.     He loved to bait her, as he had loved to bait his mother. It was saferwith Ninian, though, because when he pushed her too far, she would cryinstead of mopping up the floor with him.     But I can't understand, he would say, keeping his face straight. Whydo you have to come from the future to protect me against your cousinConrad?     Because he's coming to kill you.     Why should he kill me? I ain't done him nothing.     Ninian sighed. He's dissatisfied with the current social order andkilling you is part of an elaborate plan he's formulated to change it.You wouldn't understand.     You're damn right. I      don't     understand. What's it all about instraight gas?     Oh, just don't ask any questions, Ninian said petulantly. When youget older, someone will explain the whole thing to you.  So Martin held his peace, because, on the whole, he liked things theway they were. Ninian really was the limit, though. All the people heknew lived in scabrous tenement apartments like his, but she seemed tothink it was disgusting.     So if you don't like it, clean it up, he suggested.     She looked at him as if he were out of his mind.     Hire a maid, then! he jeered.     And darned if that dope didn't go out and get a woman to come clean upthe place! He was so embarrassed, he didn't even dare show his face inthe streets—especially with the women buttonholing him and demandingto know what gave. They tried talking to Ninian, but she certainly knewhow to give them the cold shoulder.     One day the truant officer came to ask why Martin hadn't been comingto school. Very few of the neighborhood kids attended classes veryregularly, so this was just routine. But Ninian didn't know that andshe went into a real tizzy, babbling that Martin had been sick andwould make up the work. Martin nearly did get sick from laughing sohard inside.     But he laughed out of the other side of his mouth when she went out andhired a private tutor for him. A tutor—in that neighborhood! Martinhad to beat up every kid on the block before he could walk a stepwithout hearing Fancy Pants! yelled after him.     Ninian worried all the time. It wasn't that she cared what these peoplethought of her, for she made no secret of regarding them as littlebetter than animals, but she was shy of attracting attention. Therewere an awful lot of people in that neighborhood who felt exactly thesame way, only she didn't know that, either. She was really prettydumb, Martin thought, for all her fancy lingo.     It's so hard to think these things out without any prior practicalapplication to go by, she told him.     He nodded, knowing what she meant was that everything was coming outwrong. But he didn't try to help her; he just watched to see whatshe'd do next. Already he had begun to assume the detached role of aspectator.     When it became clear that his mother was never going to show up again,Ninian bought one of those smallish, almost identical houses thatmushroom on the fringes of a city after every war, particularly whereintensive bombing has created a number of desirable building sites.     This is a much better neighborhood for a boy to grow up in, shedeclared. Besides, it's easier to keep an eye on you here.     And keep an eye on him she did—she or a rather foppish young man whocame to stay with them occasionally. Martin was told to call him UncleRaymond.     From time to time, there were other visitors—Uncles Ives andBartholomew and Olaf, Aunts Ottillie and Grania and Lalage, and manymore—all cousins to one another, he was told, all descendants of his.  Martin was never left alone for a minute. He wasn't allowed to playwith the other kids in the new neighborhood. Not that their parentswould have let them, anyway. The adults obviously figured that ifa one-car family hired private tutors for their kid, there must besomething pretty wrong with him. So Martin and Ninian were just asconspicuous as before. But he didn't tip her off. She was grown up; shewas supposed to know better than he did.     He lived well. He had food to eat that he'd never dreamed of before,warm clothes that no one had ever worn before him. He was surrounded bymore luxury than he knew what to do with.     The furniture was the latest New Grand Rapids African modern. Therewere tidy, colorful Picasso and Braque prints on the walls. And everyinch of the floor was modestly covered by carpeting, though the wallswere mostly unabashed glass. There were hot water and heat all the timeand a freezer well stocked with food—somewhat erratically chosen, forNinian didn't know much about meals.     The non-glass part of the house was of neat, natural-toned wood, with aneat green lawn in front and a neat parti-colored garden in back.     Martin missed the old neighborhood, though. He missed having otherkids to play with. He even missed his mother. Sure, she hadn't givenhim enough to eat and she'd beaten him up so hard sometimes that she'dnearly killed him—but then there had also been times when she'd huggedand kissed him and soaked his collar with her tears. She'd done allshe could for him, supporting him in the only way she knew how—and ifrespectable society didn't like it, the hell with respectable society.     From Ninian and her cousins, there was only an impersonal kindness.They made no bones about the fact that they were there only to carryout a rather unpleasant duty. Though they were in the house with him,in their minds and in their talk they were living in another world—aworld of warmth and peace and plenty where nobody worked, except in thegovernment service or the essential professions. And they seemed tothink even that kind of job was pretty low-class, though better thanactually doing anything with the hands.     In their world, Martin came to understand, nobody worked with hands;everything was done by machinery. All the people ever did was wearpretty clothes and have good times and eat all they wanted. There wasno devastation, no war, no unhappiness, none of the concomitants ofnormal living.     It was then that Martin began to realize that either the whole lot ofthem were insane, or what Ninian had told him at first was the truth.They came from the future.  When Martin was sixteen, Raymond took him aside for the talk Ninian hadpromised five years before.     The whole thing's all my brother Conrad's fault. You see, he's anidealist, Raymond explained, pronouncing the last word with distaste.     Martin nodded gravely. He was a quiet boy now, his brief past a dim andrather ridiculous memory. Who could ever imagine him robbing a grocerystore or wielding a broken bottle now? He still was rather undersizedand he'd read so much that he'd weakened his eyes and had to wearglasses. His face was pallid, because he spent little time in the sun,and his speech rather overbred, his mentors from the future havingcarefully eradicated all current vulgarities.     And Conrad really got upset over the way Earth has been exploitingthe not so intelligent life-forms on the other planets, Raymondcontinued. Which      is     distressing—though, of course, it's not asif they were people. Besides, the government has been talking aboutpassing laws to do away with the—well, abuses and things like that,and I'm sure someday everything will come out all right. However,Conrad is so impatient.     I thought, in your world, machines did all the work, Martin suggested.     I've told you—our world is precisely the same as this one! Raymondsnapped. We just come a couple of centuries or so later, that's all.But remember, our interests are identical. We're virtually the samepeople ... although it is amazing what a difference two hundred oddyears of progress and polish can make in a species, isn't it?     He continued more mildly: However, even you ought to be able tounderstand that we can't make machinery without metal. We need food.All that sort of thing comes from the out-system planets. And, on thoseworlds, it's far cheaper to use native labor than to ship out all thatexpensive machinery. After all, if we didn't give the natives jobs, howwould they manage to live?     How did they live before? Come to think of it, if you don't work, howdo      you     live now?... I don't mean in the now for me, but the now foryou, Martin explained laboriously. It was so difficult to live in thepast and think in the future.     I'm trying to talk to you as if you were an adult, Raymond said, butif you will persist in these childish interruptions—     I'm sorry, Martin said.     But he wasn't, for by now he had little respect left for any ofhis descendants. They were all exceedingly handsome and cultivatedyoung people, with superior educations, smooth ways of speaking andconsiderable self-confidence, but they just weren't very bright. Andhe had discovered that Raymond was perhaps the most intelligent of thelot. Somewhere in that relatively short span of time, his line or—morefrightening—his race had lost something vital.     Unaware of the near-contempt in which his young ancestor held him,Raymond went on blandly: Anyhow, Conrad took it upon himself tofeel particularly guilty, because, he decided, if it hadn't been forthe fact that our great-grandfather discovered the super-drive, wemight never have reached the stars. Which is ridiculous—his feelingguilty, I mean. Perhaps a great-grandfather is responsible for hisgreat-grandchildren, but a great-grandchild can hardly be heldaccountable for his great-grandfather.     How about a great-great-grandchild? Martin couldn't help asking.  Raymond flushed a delicate pink. Do you want to hear the rest of thisor don't you?     Oh, I do! Martin said. He had pieced the whole thing together forhimself long since, but he wanted to hear how Raymond would put it.     Unfortunately, Professor Farkas has just perfected the timetransmitter. Those government scientists are so infernallyofficious—always inventing such senseless things. It's supposed tobe hush-hush, but you know how news will leak out when one is alwaysdesperate for a fresh topic of conversation.     Anyhow, Raymond went on to explain, Conrad had bribed one of Farkas'assistants for a set of the plans. Conrad's idea had been to go backin time and eliminate! their common great-grandfather. In that way,there would be no space-drive, and, hence, the Terrestrials would neverget to the other planets and oppress the local aborigines.     Sounds like a good way of dealing with the problem, Martin observed.     Raymond looked annoyed. It's the      adolescent     way, he said, to doaway with it, rather than find a solution. Would you destroy a wholesociety in order to root out a single injustice?     Not if it were a good one otherwise.     Well, there's your answer. Conrad got the apparatus built, or perhapshe built it himself. One doesn't inquire too closely into suchmatters. But when it came to the point, Conrad couldn't bear the ideaof eliminating our great-grandfather—because our great-grandfatherwas such a      good     man, you know. Raymond's expressive upper lipcurled. So Conrad decided to go further back still and get rid ofhis great-grandfather's father—who'd been, by all accounts, a prettyworthless character.     That would be me, I suppose, Martin said quietly.     Raymond turned a deep rose. Well, doesn't that just go to prove youmustn't believe everything you hear? The next sentence tumbled out ina rush. I wormed the whole thing out of him and all of us—the othercousins and me—held a council of war, as it were, and we decided itwas our moral duty to go back in time ourselves and protect you. Hebeamed at Martin.     The boy smiled slowly. Of course. You had to. If Conrad succeeded in      eliminating     me, then none of you would exist, would you?     Raymond frowned. Then he shrugged cheerfully. Well, you didn't reallysuppose we were going to all this trouble and expense out of sheeraltruism, did you? he asked, turning on the charm which all thecousins possessed to a consternating degree.  Martin had, of course, no illusions on that score; he had learned longago that nobody did anything for nothing. But saying so was unwise.     We bribed another set of plans out of another of the professor'sassistants, Raymond continued, as if Martin had answered,and—ah—induced a handicraft enthusiast to build the gadget for us.       Induced     , Martin knew, could have meant anything from blackmail to theuse of the iron maiden.     Then we were all ready to forestall Conrad. If one of us guarded younight and day, he would never be able to carry out his plot. So we madeour counter-plan, set the machine as far back as it would go—and herewe are!     I see, Martin said.     Raymond didn't seem to think he really did. After all, he pointedout defensively, whatever our motives, it has turned into a goodthing for you. Nice home, cultured companions, all the contemporaryconveniences, plus some handy anachronisms—I don't see what more youcould ask for. You're getting the best of all possible worlds. Ofcourse Ninian      was     a ninny to locate in a mercantile suburb where anylittle thing out of the way will cause talk. How thankful I am that ourera has completely disposed of the mercantiles—     What did you do with them? Martin asked.     But Raymond rushed on: Soon as Ninian goes and I'm in full charge,we'll get a more isolated place and run it on a far grander scale.Ostentation—that's the way to live here and now; the richer you are,the more eccentricity you can get away with. And, he added, I mightas well be as comfortable as possible while I suffer through thiswretched historical stint.     So Ninian's going, said Martin, wondering why the news made him feelcuriously desolate. Because, although he supposed he liked her in aremote kind of way, he had no fondness for her—or she, he knew, forhim.     Well, five years is rather a long stretch for any girl to spend inexile, Raymond explained, even though our life spans are a bit longerthan yours. Besides, you're getting too old now to be under petticoatgovernment. He looked inquisitively at Martin. You're not going togo all weepy and make a scene when she leaves, are you?     No.... Martin said hesitantly. Oh, I suppose I will miss her. But wearen't very close, so it won't make a real difference. That was thesad part: he already knew it wouldn't make a difference.     Raymond clapped him on the shoulder. I knew you weren't a sloppysentimentalist like Conrad. Though you do have rather a look of him,you know.     Suddenly that seemed to make Conrad real. Martin felt a vague stirringof alarm. He kept his voice composed, however. How do you plan toprotect me when he comes?     Well, each one of us is armed to the teeth, of course, Raymond saidwith modest pride, displaying something that looked like a child'scombination spaceman's gun and death ray, but which, Martin had nodoubt, was a perfectly genuine—and lethal—weapon. And we've got arather elaborate burglar alarm system.     Martin inspected the system and made one or two changes in the wiringwhich, he felt, would increase its efficiency. But still he wasdubious. Maybe it'll work on someone coming from outside this      house     ,but do you think it will work on someone coming from outside this      time     ?     Never fear—it has a temporal radius, Raymond replied. Factoryguarantee and all that.     Just to be on the safe side, Martin said, I think I'd better haveone of those guns, too.     A splendid idea! enthused Raymond. I was just about to think of thatmyself!  When it came time for the parting, it was Ninian who cried—tears ather own inadequacy, Martin knew, not of sorrow. He was getting skillfulat understanding his descendants, far better than they at understandinghim. But then they never really tried. Ninian kissed him wetly on thecheek and said she was sure everything would work out all right andthat she'd come see him again. She never did, though, except at thevery last.     Raymond and Martin moved into a luxurious mansion in a remote area. Thesite proved a well-chosen one; when the Second Atomic War came, half adozen years later, they weren't touched. Martin was never sure whetherthis had been sheer luck or expert planning. Probably luck, because hisdescendants were exceedingly inept planners.     Few people in the world then could afford to live as stylishly asMartin and his guardian. The place not only contained every possibleconvenience and gadget but was crammed with bibelots and antiques,carefully chosen by Raymond and disputed by Martin, for, to the manfrom the future, all available artifacts were antiques. Otherwise,Martin accepted his new surroundings. His sense of wonder had becomedulled by now and the pink pseudo-Spanish castle—architecturallydreadful, of course, Raymond had said, but so hilariouslytypical—impressed him far less than had the suburban split-levelaquarium.     How about a moat? Martin suggested when they first came. It seems togo with a castle.       Do you think a moat could stop Conrad? Raymond asked, amused.     No, Martin smiled, feeling rather silly, but it would make the placeseem safer somehow.     The threat of Conrad was beginning to make him grow more and morenervous. He got Raymond's permission to take two suits of armor thatstood in the front hall and present them to a local museum, becauseseveral times he fancied he saw them move. He also became an adept withthe ray gun and changed the surrounding landscape quite a bit with it,until Raymond warned that this might lead Conrad to them.     During those early years, Martin's tutors were exchanged for thehigher-degreed ones that were now needful. The question inevitablyarose of what the youth's vocation in that life was going to be. Atleast twenty of the cousins came back through time to hold one oftheir vigorous family councils. Martin was still young enough to enjoysuch occasions, finding them vastly superior to all other forms ofentertainment.  This sort of problem wouldn't arise in our day, Martin, Raymondcommented as he took his place at the head of the table, because,unless one specifically feels a call to some profession or other, onejust—well, drifts along happily.     Ours is a wonderful world, Grania sighed at Martin. I only wish wecould take you there. I'm sure you would like it.     Don't be a fool, Grania! Raymond snapped. Well, Martin, have youmade up your mind what you want to be?     Martin affected to think. A physicist, he said, not without malice.Or perhaps an engineer.     There was a loud, excited chorus of dissent. He chuckled inwardly.     Can't do that, Ives said. Might pick up some concepts from us. Don'tknow how; none of us knows a thing about science. But it could happen.Subconscious osmosis, if there is such a thing. That way, you mightinvent something ahead of time. And the fellow we got the plans fromparticularly cautioned us against that. Changing history. Dangerous.     Might mess up our time frightfully, Bartholomew contributed, though,to be perfectly frank, I can't quite understand how.     I am not going to sit down and explain the whole thing to you all overagain, Bart! Raymond said impatiently. Well, Martin?     What would you suggest? Martin asked.     How about becoming a painter? Art is eternal. And quite gentlemanly.Besides, artists are always expected to be either behind or ahead oftheir times.     Furthermore, Ottillie added, one more artist couldn't make muchdifference in history. There were so many of them all through the ages.     Martin couldn't hold back his question. What was I, actually, in thatother time?     There was a chilly silence.     Let's not talk about it, dear, Lalage finally said. Let's just bethankful we've saved you from      that     !     So drawing teachers were engaged and Martin became a very competentsecond-rate artist. He knew he would never be able to achieve firstrank because, even though he was still so young, his work was almostpurely intellectual. The only emotion he seemed able to feel wasfear—the ever-present fear that someday he would turn a corridor andwalk into a man who looked like him—a man who wanted to kill him forthe sake of an ideal.     But the fear did not show in Martin's pictures. They were prettypictures.  Cousin Ives—now that Martin was older, he was told to call thedescendants      cousin     —next assumed guardianship. Ives took hisresponsibilities more seriously than the others did. He even arrangedto have Martin's work shown at an art gallery. The paintings receivedcritical approval, but failed to evoke any enthusiasm. The modestsale they enjoyed was mostly to interior decorators. Museums were notinterested.     Takes time, Ives tried to reassure him. One day they'll be buyingyour pictures, Martin. Wait and see.     Ives was the only one of the descendants who seemed to think of Martinas an individual. When his efforts to make contact with the other youngman failed, he got worried and decided that what Martin needed was achange of air and scenery.     'Course you can't go on the Grand Tour. Your son hasn't inventedspace travel yet. But we can go see this world. What's left of it.Tourists always like ruins best, anyway.     So he drew on the family's vast future resources and bought a yacht,which Martin christened      The Interregnum     . They traveled about from seato ocean and from ocean to sea, touching at various ports and makingtrips inland. Martin saw the civilized world—mostly in fragments; thenearly intact semi-civilized world and the uncivilized world, much thesame as it had been for centuries. It was like visiting an enormousmuseum; he couldn't seem to identify with his own time any more.     The other cousins appeared to find the yacht a congenial head-quarters,largely because they could spend so much time far away from thecontemporary inhabitants of the planet and relax and be themselves. Sothey never moved back to land. Martin spent the rest of his life on      The Interregnum     . He felt curiously safer from Conrad there, althoughthere was no valid reason why an ocean should stop a traveler throughtime.     More cousins were in residence at once than ever before, becausethey came for the ocean voyage. They spent most of their time aboardship, giving each other parties and playing an      avant-garde     form ofshuffleboard and gambling on future sporting events. That last usuallyended in a brawl, because one cousin was sure to accuse another ofhaving got advance information about the results.     Martin didn't care much for their company and associated with them onlywhen not to have done so would have been palpably rude. And, thoughthey were gregarious young people for the most part, they didn't courthis society. He suspected that he made them feel uncomfortable.  He rather liked Ives, though. Sometimes the two of them would be alonetogether; then Ives would tell Martin of the future world he had comefrom. The picture drawn by Raymond and Ninian had not been entirelyaccurate, Ives admitted. True, there was no war or poverty on Earthproper, but that was because there were only a couple of million peopleleft on the planet. It was an enclave for the highly privileged, highlyinterbred aristocracy, to which Martin's descendants belonged by virtueof their distinguished ancestry.     Rather feudal, isn't it? Martin asked.     Ives agreed, adding that the system had, however, been deliberatelyplanned, rather than the result of haphazard natural development.Everything potentially unpleasant, like the mercantiles, had beendeported.     Not only natives livin' on the other worlds, Ives said as the twoof them stood at the ship's rail, surrounded by the limitless expanseof some ocean or other. People, too. Mostly lower classes, exceptfor officials and things. With wars and want and suffering, he addedregretfully, same as in your day.... Like now, I mean, he correctedhimself. Maybe it      is     worse, the way Conrad thinks. More planetsfor us to make trouble on. Three that were habitable aren't any more.Bombed. Very thorough job.     Oh, Martin murmured, trying to sound shocked, horrified—interested,even.     Sometimes I'm not altogether sure Conrad was wrong, Ives said, aftera pause. Tried to keep us from getting to the stars, hurting thepeople—I expect you could call them people—there. Still— he smiledshamefacedly—couldn't stand by and see my own way of life destroyed,could I?     I suppose not, Martin said.     Would take moral courage. I don't have it. None of us does, exceptConrad, and even he— Ives looked out over the sea. Must be a betterway out than Conrad's, he said without conviction. And everythingwill work out all right in the end. Bound to. No sense to—to anything,if it doesn't. He glanced wistfully at Martin.     I hope so, said Martin. But he couldn't hope; he couldn't feel; hecouldn't even seem to care.     During all this time, Conrad still did not put in an appearance. Martinhad gotten to be such a crack shot with the ray pistol that he almostwished his descendant would show up, so there would be some excitement.But he didn't come. And Martin got to thinking....     He always felt that if any of the cousins could have come to realizethe basic flaw in the elaborate plan they had concocted, it would havebeen Ives. However, when the yacht touched at Tierra del Fuego onebitter winter, Ives took a severe chill. They sent for a doctor fromthe future—one of the descendants who had been eccentric enough totake a medical degree—but he wasn't able to save Ives. The body wasburied in the frozen ground at Ushuaia, on the southern tip of thecontinent, a hundred years or more before the date of his birth.     A great many of the cousins turned up at the simple ceremony. All weredressed in overwhelming black and showed a great deal of grief. Raymondread the burial service, because they didn't dare summon a clericalcousin from the future; they were afraid he might prove rather stuffyabout the entire undertaking.     He died for all of us, Raymond concluded his funeral eulogy overIves, so his death was not in vain.     But Martin disagreed.  The ceaseless voyaging began again.      The Interregnum     voyaged to everyocean and every sea. Some were blue and some green and some dun. Aftera while, Martin couldn't tell one from another. Cousin after cousincame to watch over him and eventually they were as hard for him to tellapart as the different oceans.       All the cousins were young, for, though they came at different times inhis life, they had all started out from the same time in theirs. Onlythe young ones had been included in the venture; they did not trusttheir elders.     As the years went by, Martin began to lose even his detached interestin the land and its doings. Although the yacht frequently touched portfor fuel or supplies—it was more economical to purchase them in thatera than to have them shipped from the future—he seldom went ashore,and then only at the urging of a newly assigned cousin anxious to seethe sights. Most of the time Martin spent in watching the sea—andsometimes he painted it. There seemed to be a depth to his seascapesthat his other work lacked.     When he was pressed by the current cousin to make a land visitsomewhere, he decided to exhibit a few of his sea paintings. That way,he could fool himself into thinking that there was some purpose to thisjourney. He'd come to believe that perhaps what his life lacked waspurpose, and for a while he kept looking for meaning everywhere, to thecousin's utter disgust.     Eat, drink and be merry, or whatever you Romans say when you do as youdo, the cousin—who was rather woolly in history; the descendants werescraping bottom now—advised.     Martin showed his work in Italy, so that the cousin could bedisillusioned by the current crop of Romans. He found that neitherpurpose nor malice was enough; he was still immeasurably bored.However, a museum bought two of the paintings. Martin thought of Ivesand felt an uncomfortable pang of a sensation he could no longerunderstand.     Where do you suppose Conrad has been all this time? Martin idly askedthe current cousin—who was passing as his nephew by now.     The young man jumped, then glanced around him uncomfortably. Conrad'sa very shrewd fellow, he whispered. He's biding his time—waitinguntil we're off guard. And then—pow!—he'll attack!     Oh, I see, Martin said.     He had often fancied that Conrad would prove to be the most stimulatingmember of the whole generation. But it seemed unlikely that he wouldever have a chance for a conversation with the young man. More than oneconversation, anyhow.     When he does show up, I'll protect you, the cousin vowed, touchinghis ray gun. You haven't a thing to worry about.     Martin smiled with all the charm he'd had nothing to do but acquire. Ihave every confidence in you, he told his descendant. He himself hadgiven up carrying a gun long ago.     There was a war in the Northern Hemisphere and so      The Interregnum     voyaged to southern waters. There was a war in the south and they hidout in the Arctic. All the nations became too drained of power—fueland man and will—to fight, so there was a sterile peace for a longtime.      The Interregnum     roamed the seas restlessly, with her load ofpassengers from the future, plus one bored and aging contemporary. Shebore big guns now, because of the ever-present danger of pirates.  Perhaps it was the traditionally bracing effect of sea air—perhaps itwas the sheltered life—but Martin lived to be a very old man. He was ahundred and four when his last illness came. It was a great relief whenthe family doctor, called in again from the future, said there was nohope. Martin didn't think he could have borne another year of life.     All the cousins gathered at the yacht to pay their last respects totheir progenitor. He saw Ninian again, after all these years, andRaymond—all the others, dozens of them, thronging around his bed,spilling out of the cabin and into the passageways and out onto thedeck, making their usual clamor, even though their voices were hushed.     Only Ives was missing. He'd been the lucky one, Martin knew. He hadbeen spared the tragedy that was going to befall these blooming youngpeople—all the same age as when Martin had last seen them and doomednever to grow any older. Underneath their masks of woe, he could seerelief at the thought that at last they were going to be rid of theirresponsibility. And underneath Martin's death mask lay an impersonalpity for those poor, stupid descendants of his who had blundered soirretrievably.       There was only one face which Martin had never seen before. It wasn'ta strange face, however, because Martin had seen one very like it inthe looking glass when he was a young man.     You must be Conrad, Martin called across the cabin in a voice thatwas still clear. I've been looking forward to meeting you for sometime.     The other cousins whirled to face the newcomer.     You're too late, Con, Raymond gloated for the whole generation. He'slived out his life.     But he hasn't lived out his life, Conrad contradicted. He's livedout the life      you     created for him. And for yourselves, too.     For the first time, Martin saw compassion in the eyes of one of hislineage and found it vaguely disturbing. It didn't seem to belong there.     Don't you realize even yet, Conrad went on, that as soon as he goes,you'll go, too—present, past, future, wherever you are, you'll go upin the air like puffs of smoke?     What do you mean? Ninian quavered, her soft, pretty face alarmed.     Martin answered Conrad's rueful smile, but left the explanations up tohim. It was his show, after all.     Because you will never have existed, Conrad said. You have no rightto existence; it was you yourselves who watched him all the time,so he didn't have a chance to lead a normal life, get married,      havechildren     ....  Most of the cousins gasped as the truth began to percolate through.     I knew from the very beginning, Conrad finished, that I didn'thave to do anything at all. I just had to wait and you would destroyyourselves.     I don't understand, Bartholomew protested, searching the faces of thecousins closest to him. What does he mean, we have never existed?We're here, aren't we? What—     Shut up! Raymond snapped. He turned on Martin. You don't seemsurprised.     The old man grinned. I'm not. I figured it all out years ago.     At first, he had wondered what he should do. Would it be better tothrow them into a futile panic by telling them or to do nothing? Hehad decided on the latter; that was the role they had assigned him—towatch and wait and keep out of things—and that was the role he wouldplay.     You knew all the time and you didn't tell us! Raymond spluttered.After we'd been so good to you, making a gentleman out of you insteadof a criminal.... That's right, he snarled, a criminal! An alcoholic,a thief, a derelict! How do you like that?     Sounds like a rich, full life, Martin said wistfully.     What an exciting existence they must have done him out of! But then, hecouldn't help thinking, he—he and Conrad together, of course—had donethem out of      any     kind of existence. It wasn't his responsibility,though; he had done nothing but let matters take whatever course wasdestined for them. If only he could be sure that it was the bettercourse, perhaps he wouldn't feel that nagging sense of guilt insidehim. Strange—where, in his hermetic life, could he possibly havedeveloped such a queer thing as a conscience?     Then we've wasted all this time, Ninian sobbed, all this energy, allthis money, for nothing!     But you were nothing to begin with, Martin told them. And then,after a pause, he added, I only wish I could be sure there had beensome purpose to this.     He didn't know whether it was approaching death that dimmed his sight,or whether the frightened crowd that pressed around him was growingshadowy.     I wish I could feel that some good had been done in letting you bewiped out of existence, he went on voicing his thoughts. But I knowthat the same thing that happened to your worlds and my world willhappen all over again. To other people, in other times, but again. It'sbound to happen. There isn't any hope for humanity.     One man couldn't really change the course of human history, he toldhimself. Two men, that was—one real, one a shadow.     Conrad came close to the old man's bed. He was almost transparent.     No, he said, there is hope. They didn't know the time transmitterworks two ways. I used it for going into the past only once—just thisonce. But I've gone into the future with it many times. And— hepressed Martin's hand—believe me, what I did—what      we     did, you andI—serves a purpose. It will change things for the better. Everythingis going to be all right.  Was Conrad telling him the truth, Martin wondered, or was he justgiving the conventional reassurance to the dying? More than that, washe trying to convince himself that what he had done was the rightthing? Every cousin had assured Martin that things were going to be allright.     Was Conrad      actually     different from the rest?     His plan had worked and the others' hadn't, but then all his plan hadconsisted of was doing nothing. That was all he and Martin had done ...nothing. Were they absolved of all responsibility merely because theyhad stood aside and taken advantage of the others' weaknesses?     Why, Martin said to himself, in a sense, it could be said that Ihave fulfilled my original destiny—that I am a criminal.     Well, it didn't matter; whatever happened, no one could hold him toblame. He held no stake in the future that was to come. It was othermen's future—other men's problem. He died very peacefully then, and,since he was the only one left on the ship, there was nobody to buryhim.     The unmanned yacht drifted about the seas for years and gave rise tomany legends, none of them as unbelievable as the truth.  ","When Ninian initially arrives, Martin blatantly considers her to be dumb. Dumb to hire a cleaning maid, dumb to freak out over Martin’s absence at school, and dumb to hire a private tutor. Even with them moving to a different and more privileged neighborhood, he considers her dumb to go through all this effort to still remain conspicuous. As the reasons behind the cousins’ presence in the past and guardianship over Martin is revealed, his sentiment towards them remains the same. It seems that Martin is able to catch onto the obvious flaw in the cousins’ plans quite early on, and yet with so many cousins slipping in and out, and despite their proclaimed intelligence, none of them are able to pick up on this flaw. The flaw being: with Martin having no children, their very existence becomes an impossibility. This is revealed at the end of the story where Martin is on his deathbed, noting that he had come to this conclusion many years before and had chosen not to say anything. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     Spawning Ground     By LESTER DEL REY     They weren't human. They were something     more—and something less—they were,     in short, humanity's hopes for survival!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The Starship      Pandora     creaked and groaned as her landing pads settledunevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed tobe restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years fromthe waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoedthrough her hallways.     Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He wasa big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibilityhad pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under hisreddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonieswere rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward thecontrol room, grumbling at the heavy gravity.     Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as hemoved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. Morning, Bob. Youneed a shave.     Yeah. He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran ahand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. Anything newduring the night?     About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little waysnorth of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into theclouds. The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobodyknew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to havean almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. Andour two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost themin the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back.     Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmenin the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for trainingas cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman andPinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution.     Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn'tseemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorousand harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite oftheir internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs eachon their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts.     But      something     had happened to the exploration party fifteen yearsback, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to checkup.  He turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sunmust be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds thatwrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls offog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forestglowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feedinganimals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even thedeep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship wascompletely hidden by the fog.     There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animalsnow, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them....     But there was no time.     Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load ofdeep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any signof Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayedalready. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happenedto the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have toreport back.     He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enoughof the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air byluck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectorsoriginally.     Bob! Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. Bob, there arethe kids!     Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caughthis eye.     The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantasticspeed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something thatmoved there.     He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, justbeyond the movement he'd seen through the mist.     Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, butGwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets.     They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together.     Then the mists cleared.     Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almosteight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuitedcadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was amomentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning theothers forward.  Get the jeeps out! Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door ofthe little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It wasagonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the doorback at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around inconfusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. Thejeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, andGwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back.     There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet wasirritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped tothe seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, thejeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it pickedup speed. The other two followed.     There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things lookedhorrible in a travesty of manhood.     The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that wereracing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swungabout, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twentymiles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, inspite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures diveddownward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists.     Follow the blobs, Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool toleave his suit; the radio would have let him keep in contact with thekids. But it was too late to go back.     The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward intoa gorge. Somewhere the man had learned to drive superlatively; but hehad to slow as the fog thickened lower down.     Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their owntrail to confuse the pursuers.     There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had aglimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarsefaces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against thewindshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul thesteering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone.     The creatures vanished as Barker fought to turn to follow them. Theother jeeps were coming up, by the sound of their motors, but too lateto help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry orthe horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog.     A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne.     He threw up an instinctive hand. There was a tingling as the creatureseemed to pass around it. It lifted a few inches and drifted off.     Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forwardagainst the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-footleader. The thing was standing directly ahead of him, a cadet on eachshoulder.     The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creatureleaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, divingfor the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt.  The arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distortedshoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as hishands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in hisnose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds afterthe captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavysound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made nofurther move, though it was still breathing.     Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelliwas either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free tokick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loadedonto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monsteron another before heading back.     No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute! Barker shookhis own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing.     I hope so, Gwayne told him. I want that thing to live—and you'redetailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make signlanguage or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessyand why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be theanswer.     Barker nodded grimly. I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alienmetabolism. He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spatsickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. Bob, it stillmakes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there wasno sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some.     Troglodytes, maybe, Gwayne guessed. Anyhow, send for me when you getanything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstayingour time here already.     The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd beenpicked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they werebusy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soonas he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and lessinformative with retelling.     If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might savetime and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. Thatwas almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemedto be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group hadbeen overcome by the aliens.     It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could theprimitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was itsfuel dumped? Only men would have known how to do that. And who toldthese creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by alittle more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the shipcunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work.     Maybe there would never be a full answer, but he had to findsomething—and find it fast. Earth needed every world she could makeremotely habitable, or mankind was probably doomed to extinction.  The race had blundered safely through its discovery of atomic weaponsinto a peace that had lasted two hundred years. It had managed toprevent an interplanetary war with the Venus colonists. It had founda drive that led to the stars, and hadn't even found intelligent lifethere to be dangerous on the few worlds that had cultures of their own.     But forty years ago, observations from beyond the Solar System hadfinally proved that the sun was going to go nova.     It wouldn't be much of an explosion, as such things go—but it wouldrender the whole Solar System uninhabitable for millenia. To survive,man had to colonize.     And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. Theexplorers went out in desperation to find what they could; theterraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starshipsbegan filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conservespace.     Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth andfour more months back.     In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on thefootholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe someof the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe nonewould be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each wasprecious as a haven for the race.     If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, asit now seemed, no more time could be wasted here.     Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair tostrip them of their world, but the first law was survival.     But how could primitives do what these must have done?     He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made ofcemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfullylaminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no humanhand had been able to do for centuries.     Beautiful primitive work, he muttered.     Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. You cansee a lot more of it out there, she suggested.     He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things weresquatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?For the return of their leader—or for something that would give theship to them?     Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. How's the captive coming?     Barker's voice sounded odd.     Physically fine. You can see him. But—     Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He sworeat Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for notchecking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices.     There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growlingsound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barkerseemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in.     The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. Thethick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to makesome kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned upunerringly toward the device on the officer's cap.     Haarroo, Cabbaan! the thing said.  Captain Gwayne, may I present your former friend, Captain Hennessy?Barker said. There was a grin on the doctor's lips, but his face wastaut with strain.     The creature nodded slowly and drew something from the thick hair onits head. It was the golden comet of a captain.     He never meant to hurt the kids—just to talk to them, Barker cut inquickly. I've got some of the story. He's changed. He can't talk verywell. Says they've had to change the language around to make the soundsfit, and he's forgotten how to use what normal English he can. But itgets easier as you listen. It's Hennessy, all right. I'm certain.     Gwayne had his own ideas on that. It was easy for an alien to seizeon the gold ornament of a captive earthman, even to learn a littleEnglish, maybe. But Hennessy had been his friend.     How many barmaids in the Cheshire Cat? How many pups did your oldestkid's dog have? How many were brown?     The lips contorted into something vaguely like a smile, and thecuriously shaped fingers that could handle no human-designed equipmentspread out.     Three. Seven. Zero.     The answers were right.     By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand thetwisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took along time telling.     When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes insilence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. Is itpossible, Doc?     No, Barker said flatly. He spread his hands and grimaced. No. Notby what I know. But it happened. I've looked at a few tissues underthe microscope. The changes are there. It's hard to believe abouttheir kids. Adults in eight years, but they stay shorter. It can't bea hereditary change—the things that affect the body don't change thegerm plasm. But in this case, what changed Hennessy is real, so maybethe fact that the change is passed on is as real as he claims.     Gwayne led the former Hennessy to the exit. The waiting blobs droppeddown to touch the monstrous man, then leaped up again. The crowd ofmonsters began moving forward toward their leader. A few were almost astall as Hennessy, but most were not more than five feet high.     The kids of the exploring party....  Back in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgleas the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto theground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to theship again.     He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd hadtime to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting offgiving the gist of it to Jane.     It was the blobs, he summarized it. They seem to be amused by men.They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessydoesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen.     And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside thehull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earthfood would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeperthis time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colonywhere three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll neverknow.     Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eightyears—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earthtools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the neweyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world.     She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what mustnow be her home. Then she sighed. You'll need practice, but the othersdon't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'llbelieve it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really beenchanged yet, have we?     No, he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. No.They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back.     She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was onlypuzzlement in her face. Why?     And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her thesame answer he had found for himself. The spawning ground!     It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant herseed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preservethat seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already werebecoming uncertain.     Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead ofmen having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strangechildren of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek backto civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhapssome of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the nextrise to culture a better one.     We're needed here, he told her, his voice pleading for theunderstanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. These people needas rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them witha decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe oraccept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here.     She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. Befruitful, she whispered. Be fruitful and spawn and replenish anearth.     No, he told her. Replenish the stars.     But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait.     Some day, though, their children would find a way to the starlanesagain, looking for other worlds. With the blobs to help them, theycould adapt to most worlds. The unchanged spirit would lead themthrough all space, and the changing bodies would claim worlds beyondnumbering.     Some day, the whole universe would be a spawning ground for thechildren of men!  ","The Starship Pandora lands on a planet where an exploring ship and a rescue group disappear. Captain Gwayne was ordered to come and inspect the lost ships for a week. They prolong their stay because of a discovery of the carefully buried ship whose parts were exposed by a landslide and detected by a metal locator a few days ago. When two cadets, Kaufman and Pinelli, and one member, Doctor Barker, approach to examine the buried ship, a horde of mysterious creatures come to them. The leader of mysterious creatures, tall and man-like, kidnaps the two cadets with his members and runs away. Captain Gwayne and other crew members ride on jeeps and chase after the monsters. When they catch up to the mysterious leader, the cadets are sitting on each shoulder of the leader without harm. Captain Gwayne and Doctor Barker collaborate to defeat the leader and bring it back to the ship.After bringing back the captive, Captain Gwayne has learned from the creature that he is Hennessy, the missing captain of the buried ship. He reveals that the blobs, a peculiarity on the planet, can change the cells in living creatures to help them adapt to the planet, which has done to Captain Hennessy and his crew members. All the mysterious creatures surrounding the ship are either the original crew members or their descendants. They decided to bury the ship after noticing the changes. After he finished the story, Captain Hennessy went to gather with his people. And now, Captain Gwayne faces the same situation as Captain Hennessy did in the past: either die when they go back to the Earth or stay on the planet to become a different creature, which at least makes humankind survive differently. Captain Gwayne decides to stay, so he discharges all the fuel out to not let the ship live again. He then tells Jane Corey, the Lieutenant, the truth and his decision. They both know that they have to stay for the better strength of the species after generations because humankind needs to have at least one hope to spread their seeds, even in a different shape. They will obliterate all their traces so that the Earth will send no more humans to the planet."
"Who is Hennessy? What happens to him throughout the story? </s>     Spawning Ground     By LESTER DEL REY     They weren't human. They were something     more—and something less—they were,     in short, humanity's hopes for survival!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The Starship      Pandora     creaked and groaned as her landing pads settledunevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed tobe restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years fromthe waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoedthrough her hallways.     Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He wasa big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibilityhad pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under hisreddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonieswere rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward thecontrol room, grumbling at the heavy gravity.     Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as hemoved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. Morning, Bob. Youneed a shave.     Yeah. He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran ahand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. Anything newduring the night?     About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little waysnorth of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into theclouds. The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobodyknew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to havean almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. Andour two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost themin the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back.     Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmenin the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for trainingas cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman andPinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution.     Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn'tseemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorousand harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite oftheir internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs eachon their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts.     But      something     had happened to the exploration party fifteen yearsback, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to checkup.  He turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sunmust be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds thatwrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls offog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forestglowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feedinganimals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even thedeep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship wascompletely hidden by the fog.     There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animalsnow, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them....     But there was no time.     Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load ofdeep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any signof Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayedalready. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happenedto the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have toreport back.     He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enoughof the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air byluck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectorsoriginally.     Bob! Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. Bob, there arethe kids!     Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caughthis eye.     The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantasticspeed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something thatmoved there.     He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, justbeyond the movement he'd seen through the mist.     Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, butGwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets.     They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together.     Then the mists cleared.     Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almosteight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuitedcadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was amomentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning theothers forward.  Get the jeeps out! Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door ofthe little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It wasagonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the doorback at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around inconfusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. Thejeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, andGwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back.     There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet wasirritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped tothe seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, thejeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it pickedup speed. The other two followed.     There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things lookedhorrible in a travesty of manhood.     The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that wereracing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swungabout, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twentymiles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, inspite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures diveddownward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists.     Follow the blobs, Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool toleave his suit; the radio would have let him keep in contact with thekids. But it was too late to go back.     The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward intoa gorge. Somewhere the man had learned to drive superlatively; but hehad to slow as the fog thickened lower down.     Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their owntrail to confuse the pursuers.     There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had aglimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarsefaces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against thewindshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul thesteering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone.     The creatures vanished as Barker fought to turn to follow them. Theother jeeps were coming up, by the sound of their motors, but too lateto help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry orthe horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog.     A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne.     He threw up an instinctive hand. There was a tingling as the creatureseemed to pass around it. It lifted a few inches and drifted off.     Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forwardagainst the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-footleader. The thing was standing directly ahead of him, a cadet on eachshoulder.     The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creatureleaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, divingfor the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt.  The arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distortedshoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as hishands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in hisnose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds afterthe captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavysound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made nofurther move, though it was still breathing.     Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelliwas either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free tokick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loadedonto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monsteron another before heading back.     No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute! Barker shookhis own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing.     I hope so, Gwayne told him. I want that thing to live—and you'redetailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make signlanguage or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessyand why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be theanswer.     Barker nodded grimly. I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alienmetabolism. He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spatsickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. Bob, it stillmakes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there wasno sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some.     Troglodytes, maybe, Gwayne guessed. Anyhow, send for me when you getanything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstayingour time here already.     The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd beenpicked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they werebusy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soonas he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and lessinformative with retelling.     If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might savetime and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. Thatwas almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemedto be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group hadbeen overcome by the aliens.     It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could theprimitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was itsfuel dumped? Only men would have known how to do that. And who toldthese creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by alittle more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the shipcunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work.     Maybe there would never be a full answer, but he had to findsomething—and find it fast. Earth needed every world she could makeremotely habitable, or mankind was probably doomed to extinction.  The race had blundered safely through its discovery of atomic weaponsinto a peace that had lasted two hundred years. It had managed toprevent an interplanetary war with the Venus colonists. It had founda drive that led to the stars, and hadn't even found intelligent lifethere to be dangerous on the few worlds that had cultures of their own.     But forty years ago, observations from beyond the Solar System hadfinally proved that the sun was going to go nova.     It wouldn't be much of an explosion, as such things go—but it wouldrender the whole Solar System uninhabitable for millenia. To survive,man had to colonize.     And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. Theexplorers went out in desperation to find what they could; theterraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starshipsbegan filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conservespace.     Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth andfour more months back.     In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on thefootholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe someof the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe nonewould be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each wasprecious as a haven for the race.     If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, asit now seemed, no more time could be wasted here.     Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair tostrip them of their world, but the first law was survival.     But how could primitives do what these must have done?     He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made ofcemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfullylaminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no humanhand had been able to do for centuries.     Beautiful primitive work, he muttered.     Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. You cansee a lot more of it out there, she suggested.     He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things weresquatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?For the return of their leader—or for something that would give theship to them?     Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. How's the captive coming?     Barker's voice sounded odd.     Physically fine. You can see him. But—     Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He sworeat Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for notchecking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices.     There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growlingsound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barkerseemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in.     The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. Thethick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to makesome kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned upunerringly toward the device on the officer's cap.     Haarroo, Cabbaan! the thing said.  Captain Gwayne, may I present your former friend, Captain Hennessy?Barker said. There was a grin on the doctor's lips, but his face wastaut with strain.     The creature nodded slowly and drew something from the thick hair onits head. It was the golden comet of a captain.     He never meant to hurt the kids—just to talk to them, Barker cut inquickly. I've got some of the story. He's changed. He can't talk verywell. Says they've had to change the language around to make the soundsfit, and he's forgotten how to use what normal English he can. But itgets easier as you listen. It's Hennessy, all right. I'm certain.     Gwayne had his own ideas on that. It was easy for an alien to seizeon the gold ornament of a captive earthman, even to learn a littleEnglish, maybe. But Hennessy had been his friend.     How many barmaids in the Cheshire Cat? How many pups did your oldestkid's dog have? How many were brown?     The lips contorted into something vaguely like a smile, and thecuriously shaped fingers that could handle no human-designed equipmentspread out.     Three. Seven. Zero.     The answers were right.     By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand thetwisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took along time telling.     When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes insilence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. Is itpossible, Doc?     No, Barker said flatly. He spread his hands and grimaced. No. Notby what I know. But it happened. I've looked at a few tissues underthe microscope. The changes are there. It's hard to believe abouttheir kids. Adults in eight years, but they stay shorter. It can't bea hereditary change—the things that affect the body don't change thegerm plasm. But in this case, what changed Hennessy is real, so maybethe fact that the change is passed on is as real as he claims.     Gwayne led the former Hennessy to the exit. The waiting blobs droppeddown to touch the monstrous man, then leaped up again. The crowd ofmonsters began moving forward toward their leader. A few were almost astall as Hennessy, but most were not more than five feet high.     The kids of the exploring party....  Back in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgleas the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto theground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to theship again.     He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd hadtime to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting offgiving the gist of it to Jane.     It was the blobs, he summarized it. They seem to be amused by men.They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessydoesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen.     And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside thehull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earthfood would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeperthis time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colonywhere three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll neverknow.     Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eightyears—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earthtools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the neweyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world.     She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what mustnow be her home. Then she sighed. You'll need practice, but the othersdon't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'llbelieve it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really beenchanged yet, have we?     No, he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. No.They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back.     She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was onlypuzzlement in her face. Why?     And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her thesame answer he had found for himself. The spawning ground!     It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant herseed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preservethat seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already werebecoming uncertain.     Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead ofmen having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strangechildren of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek backto civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhapssome of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the nextrise to culture a better one.     We're needed here, he told her, his voice pleading for theunderstanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. These people needas rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them witha decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe oraccept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here.     She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. Befruitful, she whispered. Be fruitful and spawn and replenish anearth.     No, he told her. Replenish the stars.     But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait.     Some day, though, their children would find a way to the starlanesagain, looking for other worlds. With the blobs to help them, theycould adapt to most worlds. The unchanged spirit would lead themthrough all space, and the changing bodies would claim worlds beyondnumbering.     Some day, the whole universe would be a spawning ground for thechildren of men!  ","Hennessy is the captain of the lost ship sent to inspect an exploring team fifteen years ago on a planet. He is also a friend of Captain Gwayne, who comes after him to check his loss. He becomes a mysterious creature adapted by the blobs, a peculiarity on the planet. Due to this change to him and his crew members, they decide to bury their ships carefully not to let other people find them.When the Starship Pandora lands on the planet and the two cadets from the ship approach to examine the buried ship, Hennessy kidnaps them with his members, leading Captain Gwayne to come to capture him. After becoming a captive in the ship, he reveals his identity to Captain Gwayne, and Gwayne confirms his identity with a series of questions that are only known to them. Finally, he tells all the story to Gwayne and leaves to gather with his people outside the ship."
"Who is Jane Corey? What happens to her throughout the story? </s>     Spawning Ground     By LESTER DEL REY     They weren't human. They were something     more—and something less—they were,     in short, humanity's hopes for survival!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The Starship      Pandora     creaked and groaned as her landing pads settledunevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed tobe restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years fromthe waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoedthrough her hallways.     Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He wasa big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibilityhad pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under hisreddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonieswere rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward thecontrol room, grumbling at the heavy gravity.     Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as hemoved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. Morning, Bob. Youneed a shave.     Yeah. He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran ahand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. Anything newduring the night?     About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little waysnorth of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into theclouds. The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobodyknew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to havean almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. Andour two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost themin the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back.     Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmenin the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for trainingas cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman andPinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution.     Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn'tseemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorousand harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite oftheir internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs eachon their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts.     But      something     had happened to the exploration party fifteen yearsback, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to checkup.  He turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sunmust be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds thatwrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls offog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forestglowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feedinganimals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even thedeep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship wascompletely hidden by the fog.     There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animalsnow, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them....     But there was no time.     Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load ofdeep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any signof Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayedalready. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happenedto the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have toreport back.     He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enoughof the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air byluck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectorsoriginally.     Bob! Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. Bob, there arethe kids!     Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caughthis eye.     The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantasticspeed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something thatmoved there.     He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, justbeyond the movement he'd seen through the mist.     Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, butGwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets.     They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together.     Then the mists cleared.     Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almosteight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuitedcadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was amomentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning theothers forward.  Get the jeeps out! Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door ofthe little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It wasagonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the doorback at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around inconfusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. Thejeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, andGwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back.     There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet wasirritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped tothe seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, thejeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it pickedup speed. The other two followed.     There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things lookedhorrible in a travesty of manhood.     The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that wereracing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swungabout, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twentymiles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, inspite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures diveddownward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists.     Follow the blobs, Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool toleave his suit; the radio would have let him keep in contact with thekids. But it was too late to go back.     The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward intoa gorge. Somewhere the man had learned to drive superlatively; but hehad to slow as the fog thickened lower down.     Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their owntrail to confuse the pursuers.     There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had aglimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarsefaces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against thewindshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul thesteering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone.     The creatures vanished as Barker fought to turn to follow them. Theother jeeps were coming up, by the sound of their motors, but too lateto help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry orthe horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog.     A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne.     He threw up an instinctive hand. There was a tingling as the creatureseemed to pass around it. It lifted a few inches and drifted off.     Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forwardagainst the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-footleader. The thing was standing directly ahead of him, a cadet on eachshoulder.     The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creatureleaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, divingfor the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt.  The arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distortedshoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as hishands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in hisnose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds afterthe captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavysound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made nofurther move, though it was still breathing.     Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelliwas either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free tokick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loadedonto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monsteron another before heading back.     No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute! Barker shookhis own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing.     I hope so, Gwayne told him. I want that thing to live—and you'redetailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make signlanguage or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessyand why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be theanswer.     Barker nodded grimly. I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alienmetabolism. He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spatsickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. Bob, it stillmakes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there wasno sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some.     Troglodytes, maybe, Gwayne guessed. Anyhow, send for me when you getanything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstayingour time here already.     The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd beenpicked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they werebusy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soonas he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and lessinformative with retelling.     If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might savetime and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. Thatwas almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemedto be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group hadbeen overcome by the aliens.     It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could theprimitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was itsfuel dumped? Only men would have known how to do that. And who toldthese creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by alittle more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the shipcunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work.     Maybe there would never be a full answer, but he had to findsomething—and find it fast. Earth needed every world she could makeremotely habitable, or mankind was probably doomed to extinction.  The race had blundered safely through its discovery of atomic weaponsinto a peace that had lasted two hundred years. It had managed toprevent an interplanetary war with the Venus colonists. It had founda drive that led to the stars, and hadn't even found intelligent lifethere to be dangerous on the few worlds that had cultures of their own.     But forty years ago, observations from beyond the Solar System hadfinally proved that the sun was going to go nova.     It wouldn't be much of an explosion, as such things go—but it wouldrender the whole Solar System uninhabitable for millenia. To survive,man had to colonize.     And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. Theexplorers went out in desperation to find what they could; theterraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starshipsbegan filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conservespace.     Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth andfour more months back.     In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on thefootholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe someof the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe nonewould be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each wasprecious as a haven for the race.     If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, asit now seemed, no more time could be wasted here.     Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair tostrip them of their world, but the first law was survival.     But how could primitives do what these must have done?     He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made ofcemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfullylaminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no humanhand had been able to do for centuries.     Beautiful primitive work, he muttered.     Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. You cansee a lot more of it out there, she suggested.     He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things weresquatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?For the return of their leader—or for something that would give theship to them?     Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. How's the captive coming?     Barker's voice sounded odd.     Physically fine. You can see him. But—     Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He sworeat Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for notchecking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices.     There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growlingsound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barkerseemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in.     The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. Thethick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to makesome kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned upunerringly toward the device on the officer's cap.     Haarroo, Cabbaan! the thing said.  Captain Gwayne, may I present your former friend, Captain Hennessy?Barker said. There was a grin on the doctor's lips, but his face wastaut with strain.     The creature nodded slowly and drew something from the thick hair onits head. It was the golden comet of a captain.     He never meant to hurt the kids—just to talk to them, Barker cut inquickly. I've got some of the story. He's changed. He can't talk verywell. Says they've had to change the language around to make the soundsfit, and he's forgotten how to use what normal English he can. But itgets easier as you listen. It's Hennessy, all right. I'm certain.     Gwayne had his own ideas on that. It was easy for an alien to seizeon the gold ornament of a captive earthman, even to learn a littleEnglish, maybe. But Hennessy had been his friend.     How many barmaids in the Cheshire Cat? How many pups did your oldestkid's dog have? How many were brown?     The lips contorted into something vaguely like a smile, and thecuriously shaped fingers that could handle no human-designed equipmentspread out.     Three. Seven. Zero.     The answers were right.     By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand thetwisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took along time telling.     When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes insilence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. Is itpossible, Doc?     No, Barker said flatly. He spread his hands and grimaced. No. Notby what I know. But it happened. I've looked at a few tissues underthe microscope. The changes are there. It's hard to believe abouttheir kids. Adults in eight years, but they stay shorter. It can't bea hereditary change—the things that affect the body don't change thegerm plasm. But in this case, what changed Hennessy is real, so maybethe fact that the change is passed on is as real as he claims.     Gwayne led the former Hennessy to the exit. The waiting blobs droppeddown to touch the monstrous man, then leaped up again. The crowd ofmonsters began moving forward toward their leader. A few were almost astall as Hennessy, but most were not more than five feet high.     The kids of the exploring party....  Back in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgleas the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto theground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to theship again.     He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd hadtime to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting offgiving the gist of it to Jane.     It was the blobs, he summarized it. They seem to be amused by men.They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessydoesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen.     And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside thehull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earthfood would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeperthis time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colonywhere three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll neverknow.     Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eightyears—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earthtools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the neweyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world.     She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what mustnow be her home. Then she sighed. You'll need practice, but the othersdon't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'llbelieve it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really beenchanged yet, have we?     No, he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. No.They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back.     She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was onlypuzzlement in her face. Why?     And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her thesame answer he had found for himself. The spawning ground!     It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant herseed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preservethat seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already werebecoming uncertain.     Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead ofmen having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strangechildren of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek backto civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhapssome of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the nextrise to culture a better one.     We're needed here, he told her, his voice pleading for theunderstanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. These people needas rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them witha decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe oraccept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here.     She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. Befruitful, she whispered. Be fruitful and spawn and replenish anearth.     No, he told her. Replenish the stars.     But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait.     Some day, though, their children would find a way to the starlanesagain, looking for other worlds. With the blobs to help them, theycould adapt to most worlds. The unchanged spirit would lead themthrough all space, and the changing bodies would claim worlds beyondnumbering.     Some day, the whole universe would be a spawning ground for thechildren of men!  ","Jane Corey is the lieutenant on the Starship Pandora. She calls Captain Gwayne “Bob.” She informs Captain Gwayne about the sneaking out of two cadets and the situation when Captain Gwayne asks her. She also gets the jeeps out when Captain Gwayne tries to catch up with the mysterious creatures who captured the cadets. In addition, after Captain Gwayne learns the truth from Hennessy, the leader of the mysterious creature, and discharges the fuel from the ship, he tells Jane about his decision. Jane does not condemn him for deciding the future of other members alone because she realizes that they must stay on the planet to function as a spawning ground for the human species. She is a good partner for Captain Gwayne."
"What is the significance of the blobs? </s>     Spawning Ground     By LESTER DEL REY     They weren't human. They were something     more—and something less—they were,     in short, humanity's hopes for survival!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The Starship      Pandora     creaked and groaned as her landing pads settledunevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed tobe restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years fromthe waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoedthrough her hallways.     Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He wasa big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibilityhad pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under hisreddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonieswere rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward thecontrol room, grumbling at the heavy gravity.     Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as hemoved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. Morning, Bob. Youneed a shave.     Yeah. He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran ahand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. Anything newduring the night?     About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little waysnorth of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into theclouds. The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobodyknew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to havean almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. Andour two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost themin the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back.     Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmenin the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for trainingas cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman andPinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution.     Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn'tseemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorousand harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite oftheir internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs eachon their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts.     But      something     had happened to the exploration party fifteen yearsback, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to checkup.  He turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sunmust be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds thatwrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls offog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forestglowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feedinganimals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even thedeep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship wascompletely hidden by the fog.     There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animalsnow, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them....     But there was no time.     Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load ofdeep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any signof Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayedalready. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happenedto the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have toreport back.     He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enoughof the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air byluck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectorsoriginally.     Bob! Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. Bob, there arethe kids!     Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caughthis eye.     The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantasticspeed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something thatmoved there.     He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, justbeyond the movement he'd seen through the mist.     Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, butGwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets.     They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together.     Then the mists cleared.     Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almosteight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuitedcadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was amomentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning theothers forward.  Get the jeeps out! Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door ofthe little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It wasagonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the doorback at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around inconfusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. Thejeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, andGwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back.     There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet wasirritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped tothe seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, thejeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it pickedup speed. The other two followed.     There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things lookedhorrible in a travesty of manhood.     The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that wereracing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swungabout, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twentymiles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, inspite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures diveddownward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists.     Follow the blobs, Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool toleave his suit; the radio would have let him keep in contact with thekids. But it was too late to go back.     The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward intoa gorge. Somewhere the man had learned to drive superlatively; but hehad to slow as the fog thickened lower down.     Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their owntrail to confuse the pursuers.     There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had aglimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarsefaces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against thewindshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul thesteering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone.     The creatures vanished as Barker fought to turn to follow them. Theother jeeps were coming up, by the sound of their motors, but too lateto help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry orthe horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog.     A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne.     He threw up an instinctive hand. There was a tingling as the creatureseemed to pass around it. It lifted a few inches and drifted off.     Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forwardagainst the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-footleader. The thing was standing directly ahead of him, a cadet on eachshoulder.     The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creatureleaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, divingfor the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt.  The arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distortedshoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as hishands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in hisnose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds afterthe captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavysound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made nofurther move, though it was still breathing.     Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelliwas either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free tokick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loadedonto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monsteron another before heading back.     No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute! Barker shookhis own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing.     I hope so, Gwayne told him. I want that thing to live—and you'redetailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make signlanguage or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessyand why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be theanswer.     Barker nodded grimly. I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alienmetabolism. He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spatsickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. Bob, it stillmakes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there wasno sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some.     Troglodytes, maybe, Gwayne guessed. Anyhow, send for me when you getanything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstayingour time here already.     The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd beenpicked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they werebusy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soonas he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and lessinformative with retelling.     If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might savetime and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. Thatwas almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemedto be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group hadbeen overcome by the aliens.     It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could theprimitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was itsfuel dumped? Only men would have known how to do that. And who toldthese creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by alittle more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the shipcunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work.     Maybe there would never be a full answer, but he had to findsomething—and find it fast. Earth needed every world she could makeremotely habitable, or mankind was probably doomed to extinction.  The race had blundered safely through its discovery of atomic weaponsinto a peace that had lasted two hundred years. It had managed toprevent an interplanetary war with the Venus colonists. It had founda drive that led to the stars, and hadn't even found intelligent lifethere to be dangerous on the few worlds that had cultures of their own.     But forty years ago, observations from beyond the Solar System hadfinally proved that the sun was going to go nova.     It wouldn't be much of an explosion, as such things go—but it wouldrender the whole Solar System uninhabitable for millenia. To survive,man had to colonize.     And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. Theexplorers went out in desperation to find what they could; theterraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starshipsbegan filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conservespace.     Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth andfour more months back.     In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on thefootholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe someof the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe nonewould be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each wasprecious as a haven for the race.     If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, asit now seemed, no more time could be wasted here.     Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair tostrip them of their world, but the first law was survival.     But how could primitives do what these must have done?     He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made ofcemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfullylaminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no humanhand had been able to do for centuries.     Beautiful primitive work, he muttered.     Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. You cansee a lot more of it out there, she suggested.     He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things weresquatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?For the return of their leader—or for something that would give theship to them?     Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. How's the captive coming?     Barker's voice sounded odd.     Physically fine. You can see him. But—     Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He sworeat Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for notchecking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices.     There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growlingsound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barkerseemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in.     The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. Thethick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to makesome kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned upunerringly toward the device on the officer's cap.     Haarroo, Cabbaan! the thing said.  Captain Gwayne, may I present your former friend, Captain Hennessy?Barker said. There was a grin on the doctor's lips, but his face wastaut with strain.     The creature nodded slowly and drew something from the thick hair onits head. It was the golden comet of a captain.     He never meant to hurt the kids—just to talk to them, Barker cut inquickly. I've got some of the story. He's changed. He can't talk verywell. Says they've had to change the language around to make the soundsfit, and he's forgotten how to use what normal English he can. But itgets easier as you listen. It's Hennessy, all right. I'm certain.     Gwayne had his own ideas on that. It was easy for an alien to seizeon the gold ornament of a captive earthman, even to learn a littleEnglish, maybe. But Hennessy had been his friend.     How many barmaids in the Cheshire Cat? How many pups did your oldestkid's dog have? How many were brown?     The lips contorted into something vaguely like a smile, and thecuriously shaped fingers that could handle no human-designed equipmentspread out.     Three. Seven. Zero.     The answers were right.     By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand thetwisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took along time telling.     When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes insilence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. Is itpossible, Doc?     No, Barker said flatly. He spread his hands and grimaced. No. Notby what I know. But it happened. I've looked at a few tissues underthe microscope. The changes are there. It's hard to believe abouttheir kids. Adults in eight years, but they stay shorter. It can't bea hereditary change—the things that affect the body don't change thegerm plasm. But in this case, what changed Hennessy is real, so maybethe fact that the change is passed on is as real as he claims.     Gwayne led the former Hennessy to the exit. The waiting blobs droppeddown to touch the monstrous man, then leaped up again. The crowd ofmonsters began moving forward toward their leader. A few were almost astall as Hennessy, but most were not more than five feet high.     The kids of the exploring party....  Back in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgleas the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto theground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to theship again.     He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd hadtime to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting offgiving the gist of it to Jane.     It was the blobs, he summarized it. They seem to be amused by men.They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessydoesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen.     And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside thehull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earthfood would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeperthis time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colonywhere three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll neverknow.     Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eightyears—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earthtools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the neweyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world.     She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what mustnow be her home. Then she sighed. You'll need practice, but the othersdon't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'llbelieve it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really beenchanged yet, have we?     No, he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. No.They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back.     She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was onlypuzzlement in her face. Why?     And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her thesame answer he had found for himself. The spawning ground!     It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant herseed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preservethat seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already werebecoming uncertain.     Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead ofmen having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strangechildren of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek backto civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhapssome of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the nextrise to culture a better one.     We're needed here, he told her, his voice pleading for theunderstanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. These people needas rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them witha decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe oraccept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here.     She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. Befruitful, she whispered. Be fruitful and spawn and replenish anearth.     No, he told her. Replenish the stars.     But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait.     Some day, though, their children would find a way to the starlanesagain, looking for other worlds. With the blobs to help them, theycould adapt to most worlds. The unchanged spirit would lead themthrough all space, and the changing bodies would claim worlds beyondnumbering.     Some day, the whole universe would be a spawning ground for thechildren of men!  ","The blobs are insect-like creatures with skeletons inside with four to twelve legs on their bodies. They are harmless. They are curious about any moving objects on the ground. They can change the cells in any living thing to adapt to the planet. They like humans, so they change their cells to let them stay on the planet.The blobs are the main reason why Captain Hennessy and Gwayne decide to stay on the planet. They choose to stay because the blobs make them able to survive on the planet without having to change the whole planet to do so. Without the blobs, they may leave to search for other planets that can let humans survive. But with the blobs, someday in the future, humans may be able to seek out more possibilities in other worlds where the blobs will help them adapt to the new environments. In addition, the blobs also change their shape from only a twelve-leg body to having a four-leg form, which is also evidence of how they like human beings."
"What happens to the human race on the Earth? </s>     Spawning Ground     By LESTER DEL REY     They weren't human. They were something     more—and something less—they were,     in short, humanity's hopes for survival!     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The Starship      Pandora     creaked and groaned as her landing pads settledunevenly in the mucky surface of the ugly world outside. She seemed tobe restless to end her fool's errand here, two hundred light years fromthe waiting hordes on Earth. Straining metal plates twanged and echoedthrough her hallways.     Captain Gwayne cursed and rolled over, reaching for his boots. He wasa big, rawboned man, barely forty; but ten years of responsibilityhad pressed down his shoulders and put age-feigning hollows under hisreddened eyes. The starlanes between Earth and her potential colonieswere rough on the men who traveled them now. He shuffled toward thecontrol room, grumbling at the heavy gravity.     Lieutenant Jane Corey looked up, nodding a blonde head at him as hemoved toward the ever-waiting pot of murky coffee. Morning, Bob. Youneed a shave.     Yeah. He swallowed the hot coffee without tasting it, then ran ahand across the dark stubble on his chin. It could wait. Anything newduring the night?     About a dozen blobs held something like a convention a little waysnorth of us. They broke up about an hour ago and streaked off into theclouds. The blobs were a peculiarity of this planet about which nobodyknew anything. They looked like overgrown fireballs, but seemed to havean almost sentient curiosity about anything moving on the ground. Andour two cadets sneaked out again. Barker followed them, but lost themin the murk. I've kept a signal going to guide them back.     Gwayne swore softly to himself. Earth couldn't turn out enough starmenin the schools, so promising kids were being shipped out for trainingas cadets on their twelfth birthday. The two he'd drawn, Kaufman andPinelli, seemed to be totally devoid of any sense of caution.     Of course there was no obvious need for caution here. The blobs hadn'tseemed dangerous, and the local animals were apparently all herbivorousand harmless. They were ugly enough, looking like insects in spite oftheir internal skeletons, with anywhere from four to twelve legs eachon their segmented bodies. None acted like dangerous beasts.     But      something     had happened to the exploration party fifteen yearsback, and to the more recent ship under Hennessy that was sent to checkup.  He turned to the port to stare out at the planet. The Sol-type sunmust be rising, since there was a dim light. But the thick clouds thatwrapped the entire world diffused its rays into a haze. For a change,it wasn't raining, though the ground was covered by thick swirls offog. In the distance, the tops of shrubs that made a scrub forestglowed yellow-green. Motions around them suggested a herd of feedinganimals. Details were impossible to see through the haze. Even thedeep gorge where they'd found Hennessy's carefully buried ship wascompletely hidden by the fog.     There were three of the blobs dancing about over the grazing animalsnow, as they often seemed to do. Gwayne stared at them for a minute,trying to read sense into the things. If he had time to study them....     But there was no time.     Earth had ordered him to detour here, after leaving his load ofdeep-sleep stored colonists on Official World 71, to check on any signof Hennessy. He'd been here a week longer than he should have stayedalready. If there was no sign in another day or so of what had happenedto the men who'd deserted their ship and its equipment, he'd have toreport back.     He would have left before, if a recent landslip hadn't exposed enoughof the buried ship for his metal locators to spot from the air byluck. It had obviously been hidden deep enough to foil the detectorsoriginally.     Bob! Jane Corey's voice cut through his pondering. Bob, there arethe kids!     Before he could swing to follow her pointing finger, movement caughthis eye.     The blobs had left the herd. Now the three were streaking at fantasticspeed to a spot near the ship, to hover excitedly above something thatmoved there.     He saw the two cadets then, heading back to the waiting ship, justbeyond the movement he'd seen through the mist.     Whatever was making the fog swirl must have reached higher ground.Something began to heave upwards. It was too far to see clearly, butGwayne grabbed the microphone, yelling into the radio toward the cadets.     They must have seen whatever it was just as the call reached them.Young Kaufman grabbed at Pinelli, and they swung around together.     Then the mists cleared.     Under the dancing blobs, a horde of things was heading for the cadets.Shaggy heads, brute bodies vaguely man-like! One seemed to be almosteight feet tall, leading the others directly toward the spacesuitedcadets. Some of the horde were carrying spears or sticks. There was amomentary halt, and then the leader lifted one arm, as if motioning theothers forward.  Get the jeeps out! Gwayne yelled at Jane. He yanked the door ofthe little officers' lift open and jabbed the down button. It wasagonizingly slow, but faster than climbing down. He ripped the doorback at the exit deck. Men were dashing in, stumbling around inconfusion. But someone was taking over now—one of the crew women. Thejeeps were lining up. One, at the front, was stuttering into life, andGwayne dashed for it as the exit port slid back.     There was no time for suits or helmets. The air on the planet wasirritating and vile smelling, but it could be breathed. He leaped tothe seat, to see that the driver was Doctor Barker. At a gesture, thejeep rolled down the ramp, grinding its gears into second as it pickedup speed. The other two followed.     There was no sign of the cadets at first. Then Gwayne spotted them;surrounded by the menacing horde. Seen from here, the things lookedhorrible in a travesty of manhood.     The huge leader suddenly waved and pointed toward the jeeps that wereracing toward him. He made a fantastic leap backwards. Others swungabout, two of them grabbing up the cadets. The jeep was doing twentymiles an hour now, but the horde began to increase the distance, inspite of the load of the two struggling boys! The creatures diveddownward into lower ground, beginning to disappear into the mists.     Follow the blobs, Gwayne yelled. He realized now he'd been a fool toleave his suit; the radio would have let him keep in contact with thekids. But it was too late to go back.     The blobs danced after the horde. Barker bounced the jeep downward intoa gorge. Somewhere the man had learned to drive superlatively; but hehad to slow as the fog thickened lower down.     Then it cleared to show the mob of creatures doubling back on their owntrail to confuse the pursuers.     There was no time to stop. The jeep plowed through them. Gwayne had aglimpse of five-foot bodies tumbling out of the way. Monstrously coarsefaces were half hidden by thick hair. A spear crunched against thewindshield from behind, and Gwayne caught it before it could foul thesteering wheel. It had a wickedly beautiful point of stone.     The creatures vanished as Barker fought to turn to follow them. Theother jeeps were coming up, by the sound of their motors, but too lateto help. They'd have to get to the group with the cadets in a hurry orthe horde would all vanish in the uneven ground, hidden by the fog.     A blob dropped down, almost touching Gwayne.     He threw up an instinctive hand. There was a tingling as the creatureseemed to pass around it. It lifted a few inches and drifted off.     Abruptly, Barker's foot ground at the brake. Gwayne jolted forwardagainst the windshield, just as he made out the form of the eight-footleader. The thing was standing directly ahead of him, a cadet on eachshoulder.     The wheels locked and the jeep slid protestingly forward. The creatureleaped back. But Gwayne was out of the jeep before it stopped, divingfor the figure. It dropped the boys with a surprised grunt.  The arms were thin and grotesque below the massively distortedshoulders, but amazingly strong. Gwayne felt them wrench at him as hishands locked on the thick throat. A stench of alien flesh was in hisnose as the thing fell backwards. Doc Barker had hit it seconds afterthe captain's attack. Its head hit rocky ground with a dull, heavysound, and it collapsed. Gwayne eased back slowly, but it made nofurther move, though it was still breathing.     Another jeep had drawn up, and men were examining the cadets. Pinelliwas either laughing or crying, and Kaufman was trying to break free tokick at the monster. But neither had been harmed. The two were loadedonto a jeep while men helped Barker and Gwayne stow the bound monsteron another before heading back.     No sign of skull fracture. My God, what a tough brute! Barker shookhis own head, as if feeling the shock of the monster's landing.     I hope so, Gwayne told him. I want that thing to live—and you'redetailed to save it and revive it. Find out if it can make signlanguage or draw pictures. I want to know what happened to Hennessyand why that ship was buried against detection. This thing may be theanswer.     Barker nodded grimly. I'll try, though I can't risk drugs on an alienmetabolism. He sucked in on the cigarette he'd dug out, then spatsickly. Smoke and this air made a foul combination. Bob, it stillmakes no sense. We've scoured this planet by infra-red, and there wasno sign of native villages or culture. We should have found some.     Troglodytes, maybe, Gwayne guessed. Anyhow, send for me when you getanything. I've got to get this ship back to Earth. We're overstayingour time here already.     The reports from the cadets were satisfactory enough. They'd beenpicked up and carried, but no harm had been done them. Now they werebusy being little heroes. Gwayne sentenced them to quarters as soonas he could, knowing their stories would only get wilder and lessinformative with retelling.     If they could get any story from the captured creature, they might savetime and be better off than trying to dig through Hennessy's ship. Thatwas almost certainly spoorless by now. The only possible answer seemedto be that the exploring expedition and Hennessy's rescue group hadbeen overcome by the aliens.     It was an answer, but it left a lot of questions. How could theprimitives have gotten to the men inside Hennessy's ship? Why was itsfuel dumped? Only men would have known how to do that. And who toldthese creatures that a space ship's metal finders could be fooled by alittle more than a hundred feet of solid rock? They'd buried the shipcunningly, and only the accidental slippage had undone their work.     Maybe there would never be a full answer, but he had to findsomething—and find it fast. Earth needed every world she could makeremotely habitable, or mankind was probably doomed to extinction.  The race had blundered safely through its discovery of atomic weaponsinto a peace that had lasted two hundred years. It had managed toprevent an interplanetary war with the Venus colonists. It had founda drive that led to the stars, and hadn't even found intelligent lifethere to be dangerous on the few worlds that had cultures of their own.     But forty years ago, observations from beyond the Solar System hadfinally proved that the sun was going to go nova.     It wouldn't be much of an explosion, as such things go—but it wouldrender the whole Solar System uninhabitable for millenia. To survive,man had to colonize.     And there were no worlds perfect for him, as Earth had been. Theexplorers went out in desperation to find what they could; theterraforming teams did what they could. And then the big starshipsbegan filling worlds with colonists, carried in deep sleep to conservespace.     Almost eighty worlds. The nearest a four month journey from Earth andfour more months back.     In another ten years, the sun would explode, leaving man only on thefootholds he was trying to dig among other solar systems. Maybe someof the strange worlds would let men spread his seed again. Maybe nonewould be spawning grounds for mankind in spite of the efforts. Each wasprecious as a haven for the race.     If this world could be used, it would be nearer than most. If not, asit now seemed, no more time could be wasted here.     Primitives could be overcome, maybe. It would be ruthless and unfair tostrip them of their world, but the first law was survival.     But how could primitives do what these must have done?     He studied the spear he had salvaged. It was on a staff made ofcemented bits of smaller wood from the scrub growth, skillfullylaminated. The point was of delicately chipped flint, done as no humanhand had been able to do for centuries.     Beautiful primitive work, he muttered.     Jane pulled the coffee cup away from her lips and snorted. You cansee a lot more of it out there, she suggested.     He went to the port and glanced out. About sixty of the things weresquatting in the clearing fog, holding lances and staring at the ship.They were perhaps a thousand yards away, waiting patiently. For what?For the return of their leader—or for something that would give theship to them?     Gwayne grabbed the phone and called Barker. How's the captive coming?     Barker's voice sounded odd.     Physically fine. You can see him. But—     Gwayne dropped the phone and headed for the little sick bay. He sworeat Doc for not calling him at once, and then at himself for notchecking up sooner. Then he stopped at the sound of voices.     There was the end of a question from Barker and a thick, harsh growlingsound that lifted the hair along the nape of Gwayne's neck. Barkerseemed to understand, and was making a comment as the captain dashed in.     The captive was sitting on the bunk, unbound and oddly unmenacing. Thethick features were relaxed and yet somehow intent. He seemed to makesome kind of a salute as he saw Gwayne enter, and his eyes burned upunerringly toward the device on the officer's cap.     Haarroo, Cabbaan! the thing said.  Captain Gwayne, may I present your former friend, Captain Hennessy?Barker said. There was a grin on the doctor's lips, but his face wastaut with strain.     The creature nodded slowly and drew something from the thick hair onits head. It was the golden comet of a captain.     He never meant to hurt the kids—just to talk to them, Barker cut inquickly. I've got some of the story. He's changed. He can't talk verywell. Says they've had to change the language around to make the soundsfit, and he's forgotten how to use what normal English he can. But itgets easier as you listen. It's Hennessy, all right. I'm certain.     Gwayne had his own ideas on that. It was easy for an alien to seizeon the gold ornament of a captive earthman, even to learn a littleEnglish, maybe. But Hennessy had been his friend.     How many barmaids in the Cheshire Cat? How many pups did your oldestkid's dog have? How many were brown?     The lips contorted into something vaguely like a smile, and thecuriously shaped fingers that could handle no human-designed equipmentspread out.     Three. Seven. Zero.     The answers were right.     By the time the session was over, Gwayne had begun to understand thetwisted speech from inhuman vocal cords better. But the story took along time telling.     When it was finished, Gwayne and Barker sat for long minutes insilence. Finally Gwayne drew a shuddering breath and stood up. Is itpossible, Doc?     No, Barker said flatly. He spread his hands and grimaced. No. Notby what I know. But it happened. I've looked at a few tissues underthe microscope. The changes are there. It's hard to believe abouttheir kids. Adults in eight years, but they stay shorter. It can't bea hereditary change—the things that affect the body don't change thegerm plasm. But in this case, what changed Hennessy is real, so maybethe fact that the change is passed on is as real as he claims.     Gwayne led the former Hennessy to the exit. The waiting blobs droppeddown to touch the monstrous man, then leaped up again. The crowd ofmonsters began moving forward toward their leader. A few were almost astall as Hennessy, but most were not more than five feet high.     The kids of the exploring party....  Back in the control room, Gwayne found the emergency release levers,set the combinations and pressed the studs. There was a hiss and gurgleas the great tanks of fuel discharged their contents out onto theground where no ingenuity could ever recover it to bring life to theship again.     He'd have to tell the men and women of the crew later, after he'd hadtime to organize things and present it all in a way they could accept,however much they might hate it at first. But there was no putting offgiving the gist of it to Jane.     It was the blobs, he summarized it. They seem to be amused by men.They don't require anything from us, but they like us around. Hennessydoesn't know why. They can change our cells, adapt us. Before men came,all life here had twelve legs. Now they're changing that, as we've seen.     And they don't have to be close to do it. We've all been outside thehull. It doesn't show yet—but we're changed. In another month, Earthfood would kill us. We've got to stay here. We'll bury the ships deeperthis time, and Earth won't find us. They can't risk trying a colonywhere three ships vanish, so we'll just disappear. And they'll neverknow.     Nobody would know. Their children—odd children who matured in eightyears—would be primitive savages in three generations. The Earthtools would be useless, impossible for the hands so radically changed.Nothing from the ship would last. Books could never be read by the neweyes. And in time, Earth wouldn't even be a memory to this world.     She was silent a long time, staring out of the port toward what mustnow be her home. Then she sighed. You'll need practice, but the othersdon't know you as well as I do, Bob. I guess we can fix it so they'llbelieve it all. And it's too late now. But we haven't really beenchanged yet, have we?     No, he admitted. Damn his voice! He'd never been good at lying. No.They have to touch us. I've been touched, but the rest could go back.     She nodded. He waited for the condemnation, but there was onlypuzzlement in her face. Why?     And then, before he could answer, her own intelligence gave her thesame answer he had found for himself. The spawning ground!     It was the only thing they could do. Earth needed a place to plant herseed, but no world other than Earth could ever be trusted to preservethat seed for generation after generation. Some worlds already werebecoming uncertain.     Here, though, the blobs had adapted men to the alien world instead ofmen having to adapt the whole planet to their needs. Here, the strangechildren of man's race could grow, develop and begin the long trek backto civilization. The gadgets would be lost for a time. But perhapssome of the attitudes of civilized man would remain to make the nextrise to culture a better one.     We're needed here, he told her, his voice pleading for theunderstanding he couldn't yet fully give himself. These people needas rich a set of bloodlines as possible to give the new race strength.The fifty men and women on this ship will be needed to start them witha decent chance. We can't go to Earth, where nobody would believe oraccept the idea—or even let us come back. We have to stay here.     She smiled then and moved toward him, groping for his strength. Befruitful, she whispered. Be fruitful and spawn and replenish anearth.     No, he told her. Replenish the stars.     But she was no longer listening, and that part of his idea could wait.     Some day, though, their children would find a way to the starlanesagain, looking for other worlds. With the blobs to help them, theycould adapt to most worlds. The unchanged spirit would lead themthrough all space, and the changing bodies would claim worlds beyondnumbering.     Some day, the whole universe would be a spawning ground for thechildren of men!  ","After the invention of atomic weapons, humans maintained peace for nearly two centuries. However, four decades ago, observation revealed that the sun would soon go nova, which would make the whole solar system uninhabitable for millennia. Since then, humans have been searching for habitable planets in other solar systems. They send many starships carrying deep-sleep stored people to different worlds, hoping they could be the colonies for the human race in the future, but none has promised to be safe for generations. So the exploring teams are sent continuously. Yet the situation is challenging. The training schools cannot export enough astronauts, so promising young candidates are trained as cadets on starships. Humans do not have enough time to find another Earth to live on for generations."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    THE FIRST ONE     By HERBERT D. KASTLE     Illustrated by von Dongen     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog July 1961.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.]       The first man to return from beyond the Great Frontier may bewelcomed ... but will it be as a curiosity, rather than as ahero...?       There was the usual welcoming crowd for a celebrity, and the usualspeeches by the usual politicians who met him at the airport which hadonce been twenty miles outside of Croton, but which the growing city hadsince engulfed and placed well within its boundaries. But everythingwasn't usual. The crowd was quiet, and the mayor didn't seem quite asat-ease as he'd been on his last big welcoming—for Corporal Berringer,one of the crew of the spaceship      Washington     , first to set Americansupon Mars. His Honor's handclasp was somewhat moist and cold. HisHonor's eyes held a trace of remoteness.     Still, he was the honored home-comer, the successful returnee, thehometown boy who had made good in a big way, and they took the triumphaltour up Main Street to the new square and the grandstand. There he satbetween the mayor and a nervous young coed chosen as homecoming queen,and looked out at the police and fire department bands, the NationalGuard, the boy scouts and girl scouts, the Elks and Masons. Several ofthe churches in town had shown indecision as to how to instruct theirparishioners to treat him. But they had all come around. The tremendousnational interest, the fact that he was the First One, had made themcome around. It was obvious by now that they would have to adjust asthey'd adjusted to all the other firsts taking place in these—as thenewspapers had dubbed the start of the Twenty-first Century—theGalloping Twenties.     He was glad when the official greeting was over. He was a very tired manand he had come farther, traveled longer and over darker country, thanany man who'd ever lived before. He wanted a meal at his own table, akiss from his wife, a word from his son, and later to see some oldfriends and a relative or two. He didn't want to talk about the journey.He wanted to forget the immediacy, the urgency, the terror; then perhapshe would talk.     Or would he? For he had very little to tell. He had traveled and he hadreturned and his voyage was very much like the voyages of the greatmariners, from Columbus onward—long, dull periods of time passing,passing, and then the arrival.     The house had changed. He saw that as soon as the official car let himoff at 45 Roosevelt Street. The change was, he knew, for the better.They had put a porch in front. They had rehabilitated, spruced up,almost rebuilt the entire outside and grounds. But he was sorry. He hadwanted it to be as before.     The head of the American Legion and the chief of police, who hadescorted him on this trip from the square, didn't ask to go in with him.He was glad. He'd had enough of strangers. Not that he was through withstrangers. There were dozens of them up and down the street, standingbeside parked cars, looking at him. But when he looked back at them,their eyes dropped, they turned away, they began moving off. He wasstill too much the First One to have his gaze met.     He walked up what had once been a concrete path and was now an ornateflagstone path. He climbed the new porch and raised the ornamentalknocker on the new door and heard the soft music sound within. He wassurprised that he'd had to do this. He'd thought Edith would be watchingat a window.     And perhaps she      had     been watching ... but she hadn't opened the door.     The door opened; he looked at her. It hadn't been too long and shehadn't changed at all. She was still the small, slender girl he'd lovedin high school, the small, slender woman he'd married twelve years ago.Ralphie was with her. They held onto each other as if seeking mutualsupport, the thirty-three-year old woman and ten-year-old boy. Theylooked at him, and then both moved forward, still together. He said,It's good to be home!     Edith nodded and, still holding to Ralphie with one hand, put the otherarm around him. He kissed her—her neck, her cheek—and all the oldjokes came to mind, the jokes of travel-weary, battle-weary men, theand-      then     -I'll-put-my-pack-aside jokes that spoke of terrible hunger.She was trembling, and even as her lips came up to touch his he felt thedifference, and because of this difference he turned with urgency toRalphie and picked him up and hugged him and said, because he couldthink of nothing else to say, What a big fella, what a big fella.     Ralphie stood in his arms as if his feet were still planted on thefloor, and he didn't look at his father but somewhere beyond him. Ididn't grow much while you were gone, Dad, Mom says I don't eat enough.     So he put him down and told himself that it would all change, thateverything would loosen up just as his commanding officer, GeneralCarlisle, had said it would early this morning before he leftWashington.     Give it some time, Carlisle had said. You need the time; they needthe time. And for the love of heaven, don't be sensitive.  Edith was leading him into the living room, her hand lying still in his,a cool, dead bird lying still in his. He sat down on the couch, she satdown beside him—but she had hesitated. He      wasn't     being sensitive; shehad hesitated. His wife had hesitated before sitting down beside him.     Carlisle had said his position was analogous to Columbus', to Vasco DeGama's, to Preshoff's when the Russian returned from the Moon—but moreso. Carlisle had said lots of things, but even Carlisle who had workedwith him all the way, who had engineered the entire fantasticjourney—even Carlisle the Nobel prize winner, the multi-degreed geniusin uniform, had not actually spoken to him as one man to another.       The eyes. It always showed in their eyes.       He looked across the room at Ralphie, standing in the doorway, a boyalready tall, already widening in the shoulders, already large offeature. It was like looking into the mirror and seeing himselftwenty-five years ago. But Ralphie's face was drawn, was worried in away that few ten-year-old faces are.     How's it going in school? he asked.     Gee, Dad, it's the second month of summer vacation.     Well, then, before summer vacation?     Pretty good.     Edith said, He made top forum the six-month period before vacation, andhe made top forum the six-month period you went away, Hank.     He nodded, remembering that, remembering everything, remembering thewarmth of her farewell, the warmth of Ralphie's farewell, their tears ashe left for the experimental flight station in the Aleutians. They hadfeared for him, having read of the many launchings gone wrong even incontinent-to-continent experimental flight.     They had been right to worry. He had suffered much after that blow-up.But now they should be rejoicing, because he had survived and made thelong journey. Ralphie suddenly said, I got to go, Dad. I promised Waltand the others I'd pitch. It's Inter-Town Little League, you know. It'sHarmon, you know. I got to keep my word. Without waiting for an answer,he waved his hand—it shook; a ten-year-old boy's hand that shook—andran from the room and from the house.     He and Edith sat beside each other, and he wanted badly to take her inhis arms, and yet he didn't want to oppress her. He stood up. I'm verytired. I'd like to lie down a while. Which wasn't true, because he'dbeen lying down all the months of the way back.     She said, Of course. How stupid of me, expecting you to sit around andmake small talk and pick up just where you left off.     He nodded. But that was exactly what he wanted to do—make small talkand pick up just where he'd left off. But they didn't expect it of him;they wouldn't let him; they felt he had changed too much.  She led him upstairs and along the foyer past Ralphie's room and pastthe small guest room to their bedroom. This, too, had changed. It wasnewly painted and it had new furniture. He saw twin beds separated by anornate little table with an ornate little lamp, and this looked moreominous a barrier to him than the twelve-foot concrete-and-barbed-wirefence around the experimental station.     Which one is mine, he asked, and tried to smile.     She also tried to smile. The one near the window. You always liked thefresh air, the sunshine in the morning. You always said it helped youto get up on time when you were stationed at the base outside of town.You always said it reminded you—being able to see the sky—that youwere going to go up in it, and that you were going to come down from itto this bed again.     Not this bed, he murmured, and was a little sorry afterward.     No, not this bed, she said quickly. Your lodge donated the bedroomset and I really didn't know— She waved her hand, her face white.     He was sure then that she      had     known, and that the beds and the barrierbetween them were her own choice, if only an unconscious choice. He wentto the bed near the window, stripped off his Air Force blue jacket,began to take off his shirt, but then remembered that some arm scarsstill showed. He waited for her to leave the room.     She said, Well then, rest up, dear, and went out.     He took off his shirt and saw himself in the mirror on the oppositewall; and then took off his under-shirt. The body scars were faint, thescars running in long lines, one dissecting his chest, the other slicingdiagonally across his upper abdomen to disappear under his trousers.There were several more on his back, and one on his right thigh. They'dbeen treated properly and would soon disappear. But she had never seenthem.     Perhaps she never would. Perhaps pajamas and robes and dark rooms wouldkeep them from her until they were gone.     Which was not what he'd considered at all important on leaving WalterReed Hospital early this morning; which was something he founddistasteful, something he felt beneath them both. And, at the same time,he began to understand that there would be many things, previouslybeneath them both, which would have to be considered. She had changed;Ralphie had changed; all the people he knew had probablychanged—because they thought      he     had changed.     He was tired of thinking. He lay down and closed his eyes. He lethimself taste bitterness, unhappiness, a loneliness he had never knownbefore.     But sometime later, as he was dozing off, a sense of reassurance beganfiltering into his mind. After all, he was still Henry Devers, the sameman who had left home eleven months ago, with a love for family andfriends which was, if anything, stronger than before. Once he couldcommunicate this, the strangeness would disappear and the First Onewould again become good old Hank. It was little enough to ask for—areturn to old values, old relationships, the normalcies of the backwashinstead of the freneticisms of the lime-light. It would certainly begranted to him.     He slept.  Dinner was at seven  p.m.  His mother came; his Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucillecame. Together with Edith, Ralphie and himself, they made six, and atein the dining room at the big table.     Before he'd become the First One, it would have been a noisy affair. Hisfamily had never been noted for a lack of ebullience, a lack oftalkativeness, and Ralphie had always chosen mealtimes—especially withcompany present—to describe everything and anything that had happenedto him during the day. And Edith herself had always chatted, especiallywith his mother, though they didn't agree about much. Still, it had beengood-natured; the general tone of their lives had been good-natured.     This wasn't good-natured. Exactly what it was he wasn't sure. Stiffwas perhaps the word.     They began with grapefruit, Edith and Mother serving quickly,efficiently from the kitchen, then sitting down at the table. He lookedat Mother as he raised his first spoonful of chilled fruit, and said,Younger than ever. It was nothing new; he'd said it many many timesbefore, but his mother had always reacted with a bright smile and a quipsomething like, Young for the Golden Age Center, you mean. This timeshe burst into tears. It shocked him. But what shocked him even more wasthe fact that no one looked up, commented, made any attempt to comforther; no one indicated in any way that a woman was sobbing at the table.     He was sitting directly across from Mother, and reached out and touchedher left hand which lay limply beside the silverware. She didn't moveit—she hadn't touched him once beyond that first, quick, strangely-coolembrace at the door—then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let itdrop out of sight.     So there he was, Henry Devers, at home with the family. So there he was,the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being.     The grapefruit shells were cleaned away and the soup served. Uncle Joebegan to talk. The greatest little development of circular uniformhouses you ever did see, he boomed in his powerful salesman's voice.Still going like sixty. We'll sell out before— At that point helooked at Hank, and Hank nodded encouragement, desperately interested inthis normalcy, and Joe's voice died away. He looked down at his plate,mumbled, Soup's getting cold, and began to eat. His hand shook alittle; his ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it.     Aunt Lucille made a few quavering statements about the Ladies' TuesdayGarden Club, and Hank looked across the table to where she sat betweenJoe and Mother—his wife and son bracketed him, and yet he feltalone—and said, I've missed fooling around with the lawn and the rosebushes. Here it is August and I haven't had my hand to a mower ortrowel.     Aunt Lucille smiled, if you could call it that—a pitiful twitching ofthe lips—and nodded. She threw her eyes in his direction, and past him,and then down to her plate. Mother, who was still sniffling, said, Ihave a dismal headache. I'm going to lie down in the guest room awhile. She touched his shoulder in passing—his affectionate, effusivemother who would kiss stray dogs and strange children, who had oftenirritated him with an excess of physical and verbal caresses—she barelytouched his shoulder and fled.     So now five of them sat at the table. The meat was served—thin, rareslices of beef, the pink blood-juice oozing warmly from the center. Hecut into it and raised a forkful to his mouth, then glanced at Ralphieand said, Looks fresh enough to have been killed in the back yard.Ralphie said, Yeah, Dad. Aunt Lucille put down her knife and fork andmurmured something to her husband. Joe cleared his throat and saidLucille was rapidly becoming a vegetarian and he guessed she was goinginto the living room for a while. She'll be back for dessert, ofcourse, he said, his laugh sounding forced.     Hank looked at Edith; Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked atRalphie; Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe; Joe waschewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked atLucille; she was disappearing into the living room.     He brought his fist down on the table. The settings jumped; a glassoverturned, spilling water. He brought it down again and again. Theywere all standing now. He sat there and pounded the table with his bigright fist—Henry Devers, who would never have thought of making such ascene before, but who was now so sick and tired of being treated as theFirst One, of being stood back from, looked at in awe of, felt in fearof, that he could have smashed more than a table.     Edith said, Hank!     He said, voice hoarse, Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick ofthe lot of you.  Mother and Joe returned a few minutes later where he sat forcing fooddown his throat. Mother said, Henry dear— He didn't answer. She beganto cry, and he was glad she left the house then. He had never saidanything really bad to his mother. He was afraid this would have beenthe time. Joe merely cleared his throat and mumbled something aboutgetting together again soon and drop out and see the new developmentand he, too, was gone. Lucille never did manage to speak to him.     He finished his beef and waited. Soon Edith came in with the specialdessert she'd been preparing half the day—a magnificent English trifle.She served him, and spooned out a portion for herself and Ralphie. Shehesitated near his chair, and when he made no comment she called theboy. Then the three of them were sitting, facing the empty side of thetable. They ate the trifle. Ralphie finished first and got up and said,Hey, I promised—     You promised the boys you'd play baseball or football or handball orsomething; anything to get away from your father.     Ralphie's head dropped and he muttered, Aw, no, Dad.     Edith said, He'll stay home, Hank. We'll spend an eveningtogether—talking, watching TV, playing Monopoly.     Ralphie said, Gee, sure, Dad, if you want to.     Hank stood up. The question is not whether I want to. You both know Iwant to. The question is whether      you     want to.     They answered together that of course they wanted to. But theireyes—his wife's and son's eyes—could not meet his, and so he said hewas going to his room because he was, after all, very tired and would inall probability continue to be very tired for a long, long time and thatthey shouldn't count on him for normal social life.     He fell asleep quickly, lying there in his clothes.     But he didn't sleep long. Edith shook him and he opened his eyes to alighted room. Phil and Rhona are here. He blinked at her. She smiled,and it seemed her old smile. They're so anxious to see you, Hank. Icould barely keep Phil from coming up and waking you himself. They wantto go out and do the town. Please, Hank, say you will.     He sat up. Phil, he muttered. Phil and Rhona. They'd had wonderfultimes together, from grammar school on. Phil and Rhona, their oldest andclosest friends. Perhaps this would begin his real homecoming.     Do the town? They'd paint it and then tear it down!  It didn't turn out that way. He was disappointed; but then again, he'dalso expected it. This entire first day at home had conditioned him toexpect nothing good. They went to the bowling alleys, and Phil soundedvery much the way he always had—soft spoken and full of laughter andfull of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had, andclapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had—so muchmore gently, almost remotely), and insisted they all drink more than wasgood for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go alongon the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer.     They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road toManfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffeeand Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but hemerely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana.     There was dancing to a juke box in Manfred's Tavern. He'd been theremany times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognizedhim. But except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was asif he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world.     At midnight, he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but hesaid, I haven't danced with my girl Rhona. His tongue was thick, hismind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on herface—pretty Rhona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritualof flirting with him. Pretty Rhona, who now looked as if she were goingto be sick.     So let's rock, he said and stood up.     They were on the dance floor. He held her close, and hummed and chatted.And through the alcoholic haze saw she was a stiff-smiled, stiff-bodied,mechanical dancing doll.     The number finished; they walked back to the booth. Phil said,Beddy-bye time.     Hank said, First one dance with my loving wife.     He and Edith danced. He didn't hold her close as he had Rhona. He waitedfor her to come close on her own, and she did, and yet she didn't.Because while she put herself against him, there was something in herface—no, in her eyes; it always showed in the eyes—that made him knowshe was trying to be the old Edith and not succeeding. This time whenthe music ended, he was ready to go home.     They rode back to town along Route Nine, he and Edith in the rear ofPhil's car, Rhona driving because Phil had drunk just a little too much,Phil singing and telling an occasional bad joke, and somehow not his oldself. No one was his old self. No one would ever be his old self withthe First One.     They turned left, to take the short cut along Hallowed Hill Road, andPhil finished a story about a Martian and a Hollywood sex queen andlooked at his wife and then past her at the long, cast-iron fenceparalleling the road. Hey, he said, pointing, do you know why that'sthe most popular place on earth?     Rhona glanced to the left, and so did Hank and Edith. Rhona made alittle sound, and Edith seemed to stop breathing, but Phil went on awhile longer, not yet aware of his supposed      faux pas     .     You know why? he repeated, turning to the back seat, the laughterrumbling up from his chest. You know why, folks?     Rhona said, Did you notice Carl Braken and his wife at—     Hank said, No, Phil, why is it the most popular place on earth?     Phil said, Because people are— And then he caught himself and wavedhis hand and muttered, I forgot the punch line.     Because people are dying to get in, Hank said, and looked through thewindow, past the iron fence, into the large cemetery at the fleetingtombstones.     The car was filled with horrified silence when there should have beennothing but laughter, or irritation at a too-old joke. Maybe you shouldlet me out right here, Hank said. I'm home—or that's what everyoneseems to think. Maybe I should lie down in an open grave. Maybe thatwould satisfy people. Maybe that's the only way to act, like Dracula oranother monster from the movies.     Edith said, Oh, Hank, don't, don't!     The car raced along the road, crossed a macadam highway, went fourblocks and pulled to a stop. He didn't bother saying good night. Hedidn't wait for Edith. He just got out and walked up the flagstone pathand entered the house.  Hank, Edith whispered from the guest room doorway, I'm so sorry—     There's nothing to be sorry about. It's just a matter of time. It'llall work out in time.     Yes, she said quickly, that's it. I need a little time. We all need alittle time. Because it's so strange, Hank. Because it's so frightening.I should have told you that the moment you walked in. I think I've hurtyou terribly, we've all hurt you terribly, by trying to hide that we'refrightened.     I'm going to stay in the guest room, he said, for as long asnecessary. For good if need be.     How could it be for good? How, Hank?     That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had sincereturning. And there was something else; what Carlisle had told him,even as Carlisle himself had reacted as all men did.     There are others coming, Edith. Eight that I know of in the tanks rightnow. My superior, Captain Davidson, who died at the same moment Idid—seven months ago next Wednesday—he's going to be next. He wassmashed up worse than I was, so it took a little longer, but he's almostready. And there'll be many more, Edith. The government is going to saveall they possibly can from now on. Every time a young and healthy manloses his life by accident, by violence, and his body can be recovered,he'll go into the tanks and they'll start the regenerative brain andorgan process—the process that made it all possible. So people have toget used to us. And the old stories, the old terrors, the ugly oldsuperstitions have to die, because in time each place will have some ofus; because in time it'll be an ordinary thing.     Edith said, Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Pleasebelieve that. Please be patient with me and Ralphie and— She paused.There's one question.     He knew what the question was. It had been the first asked him byeveryone from the president of the United States on down.     I saw nothing, he said. It was as if I slept those six and a halfmonths—slept without dreaming.     She came to him and touched his face with her lips, and he wassatisfied.     Later, half asleep, he heard a dog howling, and remembered stories ofhow they announced death and the presence of monsters. He shivered andpulled the covers closer to him and luxuriated in being safe in his ownhome.     THE END  ","The story is about a family man - Henry Devers - returning to his hometown after a unique adventure. He was participating in an experimental flight that ended in an explosion. But he managed to survive thanks to regenerative technologies that helped rebuild his body and make him breathe again. The story starts with a grandiose tour around his town where the mayor, the National Guard, the Fire Department bands, and many other people participate though they all seem a little distant and scared to Devers. The official car lets him off at his house that, as he notices, has changed a little. Edith, his wife, and Ralphie, his ten-year-old son, meet him at the door. Later, in the living room, they have an awkward conversation about Ralphie’s school grades, his son quickly leaves for a baseball game, and soon Devers goes to sleep in his separate twin bed that his wife bought while he was away. He looks at his scars before going to bed, thinking about how people’s behavior changed because they believe Henry has changed.  In the evening, Henry’s mother, uncle Joe, and aunt Lucille come for dinner. Again everyone seems aloof: Henry’s overly affectionate mother now barely touches him and even cries for several minutes, his aunt and uncle cannot talk about casual things - no one looks him in the eyes. After all, Devers gets infuriated and screams at the guests, they leave, and his son once again tries to leave instead of spending time with the parents. Later in the evening, Edith wakes her husband because his good friends Phil and Rhona came - they all go to bowling alleys and then to a tavern. Even Devers’ close friends seem stiff and cautious while talking to him, dancing with him, being around him. On their way back, Phil tries to make a joke about a cemetery but stops himself from finishing it - this upsets Henry even more, completely ruining the evening. When they get home Edith tries to apologize to her husband and admits that she’s frightened. In reply, he says that soon such regenerative technologies and processes will be an ordinary thing, and his captain, for example, who died together with Devers, will soon leave the hospital, too. She asks him to be patient with everybody. "
"Who’s Henry Devers and what happens to him throughout the story? </s>    THE FIRST ONE     By HERBERT D. KASTLE     Illustrated by von Dongen     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog July 1961.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.]       The first man to return from beyond the Great Frontier may bewelcomed ... but will it be as a curiosity, rather than as ahero...?       There was the usual welcoming crowd for a celebrity, and the usualspeeches by the usual politicians who met him at the airport which hadonce been twenty miles outside of Croton, but which the growing city hadsince engulfed and placed well within its boundaries. But everythingwasn't usual. The crowd was quiet, and the mayor didn't seem quite asat-ease as he'd been on his last big welcoming—for Corporal Berringer,one of the crew of the spaceship      Washington     , first to set Americansupon Mars. His Honor's handclasp was somewhat moist and cold. HisHonor's eyes held a trace of remoteness.     Still, he was the honored home-comer, the successful returnee, thehometown boy who had made good in a big way, and they took the triumphaltour up Main Street to the new square and the grandstand. There he satbetween the mayor and a nervous young coed chosen as homecoming queen,and looked out at the police and fire department bands, the NationalGuard, the boy scouts and girl scouts, the Elks and Masons. Several ofthe churches in town had shown indecision as to how to instruct theirparishioners to treat him. But they had all come around. The tremendousnational interest, the fact that he was the First One, had made themcome around. It was obvious by now that they would have to adjust asthey'd adjusted to all the other firsts taking place in these—as thenewspapers had dubbed the start of the Twenty-first Century—theGalloping Twenties.     He was glad when the official greeting was over. He was a very tired manand he had come farther, traveled longer and over darker country, thanany man who'd ever lived before. He wanted a meal at his own table, akiss from his wife, a word from his son, and later to see some oldfriends and a relative or two. He didn't want to talk about the journey.He wanted to forget the immediacy, the urgency, the terror; then perhapshe would talk.     Or would he? For he had very little to tell. He had traveled and he hadreturned and his voyage was very much like the voyages of the greatmariners, from Columbus onward—long, dull periods of time passing,passing, and then the arrival.     The house had changed. He saw that as soon as the official car let himoff at 45 Roosevelt Street. The change was, he knew, for the better.They had put a porch in front. They had rehabilitated, spruced up,almost rebuilt the entire outside and grounds. But he was sorry. He hadwanted it to be as before.     The head of the American Legion and the chief of police, who hadescorted him on this trip from the square, didn't ask to go in with him.He was glad. He'd had enough of strangers. Not that he was through withstrangers. There were dozens of them up and down the street, standingbeside parked cars, looking at him. But when he looked back at them,their eyes dropped, they turned away, they began moving off. He wasstill too much the First One to have his gaze met.     He walked up what had once been a concrete path and was now an ornateflagstone path. He climbed the new porch and raised the ornamentalknocker on the new door and heard the soft music sound within. He wassurprised that he'd had to do this. He'd thought Edith would be watchingat a window.     And perhaps she      had     been watching ... but she hadn't opened the door.     The door opened; he looked at her. It hadn't been too long and shehadn't changed at all. She was still the small, slender girl he'd lovedin high school, the small, slender woman he'd married twelve years ago.Ralphie was with her. They held onto each other as if seeking mutualsupport, the thirty-three-year old woman and ten-year-old boy. Theylooked at him, and then both moved forward, still together. He said,It's good to be home!     Edith nodded and, still holding to Ralphie with one hand, put the otherarm around him. He kissed her—her neck, her cheek—and all the oldjokes came to mind, the jokes of travel-weary, battle-weary men, theand-      then     -I'll-put-my-pack-aside jokes that spoke of terrible hunger.She was trembling, and even as her lips came up to touch his he felt thedifference, and because of this difference he turned with urgency toRalphie and picked him up and hugged him and said, because he couldthink of nothing else to say, What a big fella, what a big fella.     Ralphie stood in his arms as if his feet were still planted on thefloor, and he didn't look at his father but somewhere beyond him. Ididn't grow much while you were gone, Dad, Mom says I don't eat enough.     So he put him down and told himself that it would all change, thateverything would loosen up just as his commanding officer, GeneralCarlisle, had said it would early this morning before he leftWashington.     Give it some time, Carlisle had said. You need the time; they needthe time. And for the love of heaven, don't be sensitive.  Edith was leading him into the living room, her hand lying still in his,a cool, dead bird lying still in his. He sat down on the couch, she satdown beside him—but she had hesitated. He      wasn't     being sensitive; shehad hesitated. His wife had hesitated before sitting down beside him.     Carlisle had said his position was analogous to Columbus', to Vasco DeGama's, to Preshoff's when the Russian returned from the Moon—but moreso. Carlisle had said lots of things, but even Carlisle who had workedwith him all the way, who had engineered the entire fantasticjourney—even Carlisle the Nobel prize winner, the multi-degreed geniusin uniform, had not actually spoken to him as one man to another.       The eyes. It always showed in their eyes.       He looked across the room at Ralphie, standing in the doorway, a boyalready tall, already widening in the shoulders, already large offeature. It was like looking into the mirror and seeing himselftwenty-five years ago. But Ralphie's face was drawn, was worried in away that few ten-year-old faces are.     How's it going in school? he asked.     Gee, Dad, it's the second month of summer vacation.     Well, then, before summer vacation?     Pretty good.     Edith said, He made top forum the six-month period before vacation, andhe made top forum the six-month period you went away, Hank.     He nodded, remembering that, remembering everything, remembering thewarmth of her farewell, the warmth of Ralphie's farewell, their tears ashe left for the experimental flight station in the Aleutians. They hadfeared for him, having read of the many launchings gone wrong even incontinent-to-continent experimental flight.     They had been right to worry. He had suffered much after that blow-up.But now they should be rejoicing, because he had survived and made thelong journey. Ralphie suddenly said, I got to go, Dad. I promised Waltand the others I'd pitch. It's Inter-Town Little League, you know. It'sHarmon, you know. I got to keep my word. Without waiting for an answer,he waved his hand—it shook; a ten-year-old boy's hand that shook—andran from the room and from the house.     He and Edith sat beside each other, and he wanted badly to take her inhis arms, and yet he didn't want to oppress her. He stood up. I'm verytired. I'd like to lie down a while. Which wasn't true, because he'dbeen lying down all the months of the way back.     She said, Of course. How stupid of me, expecting you to sit around andmake small talk and pick up just where you left off.     He nodded. But that was exactly what he wanted to do—make small talkand pick up just where he'd left off. But they didn't expect it of him;they wouldn't let him; they felt he had changed too much.  She led him upstairs and along the foyer past Ralphie's room and pastthe small guest room to their bedroom. This, too, had changed. It wasnewly painted and it had new furniture. He saw twin beds separated by anornate little table with an ornate little lamp, and this looked moreominous a barrier to him than the twelve-foot concrete-and-barbed-wirefence around the experimental station.     Which one is mine, he asked, and tried to smile.     She also tried to smile. The one near the window. You always liked thefresh air, the sunshine in the morning. You always said it helped youto get up on time when you were stationed at the base outside of town.You always said it reminded you—being able to see the sky—that youwere going to go up in it, and that you were going to come down from itto this bed again.     Not this bed, he murmured, and was a little sorry afterward.     No, not this bed, she said quickly. Your lodge donated the bedroomset and I really didn't know— She waved her hand, her face white.     He was sure then that she      had     known, and that the beds and the barrierbetween them were her own choice, if only an unconscious choice. He wentto the bed near the window, stripped off his Air Force blue jacket,began to take off his shirt, but then remembered that some arm scarsstill showed. He waited for her to leave the room.     She said, Well then, rest up, dear, and went out.     He took off his shirt and saw himself in the mirror on the oppositewall; and then took off his under-shirt. The body scars were faint, thescars running in long lines, one dissecting his chest, the other slicingdiagonally across his upper abdomen to disappear under his trousers.There were several more on his back, and one on his right thigh. They'dbeen treated properly and would soon disappear. But she had never seenthem.     Perhaps she never would. Perhaps pajamas and robes and dark rooms wouldkeep them from her until they were gone.     Which was not what he'd considered at all important on leaving WalterReed Hospital early this morning; which was something he founddistasteful, something he felt beneath them both. And, at the same time,he began to understand that there would be many things, previouslybeneath them both, which would have to be considered. She had changed;Ralphie had changed; all the people he knew had probablychanged—because they thought      he     had changed.     He was tired of thinking. He lay down and closed his eyes. He lethimself taste bitterness, unhappiness, a loneliness he had never knownbefore.     But sometime later, as he was dozing off, a sense of reassurance beganfiltering into his mind. After all, he was still Henry Devers, the sameman who had left home eleven months ago, with a love for family andfriends which was, if anything, stronger than before. Once he couldcommunicate this, the strangeness would disappear and the First Onewould again become good old Hank. It was little enough to ask for—areturn to old values, old relationships, the normalcies of the backwashinstead of the freneticisms of the lime-light. It would certainly begranted to him.     He slept.  Dinner was at seven  p.m.  His mother came; his Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucillecame. Together with Edith, Ralphie and himself, they made six, and atein the dining room at the big table.     Before he'd become the First One, it would have been a noisy affair. Hisfamily had never been noted for a lack of ebullience, a lack oftalkativeness, and Ralphie had always chosen mealtimes—especially withcompany present—to describe everything and anything that had happenedto him during the day. And Edith herself had always chatted, especiallywith his mother, though they didn't agree about much. Still, it had beengood-natured; the general tone of their lives had been good-natured.     This wasn't good-natured. Exactly what it was he wasn't sure. Stiffwas perhaps the word.     They began with grapefruit, Edith and Mother serving quickly,efficiently from the kitchen, then sitting down at the table. He lookedat Mother as he raised his first spoonful of chilled fruit, and said,Younger than ever. It was nothing new; he'd said it many many timesbefore, but his mother had always reacted with a bright smile and a quipsomething like, Young for the Golden Age Center, you mean. This timeshe burst into tears. It shocked him. But what shocked him even more wasthe fact that no one looked up, commented, made any attempt to comforther; no one indicated in any way that a woman was sobbing at the table.     He was sitting directly across from Mother, and reached out and touchedher left hand which lay limply beside the silverware. She didn't moveit—she hadn't touched him once beyond that first, quick, strangely-coolembrace at the door—then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let itdrop out of sight.     So there he was, Henry Devers, at home with the family. So there he was,the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being.     The grapefruit shells were cleaned away and the soup served. Uncle Joebegan to talk. The greatest little development of circular uniformhouses you ever did see, he boomed in his powerful salesman's voice.Still going like sixty. We'll sell out before— At that point helooked at Hank, and Hank nodded encouragement, desperately interested inthis normalcy, and Joe's voice died away. He looked down at his plate,mumbled, Soup's getting cold, and began to eat. His hand shook alittle; his ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it.     Aunt Lucille made a few quavering statements about the Ladies' TuesdayGarden Club, and Hank looked across the table to where she sat betweenJoe and Mother—his wife and son bracketed him, and yet he feltalone—and said, I've missed fooling around with the lawn and the rosebushes. Here it is August and I haven't had my hand to a mower ortrowel.     Aunt Lucille smiled, if you could call it that—a pitiful twitching ofthe lips—and nodded. She threw her eyes in his direction, and past him,and then down to her plate. Mother, who was still sniffling, said, Ihave a dismal headache. I'm going to lie down in the guest room awhile. She touched his shoulder in passing—his affectionate, effusivemother who would kiss stray dogs and strange children, who had oftenirritated him with an excess of physical and verbal caresses—she barelytouched his shoulder and fled.     So now five of them sat at the table. The meat was served—thin, rareslices of beef, the pink blood-juice oozing warmly from the center. Hecut into it and raised a forkful to his mouth, then glanced at Ralphieand said, Looks fresh enough to have been killed in the back yard.Ralphie said, Yeah, Dad. Aunt Lucille put down her knife and fork andmurmured something to her husband. Joe cleared his throat and saidLucille was rapidly becoming a vegetarian and he guessed she was goinginto the living room for a while. She'll be back for dessert, ofcourse, he said, his laugh sounding forced.     Hank looked at Edith; Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked atRalphie; Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe; Joe waschewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked atLucille; she was disappearing into the living room.     He brought his fist down on the table. The settings jumped; a glassoverturned, spilling water. He brought it down again and again. Theywere all standing now. He sat there and pounded the table with his bigright fist—Henry Devers, who would never have thought of making such ascene before, but who was now so sick and tired of being treated as theFirst One, of being stood back from, looked at in awe of, felt in fearof, that he could have smashed more than a table.     Edith said, Hank!     He said, voice hoarse, Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick ofthe lot of you.  Mother and Joe returned a few minutes later where he sat forcing fooddown his throat. Mother said, Henry dear— He didn't answer. She beganto cry, and he was glad she left the house then. He had never saidanything really bad to his mother. He was afraid this would have beenthe time. Joe merely cleared his throat and mumbled something aboutgetting together again soon and drop out and see the new developmentand he, too, was gone. Lucille never did manage to speak to him.     He finished his beef and waited. Soon Edith came in with the specialdessert she'd been preparing half the day—a magnificent English trifle.She served him, and spooned out a portion for herself and Ralphie. Shehesitated near his chair, and when he made no comment she called theboy. Then the three of them were sitting, facing the empty side of thetable. They ate the trifle. Ralphie finished first and got up and said,Hey, I promised—     You promised the boys you'd play baseball or football or handball orsomething; anything to get away from your father.     Ralphie's head dropped and he muttered, Aw, no, Dad.     Edith said, He'll stay home, Hank. We'll spend an eveningtogether—talking, watching TV, playing Monopoly.     Ralphie said, Gee, sure, Dad, if you want to.     Hank stood up. The question is not whether I want to. You both know Iwant to. The question is whether      you     want to.     They answered together that of course they wanted to. But theireyes—his wife's and son's eyes—could not meet his, and so he said hewas going to his room because he was, after all, very tired and would inall probability continue to be very tired for a long, long time and thatthey shouldn't count on him for normal social life.     He fell asleep quickly, lying there in his clothes.     But he didn't sleep long. Edith shook him and he opened his eyes to alighted room. Phil and Rhona are here. He blinked at her. She smiled,and it seemed her old smile. They're so anxious to see you, Hank. Icould barely keep Phil from coming up and waking you himself. They wantto go out and do the town. Please, Hank, say you will.     He sat up. Phil, he muttered. Phil and Rhona. They'd had wonderfultimes together, from grammar school on. Phil and Rhona, their oldest andclosest friends. Perhaps this would begin his real homecoming.     Do the town? They'd paint it and then tear it down!  It didn't turn out that way. He was disappointed; but then again, he'dalso expected it. This entire first day at home had conditioned him toexpect nothing good. They went to the bowling alleys, and Phil soundedvery much the way he always had—soft spoken and full of laughter andfull of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had, andclapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had—so muchmore gently, almost remotely), and insisted they all drink more than wasgood for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go alongon the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer.     They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road toManfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffeeand Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but hemerely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana.     There was dancing to a juke box in Manfred's Tavern. He'd been theremany times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognizedhim. But except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was asif he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world.     At midnight, he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but hesaid, I haven't danced with my girl Rhona. His tongue was thick, hismind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on herface—pretty Rhona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritualof flirting with him. Pretty Rhona, who now looked as if she were goingto be sick.     So let's rock, he said and stood up.     They were on the dance floor. He held her close, and hummed and chatted.And through the alcoholic haze saw she was a stiff-smiled, stiff-bodied,mechanical dancing doll.     The number finished; they walked back to the booth. Phil said,Beddy-bye time.     Hank said, First one dance with my loving wife.     He and Edith danced. He didn't hold her close as he had Rhona. He waitedfor her to come close on her own, and she did, and yet she didn't.Because while she put herself against him, there was something in herface—no, in her eyes; it always showed in the eyes—that made him knowshe was trying to be the old Edith and not succeeding. This time whenthe music ended, he was ready to go home.     They rode back to town along Route Nine, he and Edith in the rear ofPhil's car, Rhona driving because Phil had drunk just a little too much,Phil singing and telling an occasional bad joke, and somehow not his oldself. No one was his old self. No one would ever be his old self withthe First One.     They turned left, to take the short cut along Hallowed Hill Road, andPhil finished a story about a Martian and a Hollywood sex queen andlooked at his wife and then past her at the long, cast-iron fenceparalleling the road. Hey, he said, pointing, do you know why that'sthe most popular place on earth?     Rhona glanced to the left, and so did Hank and Edith. Rhona made alittle sound, and Edith seemed to stop breathing, but Phil went on awhile longer, not yet aware of his supposed      faux pas     .     You know why? he repeated, turning to the back seat, the laughterrumbling up from his chest. You know why, folks?     Rhona said, Did you notice Carl Braken and his wife at—     Hank said, No, Phil, why is it the most popular place on earth?     Phil said, Because people are— And then he caught himself and wavedhis hand and muttered, I forgot the punch line.     Because people are dying to get in, Hank said, and looked through thewindow, past the iron fence, into the large cemetery at the fleetingtombstones.     The car was filled with horrified silence when there should have beennothing but laughter, or irritation at a too-old joke. Maybe you shouldlet me out right here, Hank said. I'm home—or that's what everyoneseems to think. Maybe I should lie down in an open grave. Maybe thatwould satisfy people. Maybe that's the only way to act, like Dracula oranother monster from the movies.     Edith said, Oh, Hank, don't, don't!     The car raced along the road, crossed a macadam highway, went fourblocks and pulled to a stop. He didn't bother saying good night. Hedidn't wait for Edith. He just got out and walked up the flagstone pathand entered the house.  Hank, Edith whispered from the guest room doorway, I'm so sorry—     There's nothing to be sorry about. It's just a matter of time. It'llall work out in time.     Yes, she said quickly, that's it. I need a little time. We all need alittle time. Because it's so strange, Hank. Because it's so frightening.I should have told you that the moment you walked in. I think I've hurtyou terribly, we've all hurt you terribly, by trying to hide that we'refrightened.     I'm going to stay in the guest room, he said, for as long asnecessary. For good if need be.     How could it be for good? How, Hank?     That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had sincereturning. And there was something else; what Carlisle had told him,even as Carlisle himself had reacted as all men did.     There are others coming, Edith. Eight that I know of in the tanks rightnow. My superior, Captain Davidson, who died at the same moment Idid—seven months ago next Wednesday—he's going to be next. He wassmashed up worse than I was, so it took a little longer, but he's almostready. And there'll be many more, Edith. The government is going to saveall they possibly can from now on. Every time a young and healthy manloses his life by accident, by violence, and his body can be recovered,he'll go into the tanks and they'll start the regenerative brain andorgan process—the process that made it all possible. So people have toget used to us. And the old stories, the old terrors, the ugly oldsuperstitions have to die, because in time each place will have some ofus; because in time it'll be an ordinary thing.     Edith said, Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Pleasebelieve that. Please be patient with me and Ralphie and— She paused.There's one question.     He knew what the question was. It had been the first asked him byeveryone from the president of the United States on down.     I saw nothing, he said. It was as if I slept those six and a halfmonths—slept without dreaming.     She came to him and touched his face with her lips, and he wassatisfied.     Later, half asleep, he heard a dog howling, and remembered stories ofhow they announced death and the presence of monsters. He shivered andpulled the covers closer to him and luxuriated in being safe in his ownhome.     THE END  ","Henry Devers was participating in an experimental flight that ended in an explosion. After that, he became the first person ever saved by regenerative technologies that had helped rebuild his body and make him breathe again. At the beginning of the story, he leaves the hospital after months of medical sleep during which his body was healing. Devers is met by the mayor and curious yet quiet crowds, he goes on a triumphant tour around the town and finally comes home to his wife Edith and his ten-year-old son Ralphie. They also seem aloof and hesitant, having no idea what to say or do around him now. He realizes his wife bought a separate twin bed which looks like an additional barrier between them to him, and his son quickly leaves for a baseball game having no apparent desire to spend time with the father. In the evening, his mother, uncle Joe, and aunt Lucille come for dinner: his mother cries, his uncle and aunt are not talkative - everyone looks stiff and uncomfortable, they are avoiding Henry’s gaze. It infuriates him, and after his angry outburst, the guests soon leave. After another small awkward conversation with his family, he goes to bed only to be soon woken up by Edith who informs him about his friends’ arrival. Phil and Rhona seem happy to see their friend, but after going to bowling alleys and a tavern Devers realizes that they are apprehensive and scared, just like everyone else. After Phil’s unsuccessful joke about a cemetery, Devers understands that everyone treats him as The First One, they cannot act as they used to because they are afraid. Later at home, Edith admits that she’s frightened and they all need time to adapt. In reply, he tells her that soon such regenerative technologies and processes will be an ordinary thing, and his captain, for example, who died together with Henry, will soon leave the hospital, too. Devers won't be the only one. He goes to sleep in the guest room."
"What’s the significance of the regenerative technology in the story? </s>    THE FIRST ONE     By HERBERT D. KASTLE     Illustrated by von Dongen     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog July 1961.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.]       The first man to return from beyond the Great Frontier may bewelcomed ... but will it be as a curiosity, rather than as ahero...?       There was the usual welcoming crowd for a celebrity, and the usualspeeches by the usual politicians who met him at the airport which hadonce been twenty miles outside of Croton, but which the growing city hadsince engulfed and placed well within its boundaries. But everythingwasn't usual. The crowd was quiet, and the mayor didn't seem quite asat-ease as he'd been on his last big welcoming—for Corporal Berringer,one of the crew of the spaceship      Washington     , first to set Americansupon Mars. His Honor's handclasp was somewhat moist and cold. HisHonor's eyes held a trace of remoteness.     Still, he was the honored home-comer, the successful returnee, thehometown boy who had made good in a big way, and they took the triumphaltour up Main Street to the new square and the grandstand. There he satbetween the mayor and a nervous young coed chosen as homecoming queen,and looked out at the police and fire department bands, the NationalGuard, the boy scouts and girl scouts, the Elks and Masons. Several ofthe churches in town had shown indecision as to how to instruct theirparishioners to treat him. But they had all come around. The tremendousnational interest, the fact that he was the First One, had made themcome around. It was obvious by now that they would have to adjust asthey'd adjusted to all the other firsts taking place in these—as thenewspapers had dubbed the start of the Twenty-first Century—theGalloping Twenties.     He was glad when the official greeting was over. He was a very tired manand he had come farther, traveled longer and over darker country, thanany man who'd ever lived before. He wanted a meal at his own table, akiss from his wife, a word from his son, and later to see some oldfriends and a relative or two. He didn't want to talk about the journey.He wanted to forget the immediacy, the urgency, the terror; then perhapshe would talk.     Or would he? For he had very little to tell. He had traveled and he hadreturned and his voyage was very much like the voyages of the greatmariners, from Columbus onward—long, dull periods of time passing,passing, and then the arrival.     The house had changed. He saw that as soon as the official car let himoff at 45 Roosevelt Street. The change was, he knew, for the better.They had put a porch in front. They had rehabilitated, spruced up,almost rebuilt the entire outside and grounds. But he was sorry. He hadwanted it to be as before.     The head of the American Legion and the chief of police, who hadescorted him on this trip from the square, didn't ask to go in with him.He was glad. He'd had enough of strangers. Not that he was through withstrangers. There were dozens of them up and down the street, standingbeside parked cars, looking at him. But when he looked back at them,their eyes dropped, they turned away, they began moving off. He wasstill too much the First One to have his gaze met.     He walked up what had once been a concrete path and was now an ornateflagstone path. He climbed the new porch and raised the ornamentalknocker on the new door and heard the soft music sound within. He wassurprised that he'd had to do this. He'd thought Edith would be watchingat a window.     And perhaps she      had     been watching ... but she hadn't opened the door.     The door opened; he looked at her. It hadn't been too long and shehadn't changed at all. She was still the small, slender girl he'd lovedin high school, the small, slender woman he'd married twelve years ago.Ralphie was with her. They held onto each other as if seeking mutualsupport, the thirty-three-year old woman and ten-year-old boy. Theylooked at him, and then both moved forward, still together. He said,It's good to be home!     Edith nodded and, still holding to Ralphie with one hand, put the otherarm around him. He kissed her—her neck, her cheek—and all the oldjokes came to mind, the jokes of travel-weary, battle-weary men, theand-      then     -I'll-put-my-pack-aside jokes that spoke of terrible hunger.She was trembling, and even as her lips came up to touch his he felt thedifference, and because of this difference he turned with urgency toRalphie and picked him up and hugged him and said, because he couldthink of nothing else to say, What a big fella, what a big fella.     Ralphie stood in his arms as if his feet were still planted on thefloor, and he didn't look at his father but somewhere beyond him. Ididn't grow much while you were gone, Dad, Mom says I don't eat enough.     So he put him down and told himself that it would all change, thateverything would loosen up just as his commanding officer, GeneralCarlisle, had said it would early this morning before he leftWashington.     Give it some time, Carlisle had said. You need the time; they needthe time. And for the love of heaven, don't be sensitive.  Edith was leading him into the living room, her hand lying still in his,a cool, dead bird lying still in his. He sat down on the couch, she satdown beside him—but she had hesitated. He      wasn't     being sensitive; shehad hesitated. His wife had hesitated before sitting down beside him.     Carlisle had said his position was analogous to Columbus', to Vasco DeGama's, to Preshoff's when the Russian returned from the Moon—but moreso. Carlisle had said lots of things, but even Carlisle who had workedwith him all the way, who had engineered the entire fantasticjourney—even Carlisle the Nobel prize winner, the multi-degreed geniusin uniform, had not actually spoken to him as one man to another.       The eyes. It always showed in their eyes.       He looked across the room at Ralphie, standing in the doorway, a boyalready tall, already widening in the shoulders, already large offeature. It was like looking into the mirror and seeing himselftwenty-five years ago. But Ralphie's face was drawn, was worried in away that few ten-year-old faces are.     How's it going in school? he asked.     Gee, Dad, it's the second month of summer vacation.     Well, then, before summer vacation?     Pretty good.     Edith said, He made top forum the six-month period before vacation, andhe made top forum the six-month period you went away, Hank.     He nodded, remembering that, remembering everything, remembering thewarmth of her farewell, the warmth of Ralphie's farewell, their tears ashe left for the experimental flight station in the Aleutians. They hadfeared for him, having read of the many launchings gone wrong even incontinent-to-continent experimental flight.     They had been right to worry. He had suffered much after that blow-up.But now they should be rejoicing, because he had survived and made thelong journey. Ralphie suddenly said, I got to go, Dad. I promised Waltand the others I'd pitch. It's Inter-Town Little League, you know. It'sHarmon, you know. I got to keep my word. Without waiting for an answer,he waved his hand—it shook; a ten-year-old boy's hand that shook—andran from the room and from the house.     He and Edith sat beside each other, and he wanted badly to take her inhis arms, and yet he didn't want to oppress her. He stood up. I'm verytired. I'd like to lie down a while. Which wasn't true, because he'dbeen lying down all the months of the way back.     She said, Of course. How stupid of me, expecting you to sit around andmake small talk and pick up just where you left off.     He nodded. But that was exactly what he wanted to do—make small talkand pick up just where he'd left off. But they didn't expect it of him;they wouldn't let him; they felt he had changed too much.  She led him upstairs and along the foyer past Ralphie's room and pastthe small guest room to their bedroom. This, too, had changed. It wasnewly painted and it had new furniture. He saw twin beds separated by anornate little table with an ornate little lamp, and this looked moreominous a barrier to him than the twelve-foot concrete-and-barbed-wirefence around the experimental station.     Which one is mine, he asked, and tried to smile.     She also tried to smile. The one near the window. You always liked thefresh air, the sunshine in the morning. You always said it helped youto get up on time when you were stationed at the base outside of town.You always said it reminded you—being able to see the sky—that youwere going to go up in it, and that you were going to come down from itto this bed again.     Not this bed, he murmured, and was a little sorry afterward.     No, not this bed, she said quickly. Your lodge donated the bedroomset and I really didn't know— She waved her hand, her face white.     He was sure then that she      had     known, and that the beds and the barrierbetween them were her own choice, if only an unconscious choice. He wentto the bed near the window, stripped off his Air Force blue jacket,began to take off his shirt, but then remembered that some arm scarsstill showed. He waited for her to leave the room.     She said, Well then, rest up, dear, and went out.     He took off his shirt and saw himself in the mirror on the oppositewall; and then took off his under-shirt. The body scars were faint, thescars running in long lines, one dissecting his chest, the other slicingdiagonally across his upper abdomen to disappear under his trousers.There were several more on his back, and one on his right thigh. They'dbeen treated properly and would soon disappear. But she had never seenthem.     Perhaps she never would. Perhaps pajamas and robes and dark rooms wouldkeep them from her until they were gone.     Which was not what he'd considered at all important on leaving WalterReed Hospital early this morning; which was something he founddistasteful, something he felt beneath them both. And, at the same time,he began to understand that there would be many things, previouslybeneath them both, which would have to be considered. She had changed;Ralphie had changed; all the people he knew had probablychanged—because they thought      he     had changed.     He was tired of thinking. He lay down and closed his eyes. He lethimself taste bitterness, unhappiness, a loneliness he had never knownbefore.     But sometime later, as he was dozing off, a sense of reassurance beganfiltering into his mind. After all, he was still Henry Devers, the sameman who had left home eleven months ago, with a love for family andfriends which was, if anything, stronger than before. Once he couldcommunicate this, the strangeness would disappear and the First Onewould again become good old Hank. It was little enough to ask for—areturn to old values, old relationships, the normalcies of the backwashinstead of the freneticisms of the lime-light. It would certainly begranted to him.     He slept.  Dinner was at seven  p.m.  His mother came; his Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucillecame. Together with Edith, Ralphie and himself, they made six, and atein the dining room at the big table.     Before he'd become the First One, it would have been a noisy affair. Hisfamily had never been noted for a lack of ebullience, a lack oftalkativeness, and Ralphie had always chosen mealtimes—especially withcompany present—to describe everything and anything that had happenedto him during the day. And Edith herself had always chatted, especiallywith his mother, though they didn't agree about much. Still, it had beengood-natured; the general tone of their lives had been good-natured.     This wasn't good-natured. Exactly what it was he wasn't sure. Stiffwas perhaps the word.     They began with grapefruit, Edith and Mother serving quickly,efficiently from the kitchen, then sitting down at the table. He lookedat Mother as he raised his first spoonful of chilled fruit, and said,Younger than ever. It was nothing new; he'd said it many many timesbefore, but his mother had always reacted with a bright smile and a quipsomething like, Young for the Golden Age Center, you mean. This timeshe burst into tears. It shocked him. But what shocked him even more wasthe fact that no one looked up, commented, made any attempt to comforther; no one indicated in any way that a woman was sobbing at the table.     He was sitting directly across from Mother, and reached out and touchedher left hand which lay limply beside the silverware. She didn't moveit—she hadn't touched him once beyond that first, quick, strangely-coolembrace at the door—then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let itdrop out of sight.     So there he was, Henry Devers, at home with the family. So there he was,the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being.     The grapefruit shells were cleaned away and the soup served. Uncle Joebegan to talk. The greatest little development of circular uniformhouses you ever did see, he boomed in his powerful salesman's voice.Still going like sixty. We'll sell out before— At that point helooked at Hank, and Hank nodded encouragement, desperately interested inthis normalcy, and Joe's voice died away. He looked down at his plate,mumbled, Soup's getting cold, and began to eat. His hand shook alittle; his ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it.     Aunt Lucille made a few quavering statements about the Ladies' TuesdayGarden Club, and Hank looked across the table to where she sat betweenJoe and Mother—his wife and son bracketed him, and yet he feltalone—and said, I've missed fooling around with the lawn and the rosebushes. Here it is August and I haven't had my hand to a mower ortrowel.     Aunt Lucille smiled, if you could call it that—a pitiful twitching ofthe lips—and nodded. She threw her eyes in his direction, and past him,and then down to her plate. Mother, who was still sniffling, said, Ihave a dismal headache. I'm going to lie down in the guest room awhile. She touched his shoulder in passing—his affectionate, effusivemother who would kiss stray dogs and strange children, who had oftenirritated him with an excess of physical and verbal caresses—she barelytouched his shoulder and fled.     So now five of them sat at the table. The meat was served—thin, rareslices of beef, the pink blood-juice oozing warmly from the center. Hecut into it and raised a forkful to his mouth, then glanced at Ralphieand said, Looks fresh enough to have been killed in the back yard.Ralphie said, Yeah, Dad. Aunt Lucille put down her knife and fork andmurmured something to her husband. Joe cleared his throat and saidLucille was rapidly becoming a vegetarian and he guessed she was goinginto the living room for a while. She'll be back for dessert, ofcourse, he said, his laugh sounding forced.     Hank looked at Edith; Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked atRalphie; Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe; Joe waschewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked atLucille; she was disappearing into the living room.     He brought his fist down on the table. The settings jumped; a glassoverturned, spilling water. He brought it down again and again. Theywere all standing now. He sat there and pounded the table with his bigright fist—Henry Devers, who would never have thought of making such ascene before, but who was now so sick and tired of being treated as theFirst One, of being stood back from, looked at in awe of, felt in fearof, that he could have smashed more than a table.     Edith said, Hank!     He said, voice hoarse, Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick ofthe lot of you.  Mother and Joe returned a few minutes later where he sat forcing fooddown his throat. Mother said, Henry dear— He didn't answer. She beganto cry, and he was glad she left the house then. He had never saidanything really bad to his mother. He was afraid this would have beenthe time. Joe merely cleared his throat and mumbled something aboutgetting together again soon and drop out and see the new developmentand he, too, was gone. Lucille never did manage to speak to him.     He finished his beef and waited. Soon Edith came in with the specialdessert she'd been preparing half the day—a magnificent English trifle.She served him, and spooned out a portion for herself and Ralphie. Shehesitated near his chair, and when he made no comment she called theboy. Then the three of them were sitting, facing the empty side of thetable. They ate the trifle. Ralphie finished first and got up and said,Hey, I promised—     You promised the boys you'd play baseball or football or handball orsomething; anything to get away from your father.     Ralphie's head dropped and he muttered, Aw, no, Dad.     Edith said, He'll stay home, Hank. We'll spend an eveningtogether—talking, watching TV, playing Monopoly.     Ralphie said, Gee, sure, Dad, if you want to.     Hank stood up. The question is not whether I want to. You both know Iwant to. The question is whether      you     want to.     They answered together that of course they wanted to. But theireyes—his wife's and son's eyes—could not meet his, and so he said hewas going to his room because he was, after all, very tired and would inall probability continue to be very tired for a long, long time and thatthey shouldn't count on him for normal social life.     He fell asleep quickly, lying there in his clothes.     But he didn't sleep long. Edith shook him and he opened his eyes to alighted room. Phil and Rhona are here. He blinked at her. She smiled,and it seemed her old smile. They're so anxious to see you, Hank. Icould barely keep Phil from coming up and waking you himself. They wantto go out and do the town. Please, Hank, say you will.     He sat up. Phil, he muttered. Phil and Rhona. They'd had wonderfultimes together, from grammar school on. Phil and Rhona, their oldest andclosest friends. Perhaps this would begin his real homecoming.     Do the town? They'd paint it and then tear it down!  It didn't turn out that way. He was disappointed; but then again, he'dalso expected it. This entire first day at home had conditioned him toexpect nothing good. They went to the bowling alleys, and Phil soundedvery much the way he always had—soft spoken and full of laughter andfull of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had, andclapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had—so muchmore gently, almost remotely), and insisted they all drink more than wasgood for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go alongon the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer.     They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road toManfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffeeand Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but hemerely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana.     There was dancing to a juke box in Manfred's Tavern. He'd been theremany times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognizedhim. But except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was asif he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world.     At midnight, he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but hesaid, I haven't danced with my girl Rhona. His tongue was thick, hismind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on herface—pretty Rhona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritualof flirting with him. Pretty Rhona, who now looked as if she were goingto be sick.     So let's rock, he said and stood up.     They were on the dance floor. He held her close, and hummed and chatted.And through the alcoholic haze saw she was a stiff-smiled, stiff-bodied,mechanical dancing doll.     The number finished; they walked back to the booth. Phil said,Beddy-bye time.     Hank said, First one dance with my loving wife.     He and Edith danced. He didn't hold her close as he had Rhona. He waitedfor her to come close on her own, and she did, and yet she didn't.Because while she put herself against him, there was something in herface—no, in her eyes; it always showed in the eyes—that made him knowshe was trying to be the old Edith and not succeeding. This time whenthe music ended, he was ready to go home.     They rode back to town along Route Nine, he and Edith in the rear ofPhil's car, Rhona driving because Phil had drunk just a little too much,Phil singing and telling an occasional bad joke, and somehow not his oldself. No one was his old self. No one would ever be his old self withthe First One.     They turned left, to take the short cut along Hallowed Hill Road, andPhil finished a story about a Martian and a Hollywood sex queen andlooked at his wife and then past her at the long, cast-iron fenceparalleling the road. Hey, he said, pointing, do you know why that'sthe most popular place on earth?     Rhona glanced to the left, and so did Hank and Edith. Rhona made alittle sound, and Edith seemed to stop breathing, but Phil went on awhile longer, not yet aware of his supposed      faux pas     .     You know why? he repeated, turning to the back seat, the laughterrumbling up from his chest. You know why, folks?     Rhona said, Did you notice Carl Braken and his wife at—     Hank said, No, Phil, why is it the most popular place on earth?     Phil said, Because people are— And then he caught himself and wavedhis hand and muttered, I forgot the punch line.     Because people are dying to get in, Hank said, and looked through thewindow, past the iron fence, into the large cemetery at the fleetingtombstones.     The car was filled with horrified silence when there should have beennothing but laughter, or irritation at a too-old joke. Maybe you shouldlet me out right here, Hank said. I'm home—or that's what everyoneseems to think. Maybe I should lie down in an open grave. Maybe thatwould satisfy people. Maybe that's the only way to act, like Dracula oranother monster from the movies.     Edith said, Oh, Hank, don't, don't!     The car raced along the road, crossed a macadam highway, went fourblocks and pulled to a stop. He didn't bother saying good night. Hedidn't wait for Edith. He just got out and walked up the flagstone pathand entered the house.  Hank, Edith whispered from the guest room doorway, I'm so sorry—     There's nothing to be sorry about. It's just a matter of time. It'llall work out in time.     Yes, she said quickly, that's it. I need a little time. We all need alittle time. Because it's so strange, Hank. Because it's so frightening.I should have told you that the moment you walked in. I think I've hurtyou terribly, we've all hurt you terribly, by trying to hide that we'refrightened.     I'm going to stay in the guest room, he said, for as long asnecessary. For good if need be.     How could it be for good? How, Hank?     That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had sincereturning. And there was something else; what Carlisle had told him,even as Carlisle himself had reacted as all men did.     There are others coming, Edith. Eight that I know of in the tanks rightnow. My superior, Captain Davidson, who died at the same moment Idid—seven months ago next Wednesday—he's going to be next. He wassmashed up worse than I was, so it took a little longer, but he's almostready. And there'll be many more, Edith. The government is going to saveall they possibly can from now on. Every time a young and healthy manloses his life by accident, by violence, and his body can be recovered,he'll go into the tanks and they'll start the regenerative brain andorgan process—the process that made it all possible. So people have toget used to us. And the old stories, the old terrors, the ugly oldsuperstitions have to die, because in time each place will have some ofus; because in time it'll be an ordinary thing.     Edith said, Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Pleasebelieve that. Please be patient with me and Ralphie and— She paused.There's one question.     He knew what the question was. It had been the first asked him byeveryone from the president of the United States on down.     I saw nothing, he said. It was as if I slept those six and a halfmonths—slept without dreaming.     She came to him and touched his face with her lips, and he wassatisfied.     Later, half asleep, he heard a dog howling, and remembered stories ofhow they announced death and the presence of monsters. He shivered andpulled the covers closer to him and luxuriated in being safe in his ownhome.     THE END  ","The main character - Henry Devers - is the first man to have been saved by regenerative technologies. After leaving the hospital, he goes on a grandiose tour around the town, but he can see that the crowds are quiet. At home, his wife Edith seems overly hesitant and restrained, his son Ralphie quickly leaves them. Later in the evening, during dinner, his mother, aunt, and uncle also seem stiff and anxious, infuriating him. After that, he meets with his close friends hoping for them to treat him as before, but all their actions show that they are not comfortable with Devers either. He realizes that everyone he knows doesn't know how to behave around him, they cannot look him in the eyes and are scared. The First One status makes everyone terrified of him, which his wife later admits. But Devers assures her that soon this kind of technology will be ubiquitous, and the old superstitions will die, people like him will be ordinary citizens. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>    THE FIRST ONE     By HERBERT D. KASTLE     Illustrated by von Dongen     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog July 1961.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.]       The first man to return from beyond the Great Frontier may bewelcomed ... but will it be as a curiosity, rather than as ahero...?       There was the usual welcoming crowd for a celebrity, and the usualspeeches by the usual politicians who met him at the airport which hadonce been twenty miles outside of Croton, but which the growing city hadsince engulfed and placed well within its boundaries. But everythingwasn't usual. The crowd was quiet, and the mayor didn't seem quite asat-ease as he'd been on his last big welcoming—for Corporal Berringer,one of the crew of the spaceship      Washington     , first to set Americansupon Mars. His Honor's handclasp was somewhat moist and cold. HisHonor's eyes held a trace of remoteness.     Still, he was the honored home-comer, the successful returnee, thehometown boy who had made good in a big way, and they took the triumphaltour up Main Street to the new square and the grandstand. There he satbetween the mayor and a nervous young coed chosen as homecoming queen,and looked out at the police and fire department bands, the NationalGuard, the boy scouts and girl scouts, the Elks and Masons. Several ofthe churches in town had shown indecision as to how to instruct theirparishioners to treat him. But they had all come around. The tremendousnational interest, the fact that he was the First One, had made themcome around. It was obvious by now that they would have to adjust asthey'd adjusted to all the other firsts taking place in these—as thenewspapers had dubbed the start of the Twenty-first Century—theGalloping Twenties.     He was glad when the official greeting was over. He was a very tired manand he had come farther, traveled longer and over darker country, thanany man who'd ever lived before. He wanted a meal at his own table, akiss from his wife, a word from his son, and later to see some oldfriends and a relative or two. He didn't want to talk about the journey.He wanted to forget the immediacy, the urgency, the terror; then perhapshe would talk.     Or would he? For he had very little to tell. He had traveled and he hadreturned and his voyage was very much like the voyages of the greatmariners, from Columbus onward—long, dull periods of time passing,passing, and then the arrival.     The house had changed. He saw that as soon as the official car let himoff at 45 Roosevelt Street. The change was, he knew, for the better.They had put a porch in front. They had rehabilitated, spruced up,almost rebuilt the entire outside and grounds. But he was sorry. He hadwanted it to be as before.     The head of the American Legion and the chief of police, who hadescorted him on this trip from the square, didn't ask to go in with him.He was glad. He'd had enough of strangers. Not that he was through withstrangers. There were dozens of them up and down the street, standingbeside parked cars, looking at him. But when he looked back at them,their eyes dropped, they turned away, they began moving off. He wasstill too much the First One to have his gaze met.     He walked up what had once been a concrete path and was now an ornateflagstone path. He climbed the new porch and raised the ornamentalknocker on the new door and heard the soft music sound within. He wassurprised that he'd had to do this. He'd thought Edith would be watchingat a window.     And perhaps she      had     been watching ... but she hadn't opened the door.     The door opened; he looked at her. It hadn't been too long and shehadn't changed at all. She was still the small, slender girl he'd lovedin high school, the small, slender woman he'd married twelve years ago.Ralphie was with her. They held onto each other as if seeking mutualsupport, the thirty-three-year old woman and ten-year-old boy. Theylooked at him, and then both moved forward, still together. He said,It's good to be home!     Edith nodded and, still holding to Ralphie with one hand, put the otherarm around him. He kissed her—her neck, her cheek—and all the oldjokes came to mind, the jokes of travel-weary, battle-weary men, theand-      then     -I'll-put-my-pack-aside jokes that spoke of terrible hunger.She was trembling, and even as her lips came up to touch his he felt thedifference, and because of this difference he turned with urgency toRalphie and picked him up and hugged him and said, because he couldthink of nothing else to say, What a big fella, what a big fella.     Ralphie stood in his arms as if his feet were still planted on thefloor, and he didn't look at his father but somewhere beyond him. Ididn't grow much while you were gone, Dad, Mom says I don't eat enough.     So he put him down and told himself that it would all change, thateverything would loosen up just as his commanding officer, GeneralCarlisle, had said it would early this morning before he leftWashington.     Give it some time, Carlisle had said. You need the time; they needthe time. And for the love of heaven, don't be sensitive.  Edith was leading him into the living room, her hand lying still in his,a cool, dead bird lying still in his. He sat down on the couch, she satdown beside him—but she had hesitated. He      wasn't     being sensitive; shehad hesitated. His wife had hesitated before sitting down beside him.     Carlisle had said his position was analogous to Columbus', to Vasco DeGama's, to Preshoff's when the Russian returned from the Moon—but moreso. Carlisle had said lots of things, but even Carlisle who had workedwith him all the way, who had engineered the entire fantasticjourney—even Carlisle the Nobel prize winner, the multi-degreed geniusin uniform, had not actually spoken to him as one man to another.       The eyes. It always showed in their eyes.       He looked across the room at Ralphie, standing in the doorway, a boyalready tall, already widening in the shoulders, already large offeature. It was like looking into the mirror and seeing himselftwenty-five years ago. But Ralphie's face was drawn, was worried in away that few ten-year-old faces are.     How's it going in school? he asked.     Gee, Dad, it's the second month of summer vacation.     Well, then, before summer vacation?     Pretty good.     Edith said, He made top forum the six-month period before vacation, andhe made top forum the six-month period you went away, Hank.     He nodded, remembering that, remembering everything, remembering thewarmth of her farewell, the warmth of Ralphie's farewell, their tears ashe left for the experimental flight station in the Aleutians. They hadfeared for him, having read of the many launchings gone wrong even incontinent-to-continent experimental flight.     They had been right to worry. He had suffered much after that blow-up.But now they should be rejoicing, because he had survived and made thelong journey. Ralphie suddenly said, I got to go, Dad. I promised Waltand the others I'd pitch. It's Inter-Town Little League, you know. It'sHarmon, you know. I got to keep my word. Without waiting for an answer,he waved his hand—it shook; a ten-year-old boy's hand that shook—andran from the room and from the house.     He and Edith sat beside each other, and he wanted badly to take her inhis arms, and yet he didn't want to oppress her. He stood up. I'm verytired. I'd like to lie down a while. Which wasn't true, because he'dbeen lying down all the months of the way back.     She said, Of course. How stupid of me, expecting you to sit around andmake small talk and pick up just where you left off.     He nodded. But that was exactly what he wanted to do—make small talkand pick up just where he'd left off. But they didn't expect it of him;they wouldn't let him; they felt he had changed too much.  She led him upstairs and along the foyer past Ralphie's room and pastthe small guest room to their bedroom. This, too, had changed. It wasnewly painted and it had new furniture. He saw twin beds separated by anornate little table with an ornate little lamp, and this looked moreominous a barrier to him than the twelve-foot concrete-and-barbed-wirefence around the experimental station.     Which one is mine, he asked, and tried to smile.     She also tried to smile. The one near the window. You always liked thefresh air, the sunshine in the morning. You always said it helped youto get up on time when you were stationed at the base outside of town.You always said it reminded you—being able to see the sky—that youwere going to go up in it, and that you were going to come down from itto this bed again.     Not this bed, he murmured, and was a little sorry afterward.     No, not this bed, she said quickly. Your lodge donated the bedroomset and I really didn't know— She waved her hand, her face white.     He was sure then that she      had     known, and that the beds and the barrierbetween them were her own choice, if only an unconscious choice. He wentto the bed near the window, stripped off his Air Force blue jacket,began to take off his shirt, but then remembered that some arm scarsstill showed. He waited for her to leave the room.     She said, Well then, rest up, dear, and went out.     He took off his shirt and saw himself in the mirror on the oppositewall; and then took off his under-shirt. The body scars were faint, thescars running in long lines, one dissecting his chest, the other slicingdiagonally across his upper abdomen to disappear under his trousers.There were several more on his back, and one on his right thigh. They'dbeen treated properly and would soon disappear. But she had never seenthem.     Perhaps she never would. Perhaps pajamas and robes and dark rooms wouldkeep them from her until they were gone.     Which was not what he'd considered at all important on leaving WalterReed Hospital early this morning; which was something he founddistasteful, something he felt beneath them both. And, at the same time,he began to understand that there would be many things, previouslybeneath them both, which would have to be considered. She had changed;Ralphie had changed; all the people he knew had probablychanged—because they thought      he     had changed.     He was tired of thinking. He lay down and closed his eyes. He lethimself taste bitterness, unhappiness, a loneliness he had never knownbefore.     But sometime later, as he was dozing off, a sense of reassurance beganfiltering into his mind. After all, he was still Henry Devers, the sameman who had left home eleven months ago, with a love for family andfriends which was, if anything, stronger than before. Once he couldcommunicate this, the strangeness would disappear and the First Onewould again become good old Hank. It was little enough to ask for—areturn to old values, old relationships, the normalcies of the backwashinstead of the freneticisms of the lime-light. It would certainly begranted to him.     He slept.  Dinner was at seven  p.m.  His mother came; his Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucillecame. Together with Edith, Ralphie and himself, they made six, and atein the dining room at the big table.     Before he'd become the First One, it would have been a noisy affair. Hisfamily had never been noted for a lack of ebullience, a lack oftalkativeness, and Ralphie had always chosen mealtimes—especially withcompany present—to describe everything and anything that had happenedto him during the day. And Edith herself had always chatted, especiallywith his mother, though they didn't agree about much. Still, it had beengood-natured; the general tone of their lives had been good-natured.     This wasn't good-natured. Exactly what it was he wasn't sure. Stiffwas perhaps the word.     They began with grapefruit, Edith and Mother serving quickly,efficiently from the kitchen, then sitting down at the table. He lookedat Mother as he raised his first spoonful of chilled fruit, and said,Younger than ever. It was nothing new; he'd said it many many timesbefore, but his mother had always reacted with a bright smile and a quipsomething like, Young for the Golden Age Center, you mean. This timeshe burst into tears. It shocked him. But what shocked him even more wasthe fact that no one looked up, commented, made any attempt to comforther; no one indicated in any way that a woman was sobbing at the table.     He was sitting directly across from Mother, and reached out and touchedher left hand which lay limply beside the silverware. She didn't moveit—she hadn't touched him once beyond that first, quick, strangely-coolembrace at the door—then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let itdrop out of sight.     So there he was, Henry Devers, at home with the family. So there he was,the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being.     The grapefruit shells were cleaned away and the soup served. Uncle Joebegan to talk. The greatest little development of circular uniformhouses you ever did see, he boomed in his powerful salesman's voice.Still going like sixty. We'll sell out before— At that point helooked at Hank, and Hank nodded encouragement, desperately interested inthis normalcy, and Joe's voice died away. He looked down at his plate,mumbled, Soup's getting cold, and began to eat. His hand shook alittle; his ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it.     Aunt Lucille made a few quavering statements about the Ladies' TuesdayGarden Club, and Hank looked across the table to where she sat betweenJoe and Mother—his wife and son bracketed him, and yet he feltalone—and said, I've missed fooling around with the lawn and the rosebushes. Here it is August and I haven't had my hand to a mower ortrowel.     Aunt Lucille smiled, if you could call it that—a pitiful twitching ofthe lips—and nodded. She threw her eyes in his direction, and past him,and then down to her plate. Mother, who was still sniffling, said, Ihave a dismal headache. I'm going to lie down in the guest room awhile. She touched his shoulder in passing—his affectionate, effusivemother who would kiss stray dogs and strange children, who had oftenirritated him with an excess of physical and verbal caresses—she barelytouched his shoulder and fled.     So now five of them sat at the table. The meat was served—thin, rareslices of beef, the pink blood-juice oozing warmly from the center. Hecut into it and raised a forkful to his mouth, then glanced at Ralphieand said, Looks fresh enough to have been killed in the back yard.Ralphie said, Yeah, Dad. Aunt Lucille put down her knife and fork andmurmured something to her husband. Joe cleared his throat and saidLucille was rapidly becoming a vegetarian and he guessed she was goinginto the living room for a while. She'll be back for dessert, ofcourse, he said, his laugh sounding forced.     Hank looked at Edith; Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked atRalphie; Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe; Joe waschewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked atLucille; she was disappearing into the living room.     He brought his fist down on the table. The settings jumped; a glassoverturned, spilling water. He brought it down again and again. Theywere all standing now. He sat there and pounded the table with his bigright fist—Henry Devers, who would never have thought of making such ascene before, but who was now so sick and tired of being treated as theFirst One, of being stood back from, looked at in awe of, felt in fearof, that he could have smashed more than a table.     Edith said, Hank!     He said, voice hoarse, Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick ofthe lot of you.  Mother and Joe returned a few minutes later where he sat forcing fooddown his throat. Mother said, Henry dear— He didn't answer. She beganto cry, and he was glad she left the house then. He had never saidanything really bad to his mother. He was afraid this would have beenthe time. Joe merely cleared his throat and mumbled something aboutgetting together again soon and drop out and see the new developmentand he, too, was gone. Lucille never did manage to speak to him.     He finished his beef and waited. Soon Edith came in with the specialdessert she'd been preparing half the day—a magnificent English trifle.She served him, and spooned out a portion for herself and Ralphie. Shehesitated near his chair, and when he made no comment she called theboy. Then the three of them were sitting, facing the empty side of thetable. They ate the trifle. Ralphie finished first and got up and said,Hey, I promised—     You promised the boys you'd play baseball or football or handball orsomething; anything to get away from your father.     Ralphie's head dropped and he muttered, Aw, no, Dad.     Edith said, He'll stay home, Hank. We'll spend an eveningtogether—talking, watching TV, playing Monopoly.     Ralphie said, Gee, sure, Dad, if you want to.     Hank stood up. The question is not whether I want to. You both know Iwant to. The question is whether      you     want to.     They answered together that of course they wanted to. But theireyes—his wife's and son's eyes—could not meet his, and so he said hewas going to his room because he was, after all, very tired and would inall probability continue to be very tired for a long, long time and thatthey shouldn't count on him for normal social life.     He fell asleep quickly, lying there in his clothes.     But he didn't sleep long. Edith shook him and he opened his eyes to alighted room. Phil and Rhona are here. He blinked at her. She smiled,and it seemed her old smile. They're so anxious to see you, Hank. Icould barely keep Phil from coming up and waking you himself. They wantto go out and do the town. Please, Hank, say you will.     He sat up. Phil, he muttered. Phil and Rhona. They'd had wonderfultimes together, from grammar school on. Phil and Rhona, their oldest andclosest friends. Perhaps this would begin his real homecoming.     Do the town? They'd paint it and then tear it down!  It didn't turn out that way. He was disappointed; but then again, he'dalso expected it. This entire first day at home had conditioned him toexpect nothing good. They went to the bowling alleys, and Phil soundedvery much the way he always had—soft spoken and full of laughter andfull of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had, andclapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had—so muchmore gently, almost remotely), and insisted they all drink more than wasgood for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go alongon the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer.     They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road toManfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffeeand Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but hemerely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana.     There was dancing to a juke box in Manfred's Tavern. He'd been theremany times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognizedhim. But except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was asif he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world.     At midnight, he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but hesaid, I haven't danced with my girl Rhona. His tongue was thick, hismind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on herface—pretty Rhona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritualof flirting with him. Pretty Rhona, who now looked as if she were goingto be sick.     So let's rock, he said and stood up.     They were on the dance floor. He held her close, and hummed and chatted.And through the alcoholic haze saw she was a stiff-smiled, stiff-bodied,mechanical dancing doll.     The number finished; they walked back to the booth. Phil said,Beddy-bye time.     Hank said, First one dance with my loving wife.     He and Edith danced. He didn't hold her close as he had Rhona. He waitedfor her to come close on her own, and she did, and yet she didn't.Because while she put herself against him, there was something in herface—no, in her eyes; it always showed in the eyes—that made him knowshe was trying to be the old Edith and not succeeding. This time whenthe music ended, he was ready to go home.     They rode back to town along Route Nine, he and Edith in the rear ofPhil's car, Rhona driving because Phil had drunk just a little too much,Phil singing and telling an occasional bad joke, and somehow not his oldself. No one was his old self. No one would ever be his old self withthe First One.     They turned left, to take the short cut along Hallowed Hill Road, andPhil finished a story about a Martian and a Hollywood sex queen andlooked at his wife and then past her at the long, cast-iron fenceparalleling the road. Hey, he said, pointing, do you know why that'sthe most popular place on earth?     Rhona glanced to the left, and so did Hank and Edith. Rhona made alittle sound, and Edith seemed to stop breathing, but Phil went on awhile longer, not yet aware of his supposed      faux pas     .     You know why? he repeated, turning to the back seat, the laughterrumbling up from his chest. You know why, folks?     Rhona said, Did you notice Carl Braken and his wife at—     Hank said, No, Phil, why is it the most popular place on earth?     Phil said, Because people are— And then he caught himself and wavedhis hand and muttered, I forgot the punch line.     Because people are dying to get in, Hank said, and looked through thewindow, past the iron fence, into the large cemetery at the fleetingtombstones.     The car was filled with horrified silence when there should have beennothing but laughter, or irritation at a too-old joke. Maybe you shouldlet me out right here, Hank said. I'm home—or that's what everyoneseems to think. Maybe I should lie down in an open grave. Maybe thatwould satisfy people. Maybe that's the only way to act, like Dracula oranother monster from the movies.     Edith said, Oh, Hank, don't, don't!     The car raced along the road, crossed a macadam highway, went fourblocks and pulled to a stop. He didn't bother saying good night. Hedidn't wait for Edith. He just got out and walked up the flagstone pathand entered the house.  Hank, Edith whispered from the guest room doorway, I'm so sorry—     There's nothing to be sorry about. It's just a matter of time. It'llall work out in time.     Yes, she said quickly, that's it. I need a little time. We all need alittle time. Because it's so strange, Hank. Because it's so frightening.I should have told you that the moment you walked in. I think I've hurtyou terribly, we've all hurt you terribly, by trying to hide that we'refrightened.     I'm going to stay in the guest room, he said, for as long asnecessary. For good if need be.     How could it be for good? How, Hank?     That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had sincereturning. And there was something else; what Carlisle had told him,even as Carlisle himself had reacted as all men did.     There are others coming, Edith. Eight that I know of in the tanks rightnow. My superior, Captain Davidson, who died at the same moment Idid—seven months ago next Wednesday—he's going to be next. He wassmashed up worse than I was, so it took a little longer, but he's almostready. And there'll be many more, Edith. The government is going to saveall they possibly can from now on. Every time a young and healthy manloses his life by accident, by violence, and his body can be recovered,he'll go into the tanks and they'll start the regenerative brain andorgan process—the process that made it all possible. So people have toget used to us. And the old stories, the old terrors, the ugly oldsuperstitions have to die, because in time each place will have some ofus; because in time it'll be an ordinary thing.     Edith said, Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Pleasebelieve that. Please be patient with me and Ralphie and— She paused.There's one question.     He knew what the question was. It had been the first asked him byeveryone from the president of the United States on down.     I saw nothing, he said. It was as if I slept those six and a halfmonths—slept without dreaming.     She came to him and touched his face with her lips, and he wassatisfied.     Later, half asleep, he heard a dog howling, and remembered stories ofhow they announced death and the presence of monsters. He shivered andpulled the covers closer to him and luxuriated in being safe in his ownhome.     THE END  ","At the beginning of the story, Henry Devers - the first man to have been saved by regenerative technologies - goes on a town tour up to Main Street to the new square and the grandstand. He gets off at 45 Roosevelt street - his home. Here he has an awkward interaction with his wife Edith and his son Ralphie who soon leaves for a baseball game. In the evening, Henry, his wife, son, mother, uncle, and aunt eat in the dining room - the guests seem to be stiff and nervous, it infuriates Devers. After an outburst of anger, he goes to his room. After his friends, Rhona and Phil, come to see him, they all go to bowling alleys and then to Manfred’s Tavern where they dance, though his friends seem relatively uncomfortable and scared. On their way back, they drive past a cemetery when Phil makes an inappropriate joke which leads to a moment of dead silence. Later, when they come home, Devers and Edith have a sincere conversation - she admits that everyone, including her, is terrified. After reassuring his wife, Henry goes to sleep in the guest room."
"Who’s Edith and what happens to her throughout the story? </s>    THE FIRST ONE     By HERBERT D. KASTLE     Illustrated by von Dongen     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Analog July 1961.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.]       The first man to return from beyond the Great Frontier may bewelcomed ... but will it be as a curiosity, rather than as ahero...?       There was the usual welcoming crowd for a celebrity, and the usualspeeches by the usual politicians who met him at the airport which hadonce been twenty miles outside of Croton, but which the growing city hadsince engulfed and placed well within its boundaries. But everythingwasn't usual. The crowd was quiet, and the mayor didn't seem quite asat-ease as he'd been on his last big welcoming—for Corporal Berringer,one of the crew of the spaceship      Washington     , first to set Americansupon Mars. His Honor's handclasp was somewhat moist and cold. HisHonor's eyes held a trace of remoteness.     Still, he was the honored home-comer, the successful returnee, thehometown boy who had made good in a big way, and they took the triumphaltour up Main Street to the new square and the grandstand. There he satbetween the mayor and a nervous young coed chosen as homecoming queen,and looked out at the police and fire department bands, the NationalGuard, the boy scouts and girl scouts, the Elks and Masons. Several ofthe churches in town had shown indecision as to how to instruct theirparishioners to treat him. But they had all come around. The tremendousnational interest, the fact that he was the First One, had made themcome around. It was obvious by now that they would have to adjust asthey'd adjusted to all the other firsts taking place in these—as thenewspapers had dubbed the start of the Twenty-first Century—theGalloping Twenties.     He was glad when the official greeting was over. He was a very tired manand he had come farther, traveled longer and over darker country, thanany man who'd ever lived before. He wanted a meal at his own table, akiss from his wife, a word from his son, and later to see some oldfriends and a relative or two. He didn't want to talk about the journey.He wanted to forget the immediacy, the urgency, the terror; then perhapshe would talk.     Or would he? For he had very little to tell. He had traveled and he hadreturned and his voyage was very much like the voyages of the greatmariners, from Columbus onward—long, dull periods of time passing,passing, and then the arrival.     The house had changed. He saw that as soon as the official car let himoff at 45 Roosevelt Street. The change was, he knew, for the better.They had put a porch in front. They had rehabilitated, spruced up,almost rebuilt the entire outside and grounds. But he was sorry. He hadwanted it to be as before.     The head of the American Legion and the chief of police, who hadescorted him on this trip from the square, didn't ask to go in with him.He was glad. He'd had enough of strangers. Not that he was through withstrangers. There were dozens of them up and down the street, standingbeside parked cars, looking at him. But when he looked back at them,their eyes dropped, they turned away, they began moving off. He wasstill too much the First One to have his gaze met.     He walked up what had once been a concrete path and was now an ornateflagstone path. He climbed the new porch and raised the ornamentalknocker on the new door and heard the soft music sound within. He wassurprised that he'd had to do this. He'd thought Edith would be watchingat a window.     And perhaps she      had     been watching ... but she hadn't opened the door.     The door opened; he looked at her. It hadn't been too long and shehadn't changed at all. She was still the small, slender girl he'd lovedin high school, the small, slender woman he'd married twelve years ago.Ralphie was with her. They held onto each other as if seeking mutualsupport, the thirty-three-year old woman and ten-year-old boy. Theylooked at him, and then both moved forward, still together. He said,It's good to be home!     Edith nodded and, still holding to Ralphie with one hand, put the otherarm around him. He kissed her—her neck, her cheek—and all the oldjokes came to mind, the jokes of travel-weary, battle-weary men, theand-      then     -I'll-put-my-pack-aside jokes that spoke of terrible hunger.She was trembling, and even as her lips came up to touch his he felt thedifference, and because of this difference he turned with urgency toRalphie and picked him up and hugged him and said, because he couldthink of nothing else to say, What a big fella, what a big fella.     Ralphie stood in his arms as if his feet were still planted on thefloor, and he didn't look at his father but somewhere beyond him. Ididn't grow much while you were gone, Dad, Mom says I don't eat enough.     So he put him down and told himself that it would all change, thateverything would loosen up just as his commanding officer, GeneralCarlisle, had said it would early this morning before he leftWashington.     Give it some time, Carlisle had said. You need the time; they needthe time. And for the love of heaven, don't be sensitive.  Edith was leading him into the living room, her hand lying still in his,a cool, dead bird lying still in his. He sat down on the couch, she satdown beside him—but she had hesitated. He      wasn't     being sensitive; shehad hesitated. His wife had hesitated before sitting down beside him.     Carlisle had said his position was analogous to Columbus', to Vasco DeGama's, to Preshoff's when the Russian returned from the Moon—but moreso. Carlisle had said lots of things, but even Carlisle who had workedwith him all the way, who had engineered the entire fantasticjourney—even Carlisle the Nobel prize winner, the multi-degreed geniusin uniform, had not actually spoken to him as one man to another.       The eyes. It always showed in their eyes.       He looked across the room at Ralphie, standing in the doorway, a boyalready tall, already widening in the shoulders, already large offeature. It was like looking into the mirror and seeing himselftwenty-five years ago. But Ralphie's face was drawn, was worried in away that few ten-year-old faces are.     How's it going in school? he asked.     Gee, Dad, it's the second month of summer vacation.     Well, then, before summer vacation?     Pretty good.     Edith said, He made top forum the six-month period before vacation, andhe made top forum the six-month period you went away, Hank.     He nodded, remembering that, remembering everything, remembering thewarmth of her farewell, the warmth of Ralphie's farewell, their tears ashe left for the experimental flight station in the Aleutians. They hadfeared for him, having read of the many launchings gone wrong even incontinent-to-continent experimental flight.     They had been right to worry. He had suffered much after that blow-up.But now they should be rejoicing, because he had survived and made thelong journey. Ralphie suddenly said, I got to go, Dad. I promised Waltand the others I'd pitch. It's Inter-Town Little League, you know. It'sHarmon, you know. I got to keep my word. Without waiting for an answer,he waved his hand—it shook; a ten-year-old boy's hand that shook—andran from the room and from the house.     He and Edith sat beside each other, and he wanted badly to take her inhis arms, and yet he didn't want to oppress her. He stood up. I'm verytired. I'd like to lie down a while. Which wasn't true, because he'dbeen lying down all the months of the way back.     She said, Of course. How stupid of me, expecting you to sit around andmake small talk and pick up just where you left off.     He nodded. But that was exactly what he wanted to do—make small talkand pick up just where he'd left off. But they didn't expect it of him;they wouldn't let him; they felt he had changed too much.  She led him upstairs and along the foyer past Ralphie's room and pastthe small guest room to their bedroom. This, too, had changed. It wasnewly painted and it had new furniture. He saw twin beds separated by anornate little table with an ornate little lamp, and this looked moreominous a barrier to him than the twelve-foot concrete-and-barbed-wirefence around the experimental station.     Which one is mine, he asked, and tried to smile.     She also tried to smile. The one near the window. You always liked thefresh air, the sunshine in the morning. You always said it helped youto get up on time when you were stationed at the base outside of town.You always said it reminded you—being able to see the sky—that youwere going to go up in it, and that you were going to come down from itto this bed again.     Not this bed, he murmured, and was a little sorry afterward.     No, not this bed, she said quickly. Your lodge donated the bedroomset and I really didn't know— She waved her hand, her face white.     He was sure then that she      had     known, and that the beds and the barrierbetween them were her own choice, if only an unconscious choice. He wentto the bed near the window, stripped off his Air Force blue jacket,began to take off his shirt, but then remembered that some arm scarsstill showed. He waited for her to leave the room.     She said, Well then, rest up, dear, and went out.     He took off his shirt and saw himself in the mirror on the oppositewall; and then took off his under-shirt. The body scars were faint, thescars running in long lines, one dissecting his chest, the other slicingdiagonally across his upper abdomen to disappear under his trousers.There were several more on his back, and one on his right thigh. They'dbeen treated properly and would soon disappear. But she had never seenthem.     Perhaps she never would. Perhaps pajamas and robes and dark rooms wouldkeep them from her until they were gone.     Which was not what he'd considered at all important on leaving WalterReed Hospital early this morning; which was something he founddistasteful, something he felt beneath them both. And, at the same time,he began to understand that there would be many things, previouslybeneath them both, which would have to be considered. She had changed;Ralphie had changed; all the people he knew had probablychanged—because they thought      he     had changed.     He was tired of thinking. He lay down and closed his eyes. He lethimself taste bitterness, unhappiness, a loneliness he had never knownbefore.     But sometime later, as he was dozing off, a sense of reassurance beganfiltering into his mind. After all, he was still Henry Devers, the sameman who had left home eleven months ago, with a love for family andfriends which was, if anything, stronger than before. Once he couldcommunicate this, the strangeness would disappear and the First Onewould again become good old Hank. It was little enough to ask for—areturn to old values, old relationships, the normalcies of the backwashinstead of the freneticisms of the lime-light. It would certainly begranted to him.     He slept.  Dinner was at seven  p.m.  His mother came; his Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucillecame. Together with Edith, Ralphie and himself, they made six, and atein the dining room at the big table.     Before he'd become the First One, it would have been a noisy affair. Hisfamily had never been noted for a lack of ebullience, a lack oftalkativeness, and Ralphie had always chosen mealtimes—especially withcompany present—to describe everything and anything that had happenedto him during the day. And Edith herself had always chatted, especiallywith his mother, though they didn't agree about much. Still, it had beengood-natured; the general tone of their lives had been good-natured.     This wasn't good-natured. Exactly what it was he wasn't sure. Stiffwas perhaps the word.     They began with grapefruit, Edith and Mother serving quickly,efficiently from the kitchen, then sitting down at the table. He lookedat Mother as he raised his first spoonful of chilled fruit, and said,Younger than ever. It was nothing new; he'd said it many many timesbefore, but his mother had always reacted with a bright smile and a quipsomething like, Young for the Golden Age Center, you mean. This timeshe burst into tears. It shocked him. But what shocked him even more wasthe fact that no one looked up, commented, made any attempt to comforther; no one indicated in any way that a woman was sobbing at the table.     He was sitting directly across from Mother, and reached out and touchedher left hand which lay limply beside the silverware. She didn't moveit—she hadn't touched him once beyond that first, quick, strangely-coolembrace at the door—then a few seconds later she withdrew it and let itdrop out of sight.     So there he was, Henry Devers, at home with the family. So there he was,the hero returned, waiting to be treated as a human being.     The grapefruit shells were cleaned away and the soup served. Uncle Joebegan to talk. The greatest little development of circular uniformhouses you ever did see, he boomed in his powerful salesman's voice.Still going like sixty. We'll sell out before— At that point helooked at Hank, and Hank nodded encouragement, desperately interested inthis normalcy, and Joe's voice died away. He looked down at his plate,mumbled, Soup's getting cold, and began to eat. His hand shook alittle; his ruddy face was not quite as ruddy as Hank remembered it.     Aunt Lucille made a few quavering statements about the Ladies' TuesdayGarden Club, and Hank looked across the table to where she sat betweenJoe and Mother—his wife and son bracketed him, and yet he feltalone—and said, I've missed fooling around with the lawn and the rosebushes. Here it is August and I haven't had my hand to a mower ortrowel.     Aunt Lucille smiled, if you could call it that—a pitiful twitching ofthe lips—and nodded. She threw her eyes in his direction, and past him,and then down to her plate. Mother, who was still sniffling, said, Ihave a dismal headache. I'm going to lie down in the guest room awhile. She touched his shoulder in passing—his affectionate, effusivemother who would kiss stray dogs and strange children, who had oftenirritated him with an excess of physical and verbal caresses—she barelytouched his shoulder and fled.     So now five of them sat at the table. The meat was served—thin, rareslices of beef, the pink blood-juice oozing warmly from the center. Hecut into it and raised a forkful to his mouth, then glanced at Ralphieand said, Looks fresh enough to have been killed in the back yard.Ralphie said, Yeah, Dad. Aunt Lucille put down her knife and fork andmurmured something to her husband. Joe cleared his throat and saidLucille was rapidly becoming a vegetarian and he guessed she was goinginto the living room for a while. She'll be back for dessert, ofcourse, he said, his laugh sounding forced.     Hank looked at Edith; Edith was busy with her plate. Hank looked atRalphie; Ralphie was busy with his plate. Hank looked at Joe; Joe waschewing, gazing out over their heads to the kitchen. Hank looked atLucille; she was disappearing into the living room.     He brought his fist down on the table. The settings jumped; a glassoverturned, spilling water. He brought it down again and again. Theywere all standing now. He sat there and pounded the table with his bigright fist—Henry Devers, who would never have thought of making such ascene before, but who was now so sick and tired of being treated as theFirst One, of being stood back from, looked at in awe of, felt in fearof, that he could have smashed more than a table.     Edith said, Hank!     He said, voice hoarse, Shut up. Go away. Let me eat alone. I'm sick ofthe lot of you.  Mother and Joe returned a few minutes later where he sat forcing fooddown his throat. Mother said, Henry dear— He didn't answer. She beganto cry, and he was glad she left the house then. He had never saidanything really bad to his mother. He was afraid this would have beenthe time. Joe merely cleared his throat and mumbled something aboutgetting together again soon and drop out and see the new developmentand he, too, was gone. Lucille never did manage to speak to him.     He finished his beef and waited. Soon Edith came in with the specialdessert she'd been preparing half the day—a magnificent English trifle.She served him, and spooned out a portion for herself and Ralphie. Shehesitated near his chair, and when he made no comment she called theboy. Then the three of them were sitting, facing the empty side of thetable. They ate the trifle. Ralphie finished first and got up and said,Hey, I promised—     You promised the boys you'd play baseball or football or handball orsomething; anything to get away from your father.     Ralphie's head dropped and he muttered, Aw, no, Dad.     Edith said, He'll stay home, Hank. We'll spend an eveningtogether—talking, watching TV, playing Monopoly.     Ralphie said, Gee, sure, Dad, if you want to.     Hank stood up. The question is not whether I want to. You both know Iwant to. The question is whether      you     want to.     They answered together that of course they wanted to. But theireyes—his wife's and son's eyes—could not meet his, and so he said hewas going to his room because he was, after all, very tired and would inall probability continue to be very tired for a long, long time and thatthey shouldn't count on him for normal social life.     He fell asleep quickly, lying there in his clothes.     But he didn't sleep long. Edith shook him and he opened his eyes to alighted room. Phil and Rhona are here. He blinked at her. She smiled,and it seemed her old smile. They're so anxious to see you, Hank. Icould barely keep Phil from coming up and waking you himself. They wantto go out and do the town. Please, Hank, say you will.     He sat up. Phil, he muttered. Phil and Rhona. They'd had wonderfultimes together, from grammar school on. Phil and Rhona, their oldest andclosest friends. Perhaps this would begin his real homecoming.     Do the town? They'd paint it and then tear it down!  It didn't turn out that way. He was disappointed; but then again, he'dalso expected it. This entire first day at home had conditioned him toexpect nothing good. They went to the bowling alleys, and Phil soundedvery much the way he always had—soft spoken and full of laughter andfull of jokes. He patted Edith on the head the way he always had, andclapped Hank on the shoulder (but not the way he always had—so muchmore gently, almost remotely), and insisted they all drink more than wasgood for them as he always had. And for once, Hank was ready to go alongon the drinking. For once, he matched Phil shot for shot, beer for beer.     They didn't bowl very long. At ten o'clock they crossed the road toManfred's Tavern, where Phil and the girls ordered sandwiches and coffeeand Hank went right on drinking. Edith said something to him, but hemerely smiled and waved his hand and gulped another ounce of nirvana.     There was dancing to a juke box in Manfred's Tavern. He'd been theremany times before, and he was sure several of the couples recognizedhim. But except for a few abortive glances in his direction, it was asif he were a stranger in a city halfway around the world.     At midnight, he was still drinking. The others wanted to leave, but hesaid, I haven't danced with my girl Rhona. His tongue was thick, hismind was blurred, and yet he could read the strange expression on herface—pretty Rhona, who'd always flirted with him, who'd made a ritualof flirting with him. Pretty Rhona, who now looked as if she were goingto be sick.     So let's rock, he said and stood up.     They were on the dance floor. He held her close, and hummed and chatted.And through the alcoholic haze saw she was a stiff-smiled, stiff-bodied,mechanical dancing doll.     The number finished; they walked back to the booth. Phil said,Beddy-bye time.     Hank said, First one dance with my loving wife.     He and Edith danced. He didn't hold her close as he had Rhona. He waitedfor her to come close on her own, and she did, and yet she didn't.Because while she put herself against him, there was something in herface—no, in her eyes; it always showed in the eyes—that made him knowshe was trying to be the old Edith and not succeeding. This time whenthe music ended, he was ready to go home.     They rode back to town along Route Nine, he and Edith in the rear ofPhil's car, Rhona driving because Phil had drunk just a little too much,Phil singing and telling an occasional bad joke, and somehow not his oldself. No one was his old self. No one would ever be his old self withthe First One.     They turned left, to take the short cut along Hallowed Hill Road, andPhil finished a story about a Martian and a Hollywood sex queen andlooked at his wife and then past her at the long, cast-iron fenceparalleling the road. Hey, he said, pointing, do you know why that'sthe most popular place on earth?     Rhona glanced to the left, and so did Hank and Edith. Rhona made alittle sound, and Edith seemed to stop breathing, but Phil went on awhile longer, not yet aware of his supposed      faux pas     .     You know why? he repeated, turning to the back seat, the laughterrumbling up from his chest. You know why, folks?     Rhona said, Did you notice Carl Braken and his wife at—     Hank said, No, Phil, why is it the most popular place on earth?     Phil said, Because people are— And then he caught himself and wavedhis hand and muttered, I forgot the punch line.     Because people are dying to get in, Hank said, and looked through thewindow, past the iron fence, into the large cemetery at the fleetingtombstones.     The car was filled with horrified silence when there should have beennothing but laughter, or irritation at a too-old joke. Maybe you shouldlet me out right here, Hank said. I'm home—or that's what everyoneseems to think. Maybe I should lie down in an open grave. Maybe thatwould satisfy people. Maybe that's the only way to act, like Dracula oranother monster from the movies.     Edith said, Oh, Hank, don't, don't!     The car raced along the road, crossed a macadam highway, went fourblocks and pulled to a stop. He didn't bother saying good night. Hedidn't wait for Edith. He just got out and walked up the flagstone pathand entered the house.  Hank, Edith whispered from the guest room doorway, I'm so sorry—     There's nothing to be sorry about. It's just a matter of time. It'llall work out in time.     Yes, she said quickly, that's it. I need a little time. We all need alittle time. Because it's so strange, Hank. Because it's so frightening.I should have told you that the moment you walked in. I think I've hurtyou terribly, we've all hurt you terribly, by trying to hide that we'refrightened.     I'm going to stay in the guest room, he said, for as long asnecessary. For good if need be.     How could it be for good? How, Hank?     That question was perhaps the first firm basis for hope he'd had sincereturning. And there was something else; what Carlisle had told him,even as Carlisle himself had reacted as all men did.     There are others coming, Edith. Eight that I know of in the tanks rightnow. My superior, Captain Davidson, who died at the same moment Idid—seven months ago next Wednesday—he's going to be next. He wassmashed up worse than I was, so it took a little longer, but he's almostready. And there'll be many more, Edith. The government is going to saveall they possibly can from now on. Every time a young and healthy manloses his life by accident, by violence, and his body can be recovered,he'll go into the tanks and they'll start the regenerative brain andorgan process—the process that made it all possible. So people have toget used to us. And the old stories, the old terrors, the ugly oldsuperstitions have to die, because in time each place will have some ofus; because in time it'll be an ordinary thing.     Edith said, Yes, and I'm so grateful that you're here, Hank. Pleasebelieve that. Please be patient with me and Ralphie and— She paused.There's one question.     He knew what the question was. It had been the first asked him byeveryone from the president of the United States on down.     I saw nothing, he said. It was as if I slept those six and a halfmonths—slept without dreaming.     She came to him and touched his face with her lips, and he wassatisfied.     Later, half asleep, he heard a dog howling, and remembered stories ofhow they announced death and the presence of monsters. He shivered andpulled the covers closer to him and luxuriated in being safe in his ownhome.     THE END  ","Edith is the wife of Henry Devers - the first man to have been saved by regenerative technologies. While he was healing, she managed to renovate their house and buy a new bed for her husband. Together with their son Ralphie Edith meets Henry at the porch after he leaves the hospital and goes on a tour around their town. She seems nervous and scared around her husband while trying to talk to him about their son’s academic achievements at school. Later she dines with Devers and his relatives, still feeling very hesitant and unsure about how she has to interact with him. Edith tries to placate her husband after he angrily screams at the guests because of how scared they are and the fact that they avoided his gaze during the entire evening. Soon, she goes to wake him up after his close friends come to see him. Four of them go to bowling alleys and then to Manfred’s Tavern, but his friends - Phil and Rhona - behave as strangely as everybody else. Phil makes awkward remarks, Rhona looks sick. After an inappropriate joke made by one of the friends, Edith has to calm her husband again. She finally talks to him when they get back, admitting that everyone, including her, is terrified and they need more time to adapt. After reassuring her, her husband goes to sleep in the guest room. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    DOUBLECROSS     by JAMES Mac CREIGH     Revolt was brewing on Venus, led by the     descendant of the first Earthmen to     land. Svan was the leader making the final     plans—plotting them a bit too well.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The Officer of the Deck was pleased as he returned to the main lock.There was no reason why everything shouldn't have been functioningperfectly, of course, but he was pleased to have it confirmed, all thesame. The Executive Officer was moodily smoking a cigarette in the openlock, staring out over the dank Venusian terrain at the native town. Heturned.     Everything shipshape, I take it! he commented.     The OD nodded. I'll have a blank log if this keeps up, he said.Every man accounted for except the delegation, cargo stowed, driversready to lift as soon as they come back.     The Exec tossed away his cigarette.       If     they come back.     Is there any question?     The Exec shrugged. I don't know, Lowry, he said. This is a funnyplace. I don't trust the natives.     Lowry lifted his eyebrows. Oh? But after all, they're human beings,just like us—     Not any more. Four or five generations ago they were. Lord, they don'teven look human any more. Those white, flabby skins—I don't like them.     Acclimation, Lowry said scientifically. They had to acclimatethemselves to Venus's climate. They're friendly enough.     The Exec shrugged again. He stared at the wooden shacks that were theoutskirts of the native city, dimly visible through the ever-presentVenusian mist. The native guard of honor, posted a hundred yards fromthe Earth-ship, stood stolidly at attention with their old-fashionedproton-rifles slung over their backs. A few natives were gazingwonderingly at the great ship, but made no move to pass the line ofguards.     Of course, Lowry said suddenly, there's a minority who are afraidof us. I was in town yesterday, and I talked with some of the natives.They think there will be hordes of immigrants from Earth, now that weknow Venus is habitable. And there's some sort of a paltry undergroundgroup that is spreading the word that the immigrants will drive thenative Venusians—the descendants of the first expedition, thatis—right down into the mud. Well— he laughed—maybe they will.After all, the fittest survive. That's a basic law of—     The annunciator over the open lock clanged vigorously, and a metallicvoice rasped: Officer of the Deck! Post Number One! Instrumentsreports a spy ray focused on the main lock!     Lowry, interrupted in the middle of a word, jerked his head back andstared unbelievingly at the tell-tale next to the annunciator. Sureenough, it was glowing red—might have been glowing for minutes. Hesnatched at the hand-phone dangling from the wall, shouted into it.Set up a screen! Notify the delegation! Alert a landing party! Buteven while he was giving orders, the warning light flickered suddenlyand went out. Stricken, Lowry turned to the Exec.     The Executive Officer nodded gloomily. He said, You see!  You see?     Svan clicked off the listening-machine and turned around. The fiveothers in the room looked apprehensive. You see? Svan repeated. Fromtheir own mouths you have heard it. The Council was right.     The younger of the two women sighed. She might have been beautiful, inspite of her dead-white skin, if there had been a scrap of hair on herhead. Svan, I'm afraid, she said. Who are we to decide if thisis a good thing? Our parents came from Earth. Perhaps there will betrouble at first, if colonists come, but we are of the same blood.     Svan laughed harshly.       They     don't think so. You heard them. We arenot human any more. The officer said it.     The other woman spoke unexpectedly. The Council was right, sheagreed. Svan, what must we do?     Svan raised his hand, thoughtfully. One moment. Ingra, do you stillobject?     The younger woman shrank back before the glare in his eyes. She lookedaround at the others, found them reluctant and uneasy, but visiblyconvinced by Svan.     No, she said slowly. I do not object.     And the rest of us? Does any of us object?     Svan eyed them, each in turn. There was a slow but unanimous gesture ofassent.     Good, said Svan. Then we must act. The Council has told us that wealone will decide our course of action. We have agreed that, if theEarth-ship returns, it means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must notreturn.     An old man shifted restlessly. But they are strong, Svan, hecomplained. They have weapons. We cannot force them to stay.     Svan nodded. No. They will leave. But they will never get back toEarth.     Never get back to Earth? the old man gasped. Has the Councilauthorized—murder?     Svan shrugged. The Council did not know what we would face. TheCouncilmen could not come to the city and see what strength theEarth-ship has. He paused dangerously. Toller, he said, do youobject?     Like the girl, the old man retreated before his eyes. His voice wasdull. What is your plan? he asked.     Svan smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at hisfeet, held up a shiny metal globe. One of us will plant this in theship. It will be set by means of this dial— he touched a spot on thesurface of the globe with a pallid finger—to do nothing for fortyhours. Then—it will explode. Atomite.     He grinned triumphantly, looking from face to face. The grinfaded uncertainly as he saw what was in their eyes—uncertainty,irresolution. Abruptly he set the bomb down, savagely ripped six leavesoff a writing tablet on the table next him. He took a pencil and made amark on one of them, held it up.     We will let chance decide who is to do the work, he said angrily. Isthere anyone here who is afraid? There will be danger, I think....     No answer. Svan jerked his head. Good, he said. Ingra, bring me thatbowl.     Silently the girl picked up an opaque glass bowl from the broad armof her chair. It had held Venus-tobacco cigarettes; there were a fewleft. She shook them out and handed the bowl to Svan, who was rapidlycreasing the six fatal slips. He dropped them in the bowl, stirred itwith his hand, offered it to the girl. You first, Ingra, he said.     She reached in mechanically, her eyes intent on his, took out a slipand held it without opening it. The bowl went the rounds, till Svanhimself took the last. All eyes were on him. No one had looked at theirslips.     Svan, too, had left his unopened. He sat at the table, facing them.This is the plan, he said. We will go, all six of us, in my groundcar, to look at the Earth-ship. No one will suspect—the whole cityhas been to see it already. One will get out, at the best point we canfind. It is almost dusk now. He can hide, surely, in the vegetation.The other five will start back. Something will go wrong with thecar—perhaps it will run off the road, start to sink in the swamp. Theguards will be called. There will be commotion—that is easy enough,after all; a hysterical woman, a few screams, that's all there is toit. And the sixth person will have his chance to steal to the sideof the ship. The bomb is magnetic. It will not be noticed in thedark—they will take off before sunrise, because they must travel awayfrom the sun to return—in forty hours the danger is removed.     There was comprehension in their eyes, Svan saw ... but still thatuncertainty. Impatiently, he crackled: Look at the slips!     Though he had willed his eyes away from it, his fingers had rebelled.Instinctively they had opened the slip, turned it over and over,striving to detect if it was the fatal one. They had felt nothing....     And his eyes saw nothing. The slip was blank. He gave it but a second'sglance, then looked up to see who had won the lethal game of chance.Almost he was disappointed.     Each of the others had looked in that same second. And each was lookingup now, around at his neighbors. Svan waited impatiently for the chosenone to announce it—a second, ten seconds....     Then gray understanding came to him.      A traitor!     his subconsciouswhispered.      A coward!     He stared at them in a new light, saw theirindecision magnified, became opposition.     Svan thought faster than ever before in his life. If there was acoward, it would do no good to unmask him. All were wavering, any mightbe the one who had drawn the fatal slip. He could insist on inspectingevery one, but—suppose the coward, cornered, fought back? In fractionsof a second, Svan had considered the evidence and reached his decision.Masked by the table, his hand, still holding the pencil, moved swiftlybeneath the table, marked his own slip.     In the palm of his hand, Svan held up the slip he had just marked insecret. His voice was very tired as he said, I will plant the bomb.  The six conspirators in Svan's old ground car moved slowly along themain street of the native town. Two Earth-ship sailors, unarmed exceptfor deceptively flimsy-looking pistols at their hips, stood before theentrance to the town's Hall of Justice.     Good, said Svan, observing them. The delegation is still here. Wehave ample time.     He half turned in the broad front seat next to the driver, searchingthe faces of the others in the car. Which was the coward? he wondered.Ingra? Her aunt? One of the men?     The right answer leaped up at him.      They all are     , he thought.      Not oneof them understands what this means. They're afraid.       He clamped his lips. Go faster, Ingra, he ordered the girl who wasdriving. Let's get this done with.     She looked at him, and he was surprised to find compassion in hereyes. Silently she nodded, advanced the fuel-handle so that the clumsycar jolted a trace more rapidly over the corduroy road. It was quitedark now. The car's driving light flared yellowishly in front of them,illuminating the narrow road and the pale, distorted vegetation of thejungle that surrounded them. Svan noticed it was raining a little. Thepresent shower would deepen and intensify until midnight, then fall offagain, to halt before morning. But before then they would be done.     A proton-bolt lanced across the road in front of them. In the silencethat followed its thunderous crash, a man's voice bellowed: Halt!     The girl, Ingra, gasped something indistinguishable, slammed on thebrakes. A Venusian in the trappings of the State Guard advanced on themfrom the side of the road, proton-rifle held ready to fire again.     Where are you going? he growled.     Svan spoke up. We want to look at the Earth-ship, he said. He openedthe door beside him and stepped out, careless of the drizzle. We heardit was leaving tonight, he continued, and we have not seen it. Isthat not permitted?     The guard shook his head sourly. No one is allowed near the ship. Theorder was just issued. It is thought there is danger.     Svan stepped closer, his teeth bared in what passed for a smile. Itis urgent, he purred. His right hand flashed across his chest in acomplicated gesture. Do you understand?     Confusion furrowed the guard's hairless brows, then was replaced bya sudden flare of understanding—and fear. The Council! he roared.By heaven, yes, I understand! You are the swine that caused this—He strove instinctively to bring the clumsy rifle up, but Svan wasfaster. His gamble had failed; there was only one course remaining.He hurled his gross white bulk at the guard, bowled him over againstthe splintery logs of the road. The proton-rifle went flying, and Svansavagely tore at the throat of the guard. Knees, elbows and claw-likenails—Svan battered at the astonished man with every ounce of strengthin his body. The guard was as big as Svan, but Svan had the initialadvantage ... and it was only a matter of seconds before the guardlay unconscious, his skull a mass of gore at the back where Svan hadruthlessly pounded it against the road.        Svan grunted as his fingers constricted brutally.        Svan rose, panting, stared around. No one else was in sight, save thepetrified five and the ground car. Svan glared at them contemptuously,then reached down and heaved on the senseless body of the guard. Overthe shoulder of the road the body went, onto the damp swampland of thejungle. Even while Svan watched the body began to sink. There would beno trace.     Svan strode back to the car. Hurry up, he gasped to the girl. Nowthere is danger for all of us, if they discover he is missing. And keepa watch for other guards.  Venus has no moon, and no star can shine through its vast cloud layer.Ensign Lowry, staring anxiously out through the astro-dome in the bowof the Earth-ship, cursed the blackness.     Can't see a thing, he complained to the Exec, steadily writing awayat the computer's table. Look—are those lights over there?     The Exec looked up wearily. He shrugged. Probably the guards. Ofcourse, you can't tell. Might be a raiding party.     Lowry, stung, looked to see if the Exec was smiling, but found noanswer in his stolid face. Don't joke about it, he said. Supposesomething happens to the delegation?     Then we're in the soup, the Exec said philosophically. I told youthe natives were dangerous. Spy-rays! They've been prohibited for thelast three hundred years.     It isn't all the natives, Lowry said. Look how they've doubled theguard around us. The administration is co-operating every way theyknow how. You heard the delegation's report on the intercom. It's thissecret group they call the Council.     And how do you know the guards themselves don't belong to it? theExec retorted. They're all the same to me.... Look, your light's goneout now. Must have been the guard. They're on the wrong side to becoming from the town, anyhow....  Svan hesitated only a fraction of a second after the girl turned thelights out and stopped the car. Then he reached in the compartmentunder the seat. If he took a little longer than seemed necessary to getthe atomite bomb out of the compartment, none of the others noticed.Certainly it did not occur to them that there had been      two     bombs inthe compartment, though Svan's hand emerged with only one.     He got out of the car, holding the sphere. This will do for me, hesaid. They won't be expecting anyone to come from behind the ship—wewere wise to circle around. Now, you know what you must do?     Ingra nodded, while the others remained mute. We must circle backagain, she parroted. We are to wait five minutes, then drive the carinto the swamp. We will create a commotion, attract the guards.     Svan, listening, thought:      It's not much of a plan. The guards wouldnot be drawn away. I am glad I can't trust these five any more. Ifthey must be destroyed, it is good that their destruction will serve apurpose.       Aloud, he said, You understand. If I get through, I will return to thecity on foot. No one will suspect anything if I am not caught, becausethe bomb will not explode until the ship is far out in space. Remember,you are in no danger from the guards.       From the guards     , his mind echoed. He smiled. At least, they wouldfeel no pain, never know what happened. With the amount of atomite inthat bomb in the compartment, they would merely be obliterated in aground-shaking crash.     Abruptly he swallowed, reminded of the bomb that was silently countingoff the seconds. Go ahead, he ordered. I will wait here.     Svan. The girl, Ingra, leaned over to him. Impulsively she reachedfor him, kissed him. Good luck to you, Svan, she said.     Good luck, repeated the others. Then silently the electric motor ofthe car took hold. Skilfully the girl backed it up, turned it around,sent it lumbering back down the road. Only after she had traveled a fewhundred feet by the feel of the road did she turn the lights on again.     Svan looked after them. The kiss had surprised him. What did it mean?Was it an error that the girl should die with the others?     There was an instant of doubt in his steel-shackled mind, then it wasdriven away. Perhaps she was loyal, yet certainly she was weak. Andsince he could not know which was the one who had received the markedslip, and feared to admit it, it was better they all should die.     He advanced along the midnight road to where the ground rose and thejungle plants thinned out. Ahead, on an elevation, were the rain-dimmedlights of the Earth-ship, set down in the center of a clearing made byits own fierce rockets. Svan's mist-trained eyes spotted the circlingfigures of sentries, and knew that these would be the ship's own.They would not be as easily overcome as the natives, not with thoseslim-shafted blasters they carried. Only deceit could get him to theside of the ship.     Svan settled himself at the side of the road, waiting for his chance.He had perhaps three minutes to wait; he reckoned. His fingers wentabsently to the pouch in his wide belt, closed on the slip of paper. Heturned it over without looking at it, wondering who had drawn the firstcross, and been a coward. Ingra? One of the men?  He became abruptly conscious of a commotion behind him. A ground carwas racing along the road. He spun around and was caught in the glareof its blinding driving-light, as it bumped to a slithering stop.     Paralyzed, he heard the girl's voice. Svan! They're coming! They foundthe guard's rifle, and they're looking for us! Thirty Earthmen, Svan,with those frightful guns. They fired at us, but we got away and camefor you. We must flee!     He stared unseeingly at the light. Go away! he croaked unbelievingly.Then his muscles jerked into action. The time was almost up—the bombin the car—     Go away! he shrieked, and turned to run. His fists clenched andswinging at his side, he made a dozen floundering steps beforesomething immense pounded at him from behind. He felt himself liftedfrom the road, sailing, swooping, dropping with annihilating forceonto the hard, charred earth of the clearing. Only then did he hear thesound of the explosion, and as the immense echoes died away he began tofeel the pain seeping into him from his hideously racked body....     The Flight Surgeon rose from beside him. He's still alive, he saidcallously to Lowry, who had just come up. It won't last long, though.What've you got there?     Lowry, a bewildered expression on his beardless face, held out the twohalves of a metallic sphere. Dangling ends of wires showed where aconnection had been broken. He had a bomb, he said. A magnetic-type,delayed-action atomite bomb. There must have been another in the car,and it went off. They—they were planning to bomb us.     Amazing, the surgeon said dryly. Well, they won't do any bombingnow.     Lowry was staring at the huddled, mutilated form of Svan. He shuddered.The surgeon, seeing the shudder, grasped his shoulder.     Better them than us, he said. It's poetic justice if I ever saw it.They had it coming.... He paused thoughtfully, staring at a piece ofpaper between his fingers. This is the only part I don't get, he said.     What's that? Lowry craned his neck. A piece of paper with a cross onit? What about it?     The surgeon shrugged. He had it clenched in his hand, he said. Hadthe devil of a time getting it loose from him. He turned it overslowly, displayed the other side. Now what in the world would he bedoing carrying a scrap of paper with a cross marked on both sides?   ","Svan, a leader of members in the Council on Venus, plots to revolt against the Earthman delegations who are going to bring back the news of the habitability of Venus. Initially, he eavesdrops on the conversation between the Office of the Deck and the Executive Officer, which is about the untrustworthiness of Venusians, the descendants of the first generation of Earthman who migrated to Venus. Svan then initiates a revolting plan against the Earthman.By showing this conversation to the group, Svan convinces the members to conduct his plan of not letting the Earthman ship go back to the Earth. In his plan, they will drive near the ship, five people will cause some chaos to attract the guards, and one person will put the delayed-action atomite bomb on the ship. They draw lots to determine when they decide who will put the bomb. However, Svan finds that no one admits to being the one, so he draws a cross on his slip, pretending to be the one who has terrible luck. After assigning the tasks to each person, Svan and his members drive to cross the border, where Svan brings down a native guard. When they separate to let one group cause the commotion and let Svan put the bomb, Svan takes out one bomb and leaves another one in the car. He knows that the bomb on the car will explode and attract the Earthman guards, which is unknown by the other members. He sees the car leave and turns to wait for the explosion. But the car comes back because the native guards found the rifle left by the murdered guard. The members in the car try to pick up Svan to flee from the search of the Earthman when Svan tries his best to run away. The explosion happens. Svan is on the verge of death when the Office of the Deck and the Executive Officer come to see him. They find a slip with a cross drawn on both sides in his hand."
"Who is Ingra? What happens to her throughout the story? </s>    DOUBLECROSS     by JAMES Mac CREIGH     Revolt was brewing on Venus, led by the     descendant of the first Earthmen to     land. Svan was the leader making the final     plans—plotting them a bit too well.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The Officer of the Deck was pleased as he returned to the main lock.There was no reason why everything shouldn't have been functioningperfectly, of course, but he was pleased to have it confirmed, all thesame. The Executive Officer was moodily smoking a cigarette in the openlock, staring out over the dank Venusian terrain at the native town. Heturned.     Everything shipshape, I take it! he commented.     The OD nodded. I'll have a blank log if this keeps up, he said.Every man accounted for except the delegation, cargo stowed, driversready to lift as soon as they come back.     The Exec tossed away his cigarette.       If     they come back.     Is there any question?     The Exec shrugged. I don't know, Lowry, he said. This is a funnyplace. I don't trust the natives.     Lowry lifted his eyebrows. Oh? But after all, they're human beings,just like us—     Not any more. Four or five generations ago they were. Lord, they don'teven look human any more. Those white, flabby skins—I don't like them.     Acclimation, Lowry said scientifically. They had to acclimatethemselves to Venus's climate. They're friendly enough.     The Exec shrugged again. He stared at the wooden shacks that were theoutskirts of the native city, dimly visible through the ever-presentVenusian mist. The native guard of honor, posted a hundred yards fromthe Earth-ship, stood stolidly at attention with their old-fashionedproton-rifles slung over their backs. A few natives were gazingwonderingly at the great ship, but made no move to pass the line ofguards.     Of course, Lowry said suddenly, there's a minority who are afraidof us. I was in town yesterday, and I talked with some of the natives.They think there will be hordes of immigrants from Earth, now that weknow Venus is habitable. And there's some sort of a paltry undergroundgroup that is spreading the word that the immigrants will drive thenative Venusians—the descendants of the first expedition, thatis—right down into the mud. Well— he laughed—maybe they will.After all, the fittest survive. That's a basic law of—     The annunciator over the open lock clanged vigorously, and a metallicvoice rasped: Officer of the Deck! Post Number One! Instrumentsreports a spy ray focused on the main lock!     Lowry, interrupted in the middle of a word, jerked his head back andstared unbelievingly at the tell-tale next to the annunciator. Sureenough, it was glowing red—might have been glowing for minutes. Hesnatched at the hand-phone dangling from the wall, shouted into it.Set up a screen! Notify the delegation! Alert a landing party! Buteven while he was giving orders, the warning light flickered suddenlyand went out. Stricken, Lowry turned to the Exec.     The Executive Officer nodded gloomily. He said, You see!  You see?     Svan clicked off the listening-machine and turned around. The fiveothers in the room looked apprehensive. You see? Svan repeated. Fromtheir own mouths you have heard it. The Council was right.     The younger of the two women sighed. She might have been beautiful, inspite of her dead-white skin, if there had been a scrap of hair on herhead. Svan, I'm afraid, she said. Who are we to decide if thisis a good thing? Our parents came from Earth. Perhaps there will betrouble at first, if colonists come, but we are of the same blood.     Svan laughed harshly.       They     don't think so. You heard them. We arenot human any more. The officer said it.     The other woman spoke unexpectedly. The Council was right, sheagreed. Svan, what must we do?     Svan raised his hand, thoughtfully. One moment. Ingra, do you stillobject?     The younger woman shrank back before the glare in his eyes. She lookedaround at the others, found them reluctant and uneasy, but visiblyconvinced by Svan.     No, she said slowly. I do not object.     And the rest of us? Does any of us object?     Svan eyed them, each in turn. There was a slow but unanimous gesture ofassent.     Good, said Svan. Then we must act. The Council has told us that wealone will decide our course of action. We have agreed that, if theEarth-ship returns, it means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must notreturn.     An old man shifted restlessly. But they are strong, Svan, hecomplained. They have weapons. We cannot force them to stay.     Svan nodded. No. They will leave. But they will never get back toEarth.     Never get back to Earth? the old man gasped. Has the Councilauthorized—murder?     Svan shrugged. The Council did not know what we would face. TheCouncilmen could not come to the city and see what strength theEarth-ship has. He paused dangerously. Toller, he said, do youobject?     Like the girl, the old man retreated before his eyes. His voice wasdull. What is your plan? he asked.     Svan smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at hisfeet, held up a shiny metal globe. One of us will plant this in theship. It will be set by means of this dial— he touched a spot on thesurface of the globe with a pallid finger—to do nothing for fortyhours. Then—it will explode. Atomite.     He grinned triumphantly, looking from face to face. The grinfaded uncertainly as he saw what was in their eyes—uncertainty,irresolution. Abruptly he set the bomb down, savagely ripped six leavesoff a writing tablet on the table next him. He took a pencil and made amark on one of them, held it up.     We will let chance decide who is to do the work, he said angrily. Isthere anyone here who is afraid? There will be danger, I think....     No answer. Svan jerked his head. Good, he said. Ingra, bring me thatbowl.     Silently the girl picked up an opaque glass bowl from the broad armof her chair. It had held Venus-tobacco cigarettes; there were a fewleft. She shook them out and handed the bowl to Svan, who was rapidlycreasing the six fatal slips. He dropped them in the bowl, stirred itwith his hand, offered it to the girl. You first, Ingra, he said.     She reached in mechanically, her eyes intent on his, took out a slipand held it without opening it. The bowl went the rounds, till Svanhimself took the last. All eyes were on him. No one had looked at theirslips.     Svan, too, had left his unopened. He sat at the table, facing them.This is the plan, he said. We will go, all six of us, in my groundcar, to look at the Earth-ship. No one will suspect—the whole cityhas been to see it already. One will get out, at the best point we canfind. It is almost dusk now. He can hide, surely, in the vegetation.The other five will start back. Something will go wrong with thecar—perhaps it will run off the road, start to sink in the swamp. Theguards will be called. There will be commotion—that is easy enough,after all; a hysterical woman, a few screams, that's all there is toit. And the sixth person will have his chance to steal to the sideof the ship. The bomb is magnetic. It will not be noticed in thedark—they will take off before sunrise, because they must travel awayfrom the sun to return—in forty hours the danger is removed.     There was comprehension in their eyes, Svan saw ... but still thatuncertainty. Impatiently, he crackled: Look at the slips!     Though he had willed his eyes away from it, his fingers had rebelled.Instinctively they had opened the slip, turned it over and over,striving to detect if it was the fatal one. They had felt nothing....     And his eyes saw nothing. The slip was blank. He gave it but a second'sglance, then looked up to see who had won the lethal game of chance.Almost he was disappointed.     Each of the others had looked in that same second. And each was lookingup now, around at his neighbors. Svan waited impatiently for the chosenone to announce it—a second, ten seconds....     Then gray understanding came to him.      A traitor!     his subconsciouswhispered.      A coward!     He stared at them in a new light, saw theirindecision magnified, became opposition.     Svan thought faster than ever before in his life. If there was acoward, it would do no good to unmask him. All were wavering, any mightbe the one who had drawn the fatal slip. He could insist on inspectingevery one, but—suppose the coward, cornered, fought back? In fractionsof a second, Svan had considered the evidence and reached his decision.Masked by the table, his hand, still holding the pencil, moved swiftlybeneath the table, marked his own slip.     In the palm of his hand, Svan held up the slip he had just marked insecret. His voice was very tired as he said, I will plant the bomb.  The six conspirators in Svan's old ground car moved slowly along themain street of the native town. Two Earth-ship sailors, unarmed exceptfor deceptively flimsy-looking pistols at their hips, stood before theentrance to the town's Hall of Justice.     Good, said Svan, observing them. The delegation is still here. Wehave ample time.     He half turned in the broad front seat next to the driver, searchingthe faces of the others in the car. Which was the coward? he wondered.Ingra? Her aunt? One of the men?     The right answer leaped up at him.      They all are     , he thought.      Not oneof them understands what this means. They're afraid.       He clamped his lips. Go faster, Ingra, he ordered the girl who wasdriving. Let's get this done with.     She looked at him, and he was surprised to find compassion in hereyes. Silently she nodded, advanced the fuel-handle so that the clumsycar jolted a trace more rapidly over the corduroy road. It was quitedark now. The car's driving light flared yellowishly in front of them,illuminating the narrow road and the pale, distorted vegetation of thejungle that surrounded them. Svan noticed it was raining a little. Thepresent shower would deepen and intensify until midnight, then fall offagain, to halt before morning. But before then they would be done.     A proton-bolt lanced across the road in front of them. In the silencethat followed its thunderous crash, a man's voice bellowed: Halt!     The girl, Ingra, gasped something indistinguishable, slammed on thebrakes. A Venusian in the trappings of the State Guard advanced on themfrom the side of the road, proton-rifle held ready to fire again.     Where are you going? he growled.     Svan spoke up. We want to look at the Earth-ship, he said. He openedthe door beside him and stepped out, careless of the drizzle. We heardit was leaving tonight, he continued, and we have not seen it. Isthat not permitted?     The guard shook his head sourly. No one is allowed near the ship. Theorder was just issued. It is thought there is danger.     Svan stepped closer, his teeth bared in what passed for a smile. Itis urgent, he purred. His right hand flashed across his chest in acomplicated gesture. Do you understand?     Confusion furrowed the guard's hairless brows, then was replaced bya sudden flare of understanding—and fear. The Council! he roared.By heaven, yes, I understand! You are the swine that caused this—He strove instinctively to bring the clumsy rifle up, but Svan wasfaster. His gamble had failed; there was only one course remaining.He hurled his gross white bulk at the guard, bowled him over againstthe splintery logs of the road. The proton-rifle went flying, and Svansavagely tore at the throat of the guard. Knees, elbows and claw-likenails—Svan battered at the astonished man with every ounce of strengthin his body. The guard was as big as Svan, but Svan had the initialadvantage ... and it was only a matter of seconds before the guardlay unconscious, his skull a mass of gore at the back where Svan hadruthlessly pounded it against the road.        Svan grunted as his fingers constricted brutally.        Svan rose, panting, stared around. No one else was in sight, save thepetrified five and the ground car. Svan glared at them contemptuously,then reached down and heaved on the senseless body of the guard. Overthe shoulder of the road the body went, onto the damp swampland of thejungle. Even while Svan watched the body began to sink. There would beno trace.     Svan strode back to the car. Hurry up, he gasped to the girl. Nowthere is danger for all of us, if they discover he is missing. And keepa watch for other guards.  Venus has no moon, and no star can shine through its vast cloud layer.Ensign Lowry, staring anxiously out through the astro-dome in the bowof the Earth-ship, cursed the blackness.     Can't see a thing, he complained to the Exec, steadily writing awayat the computer's table. Look—are those lights over there?     The Exec looked up wearily. He shrugged. Probably the guards. Ofcourse, you can't tell. Might be a raiding party.     Lowry, stung, looked to see if the Exec was smiling, but found noanswer in his stolid face. Don't joke about it, he said. Supposesomething happens to the delegation?     Then we're in the soup, the Exec said philosophically. I told youthe natives were dangerous. Spy-rays! They've been prohibited for thelast three hundred years.     It isn't all the natives, Lowry said. Look how they've doubled theguard around us. The administration is co-operating every way theyknow how. You heard the delegation's report on the intercom. It's thissecret group they call the Council.     And how do you know the guards themselves don't belong to it? theExec retorted. They're all the same to me.... Look, your light's goneout now. Must have been the guard. They're on the wrong side to becoming from the town, anyhow....  Svan hesitated only a fraction of a second after the girl turned thelights out and stopped the car. Then he reached in the compartmentunder the seat. If he took a little longer than seemed necessary to getthe atomite bomb out of the compartment, none of the others noticed.Certainly it did not occur to them that there had been      two     bombs inthe compartment, though Svan's hand emerged with only one.     He got out of the car, holding the sphere. This will do for me, hesaid. They won't be expecting anyone to come from behind the ship—wewere wise to circle around. Now, you know what you must do?     Ingra nodded, while the others remained mute. We must circle backagain, she parroted. We are to wait five minutes, then drive the carinto the swamp. We will create a commotion, attract the guards.     Svan, listening, thought:      It's not much of a plan. The guards wouldnot be drawn away. I am glad I can't trust these five any more. Ifthey must be destroyed, it is good that their destruction will serve apurpose.       Aloud, he said, You understand. If I get through, I will return to thecity on foot. No one will suspect anything if I am not caught, becausethe bomb will not explode until the ship is far out in space. Remember,you are in no danger from the guards.       From the guards     , his mind echoed. He smiled. At least, they wouldfeel no pain, never know what happened. With the amount of atomite inthat bomb in the compartment, they would merely be obliterated in aground-shaking crash.     Abruptly he swallowed, reminded of the bomb that was silently countingoff the seconds. Go ahead, he ordered. I will wait here.     Svan. The girl, Ingra, leaned over to him. Impulsively she reachedfor him, kissed him. Good luck to you, Svan, she said.     Good luck, repeated the others. Then silently the electric motor ofthe car took hold. Skilfully the girl backed it up, turned it around,sent it lumbering back down the road. Only after she had traveled a fewhundred feet by the feel of the road did she turn the lights on again.     Svan looked after them. The kiss had surprised him. What did it mean?Was it an error that the girl should die with the others?     There was an instant of doubt in his steel-shackled mind, then it wasdriven away. Perhaps she was loyal, yet certainly she was weak. Andsince he could not know which was the one who had received the markedslip, and feared to admit it, it was better they all should die.     He advanced along the midnight road to where the ground rose and thejungle plants thinned out. Ahead, on an elevation, were the rain-dimmedlights of the Earth-ship, set down in the center of a clearing made byits own fierce rockets. Svan's mist-trained eyes spotted the circlingfigures of sentries, and knew that these would be the ship's own.They would not be as easily overcome as the natives, not with thoseslim-shafted blasters they carried. Only deceit could get him to theside of the ship.     Svan settled himself at the side of the road, waiting for his chance.He had perhaps three minutes to wait; he reckoned. His fingers wentabsently to the pouch in his wide belt, closed on the slip of paper. Heturned it over without looking at it, wondering who had drawn the firstcross, and been a coward. Ingra? One of the men?  He became abruptly conscious of a commotion behind him. A ground carwas racing along the road. He spun around and was caught in the glareof its blinding driving-light, as it bumped to a slithering stop.     Paralyzed, he heard the girl's voice. Svan! They're coming! They foundthe guard's rifle, and they're looking for us! Thirty Earthmen, Svan,with those frightful guns. They fired at us, but we got away and camefor you. We must flee!     He stared unseeingly at the light. Go away! he croaked unbelievingly.Then his muscles jerked into action. The time was almost up—the bombin the car—     Go away! he shrieked, and turned to run. His fists clenched andswinging at his side, he made a dozen floundering steps beforesomething immense pounded at him from behind. He felt himself liftedfrom the road, sailing, swooping, dropping with annihilating forceonto the hard, charred earth of the clearing. Only then did he hear thesound of the explosion, and as the immense echoes died away he began tofeel the pain seeping into him from his hideously racked body....     The Flight Surgeon rose from beside him. He's still alive, he saidcallously to Lowry, who had just come up. It won't last long, though.What've you got there?     Lowry, a bewildered expression on his beardless face, held out the twohalves of a metallic sphere. Dangling ends of wires showed where aconnection had been broken. He had a bomb, he said. A magnetic-type,delayed-action atomite bomb. There must have been another in the car,and it went off. They—they were planning to bomb us.     Amazing, the surgeon said dryly. Well, they won't do any bombingnow.     Lowry was staring at the huddled, mutilated form of Svan. He shuddered.The surgeon, seeing the shudder, grasped his shoulder.     Better them than us, he said. It's poetic justice if I ever saw it.They had it coming.... He paused thoughtfully, staring at a piece ofpaper between his fingers. This is the only part I don't get, he said.     What's that? Lowry craned his neck. A piece of paper with a cross onit? What about it?     The surgeon shrugged. He had it clenched in his hand, he said. Hadthe devil of a time getting it loose from him. He turned it overslowly, displayed the other side. Now what in the world would he bedoing carrying a scrap of paper with a cross marked on both sides?   ","Ingra is one of the members in the room where Svan plans his revolt against the Earthman. She initially objects to Svan’s plan, a plan to destroy the Earthman ship with an atomite bomb, but when she sees other people agree with Svan, who is the leader of the revolting group, she takes back her objection. She hands the bowl to Svan, letting him put six slips inside to determine their futures, which is that one of them will put the bomb on the ship. She is also the first one to pick a slip. When the conspirators conduct their plans, she is the one who drives the car. She listens to Svan whenever he orders her to do something, and she kisses him when they separate to conduct different missions. After leaving Svan alone, she drives the car in the opposite direction to Svan, trying to cause a commotion. However, the Earthman guards are searching for them due to the discovery of the left rifle from the murdered Venusian, the native guard Svan killed. With no weapons to fight against the guards, Ingra drives the car back to pick up Svan, wanting to flee with him, but dies in the explosion of the vehicle."
"Who is Lowry? What happens to him throughout the story? </s>    DOUBLECROSS     by JAMES Mac CREIGH     Revolt was brewing on Venus, led by the     descendant of the first Earthmen to     land. Svan was the leader making the final     plans—plotting them a bit too well.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The Officer of the Deck was pleased as he returned to the main lock.There was no reason why everything shouldn't have been functioningperfectly, of course, but he was pleased to have it confirmed, all thesame. The Executive Officer was moodily smoking a cigarette in the openlock, staring out over the dank Venusian terrain at the native town. Heturned.     Everything shipshape, I take it! he commented.     The OD nodded. I'll have a blank log if this keeps up, he said.Every man accounted for except the delegation, cargo stowed, driversready to lift as soon as they come back.     The Exec tossed away his cigarette.       If     they come back.     Is there any question?     The Exec shrugged. I don't know, Lowry, he said. This is a funnyplace. I don't trust the natives.     Lowry lifted his eyebrows. Oh? But after all, they're human beings,just like us—     Not any more. Four or five generations ago they were. Lord, they don'teven look human any more. Those white, flabby skins—I don't like them.     Acclimation, Lowry said scientifically. They had to acclimatethemselves to Venus's climate. They're friendly enough.     The Exec shrugged again. He stared at the wooden shacks that were theoutskirts of the native city, dimly visible through the ever-presentVenusian mist. The native guard of honor, posted a hundred yards fromthe Earth-ship, stood stolidly at attention with their old-fashionedproton-rifles slung over their backs. A few natives were gazingwonderingly at the great ship, but made no move to pass the line ofguards.     Of course, Lowry said suddenly, there's a minority who are afraidof us. I was in town yesterday, and I talked with some of the natives.They think there will be hordes of immigrants from Earth, now that weknow Venus is habitable. And there's some sort of a paltry undergroundgroup that is spreading the word that the immigrants will drive thenative Venusians—the descendants of the first expedition, thatis—right down into the mud. Well— he laughed—maybe they will.After all, the fittest survive. That's a basic law of—     The annunciator over the open lock clanged vigorously, and a metallicvoice rasped: Officer of the Deck! Post Number One! Instrumentsreports a spy ray focused on the main lock!     Lowry, interrupted in the middle of a word, jerked his head back andstared unbelievingly at the tell-tale next to the annunciator. Sureenough, it was glowing red—might have been glowing for minutes. Hesnatched at the hand-phone dangling from the wall, shouted into it.Set up a screen! Notify the delegation! Alert a landing party! Buteven while he was giving orders, the warning light flickered suddenlyand went out. Stricken, Lowry turned to the Exec.     The Executive Officer nodded gloomily. He said, You see!  You see?     Svan clicked off the listening-machine and turned around. The fiveothers in the room looked apprehensive. You see? Svan repeated. Fromtheir own mouths you have heard it. The Council was right.     The younger of the two women sighed. She might have been beautiful, inspite of her dead-white skin, if there had been a scrap of hair on herhead. Svan, I'm afraid, she said. Who are we to decide if thisis a good thing? Our parents came from Earth. Perhaps there will betrouble at first, if colonists come, but we are of the same blood.     Svan laughed harshly.       They     don't think so. You heard them. We arenot human any more. The officer said it.     The other woman spoke unexpectedly. The Council was right, sheagreed. Svan, what must we do?     Svan raised his hand, thoughtfully. One moment. Ingra, do you stillobject?     The younger woman shrank back before the glare in his eyes. She lookedaround at the others, found them reluctant and uneasy, but visiblyconvinced by Svan.     No, she said slowly. I do not object.     And the rest of us? Does any of us object?     Svan eyed them, each in turn. There was a slow but unanimous gesture ofassent.     Good, said Svan. Then we must act. The Council has told us that wealone will decide our course of action. We have agreed that, if theEarth-ship returns, it means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must notreturn.     An old man shifted restlessly. But they are strong, Svan, hecomplained. They have weapons. We cannot force them to stay.     Svan nodded. No. They will leave. But they will never get back toEarth.     Never get back to Earth? the old man gasped. Has the Councilauthorized—murder?     Svan shrugged. The Council did not know what we would face. TheCouncilmen could not come to the city and see what strength theEarth-ship has. He paused dangerously. Toller, he said, do youobject?     Like the girl, the old man retreated before his eyes. His voice wasdull. What is your plan? he asked.     Svan smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at hisfeet, held up a shiny metal globe. One of us will plant this in theship. It will be set by means of this dial— he touched a spot on thesurface of the globe with a pallid finger—to do nothing for fortyhours. Then—it will explode. Atomite.     He grinned triumphantly, looking from face to face. The grinfaded uncertainly as he saw what was in their eyes—uncertainty,irresolution. Abruptly he set the bomb down, savagely ripped six leavesoff a writing tablet on the table next him. He took a pencil and made amark on one of them, held it up.     We will let chance decide who is to do the work, he said angrily. Isthere anyone here who is afraid? There will be danger, I think....     No answer. Svan jerked his head. Good, he said. Ingra, bring me thatbowl.     Silently the girl picked up an opaque glass bowl from the broad armof her chair. It had held Venus-tobacco cigarettes; there were a fewleft. She shook them out and handed the bowl to Svan, who was rapidlycreasing the six fatal slips. He dropped them in the bowl, stirred itwith his hand, offered it to the girl. You first, Ingra, he said.     She reached in mechanically, her eyes intent on his, took out a slipand held it without opening it. The bowl went the rounds, till Svanhimself took the last. All eyes were on him. No one had looked at theirslips.     Svan, too, had left his unopened. He sat at the table, facing them.This is the plan, he said. We will go, all six of us, in my groundcar, to look at the Earth-ship. No one will suspect—the whole cityhas been to see it already. One will get out, at the best point we canfind. It is almost dusk now. He can hide, surely, in the vegetation.The other five will start back. Something will go wrong with thecar—perhaps it will run off the road, start to sink in the swamp. Theguards will be called. There will be commotion—that is easy enough,after all; a hysterical woman, a few screams, that's all there is toit. And the sixth person will have his chance to steal to the sideof the ship. The bomb is magnetic. It will not be noticed in thedark—they will take off before sunrise, because they must travel awayfrom the sun to return—in forty hours the danger is removed.     There was comprehension in their eyes, Svan saw ... but still thatuncertainty. Impatiently, he crackled: Look at the slips!     Though he had willed his eyes away from it, his fingers had rebelled.Instinctively they had opened the slip, turned it over and over,striving to detect if it was the fatal one. They had felt nothing....     And his eyes saw nothing. The slip was blank. He gave it but a second'sglance, then looked up to see who had won the lethal game of chance.Almost he was disappointed.     Each of the others had looked in that same second. And each was lookingup now, around at his neighbors. Svan waited impatiently for the chosenone to announce it—a second, ten seconds....     Then gray understanding came to him.      A traitor!     his subconsciouswhispered.      A coward!     He stared at them in a new light, saw theirindecision magnified, became opposition.     Svan thought faster than ever before in his life. If there was acoward, it would do no good to unmask him. All were wavering, any mightbe the one who had drawn the fatal slip. He could insist on inspectingevery one, but—suppose the coward, cornered, fought back? In fractionsof a second, Svan had considered the evidence and reached his decision.Masked by the table, his hand, still holding the pencil, moved swiftlybeneath the table, marked his own slip.     In the palm of his hand, Svan held up the slip he had just marked insecret. His voice was very tired as he said, I will plant the bomb.  The six conspirators in Svan's old ground car moved slowly along themain street of the native town. Two Earth-ship sailors, unarmed exceptfor deceptively flimsy-looking pistols at their hips, stood before theentrance to the town's Hall of Justice.     Good, said Svan, observing them. The delegation is still here. Wehave ample time.     He half turned in the broad front seat next to the driver, searchingthe faces of the others in the car. Which was the coward? he wondered.Ingra? Her aunt? One of the men?     The right answer leaped up at him.      They all are     , he thought.      Not oneof them understands what this means. They're afraid.       He clamped his lips. Go faster, Ingra, he ordered the girl who wasdriving. Let's get this done with.     She looked at him, and he was surprised to find compassion in hereyes. Silently she nodded, advanced the fuel-handle so that the clumsycar jolted a trace more rapidly over the corduroy road. It was quitedark now. The car's driving light flared yellowishly in front of them,illuminating the narrow road and the pale, distorted vegetation of thejungle that surrounded them. Svan noticed it was raining a little. Thepresent shower would deepen and intensify until midnight, then fall offagain, to halt before morning. But before then they would be done.     A proton-bolt lanced across the road in front of them. In the silencethat followed its thunderous crash, a man's voice bellowed: Halt!     The girl, Ingra, gasped something indistinguishable, slammed on thebrakes. A Venusian in the trappings of the State Guard advanced on themfrom the side of the road, proton-rifle held ready to fire again.     Where are you going? he growled.     Svan spoke up. We want to look at the Earth-ship, he said. He openedthe door beside him and stepped out, careless of the drizzle. We heardit was leaving tonight, he continued, and we have not seen it. Isthat not permitted?     The guard shook his head sourly. No one is allowed near the ship. Theorder was just issued. It is thought there is danger.     Svan stepped closer, his teeth bared in what passed for a smile. Itis urgent, he purred. His right hand flashed across his chest in acomplicated gesture. Do you understand?     Confusion furrowed the guard's hairless brows, then was replaced bya sudden flare of understanding—and fear. The Council! he roared.By heaven, yes, I understand! You are the swine that caused this—He strove instinctively to bring the clumsy rifle up, but Svan wasfaster. His gamble had failed; there was only one course remaining.He hurled his gross white bulk at the guard, bowled him over againstthe splintery logs of the road. The proton-rifle went flying, and Svansavagely tore at the throat of the guard. Knees, elbows and claw-likenails—Svan battered at the astonished man with every ounce of strengthin his body. The guard was as big as Svan, but Svan had the initialadvantage ... and it was only a matter of seconds before the guardlay unconscious, his skull a mass of gore at the back where Svan hadruthlessly pounded it against the road.        Svan grunted as his fingers constricted brutally.        Svan rose, panting, stared around. No one else was in sight, save thepetrified five and the ground car. Svan glared at them contemptuously,then reached down and heaved on the senseless body of the guard. Overthe shoulder of the road the body went, onto the damp swampland of thejungle. Even while Svan watched the body began to sink. There would beno trace.     Svan strode back to the car. Hurry up, he gasped to the girl. Nowthere is danger for all of us, if they discover he is missing. And keepa watch for other guards.  Venus has no moon, and no star can shine through its vast cloud layer.Ensign Lowry, staring anxiously out through the astro-dome in the bowof the Earth-ship, cursed the blackness.     Can't see a thing, he complained to the Exec, steadily writing awayat the computer's table. Look—are those lights over there?     The Exec looked up wearily. He shrugged. Probably the guards. Ofcourse, you can't tell. Might be a raiding party.     Lowry, stung, looked to see if the Exec was smiling, but found noanswer in his stolid face. Don't joke about it, he said. Supposesomething happens to the delegation?     Then we're in the soup, the Exec said philosophically. I told youthe natives were dangerous. Spy-rays! They've been prohibited for thelast three hundred years.     It isn't all the natives, Lowry said. Look how they've doubled theguard around us. The administration is co-operating every way theyknow how. You heard the delegation's report on the intercom. It's thissecret group they call the Council.     And how do you know the guards themselves don't belong to it? theExec retorted. They're all the same to me.... Look, your light's goneout now. Must have been the guard. They're on the wrong side to becoming from the town, anyhow....  Svan hesitated only a fraction of a second after the girl turned thelights out and stopped the car. Then he reached in the compartmentunder the seat. If he took a little longer than seemed necessary to getthe atomite bomb out of the compartment, none of the others noticed.Certainly it did not occur to them that there had been      two     bombs inthe compartment, though Svan's hand emerged with only one.     He got out of the car, holding the sphere. This will do for me, hesaid. They won't be expecting anyone to come from behind the ship—wewere wise to circle around. Now, you know what you must do?     Ingra nodded, while the others remained mute. We must circle backagain, she parroted. We are to wait five minutes, then drive the carinto the swamp. We will create a commotion, attract the guards.     Svan, listening, thought:      It's not much of a plan. The guards wouldnot be drawn away. I am glad I can't trust these five any more. Ifthey must be destroyed, it is good that their destruction will serve apurpose.       Aloud, he said, You understand. If I get through, I will return to thecity on foot. No one will suspect anything if I am not caught, becausethe bomb will not explode until the ship is far out in space. Remember,you are in no danger from the guards.       From the guards     , his mind echoed. He smiled. At least, they wouldfeel no pain, never know what happened. With the amount of atomite inthat bomb in the compartment, they would merely be obliterated in aground-shaking crash.     Abruptly he swallowed, reminded of the bomb that was silently countingoff the seconds. Go ahead, he ordered. I will wait here.     Svan. The girl, Ingra, leaned over to him. Impulsively she reachedfor him, kissed him. Good luck to you, Svan, she said.     Good luck, repeated the others. Then silently the electric motor ofthe car took hold. Skilfully the girl backed it up, turned it around,sent it lumbering back down the road. Only after she had traveled a fewhundred feet by the feel of the road did she turn the lights on again.     Svan looked after them. The kiss had surprised him. What did it mean?Was it an error that the girl should die with the others?     There was an instant of doubt in his steel-shackled mind, then it wasdriven away. Perhaps she was loyal, yet certainly she was weak. Andsince he could not know which was the one who had received the markedslip, and feared to admit it, it was better they all should die.     He advanced along the midnight road to where the ground rose and thejungle plants thinned out. Ahead, on an elevation, were the rain-dimmedlights of the Earth-ship, set down in the center of a clearing made byits own fierce rockets. Svan's mist-trained eyes spotted the circlingfigures of sentries, and knew that these would be the ship's own.They would not be as easily overcome as the natives, not with thoseslim-shafted blasters they carried. Only deceit could get him to theside of the ship.     Svan settled himself at the side of the road, waiting for his chance.He had perhaps three minutes to wait; he reckoned. His fingers wentabsently to the pouch in his wide belt, closed on the slip of paper. Heturned it over without looking at it, wondering who had drawn the firstcross, and been a coward. Ingra? One of the men?  He became abruptly conscious of a commotion behind him. A ground carwas racing along the road. He spun around and was caught in the glareof its blinding driving-light, as it bumped to a slithering stop.     Paralyzed, he heard the girl's voice. Svan! They're coming! They foundthe guard's rifle, and they're looking for us! Thirty Earthmen, Svan,with those frightful guns. They fired at us, but we got away and camefor you. We must flee!     He stared unseeingly at the light. Go away! he croaked unbelievingly.Then his muscles jerked into action. The time was almost up—the bombin the car—     Go away! he shrieked, and turned to run. His fists clenched andswinging at his side, he made a dozen floundering steps beforesomething immense pounded at him from behind. He felt himself liftedfrom the road, sailing, swooping, dropping with annihilating forceonto the hard, charred earth of the clearing. Only then did he hear thesound of the explosion, and as the immense echoes died away he began tofeel the pain seeping into him from his hideously racked body....     The Flight Surgeon rose from beside him. He's still alive, he saidcallously to Lowry, who had just come up. It won't last long, though.What've you got there?     Lowry, a bewildered expression on his beardless face, held out the twohalves of a metallic sphere. Dangling ends of wires showed where aconnection had been broken. He had a bomb, he said. A magnetic-type,delayed-action atomite bomb. There must have been another in the car,and it went off. They—they were planning to bomb us.     Amazing, the surgeon said dryly. Well, they won't do any bombingnow.     Lowry was staring at the huddled, mutilated form of Svan. He shuddered.The surgeon, seeing the shudder, grasped his shoulder.     Better them than us, he said. It's poetic justice if I ever saw it.They had it coming.... He paused thoughtfully, staring at a piece ofpaper between his fingers. This is the only part I don't get, he said.     What's that? Lowry craned his neck. A piece of paper with a cross onit? What about it?     The surgeon shrugged. He had it clenched in his hand, he said. Hadthe devil of a time getting it loose from him. He turned it overslowly, displayed the other side. Now what in the world would he bedoing carrying a scrap of paper with a cross marked on both sides?   ","Lowry is the Officer of the Deck on the Earthman ship. He has a conversation with the Executive Officer on the main lock, which is eavesdropped on by Svan, the leader of a revolting group. Lowry believes that the Venusians are trustworthy since they are humans with different appearances. Still, he also believes that there may be some fights between Earthmen and Venusians when Earthmen land more colonists on Venus.When Svan, the leader of a rebellious group, and his members drive the car coming towards the ship to plant the bomb, Lowry sees the car light. He is talking to the Executive Officer by then about this secret group called the Council against the Earthman colonies. Even though the Executive Officer highly doubts the loyalty of the Venusians, Lowry still believes that Venusians can be trusted.After Svan is blown away by the explosion of the car, Lowry and a surgeon come to inspect his body. They find the pieces of the bomb. They also find a piece of paper with both sides marked with a cross in his hand. Lowery is confused about the paper's purpose, but he is sure that Svan intended to explode the Earthman ship."
"What is the setting of the story? </s>    DOUBLECROSS     by JAMES Mac CREIGH     Revolt was brewing on Venus, led by the     descendant of the first Earthmen to     land. Svan was the leader making the final     plans—plotting them a bit too well.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The Officer of the Deck was pleased as he returned to the main lock.There was no reason why everything shouldn't have been functioningperfectly, of course, but he was pleased to have it confirmed, all thesame. The Executive Officer was moodily smoking a cigarette in the openlock, staring out over the dank Venusian terrain at the native town. Heturned.     Everything shipshape, I take it! he commented.     The OD nodded. I'll have a blank log if this keeps up, he said.Every man accounted for except the delegation, cargo stowed, driversready to lift as soon as they come back.     The Exec tossed away his cigarette.       If     they come back.     Is there any question?     The Exec shrugged. I don't know, Lowry, he said. This is a funnyplace. I don't trust the natives.     Lowry lifted his eyebrows. Oh? But after all, they're human beings,just like us—     Not any more. Four or five generations ago they were. Lord, they don'teven look human any more. Those white, flabby skins—I don't like them.     Acclimation, Lowry said scientifically. They had to acclimatethemselves to Venus's climate. They're friendly enough.     The Exec shrugged again. He stared at the wooden shacks that were theoutskirts of the native city, dimly visible through the ever-presentVenusian mist. The native guard of honor, posted a hundred yards fromthe Earth-ship, stood stolidly at attention with their old-fashionedproton-rifles slung over their backs. A few natives were gazingwonderingly at the great ship, but made no move to pass the line ofguards.     Of course, Lowry said suddenly, there's a minority who are afraidof us. I was in town yesterday, and I talked with some of the natives.They think there will be hordes of immigrants from Earth, now that weknow Venus is habitable. And there's some sort of a paltry undergroundgroup that is spreading the word that the immigrants will drive thenative Venusians—the descendants of the first expedition, thatis—right down into the mud. Well— he laughed—maybe they will.After all, the fittest survive. That's a basic law of—     The annunciator over the open lock clanged vigorously, and a metallicvoice rasped: Officer of the Deck! Post Number One! Instrumentsreports a spy ray focused on the main lock!     Lowry, interrupted in the middle of a word, jerked his head back andstared unbelievingly at the tell-tale next to the annunciator. Sureenough, it was glowing red—might have been glowing for minutes. Hesnatched at the hand-phone dangling from the wall, shouted into it.Set up a screen! Notify the delegation! Alert a landing party! Buteven while he was giving orders, the warning light flickered suddenlyand went out. Stricken, Lowry turned to the Exec.     The Executive Officer nodded gloomily. He said, You see!  You see?     Svan clicked off the listening-machine and turned around. The fiveothers in the room looked apprehensive. You see? Svan repeated. Fromtheir own mouths you have heard it. The Council was right.     The younger of the two women sighed. She might have been beautiful, inspite of her dead-white skin, if there had been a scrap of hair on herhead. Svan, I'm afraid, she said. Who are we to decide if thisis a good thing? Our parents came from Earth. Perhaps there will betrouble at first, if colonists come, but we are of the same blood.     Svan laughed harshly.       They     don't think so. You heard them. We arenot human any more. The officer said it.     The other woman spoke unexpectedly. The Council was right, sheagreed. Svan, what must we do?     Svan raised his hand, thoughtfully. One moment. Ingra, do you stillobject?     The younger woman shrank back before the glare in his eyes. She lookedaround at the others, found them reluctant and uneasy, but visiblyconvinced by Svan.     No, she said slowly. I do not object.     And the rest of us? Does any of us object?     Svan eyed them, each in turn. There was a slow but unanimous gesture ofassent.     Good, said Svan. Then we must act. The Council has told us that wealone will decide our course of action. We have agreed that, if theEarth-ship returns, it means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must notreturn.     An old man shifted restlessly. But they are strong, Svan, hecomplained. They have weapons. We cannot force them to stay.     Svan nodded. No. They will leave. But they will never get back toEarth.     Never get back to Earth? the old man gasped. Has the Councilauthorized—murder?     Svan shrugged. The Council did not know what we would face. TheCouncilmen could not come to the city and see what strength theEarth-ship has. He paused dangerously. Toller, he said, do youobject?     Like the girl, the old man retreated before his eyes. His voice wasdull. What is your plan? he asked.     Svan smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at hisfeet, held up a shiny metal globe. One of us will plant this in theship. It will be set by means of this dial— he touched a spot on thesurface of the globe with a pallid finger—to do nothing for fortyhours. Then—it will explode. Atomite.     He grinned triumphantly, looking from face to face. The grinfaded uncertainly as he saw what was in their eyes—uncertainty,irresolution. Abruptly he set the bomb down, savagely ripped six leavesoff a writing tablet on the table next him. He took a pencil and made amark on one of them, held it up.     We will let chance decide who is to do the work, he said angrily. Isthere anyone here who is afraid? There will be danger, I think....     No answer. Svan jerked his head. Good, he said. Ingra, bring me thatbowl.     Silently the girl picked up an opaque glass bowl from the broad armof her chair. It had held Venus-tobacco cigarettes; there were a fewleft. She shook them out and handed the bowl to Svan, who was rapidlycreasing the six fatal slips. He dropped them in the bowl, stirred itwith his hand, offered it to the girl. You first, Ingra, he said.     She reached in mechanically, her eyes intent on his, took out a slipand held it without opening it. The bowl went the rounds, till Svanhimself took the last. All eyes were on him. No one had looked at theirslips.     Svan, too, had left his unopened. He sat at the table, facing them.This is the plan, he said. We will go, all six of us, in my groundcar, to look at the Earth-ship. No one will suspect—the whole cityhas been to see it already. One will get out, at the best point we canfind. It is almost dusk now. He can hide, surely, in the vegetation.The other five will start back. Something will go wrong with thecar—perhaps it will run off the road, start to sink in the swamp. Theguards will be called. There will be commotion—that is easy enough,after all; a hysterical woman, a few screams, that's all there is toit. And the sixth person will have his chance to steal to the sideof the ship. The bomb is magnetic. It will not be noticed in thedark—they will take off before sunrise, because they must travel awayfrom the sun to return—in forty hours the danger is removed.     There was comprehension in their eyes, Svan saw ... but still thatuncertainty. Impatiently, he crackled: Look at the slips!     Though he had willed his eyes away from it, his fingers had rebelled.Instinctively they had opened the slip, turned it over and over,striving to detect if it was the fatal one. They had felt nothing....     And his eyes saw nothing. The slip was blank. He gave it but a second'sglance, then looked up to see who had won the lethal game of chance.Almost he was disappointed.     Each of the others had looked in that same second. And each was lookingup now, around at his neighbors. Svan waited impatiently for the chosenone to announce it—a second, ten seconds....     Then gray understanding came to him.      A traitor!     his subconsciouswhispered.      A coward!     He stared at them in a new light, saw theirindecision magnified, became opposition.     Svan thought faster than ever before in his life. If there was acoward, it would do no good to unmask him. All were wavering, any mightbe the one who had drawn the fatal slip. He could insist on inspectingevery one, but—suppose the coward, cornered, fought back? In fractionsof a second, Svan had considered the evidence and reached his decision.Masked by the table, his hand, still holding the pencil, moved swiftlybeneath the table, marked his own slip.     In the palm of his hand, Svan held up the slip he had just marked insecret. His voice was very tired as he said, I will plant the bomb.  The six conspirators in Svan's old ground car moved slowly along themain street of the native town. Two Earth-ship sailors, unarmed exceptfor deceptively flimsy-looking pistols at their hips, stood before theentrance to the town's Hall of Justice.     Good, said Svan, observing them. The delegation is still here. Wehave ample time.     He half turned in the broad front seat next to the driver, searchingthe faces of the others in the car. Which was the coward? he wondered.Ingra? Her aunt? One of the men?     The right answer leaped up at him.      They all are     , he thought.      Not oneof them understands what this means. They're afraid.       He clamped his lips. Go faster, Ingra, he ordered the girl who wasdriving. Let's get this done with.     She looked at him, and he was surprised to find compassion in hereyes. Silently she nodded, advanced the fuel-handle so that the clumsycar jolted a trace more rapidly over the corduroy road. It was quitedark now. The car's driving light flared yellowishly in front of them,illuminating the narrow road and the pale, distorted vegetation of thejungle that surrounded them. Svan noticed it was raining a little. Thepresent shower would deepen and intensify until midnight, then fall offagain, to halt before morning. But before then they would be done.     A proton-bolt lanced across the road in front of them. In the silencethat followed its thunderous crash, a man's voice bellowed: Halt!     The girl, Ingra, gasped something indistinguishable, slammed on thebrakes. A Venusian in the trappings of the State Guard advanced on themfrom the side of the road, proton-rifle held ready to fire again.     Where are you going? he growled.     Svan spoke up. We want to look at the Earth-ship, he said. He openedthe door beside him and stepped out, careless of the drizzle. We heardit was leaving tonight, he continued, and we have not seen it. Isthat not permitted?     The guard shook his head sourly. No one is allowed near the ship. Theorder was just issued. It is thought there is danger.     Svan stepped closer, his teeth bared in what passed for a smile. Itis urgent, he purred. His right hand flashed across his chest in acomplicated gesture. Do you understand?     Confusion furrowed the guard's hairless brows, then was replaced bya sudden flare of understanding—and fear. The Council! he roared.By heaven, yes, I understand! You are the swine that caused this—He strove instinctively to bring the clumsy rifle up, but Svan wasfaster. His gamble had failed; there was only one course remaining.He hurled his gross white bulk at the guard, bowled him over againstthe splintery logs of the road. The proton-rifle went flying, and Svansavagely tore at the throat of the guard. Knees, elbows and claw-likenails—Svan battered at the astonished man with every ounce of strengthin his body. The guard was as big as Svan, but Svan had the initialadvantage ... and it was only a matter of seconds before the guardlay unconscious, his skull a mass of gore at the back where Svan hadruthlessly pounded it against the road.        Svan grunted as his fingers constricted brutally.        Svan rose, panting, stared around. No one else was in sight, save thepetrified five and the ground car. Svan glared at them contemptuously,then reached down and heaved on the senseless body of the guard. Overthe shoulder of the road the body went, onto the damp swampland of thejungle. Even while Svan watched the body began to sink. There would beno trace.     Svan strode back to the car. Hurry up, he gasped to the girl. Nowthere is danger for all of us, if they discover he is missing. And keepa watch for other guards.  Venus has no moon, and no star can shine through its vast cloud layer.Ensign Lowry, staring anxiously out through the astro-dome in the bowof the Earth-ship, cursed the blackness.     Can't see a thing, he complained to the Exec, steadily writing awayat the computer's table. Look—are those lights over there?     The Exec looked up wearily. He shrugged. Probably the guards. Ofcourse, you can't tell. Might be a raiding party.     Lowry, stung, looked to see if the Exec was smiling, but found noanswer in his stolid face. Don't joke about it, he said. Supposesomething happens to the delegation?     Then we're in the soup, the Exec said philosophically. I told youthe natives were dangerous. Spy-rays! They've been prohibited for thelast three hundred years.     It isn't all the natives, Lowry said. Look how they've doubled theguard around us. The administration is co-operating every way theyknow how. You heard the delegation's report on the intercom. It's thissecret group they call the Council.     And how do you know the guards themselves don't belong to it? theExec retorted. They're all the same to me.... Look, your light's goneout now. Must have been the guard. They're on the wrong side to becoming from the town, anyhow....  Svan hesitated only a fraction of a second after the girl turned thelights out and stopped the car. Then he reached in the compartmentunder the seat. If he took a little longer than seemed necessary to getthe atomite bomb out of the compartment, none of the others noticed.Certainly it did not occur to them that there had been      two     bombs inthe compartment, though Svan's hand emerged with only one.     He got out of the car, holding the sphere. This will do for me, hesaid. They won't be expecting anyone to come from behind the ship—wewere wise to circle around. Now, you know what you must do?     Ingra nodded, while the others remained mute. We must circle backagain, she parroted. We are to wait five minutes, then drive the carinto the swamp. We will create a commotion, attract the guards.     Svan, listening, thought:      It's not much of a plan. The guards wouldnot be drawn away. I am glad I can't trust these five any more. Ifthey must be destroyed, it is good that their destruction will serve apurpose.       Aloud, he said, You understand. If I get through, I will return to thecity on foot. No one will suspect anything if I am not caught, becausethe bomb will not explode until the ship is far out in space. Remember,you are in no danger from the guards.       From the guards     , his mind echoed. He smiled. At least, they wouldfeel no pain, never know what happened. With the amount of atomite inthat bomb in the compartment, they would merely be obliterated in aground-shaking crash.     Abruptly he swallowed, reminded of the bomb that was silently countingoff the seconds. Go ahead, he ordered. I will wait here.     Svan. The girl, Ingra, leaned over to him. Impulsively she reachedfor him, kissed him. Good luck to you, Svan, she said.     Good luck, repeated the others. Then silently the electric motor ofthe car took hold. Skilfully the girl backed it up, turned it around,sent it lumbering back down the road. Only after she had traveled a fewhundred feet by the feel of the road did she turn the lights on again.     Svan looked after them. The kiss had surprised him. What did it mean?Was it an error that the girl should die with the others?     There was an instant of doubt in his steel-shackled mind, then it wasdriven away. Perhaps she was loyal, yet certainly she was weak. Andsince he could not know which was the one who had received the markedslip, and feared to admit it, it was better they all should die.     He advanced along the midnight road to where the ground rose and thejungle plants thinned out. Ahead, on an elevation, were the rain-dimmedlights of the Earth-ship, set down in the center of a clearing made byits own fierce rockets. Svan's mist-trained eyes spotted the circlingfigures of sentries, and knew that these would be the ship's own.They would not be as easily overcome as the natives, not with thoseslim-shafted blasters they carried. Only deceit could get him to theside of the ship.     Svan settled himself at the side of the road, waiting for his chance.He had perhaps three minutes to wait; he reckoned. His fingers wentabsently to the pouch in his wide belt, closed on the slip of paper. Heturned it over without looking at it, wondering who had drawn the firstcross, and been a coward. Ingra? One of the men?  He became abruptly conscious of a commotion behind him. A ground carwas racing along the road. He spun around and was caught in the glareof its blinding driving-light, as it bumped to a slithering stop.     Paralyzed, he heard the girl's voice. Svan! They're coming! They foundthe guard's rifle, and they're looking for us! Thirty Earthmen, Svan,with those frightful guns. They fired at us, but we got away and camefor you. We must flee!     He stared unseeingly at the light. Go away! he croaked unbelievingly.Then his muscles jerked into action. The time was almost up—the bombin the car—     Go away! he shrieked, and turned to run. His fists clenched andswinging at his side, he made a dozen floundering steps beforesomething immense pounded at him from behind. He felt himself liftedfrom the road, sailing, swooping, dropping with annihilating forceonto the hard, charred earth of the clearing. Only then did he hear thesound of the explosion, and as the immense echoes died away he began tofeel the pain seeping into him from his hideously racked body....     The Flight Surgeon rose from beside him. He's still alive, he saidcallously to Lowry, who had just come up. It won't last long, though.What've you got there?     Lowry, a bewildered expression on his beardless face, held out the twohalves of a metallic sphere. Dangling ends of wires showed where aconnection had been broken. He had a bomb, he said. A magnetic-type,delayed-action atomite bomb. There must have been another in the car,and it went off. They—they were planning to bomb us.     Amazing, the surgeon said dryly. Well, they won't do any bombingnow.     Lowry was staring at the huddled, mutilated form of Svan. He shuddered.The surgeon, seeing the shudder, grasped his shoulder.     Better them than us, he said. It's poetic justice if I ever saw it.They had it coming.... He paused thoughtfully, staring at a piece ofpaper between his fingers. This is the only part I don't get, he said.     What's that? Lowry craned his neck. A piece of paper with a cross onit? What about it?     The surgeon shrugged. He had it clenched in his hand, he said. Hadthe devil of a time getting it loose from him. He turned it overslowly, displayed the other side. Now what in the world would he bedoing carrying a scrap of paper with a cross marked on both sides?   ","The story happens on Venus. Venus is a habitable planet with a thick layer of clouds. There are two species on Venus, one is Venusians, who are the descendants of the first generation Earthmen coming to Venus, and the other is Earthmen, who come later as a delegation to collaborate with Venusians for the future colonies. The story happens in the background of the disharmony between Earthmen and part of the Venusians. There is a secret Venusian group called the Council, where the members fear that the future Earthmen colonies will harm them and deprive them of their living spaces. Therefore, to not let the Earthmen ship bring back the news of the habitability of Venus, the Council orders Svan as a leader to conduct some rebellious plan, which starts the story."
"What is the importance of the slip with a cross? </s>    DOUBLECROSS     by JAMES Mac CREIGH     Revolt was brewing on Venus, led by the     descendant of the first Earthmen to     land. Svan was the leader making the final     plans—plotting them a bit too well.     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Planet Stories Winter 1944.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      The Officer of the Deck was pleased as he returned to the main lock.There was no reason why everything shouldn't have been functioningperfectly, of course, but he was pleased to have it confirmed, all thesame. The Executive Officer was moodily smoking a cigarette in the openlock, staring out over the dank Venusian terrain at the native town. Heturned.     Everything shipshape, I take it! he commented.     The OD nodded. I'll have a blank log if this keeps up, he said.Every man accounted for except the delegation, cargo stowed, driversready to lift as soon as they come back.     The Exec tossed away his cigarette.       If     they come back.     Is there any question?     The Exec shrugged. I don't know, Lowry, he said. This is a funnyplace. I don't trust the natives.     Lowry lifted his eyebrows. Oh? But after all, they're human beings,just like us—     Not any more. Four or five generations ago they were. Lord, they don'teven look human any more. Those white, flabby skins—I don't like them.     Acclimation, Lowry said scientifically. They had to acclimatethemselves to Venus's climate. They're friendly enough.     The Exec shrugged again. He stared at the wooden shacks that were theoutskirts of the native city, dimly visible through the ever-presentVenusian mist. The native guard of honor, posted a hundred yards fromthe Earth-ship, stood stolidly at attention with their old-fashionedproton-rifles slung over their backs. A few natives were gazingwonderingly at the great ship, but made no move to pass the line ofguards.     Of course, Lowry said suddenly, there's a minority who are afraidof us. I was in town yesterday, and I talked with some of the natives.They think there will be hordes of immigrants from Earth, now that weknow Venus is habitable. And there's some sort of a paltry undergroundgroup that is spreading the word that the immigrants will drive thenative Venusians—the descendants of the first expedition, thatis—right down into the mud. Well— he laughed—maybe they will.After all, the fittest survive. That's a basic law of—     The annunciator over the open lock clanged vigorously, and a metallicvoice rasped: Officer of the Deck! Post Number One! Instrumentsreports a spy ray focused on the main lock!     Lowry, interrupted in the middle of a word, jerked his head back andstared unbelievingly at the tell-tale next to the annunciator. Sureenough, it was glowing red—might have been glowing for minutes. Hesnatched at the hand-phone dangling from the wall, shouted into it.Set up a screen! Notify the delegation! Alert a landing party! Buteven while he was giving orders, the warning light flickered suddenlyand went out. Stricken, Lowry turned to the Exec.     The Executive Officer nodded gloomily. He said, You see!  You see?     Svan clicked off the listening-machine and turned around. The fiveothers in the room looked apprehensive. You see? Svan repeated. Fromtheir own mouths you have heard it. The Council was right.     The younger of the two women sighed. She might have been beautiful, inspite of her dead-white skin, if there had been a scrap of hair on herhead. Svan, I'm afraid, she said. Who are we to decide if thisis a good thing? Our parents came from Earth. Perhaps there will betrouble at first, if colonists come, but we are of the same blood.     Svan laughed harshly.       They     don't think so. You heard them. We arenot human any more. The officer said it.     The other woman spoke unexpectedly. The Council was right, sheagreed. Svan, what must we do?     Svan raised his hand, thoughtfully. One moment. Ingra, do you stillobject?     The younger woman shrank back before the glare in his eyes. She lookedaround at the others, found them reluctant and uneasy, but visiblyconvinced by Svan.     No, she said slowly. I do not object.     And the rest of us? Does any of us object?     Svan eyed them, each in turn. There was a slow but unanimous gesture ofassent.     Good, said Svan. Then we must act. The Council has told us that wealone will decide our course of action. We have agreed that, if theEarth-ship returns, it means disaster for Venus. Therefore, it must notreturn.     An old man shifted restlessly. But they are strong, Svan, hecomplained. They have weapons. We cannot force them to stay.     Svan nodded. No. They will leave. But they will never get back toEarth.     Never get back to Earth? the old man gasped. Has the Councilauthorized—murder?     Svan shrugged. The Council did not know what we would face. TheCouncilmen could not come to the city and see what strength theEarth-ship has. He paused dangerously. Toller, he said, do youobject?     Like the girl, the old man retreated before his eyes. His voice wasdull. What is your plan? he asked.     Svan smiled, and it was like a dark flame. He reached to a box at hisfeet, held up a shiny metal globe. One of us will plant this in theship. It will be set by means of this dial— he touched a spot on thesurface of the globe with a pallid finger—to do nothing for fortyhours. Then—it will explode. Atomite.     He grinned triumphantly, looking from face to face. The grinfaded uncertainly as he saw what was in their eyes—uncertainty,irresolution. Abruptly he set the bomb down, savagely ripped six leavesoff a writing tablet on the table next him. He took a pencil and made amark on one of them, held it up.     We will let chance decide who is to do the work, he said angrily. Isthere anyone here who is afraid? There will be danger, I think....     No answer. Svan jerked his head. Good, he said. Ingra, bring me thatbowl.     Silently the girl picked up an opaque glass bowl from the broad armof her chair. It had held Venus-tobacco cigarettes; there were a fewleft. She shook them out and handed the bowl to Svan, who was rapidlycreasing the six fatal slips. He dropped them in the bowl, stirred itwith his hand, offered it to the girl. You first, Ingra, he said.     She reached in mechanically, her eyes intent on his, took out a slipand held it without opening it. The bowl went the rounds, till Svanhimself took the last. All eyes were on him. No one had looked at theirslips.     Svan, too, had left his unopened. He sat at the table, facing them.This is the plan, he said. We will go, all six of us, in my groundcar, to look at the Earth-ship. No one will suspect—the whole cityhas been to see it already. One will get out, at the best point we canfind. It is almost dusk now. He can hide, surely, in the vegetation.The other five will start back. Something will go wrong with thecar—perhaps it will run off the road, start to sink in the swamp. Theguards will be called. There will be commotion—that is easy enough,after all; a hysterical woman, a few screams, that's all there is toit. And the sixth person will have his chance to steal to the sideof the ship. The bomb is magnetic. It will not be noticed in thedark—they will take off before sunrise, because they must travel awayfrom the sun to return—in forty hours the danger is removed.     There was comprehension in their eyes, Svan saw ... but still thatuncertainty. Impatiently, he crackled: Look at the slips!     Though he had willed his eyes away from it, his fingers had rebelled.Instinctively they had opened the slip, turned it over and over,striving to detect if it was the fatal one. They had felt nothing....     And his eyes saw nothing. The slip was blank. He gave it but a second'sglance, then looked up to see who had won the lethal game of chance.Almost he was disappointed.     Each of the others had looked in that same second. And each was lookingup now, around at his neighbors. Svan waited impatiently for the chosenone to announce it—a second, ten seconds....     Then gray understanding came to him.      A traitor!     his subconsciouswhispered.      A coward!     He stared at them in a new light, saw theirindecision magnified, became opposition.     Svan thought faster than ever before in his life. If there was acoward, it would do no good to unmask him. All were wavering, any mightbe the one who had drawn the fatal slip. He could insist on inspectingevery one, but—suppose the coward, cornered, fought back? In fractionsof a second, Svan had considered the evidence and reached his decision.Masked by the table, his hand, still holding the pencil, moved swiftlybeneath the table, marked his own slip.     In the palm of his hand, Svan held up the slip he had just marked insecret. His voice was very tired as he said, I will plant the bomb.  The six conspirators in Svan's old ground car moved slowly along themain street of the native town. Two Earth-ship sailors, unarmed exceptfor deceptively flimsy-looking pistols at their hips, stood before theentrance to the town's Hall of Justice.     Good, said Svan, observing them. The delegation is still here. Wehave ample time.     He half turned in the broad front seat next to the driver, searchingthe faces of the others in the car. Which was the coward? he wondered.Ingra? Her aunt? One of the men?     The right answer leaped up at him.      They all are     , he thought.      Not oneof them understands what this means. They're afraid.       He clamped his lips. Go faster, Ingra, he ordered the girl who wasdriving. Let's get this done with.     She looked at him, and he was surprised to find compassion in hereyes. Silently she nodded, advanced the fuel-handle so that the clumsycar jolted a trace more rapidly over the corduroy road. It was quitedark now. The car's driving light flared yellowishly in front of them,illuminating the narrow road and the pale, distorted vegetation of thejungle that surrounded them. Svan noticed it was raining a little. Thepresent shower would deepen and intensify until midnight, then fall offagain, to halt before morning. But before then they would be done.     A proton-bolt lanced across the road in front of them. In the silencethat followed its thunderous crash, a man's voice bellowed: Halt!     The girl, Ingra, gasped something indistinguishable, slammed on thebrakes. A Venusian in the trappings of the State Guard advanced on themfrom the side of the road, proton-rifle held ready to fire again.     Where are you going? he growled.     Svan spoke up. We want to look at the Earth-ship, he said. He openedthe door beside him and stepped out, careless of the drizzle. We heardit was leaving tonight, he continued, and we have not seen it. Isthat not permitted?     The guard shook his head sourly. No one is allowed near the ship. Theorder was just issued. It is thought there is danger.     Svan stepped closer, his teeth bared in what passed for a smile. Itis urgent, he purred. His right hand flashed across his chest in acomplicated gesture. Do you understand?     Confusion furrowed the guard's hairless brows, then was replaced bya sudden flare of understanding—and fear. The Council! he roared.By heaven, yes, I understand! You are the swine that caused this—He strove instinctively to bring the clumsy rifle up, but Svan wasfaster. His gamble had failed; there was only one course remaining.He hurled his gross white bulk at the guard, bowled him over againstthe splintery logs of the road. The proton-rifle went flying, and Svansavagely tore at the throat of the guard. Knees, elbows and claw-likenails—Svan battered at the astonished man with every ounce of strengthin his body. The guard was as big as Svan, but Svan had the initialadvantage ... and it was only a matter of seconds before the guardlay unconscious, his skull a mass of gore at the back where Svan hadruthlessly pounded it against the road.        Svan grunted as his fingers constricted brutally.        Svan rose, panting, stared around. No one else was in sight, save thepetrified five and the ground car. Svan glared at them contemptuously,then reached down and heaved on the senseless body of the guard. Overthe shoulder of the road the body went, onto the damp swampland of thejungle. Even while Svan watched the body began to sink. There would beno trace.     Svan strode back to the car. Hurry up, he gasped to the girl. Nowthere is danger for all of us, if they discover he is missing. And keepa watch for other guards.  Venus has no moon, and no star can shine through its vast cloud layer.Ensign Lowry, staring anxiously out through the astro-dome in the bowof the Earth-ship, cursed the blackness.     Can't see a thing, he complained to the Exec, steadily writing awayat the computer's table. Look—are those lights over there?     The Exec looked up wearily. He shrugged. Probably the guards. Ofcourse, you can't tell. Might be a raiding party.     Lowry, stung, looked to see if the Exec was smiling, but found noanswer in his stolid face. Don't joke about it, he said. Supposesomething happens to the delegation?     Then we're in the soup, the Exec said philosophically. I told youthe natives were dangerous. Spy-rays! They've been prohibited for thelast three hundred years.     It isn't all the natives, Lowry said. Look how they've doubled theguard around us. The administration is co-operating every way theyknow how. You heard the delegation's report on the intercom. It's thissecret group they call the Council.     And how do you know the guards themselves don't belong to it? theExec retorted. They're all the same to me.... Look, your light's goneout now. Must have been the guard. They're on the wrong side to becoming from the town, anyhow....  Svan hesitated only a fraction of a second after the girl turned thelights out and stopped the car. Then he reached in the compartmentunder the seat. If he took a little longer than seemed necessary to getthe atomite bomb out of the compartment, none of the others noticed.Certainly it did not occur to them that there had been      two     bombs inthe compartment, though Svan's hand emerged with only one.     He got out of the car, holding the sphere. This will do for me, hesaid. They won't be expecting anyone to come from behind the ship—wewere wise to circle around. Now, you know what you must do?     Ingra nodded, while the others remained mute. We must circle backagain, she parroted. We are to wait five minutes, then drive the carinto the swamp. We will create a commotion, attract the guards.     Svan, listening, thought:      It's not much of a plan. The guards wouldnot be drawn away. I am glad I can't trust these five any more. Ifthey must be destroyed, it is good that their destruction will serve apurpose.       Aloud, he said, You understand. If I get through, I will return to thecity on foot. No one will suspect anything if I am not caught, becausethe bomb will not explode until the ship is far out in space. Remember,you are in no danger from the guards.       From the guards     , his mind echoed. He smiled. At least, they wouldfeel no pain, never know what happened. With the amount of atomite inthat bomb in the compartment, they would merely be obliterated in aground-shaking crash.     Abruptly he swallowed, reminded of the bomb that was silently countingoff the seconds. Go ahead, he ordered. I will wait here.     Svan. The girl, Ingra, leaned over to him. Impulsively she reachedfor him, kissed him. Good luck to you, Svan, she said.     Good luck, repeated the others. Then silently the electric motor ofthe car took hold. Skilfully the girl backed it up, turned it around,sent it lumbering back down the road. Only after she had traveled a fewhundred feet by the feel of the road did she turn the lights on again.     Svan looked after them. The kiss had surprised him. What did it mean?Was it an error that the girl should die with the others?     There was an instant of doubt in his steel-shackled mind, then it wasdriven away. Perhaps she was loyal, yet certainly she was weak. Andsince he could not know which was the one who had received the markedslip, and feared to admit it, it was better they all should die.     He advanced along the midnight road to where the ground rose and thejungle plants thinned out. Ahead, on an elevation, were the rain-dimmedlights of the Earth-ship, set down in the center of a clearing made byits own fierce rockets. Svan's mist-trained eyes spotted the circlingfigures of sentries, and knew that these would be the ship's own.They would not be as easily overcome as the natives, not with thoseslim-shafted blasters they carried. Only deceit could get him to theside of the ship.     Svan settled himself at the side of the road, waiting for his chance.He had perhaps three minutes to wait; he reckoned. His fingers wentabsently to the pouch in his wide belt, closed on the slip of paper. Heturned it over without looking at it, wondering who had drawn the firstcross, and been a coward. Ingra? One of the men?  He became abruptly conscious of a commotion behind him. A ground carwas racing along the road. He spun around and was caught in the glareof its blinding driving-light, as it bumped to a slithering stop.     Paralyzed, he heard the girl's voice. Svan! They're coming! They foundthe guard's rifle, and they're looking for us! Thirty Earthmen, Svan,with those frightful guns. They fired at us, but we got away and camefor you. We must flee!     He stared unseeingly at the light. Go away! he croaked unbelievingly.Then his muscles jerked into action. The time was almost up—the bombin the car—     Go away! he shrieked, and turned to run. His fists clenched andswinging at his side, he made a dozen floundering steps beforesomething immense pounded at him from behind. He felt himself liftedfrom the road, sailing, swooping, dropping with annihilating forceonto the hard, charred earth of the clearing. Only then did he hear thesound of the explosion, and as the immense echoes died away he began tofeel the pain seeping into him from his hideously racked body....     The Flight Surgeon rose from beside him. He's still alive, he saidcallously to Lowry, who had just come up. It won't last long, though.What've you got there?     Lowry, a bewildered expression on his beardless face, held out the twohalves of a metallic sphere. Dangling ends of wires showed where aconnection had been broken. He had a bomb, he said. A magnetic-type,delayed-action atomite bomb. There must have been another in the car,and it went off. They—they were planning to bomb us.     Amazing, the surgeon said dryly. Well, they won't do any bombingnow.     Lowry was staring at the huddled, mutilated form of Svan. He shuddered.The surgeon, seeing the shudder, grasped his shoulder.     Better them than us, he said. It's poetic justice if I ever saw it.They had it coming.... He paused thoughtfully, staring at a piece ofpaper between his fingers. This is the only part I don't get, he said.     What's that? Lowry craned his neck. A piece of paper with a cross onit? What about it?     The surgeon shrugged. He had it clenched in his hand, he said. Hadthe devil of a time getting it loose from him. He turned it overslowly, displayed the other side. Now what in the world would he bedoing carrying a scrap of paper with a cross marked on both sides?   ","The slip with a cross is used to determine who will be the one to plant the bomb on the ship when Svan, the leader of a rebellious group, assign tasks to each person. However, during the process of drawing lots, when the person who gets the slip with a cross on it should reveal oneself to accept the task, no one admits because Svan, who receives the slip, didn’t see the cross on the other side of the paper. As a result, he mistakenly thinks that the person who received the slip is a coward that does not want to do the task, so he secretly marks another cross on his paper and accepts the mission.This misunderstanding of no one accepting the task drives Svan to suspect all the other members as disloyal and cowardly, leading him to decide to put one bomb on the car. He is so furious that he wants them to die for their disloyalty and cowardice while serving as an attraction to the guards. However, when the plan does not go well, and the members come back to seek him, he unavoidably suffers from his deed. The paper is later found to have a cross on both sides, which forms an irony of Svan's behaviors. Ironically, Svan’s suspicion of other people causes their death when he is the real traitor."
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     GOURMET     By ALLEN KIM LANG     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine April 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         This was the endless problem of all       spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men       tomorrow on what they had eaten today!        Unable to get out to the ballgame and a long way off from the girls,men on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It'strue that Woman remains a topic of thoughtful study, but discussioncan never replace practice in an art. Food, on the other hand, is achallenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughtsthat a history of sea-faring can be read from a commissary list.     In the days when salt-sea sailors were charting islands and spearingseals, for example, the fo'c's'le hands called themselves Lobscousers,celebrating the liquid hash then prominent in the marine menu. TheLimey sailor got the name of the anti-scorbutic citrus squeezed intohis diet, a fruit known to us mariners of a more sophisticated ageonly as garnish for our groundside gin-and-tonic. And today we Marsmenare called Slimeheads, honoring in our title the      Chlorella     and      Scenedesmus     algae that, by filling up the spaces within, open theroad to the larger Space without.     Should any groundsman dispute the importance of belly-furniture inhistory—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilisto the Fiji Islanders, or settling the Australian littoral withcross-coves from Middlesex and Hampshire—he is referred to thehundred-and-first chapter of      Moby Dick     , a book spooled in theamusement tanks of all but the smallest spacers. I trust, however, thatno Marsman will undertake to review this inventory of refreshment morethan a week from groundfall. A catalogue of sides of beef and heads ofLeyden cheese and ankers of good Geneva would prove heavy reading for aman condemned to snack on the Chlorella-spawn of cis-Martian space.     The      Pequod's     crew ate wormy biscuit and salt beef. Nimitz's men wontheir war on canned pork and beans. The      Triton     made her underwaterperiplus of Earth with a galley stocked with frozen pizza andconcentrated apple-juice. But then, when sailors left the seas for theskies, a decline set in.     The first amenity of groundside existence to be abandoned was decentfood. The earliest men into the vacuum swallowed protein squeezingsfrom aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to thegroundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes.  Long before I was a boy in Med School, itching to look at black skythrough a view-port, galley science had fulfilled the disgustingexordium of      Isaiah     36:12, to feed the Slimeheads for breakfast todaywhat was day-before-yesterday's table-scraps and jakes-water.     The Ship's Cook, the man who accomplishes the daily miracle of turningoffal into eatables, is in many ways the most vital man aboard aspacer. He can make morale or foment a mutiny. His power is paramount.Slimeheads remember the H. M. S.      Ajax     fiasco, for example, in which agalleyman leveled his Chlorella tanks with heavy water from the ship'sshielding. Four officers and twenty-one Other Ranks were rescued fromthe      Ajax     in deep space, half dead from deuterium poisoning. We thinkof the      Benjo Maru     incident, too, caused by a Ship's Cook who allowedhis algaeal staff-of-life to become contaminated with a fast-growing      Saccharomycodes     yeast. The Japanese vessel staggered to her pad atPiano West after a twenty-week drunk: the alien yeast had got intothe stomach of every man aboard, where it fermented each subsequentbite he ate to a superior grade of      sake     . And for a third footnote tothe ancient observation, God sends food, and the Devil sends cooks,Marsmen will recall what happened aboard my ship the      Charles PartlowSale     .     The      Sale     blasted off from Brady Station in the middle of August, duein at Piano West in early May. In no special hurry, we were takingthe low-energy route to Mars, a pathway about as long in time as thehuman period of gestation. Our cargo consisted mostly of Tien-Shen firseedlings and some tons of an arctic grass-seed—these to be plantedin the      maria     to squeeze out the native blue bugberry vines. We hadaboard the Registry minimum of six men and three officers. Ship'sSurgeon was myself, Paul Vilanova. Our Captain was Willy Winkelmann,the hardest man in space and very likely the fattest. Ship's Cook wasRobert Bailey.     Cooking aboard a spacer is a job combining the more frustratingtensions of biochemistry, applied mycology, high-speed farming,dietetics and sewage engineering. It's the Cook's responsibility tosee that each man aboard gets each day no less than five pounds ofwater, two pounds of oxygen, and one-and-a-half pounds of dry food.This isn't just a paragraph from the Spacer Union Contract. It's astatement of the least fuel a man can run on.     Twelve tons of water, oxygen, and food would have filled the cargocompartments to bursting, and left a small ship like the      C. P. Sale     no reason to reach for Mars. By allowing a colony of Chlorella algae towork over our used air, water and other effluvia, though, three tonsof metabolites would see us through from Brady Station to Piano Westand back. Recycling was the answer. The molecule of carbohydrate, fat,protein or mineral that didn't feed the crew fed the algae. And thealgae fed us.     All waste was used to fertilize our liquid fields. Even the stubblefrom our 2,680 shaves and the clippings from our 666 haircuts en routeand back would be fed into the Chlorella tanks. Human hair is rich inessential amino acids.     The algae—dried by the Cook, bleached with methyl alcohol to kill thesmell and make the residue more digestible, disguised and seasoned in ahundred ways—served as a sort of meat-and-potatoes that never quitewore out. Our air and water were equally immortal. Each molecule ofoxygen would be conversant with the alveoli of every man aboard by theend of our trip. Every drop of water would have been intimate with theglomeruli of each kidney on the ship before we grounded in. Groundlingpoliticians are right enough when they say that we spacers are abreed apart. We're the one race of men who can't afford the luxury ofsqueamishness.  Though I'm signed aboard as Ship's Surgeon, I seldom lift a knifein space. My employment is more in the nature of TS-card-puncherextraordinary. My duties are to serve as wailing-wall, morale officer,guardian of the medicinal whiskey and frustrator of mutual murder.Generally the man aboard who'd serve as the most popular murder-victimis the Cook. This trip, the-man-you-love-to-hate was our Captain.     If the Cook hadn't problems enough with the chemical and psychic dutiesof his office, Winkelmann supplied the want. Captain Willy Winkelmannwas the sort of man who, if he had to go into space at all, had best doso alone. If the Prussians had a Marine Corps, Winkelmann would havedone splendidly as Drill Instructor for their boot camp. His heartwas a chip of helium ice, his voice dripped sarcastic acid. The planetEarth was hardly large enough to accommodate a wart as annoying asWilly Winkelmann. Cheek-by-jowl every day in a nacelle the size of aPullman car, our Captain quickly established himself as a major socialhemorrhoid.     The Captain's particular patsy was, of course, young Bailey the Cook.It was Winkelmann who saw humorous possibilities in the entry, Bailey,Robert, on Ship's Articles. He at once renamed our unfortunateshipmate Belly-Robber. It was Winkelmann who discussed      hautcuisine     and the properties of the nobler wines while we munched ouralgaeburgers and sipped coffee that tasted of utility water. And it wasCaptain Willy Winkelmann who never referred to the ship's head by anyother name than The Kitchen Cabinet.     Bailey tried to feed us by groundside standards. He hid the tasteof synthetic methionine—an essential amino acid not synthesized byChlorella—by seasoning our algaeal repasts with pinches of oreganoand thyme. He tinted the pale-green dollops of pressed Chlorella pink,textured the mass to the consistency of hamburger and toasted theslabs to a delicate brown in a forlorn attempt to make mock-meat.For dessert, he served a fudge compounded from the dextrose-paste ofthe carbohydrate recycler. The crew thanked him. The Captain did not.Belly-Robber, he said, his tone icy as winter wind off the North Sea,you had best cycle this mess through the tanks again. There is a punin my home country:      Mensch ist was er isst.     It means, you are whatyou eat. I think you are impertinent to suggest I should become this      Schweinerei     you are feeding me. Captain Winkelmann blotted his chinwith his napkin, heaved his bulk up from the table, and climbed up theladder from the dining-cubby.  Doc, do you like Winkelmann? the Cook asked me.     Not much, I said. I suspect that the finest gift our Captain cangive his mother is to be absent from her on Mother's Day. But we've gotto live with him. He's a good man at driving a ship.     I wish he'd leave off driving this Cook, Bailey said. The fat swine!     His plumpness is an unwitting tribute to your cooking, Bailey, Isaid. He eats well. We all do. I've dined aboard a lot of spacers inmy time, and I'll testify that you set a table second to none.     Bailey took a handful of dried Chlorella from a bin and fingered it. Itwas green, smelled of swamp, and looked appetizing as a bedsore. Thisis what I have to work with, he said. He tossed the stuff back intoits bin. In Ohio, which is my home country, in the presence of ladies,we'd call such garbage Horse-Leavings.     You'll never make Winkelmann happy, I said. Even the simultaneousdeath of all other human beings could hardly make him smile. Keep upthe good work, though, and you'll keep our Captain fat.     Bailey nodded from his one-man cloud of gloom. I got a bottle of ryefrom Medical Stores and offered him a therapeutic draught. The Cookwaved my gift aside. Not now, Doc, he said. I'm thinking abouttomorrow's menu.     The product of Bailey's cerebrations was on the mess table at noon thenext day. We were each served an individual head of lettuce, dressedwith something very like vinegar and oil, spiced with tiny leaves ofburnet. How Bailey had constructed those synthetic lettuces I can onlyguess: the hours spent preparing a green Chlorella paste, rolling anddrying and shaping each artificial leaf, the fitting together of nineheads like crisp, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles. The      pièce derésistance     was again a hamburger steak; but this time the algaealmass that made it up was buried in a rich, meaty gravy that was onlyfaintly green. The essence-of-steak used in these Chlorella cutlets hadbeen sprinkled with a lavish hand. Garlic was richly in evidence. It'sso tender, the radioman joked, that I can hardly believe it's reallysteak.     Bailey stared across the dining-cubby toward Winkelmann, silentlyimploring the Captain's ratification of his masterpiece. The bigman's pink cheeks bulged and jumped with his chewing. He swallowed.Belly-Robber, Winkelmann said, I had almost rather you served methis pond-scum raw than have it all mucked-up with synthetic onions andcycler-salt.  You seem able enough to choke down Bailey's chow, Captain, I said. Igazed at Winkelmann's form, bulbous from a lifetime of surfeit feeding.     Yes, I eat it, the Captain said, taking and talking through anotherbite. But I eat only as a man in the desert will eat worms andgrasshoppers, to stay alive.     Sir, what in heaven's name do you expect from me? Bailey pleaded.     Only good food, Winkelmann mumbled through his mouthful of disguisedalgae. He tapped his head with a finger. This—the brain that guidesthe ship—cannot be coaxed to work on hog-slop. You understand me,Belly-Robber?     Bailey, his hands fisted at his sides, nodded. Yes, sir. But I reallydon't know what I can do to please you.     You are a spacer and a Ship's Cook, not a suburban      Hausfrau     with thevapors, Winkelmann said. I do not expect from you hysterics, tantrumsor weeping. Only—can you understand this, so simple?—food that willkeep my belly content and my brain alive.     Yes, sir, Bailey said, his face a picture of that offense the Britishterm Dumb Insolence.     Winkelmann got up and climbed the ladder to the pilot-cubicle. Ifollowed him. Captain, I said, you're driving Bailey too hard.You're asking him to make bricks without straw.     Winkelmann regarded me with his pale-blue stare. You think, Doctor,that my cruelty to the Belly-Robber is the biliousness of a middle-agedman?     Frankly, I can't understand your attitude at all, I said.     You accuse me of driving a man to make bricks without straw,Winkelmann said. Very well, Doctor. It is my belief that if thePharaoh's taskmaster had had my firmness of purpose, the Children ofIsrael would have made bricks with stubble. Necessity, Doctor, is themother of invention. I am Bailey's necessity. My unkindnesses make himuncomfortable, I doubt that not. But I am forcing him to experiment,to improvise, to widen the horizons of his ingenuity. He will learnsomehow to bring good food from Chlorella tanks.     You're driving him too hard, Sir, I said. He'll crack.     Bailey will have some fifty thousand dollars' salary waiting when weground at Brady Station, Captain Winkelmann said. So much money buysmany discomforts. That will be all, Doctor Vilanova.     Crew morale on the ship.... I began.     That will be all, Doctor Vilanova, Captain Winkelmann repeated.  Bailey grew more silent as we threaded our way along the ellipticalpath to Mars. Each meal he prepared was a fresh attempt to propitiatethe appetite of our splenetic Captain. Each such offering was condemnedby that heartless man. Bailey began to try avoiding the Captain atmealtimes, but was frustrated by Winkelmann's orders. Convey mycompliments to the Chef, please, the Captain would instruct one ofthe crew, and ask him to step down here a moment. And the Cook wouldcheerlessly appear in the dining-cubby, to have his culinary geniusacidly called in question again.     I myself do not doubt that Bailey was the finest Cook ever to gointo Hohmann orbit. His every meal established a higher benchmark inbrilliant galleymanship. We were served, for instance, an      ersatz     hotturkey supreme. The cheese-sauce was almost believable, the Chlorellaturkey-flesh was white and tender. Bailey served with this delicacya grainy and delicious cornbread, and had extracted from his algaea lipid butter-substitute that soaked into the hot bread with agenuinely dairy smell. Splendid, Bailey, I said.     We are not amused, said Captain Winkelmann, accepting a secondhelping of the pseudo-turkey. You are improving, Belly-Robber, butonly arithmetically. Your first efforts were so hideous as to requirea geometric progression of improving excellence to raise them to mereedibility. By the time we are halfway 'round the Sun, I trust you willhave learned to cook with the competence of a freshman Home Economicsstudent. That will be all, Bailey.     The crew and my fellow-officers were amused by Winkelmann's riding ofBailey; they were in addition gratified that the battle between theirCaptain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embarkon an outward voyage somewhat plump, having eaten enough on their lastfew days aground to smuggle several hundred calories of fat and manymemories of good food aboard with them. This trip, none of the men hadlost weight during the first four months in space. Winkelmann, indeed,seemed to have gained. His uniform was taut over his plump backside,and he puffed a bit up the ladders. I was considering suggesting to ourCaptain that he curtail his diet for reasons of health, a bit of advicethat would have stood unique in the annals of space medicine, whenWinkelmann produced his supreme insult to our Cook.  Each man aboard a spacer is allowed ten kilograms of personal effectsbesides his uniforms, these being considered Ship's Furnishing. Ashis rank and responsibility merit, the Captain is allowed double thisration. He may thus bring aboard with him some forty-five pounds ofbooks, playing-cards, knitting-wool, whiskey or what have you to helphim while away the hours between the planets. Bailey, I knew for afact, had used up his weight-allowance in bringing aboard a case ofspices: marjoram and mint, costmary, file powder, basil and allspice,and a dozen others.     Captain Winkelmann was not a reader, and had brought no books. Cardsinterested him not at all, as card-playing implies a sociability aliento his nature. He never drank aboard ship. I had supposed that he'dexercised his option of returning his personal-effects weight allowanceto the owners for the consideration of one hundred dollars a kilogram.To collect the maximum allowance, spacers have been known to comeaboard their ship mother-naked.     But this was not the case with Winkelmann. His personal-effectsbaggage, an unlabeled cardboard box, appeared under the table at noonmess some hundred days out from Piano West. Winkelmann rested his feeton the mysterious box as he sat to eat.     What disgusting form does the ship's garbage appear in today,Belly-Robber? he asked the Cook.     Bailey frowned, but kept his temper, an asceticism in which by now he'dhad much practice. I've been working on the problem of steak, Sir,he said. I think I've whipped the taste; what was left was to get thetexture steak-like. Do you understand, Sir?     I understand, Winkelmann growled. You intend that your latest messshould feel like steak to the mouth, and not like baby-food. Right?     Yes, Sir, Bailey said. Well, I squeezed thesteak-substrate—Chlorella, of course, with all sorts of specialseasonings—through a sieve, and blanched the strands in hot algaealoil. Then I chopped those strands to bits and rolled them out.      Voila!     I had something very close in texture to the muscle-fibers of genuinemeat.     Remarkable, Bailey, I said.     It rather throws me off my appetite to hear how you muddle about withour food, the Captain said, his jowls settling into an expression ofdistaste. It's quite all right to eat lobster, for example, but Inever cared to see the ugly beast boiled before my eyes. Detail spoilsthe meal.     Bailey lifted the cover off the electric warming-pan at the center ofthe table and tenderly lifted a small steak onto each of our plates.Try it, he urged the Captain.  Captain Winkelmann sliced off a corner of his algaeal steak. Thecolor was an excellent medium-rare, the odor was the rich smellof fresh-broiled beef. Winkelmann bit down, chewed, swallowed. Nottoo bad, Belly-Robber, he said, nodding. Bailey grinned and bobbedhis head, his hands folded before him in an ecstasy of pleasure. Akind word from the Captain bettered the ruffles-and-flourishes of amore reasonable man. But it still needs something ... something,Winkelmann went on, slicing off another portion of the tasty Chlorella.Aha! I have it!     Yes, Sir? Bailey asked.     This, Belly-Robber! Winkelmann reached beneath the mess-table andripped open his cardboard carton. He brought out a bottle and unscrewedthe cap. Ketchup, he said, splattering the red juice over Bailey'smasterpiece. The scarlet burial-shroud for the failures of Cooks.Lifting a hunk of the steak, streaming ketchup, to his mouth,Winkelmann chewed. Just the thing, he smiled.     Damn you! Bailey shouted.     Winkelmann's smile flicked off, and his blue eyes pierced the Cook.     ... Sir, Bailey added.     That's better, Winkelmann said, and took another bite. He saidmeditatively, Used with caution, and only by myself, I believe I havesufficient ketchup here to see me through to Mars. Please keep abottle on the table for all my future meals, Belly-Robber.     But, Sir.... Bailey began.     You must realize, Belly-Robber, that a dyspeptic Captain is a threatto the welfare of his ship. Were I to continue eating your surrealisticslops for another hundred days, without the small consolation ofthis sauce I had the foresight to bring with me, I'd likely be inno condition to jet us safely down to the Piano West pad. Do youunderstand, Belly-Robber? he demanded.     I understand that you're an ungrateful, impossible, square-headed,slave-driving....     Watch your noun, Winkelmann cautioned the Cook. Your adjectives areinsubordinate; your noun might prove mutinous.     Captain, you've gone too far, I said. Bailey, his fists knotted, wasscarlet, his chest heaving with emotion.     Doctor, I must point out to you that it ill behooves the Ship'sSurgeon to side with the Cook against the Captain, Winkelmann said.     Sir, Bailey has tried hard to please you, I said. The other officersand the men have been more than satisfied with his work.     That only suggests atrophy of their taste buds, Winkelmann said.Doctor, you are excused. As are you, Belly-Robber, he added.  Bailey and I climbed from the mess compartment together. I steered himto my quarters, where the medical supplies were stored. He sat on mybunk and exploded into weeping, banging his fists against the metalbulkhead. You'll have that drink now, I said.     No, dammit! he shouted.     Orders, I said. I poured us each some fifty cc's of rye. This istherapy, Bailey, I told him. He poured the fiery stuff down his throatlike water and silently held out his glass for a second. I provided it.     After a few minutes Bailey's sobbing ceased. Sorry, Doc, he said.     You've taken more pressure than most men would, I said. Nothing tobe ashamed of.     He's crazy. What sane man would expect me to dip Wiener schnitzeland sauerkraut and      Backhahndl nach suddeutscher Art     out of an algaetank? I've got nothing but microscopic weeds to cook for him! Worn-outmolecules reclaimed from the head; packaged amino acid additives. Andhe expects meals that would take the blue ribbon at the annual banquetof the Friends of Escoffier!     Yours is an ancient plaint, Bailey, I said. You've worked yourfingers to the bone, slaving over a hot stove, and you're notappreciated. But you're not married to Winkelmann, remember. A yearfrom now you'll be home in Ohio, fifty grand richer, set to start thatrestaurant of yours and forget about our fat Flying Dutchman.     I hate him, Bailey said with the simplicity of true emotion. Hereached for the bottle. I let him have it. Sometimes alcohol can bean apt confederate of      vis medicatrix naturae     , the healing power ofnature. Half an hour later I strapped Bailey into his bunk to sleep itoff. That therapeutic drunk seemed to be just what he'd needed.     For morning mess the next day we had a broth remarkable inhorribleness, a pottage or boiled      Chlorella vulgaris     that lookedand tasted like the vomit of some bottom-feeding sea-beast. Bailey,red-eyed and a-tremble, made no apology, and stared at Winkelmann asthough daring him to comment. The Captain lifted a spoonful of thedisgusting stuff to his lips, smacked and said, Belly-Robber, you'reimproving a little at last.     Bailey nodded and smiled. Thank you, Sir, he said.     I smiled, too. Bailey had conquered himself. His psychic defenses werenow strong enough to withstand the Captain's fiercest assaults ofirony. Our food would likely be bad the rest of this trip, but that wasa price I was willing to pay for seeing destroyed the Willy Winkelmanntheory of forcing a Cook to make bricks without straw. The Captainhad pushed too hard. He'd need that ketchup for the meals to come, Ithought.     Noon mess was nearly as awful as breakfast had been. The coffee tastedof salt, and went largely undrunk. The men in the mess compartment werevehement in their protests, blaming the Captain, in his absence, forthe decline in culinary standards. Bailey seemed not to care. He servedthe algaeburgers with half a mind, and hurried back into his galleyoblivious of the taunts of his crewmates.  There being only three seats in the      Sale's     mess compartment, we ateour meals in three shifts. That evening, going down the ladder tosupper, my nose was met with a spine-tingling barbecue tang, a smellto make a man think of gray charcoal glowing in a picnic brazier,of cicadas chirping and green grass underfoot, of the pop and hissof canned beer being church-keyed. He's done it, Doc! one of thefirst-shift diners said. It actually tastes of food!     Then he's beat the Captain at his game, I said.     The Dutchman won't want to mess ketchup on these steaks, the crewmansaid.     I sat, unfolded my napkin, and looked with hope to the electricwarming-pan at the center of the table. Bailey served the three ofus with the small steaks. Each contained about a pound of driedChlorella, I judged, teasing mine with my fork. But they were drenchedin a gravy rich as the stuff grandma used to make in her black ironskillet, peppery and seasoned with courageous bits of garlic. I cuta bit from my steak and chewed it. Too tender, of course; there arelimits to art. But the pond-scum taste was gone. Bailey appeared in thegalley door. I gestured for him to join me. You've done it, Bailey,I said. Every Slimehead in orbit will thank you for this. This isactually      good     .     Thanks, Doc, Bailey said.     I smiled and took another bite. You may not realize it, Bailey; butthis is a victory for the Captain, too. He drove you to this triumph;you couldn't have done it without him.     You mean he was just whipping me on, trying to make me do better?Bailey asked.     He was driving you to do the impossible, I said; and you did it. OurCaptain may be a hard man, Bailey; but he did know how to coax maximumperformance out of his Ship's Cook.     Bailey stood up. Do you like Captain Winkelmann, Doctor? he asked.     I thought about his question a moment. Winkelmann was good at his job.He persuaded his men by foul means, true; but it was all for the goodof the ship and his crew. Do I like Captain Winkelmann? I asked,spearing another piece of my artificial steak. Bailey, I'm afraid I'llhave to admit that I do.     Bailey smiled and lifted a second steak from the warming-pan onto myplate. Then have another piece, he said.    ","The story first begins discussing how food is a central topic for men on ships. The Marsmen are called Slimeheads, honoring in their title the Chlorella and Scenedesmus algae that open the road to the wider space without by filling the spaces within. The Ship’s Cook is described to be the most vital man on a spacer because he is the one who turns offal into eatables. There are also instances described where the cooks have messed up and created disasters for fellow crew members, such as poisoning them. Paul Vilanova, the narrator, goes on to tell what happened on the Charles Partlow Sale. The ship is to take a low-energy route and carries various seeds of plantlife. There are the Registry minimum of six men and three officers aboard, including Paul the surgeon, Willy Winkelmann the captain, and Robert Bailey the cook. The cook is responsible for the livelihood of all the men on the ship, and the algae also helped feed the men in a way where they cannot afford the luxury of squeamishness. Although Paul is the surgeon, he rarely lifts a knife in space because his duties are more in line with serving as a morale officer and wailing-wall. Captain Winkelman is described to have a heart of helium ice and is extremely unpopular. Bailey is often his target, but he tries his best as the Ship Cook to feed everybody in a way that makes the algae somewhat appetizing. Paul admits that he does not like the Captain much, but he tells Bailey that his cooking is what keeps the captain retaining his plump figure. Bailey cooks them a luxurious meal the next day, but the captain only criticizes him. Bailey tries to ask what Captain Winkelman wants from him, and even Paul says that he is going to crack from being driven so hard. The Captain tells him that he is simply trying to widen Bailey’s horizons in terms of cooking. Bailey tries to avoid the Captain during meal time after, and Paul believes that he is the finest cook to go into the Hohmann orbit. Even though everybody is impressed by his dishes, Winkelmann still refuses to compliment him despite gaining weight from eating. When Bailey tries to convince the Captain of his food again, Winkelmann takes out a bottle of ketchup to eat with his meal. Bailey is furious, while Paul tries to cheer him up over some fifty cc’s of rye. After the therapeutic drinking, Bailey begins to cook awful looking and tasting dishes. Winkelman, ironically, tells Bailey that he is improving even though the other crew members complain. When Paul goes to visit Bailey again later, one of the crew members exclaims that the cook has managed to make the algae taste similar to real food. Paul tells him that this is the result of the Captain’s continuous pushing; he answers that he does like the Captain when Bailey asks him again. "
"What are some of the dishes that Bailey cooks for the crew? </s>     GOURMET     By ALLEN KIM LANG     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine April 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         This was the endless problem of all       spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men       tomorrow on what they had eaten today!        Unable to get out to the ballgame and a long way off from the girls,men on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It'strue that Woman remains a topic of thoughtful study, but discussioncan never replace practice in an art. Food, on the other hand, is achallenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughtsthat a history of sea-faring can be read from a commissary list.     In the days when salt-sea sailors were charting islands and spearingseals, for example, the fo'c's'le hands called themselves Lobscousers,celebrating the liquid hash then prominent in the marine menu. TheLimey sailor got the name of the anti-scorbutic citrus squeezed intohis diet, a fruit known to us mariners of a more sophisticated ageonly as garnish for our groundside gin-and-tonic. And today we Marsmenare called Slimeheads, honoring in our title the      Chlorella     and      Scenedesmus     algae that, by filling up the spaces within, open theroad to the larger Space without.     Should any groundsman dispute the importance of belly-furniture inhistory—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilisto the Fiji Islanders, or settling the Australian littoral withcross-coves from Middlesex and Hampshire—he is referred to thehundred-and-first chapter of      Moby Dick     , a book spooled in theamusement tanks of all but the smallest spacers. I trust, however, thatno Marsman will undertake to review this inventory of refreshment morethan a week from groundfall. A catalogue of sides of beef and heads ofLeyden cheese and ankers of good Geneva would prove heavy reading for aman condemned to snack on the Chlorella-spawn of cis-Martian space.     The      Pequod's     crew ate wormy biscuit and salt beef. Nimitz's men wontheir war on canned pork and beans. The      Triton     made her underwaterperiplus of Earth with a galley stocked with frozen pizza andconcentrated apple-juice. But then, when sailors left the seas for theskies, a decline set in.     The first amenity of groundside existence to be abandoned was decentfood. The earliest men into the vacuum swallowed protein squeezingsfrom aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to thegroundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes.  Long before I was a boy in Med School, itching to look at black skythrough a view-port, galley science had fulfilled the disgustingexordium of      Isaiah     36:12, to feed the Slimeheads for breakfast todaywhat was day-before-yesterday's table-scraps and jakes-water.     The Ship's Cook, the man who accomplishes the daily miracle of turningoffal into eatables, is in many ways the most vital man aboard aspacer. He can make morale or foment a mutiny. His power is paramount.Slimeheads remember the H. M. S.      Ajax     fiasco, for example, in which agalleyman leveled his Chlorella tanks with heavy water from the ship'sshielding. Four officers and twenty-one Other Ranks were rescued fromthe      Ajax     in deep space, half dead from deuterium poisoning. We thinkof the      Benjo Maru     incident, too, caused by a Ship's Cook who allowedhis algaeal staff-of-life to become contaminated with a fast-growing      Saccharomycodes     yeast. The Japanese vessel staggered to her pad atPiano West after a twenty-week drunk: the alien yeast had got intothe stomach of every man aboard, where it fermented each subsequentbite he ate to a superior grade of      sake     . And for a third footnote tothe ancient observation, God sends food, and the Devil sends cooks,Marsmen will recall what happened aboard my ship the      Charles PartlowSale     .     The      Sale     blasted off from Brady Station in the middle of August, duein at Piano West in early May. In no special hurry, we were takingthe low-energy route to Mars, a pathway about as long in time as thehuman period of gestation. Our cargo consisted mostly of Tien-Shen firseedlings and some tons of an arctic grass-seed—these to be plantedin the      maria     to squeeze out the native blue bugberry vines. We hadaboard the Registry minimum of six men and three officers. Ship'sSurgeon was myself, Paul Vilanova. Our Captain was Willy Winkelmann,the hardest man in space and very likely the fattest. Ship's Cook wasRobert Bailey.     Cooking aboard a spacer is a job combining the more frustratingtensions of biochemistry, applied mycology, high-speed farming,dietetics and sewage engineering. It's the Cook's responsibility tosee that each man aboard gets each day no less than five pounds ofwater, two pounds of oxygen, and one-and-a-half pounds of dry food.This isn't just a paragraph from the Spacer Union Contract. It's astatement of the least fuel a man can run on.     Twelve tons of water, oxygen, and food would have filled the cargocompartments to bursting, and left a small ship like the      C. P. Sale     no reason to reach for Mars. By allowing a colony of Chlorella algae towork over our used air, water and other effluvia, though, three tonsof metabolites would see us through from Brady Station to Piano Westand back. Recycling was the answer. The molecule of carbohydrate, fat,protein or mineral that didn't feed the crew fed the algae. And thealgae fed us.     All waste was used to fertilize our liquid fields. Even the stubblefrom our 2,680 shaves and the clippings from our 666 haircuts en routeand back would be fed into the Chlorella tanks. Human hair is rich inessential amino acids.     The algae—dried by the Cook, bleached with methyl alcohol to kill thesmell and make the residue more digestible, disguised and seasoned in ahundred ways—served as a sort of meat-and-potatoes that never quitewore out. Our air and water were equally immortal. Each molecule ofoxygen would be conversant with the alveoli of every man aboard by theend of our trip. Every drop of water would have been intimate with theglomeruli of each kidney on the ship before we grounded in. Groundlingpoliticians are right enough when they say that we spacers are abreed apart. We're the one race of men who can't afford the luxury ofsqueamishness.  Though I'm signed aboard as Ship's Surgeon, I seldom lift a knifein space. My employment is more in the nature of TS-card-puncherextraordinary. My duties are to serve as wailing-wall, morale officer,guardian of the medicinal whiskey and frustrator of mutual murder.Generally the man aboard who'd serve as the most popular murder-victimis the Cook. This trip, the-man-you-love-to-hate was our Captain.     If the Cook hadn't problems enough with the chemical and psychic dutiesof his office, Winkelmann supplied the want. Captain Willy Winkelmannwas the sort of man who, if he had to go into space at all, had best doso alone. If the Prussians had a Marine Corps, Winkelmann would havedone splendidly as Drill Instructor for their boot camp. His heartwas a chip of helium ice, his voice dripped sarcastic acid. The planetEarth was hardly large enough to accommodate a wart as annoying asWilly Winkelmann. Cheek-by-jowl every day in a nacelle the size of aPullman car, our Captain quickly established himself as a major socialhemorrhoid.     The Captain's particular patsy was, of course, young Bailey the Cook.It was Winkelmann who saw humorous possibilities in the entry, Bailey,Robert, on Ship's Articles. He at once renamed our unfortunateshipmate Belly-Robber. It was Winkelmann who discussed      hautcuisine     and the properties of the nobler wines while we munched ouralgaeburgers and sipped coffee that tasted of utility water. And it wasCaptain Willy Winkelmann who never referred to the ship's head by anyother name than The Kitchen Cabinet.     Bailey tried to feed us by groundside standards. He hid the tasteof synthetic methionine—an essential amino acid not synthesized byChlorella—by seasoning our algaeal repasts with pinches of oreganoand thyme. He tinted the pale-green dollops of pressed Chlorella pink,textured the mass to the consistency of hamburger and toasted theslabs to a delicate brown in a forlorn attempt to make mock-meat.For dessert, he served a fudge compounded from the dextrose-paste ofthe carbohydrate recycler. The crew thanked him. The Captain did not.Belly-Robber, he said, his tone icy as winter wind off the North Sea,you had best cycle this mess through the tanks again. There is a punin my home country:      Mensch ist was er isst.     It means, you are whatyou eat. I think you are impertinent to suggest I should become this      Schweinerei     you are feeding me. Captain Winkelmann blotted his chinwith his napkin, heaved his bulk up from the table, and climbed up theladder from the dining-cubby.  Doc, do you like Winkelmann? the Cook asked me.     Not much, I said. I suspect that the finest gift our Captain cangive his mother is to be absent from her on Mother's Day. But we've gotto live with him. He's a good man at driving a ship.     I wish he'd leave off driving this Cook, Bailey said. The fat swine!     His plumpness is an unwitting tribute to your cooking, Bailey, Isaid. He eats well. We all do. I've dined aboard a lot of spacers inmy time, and I'll testify that you set a table second to none.     Bailey took a handful of dried Chlorella from a bin and fingered it. Itwas green, smelled of swamp, and looked appetizing as a bedsore. Thisis what I have to work with, he said. He tossed the stuff back intoits bin. In Ohio, which is my home country, in the presence of ladies,we'd call such garbage Horse-Leavings.     You'll never make Winkelmann happy, I said. Even the simultaneousdeath of all other human beings could hardly make him smile. Keep upthe good work, though, and you'll keep our Captain fat.     Bailey nodded from his one-man cloud of gloom. I got a bottle of ryefrom Medical Stores and offered him a therapeutic draught. The Cookwaved my gift aside. Not now, Doc, he said. I'm thinking abouttomorrow's menu.     The product of Bailey's cerebrations was on the mess table at noon thenext day. We were each served an individual head of lettuce, dressedwith something very like vinegar and oil, spiced with tiny leaves ofburnet. How Bailey had constructed those synthetic lettuces I can onlyguess: the hours spent preparing a green Chlorella paste, rolling anddrying and shaping each artificial leaf, the fitting together of nineheads like crisp, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles. The      pièce derésistance     was again a hamburger steak; but this time the algaealmass that made it up was buried in a rich, meaty gravy that was onlyfaintly green. The essence-of-steak used in these Chlorella cutlets hadbeen sprinkled with a lavish hand. Garlic was richly in evidence. It'sso tender, the radioman joked, that I can hardly believe it's reallysteak.     Bailey stared across the dining-cubby toward Winkelmann, silentlyimploring the Captain's ratification of his masterpiece. The bigman's pink cheeks bulged and jumped with his chewing. He swallowed.Belly-Robber, Winkelmann said, I had almost rather you served methis pond-scum raw than have it all mucked-up with synthetic onions andcycler-salt.  You seem able enough to choke down Bailey's chow, Captain, I said. Igazed at Winkelmann's form, bulbous from a lifetime of surfeit feeding.     Yes, I eat it, the Captain said, taking and talking through anotherbite. But I eat only as a man in the desert will eat worms andgrasshoppers, to stay alive.     Sir, what in heaven's name do you expect from me? Bailey pleaded.     Only good food, Winkelmann mumbled through his mouthful of disguisedalgae. He tapped his head with a finger. This—the brain that guidesthe ship—cannot be coaxed to work on hog-slop. You understand me,Belly-Robber?     Bailey, his hands fisted at his sides, nodded. Yes, sir. But I reallydon't know what I can do to please you.     You are a spacer and a Ship's Cook, not a suburban      Hausfrau     with thevapors, Winkelmann said. I do not expect from you hysterics, tantrumsor weeping. Only—can you understand this, so simple?—food that willkeep my belly content and my brain alive.     Yes, sir, Bailey said, his face a picture of that offense the Britishterm Dumb Insolence.     Winkelmann got up and climbed the ladder to the pilot-cubicle. Ifollowed him. Captain, I said, you're driving Bailey too hard.You're asking him to make bricks without straw.     Winkelmann regarded me with his pale-blue stare. You think, Doctor,that my cruelty to the Belly-Robber is the biliousness of a middle-agedman?     Frankly, I can't understand your attitude at all, I said.     You accuse me of driving a man to make bricks without straw,Winkelmann said. Very well, Doctor. It is my belief that if thePharaoh's taskmaster had had my firmness of purpose, the Children ofIsrael would have made bricks with stubble. Necessity, Doctor, is themother of invention. I am Bailey's necessity. My unkindnesses make himuncomfortable, I doubt that not. But I am forcing him to experiment,to improvise, to widen the horizons of his ingenuity. He will learnsomehow to bring good food from Chlorella tanks.     You're driving him too hard, Sir, I said. He'll crack.     Bailey will have some fifty thousand dollars' salary waiting when weground at Brady Station, Captain Winkelmann said. So much money buysmany discomforts. That will be all, Doctor Vilanova.     Crew morale on the ship.... I began.     That will be all, Doctor Vilanova, Captain Winkelmann repeated.  Bailey grew more silent as we threaded our way along the ellipticalpath to Mars. Each meal he prepared was a fresh attempt to propitiatethe appetite of our splenetic Captain. Each such offering was condemnedby that heartless man. Bailey began to try avoiding the Captain atmealtimes, but was frustrated by Winkelmann's orders. Convey mycompliments to the Chef, please, the Captain would instruct one ofthe crew, and ask him to step down here a moment. And the Cook wouldcheerlessly appear in the dining-cubby, to have his culinary geniusacidly called in question again.     I myself do not doubt that Bailey was the finest Cook ever to gointo Hohmann orbit. His every meal established a higher benchmark inbrilliant galleymanship. We were served, for instance, an      ersatz     hotturkey supreme. The cheese-sauce was almost believable, the Chlorellaturkey-flesh was white and tender. Bailey served with this delicacya grainy and delicious cornbread, and had extracted from his algaea lipid butter-substitute that soaked into the hot bread with agenuinely dairy smell. Splendid, Bailey, I said.     We are not amused, said Captain Winkelmann, accepting a secondhelping of the pseudo-turkey. You are improving, Belly-Robber, butonly arithmetically. Your first efforts were so hideous as to requirea geometric progression of improving excellence to raise them to mereedibility. By the time we are halfway 'round the Sun, I trust you willhave learned to cook with the competence of a freshman Home Economicsstudent. That will be all, Bailey.     The crew and my fellow-officers were amused by Winkelmann's riding ofBailey; they were in addition gratified that the battle between theirCaptain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embarkon an outward voyage somewhat plump, having eaten enough on their lastfew days aground to smuggle several hundred calories of fat and manymemories of good food aboard with them. This trip, none of the men hadlost weight during the first four months in space. Winkelmann, indeed,seemed to have gained. His uniform was taut over his plump backside,and he puffed a bit up the ladders. I was considering suggesting to ourCaptain that he curtail his diet for reasons of health, a bit of advicethat would have stood unique in the annals of space medicine, whenWinkelmann produced his supreme insult to our Cook.  Each man aboard a spacer is allowed ten kilograms of personal effectsbesides his uniforms, these being considered Ship's Furnishing. Ashis rank and responsibility merit, the Captain is allowed double thisration. He may thus bring aboard with him some forty-five pounds ofbooks, playing-cards, knitting-wool, whiskey or what have you to helphim while away the hours between the planets. Bailey, I knew for afact, had used up his weight-allowance in bringing aboard a case ofspices: marjoram and mint, costmary, file powder, basil and allspice,and a dozen others.     Captain Winkelmann was not a reader, and had brought no books. Cardsinterested him not at all, as card-playing implies a sociability aliento his nature. He never drank aboard ship. I had supposed that he'dexercised his option of returning his personal-effects weight allowanceto the owners for the consideration of one hundred dollars a kilogram.To collect the maximum allowance, spacers have been known to comeaboard their ship mother-naked.     But this was not the case with Winkelmann. His personal-effectsbaggage, an unlabeled cardboard box, appeared under the table at noonmess some hundred days out from Piano West. Winkelmann rested his feeton the mysterious box as he sat to eat.     What disgusting form does the ship's garbage appear in today,Belly-Robber? he asked the Cook.     Bailey frowned, but kept his temper, an asceticism in which by now he'dhad much practice. I've been working on the problem of steak, Sir,he said. I think I've whipped the taste; what was left was to get thetexture steak-like. Do you understand, Sir?     I understand, Winkelmann growled. You intend that your latest messshould feel like steak to the mouth, and not like baby-food. Right?     Yes, Sir, Bailey said. Well, I squeezed thesteak-substrate—Chlorella, of course, with all sorts of specialseasonings—through a sieve, and blanched the strands in hot algaealoil. Then I chopped those strands to bits and rolled them out.      Voila!     I had something very close in texture to the muscle-fibers of genuinemeat.     Remarkable, Bailey, I said.     It rather throws me off my appetite to hear how you muddle about withour food, the Captain said, his jowls settling into an expression ofdistaste. It's quite all right to eat lobster, for example, but Inever cared to see the ugly beast boiled before my eyes. Detail spoilsthe meal.     Bailey lifted the cover off the electric warming-pan at the center ofthe table and tenderly lifted a small steak onto each of our plates.Try it, he urged the Captain.  Captain Winkelmann sliced off a corner of his algaeal steak. Thecolor was an excellent medium-rare, the odor was the rich smellof fresh-broiled beef. Winkelmann bit down, chewed, swallowed. Nottoo bad, Belly-Robber, he said, nodding. Bailey grinned and bobbedhis head, his hands folded before him in an ecstasy of pleasure. Akind word from the Captain bettered the ruffles-and-flourishes of amore reasonable man. But it still needs something ... something,Winkelmann went on, slicing off another portion of the tasty Chlorella.Aha! I have it!     Yes, Sir? Bailey asked.     This, Belly-Robber! Winkelmann reached beneath the mess-table andripped open his cardboard carton. He brought out a bottle and unscrewedthe cap. Ketchup, he said, splattering the red juice over Bailey'smasterpiece. The scarlet burial-shroud for the failures of Cooks.Lifting a hunk of the steak, streaming ketchup, to his mouth,Winkelmann chewed. Just the thing, he smiled.     Damn you! Bailey shouted.     Winkelmann's smile flicked off, and his blue eyes pierced the Cook.     ... Sir, Bailey added.     That's better, Winkelmann said, and took another bite. He saidmeditatively, Used with caution, and only by myself, I believe I havesufficient ketchup here to see me through to Mars. Please keep abottle on the table for all my future meals, Belly-Robber.     But, Sir.... Bailey began.     You must realize, Belly-Robber, that a dyspeptic Captain is a threatto the welfare of his ship. Were I to continue eating your surrealisticslops for another hundred days, without the small consolation ofthis sauce I had the foresight to bring with me, I'd likely be inno condition to jet us safely down to the Piano West pad. Do youunderstand, Belly-Robber? he demanded.     I understand that you're an ungrateful, impossible, square-headed,slave-driving....     Watch your noun, Winkelmann cautioned the Cook. Your adjectives areinsubordinate; your noun might prove mutinous.     Captain, you've gone too far, I said. Bailey, his fists knotted, wasscarlet, his chest heaving with emotion.     Doctor, I must point out to you that it ill behooves the Ship'sSurgeon to side with the Cook against the Captain, Winkelmann said.     Sir, Bailey has tried hard to please you, I said. The other officersand the men have been more than satisfied with his work.     That only suggests atrophy of their taste buds, Winkelmann said.Doctor, you are excused. As are you, Belly-Robber, he added.  Bailey and I climbed from the mess compartment together. I steered himto my quarters, where the medical supplies were stored. He sat on mybunk and exploded into weeping, banging his fists against the metalbulkhead. You'll have that drink now, I said.     No, dammit! he shouted.     Orders, I said. I poured us each some fifty cc's of rye. This istherapy, Bailey, I told him. He poured the fiery stuff down his throatlike water and silently held out his glass for a second. I provided it.     After a few minutes Bailey's sobbing ceased. Sorry, Doc, he said.     You've taken more pressure than most men would, I said. Nothing tobe ashamed of.     He's crazy. What sane man would expect me to dip Wiener schnitzeland sauerkraut and      Backhahndl nach suddeutscher Art     out of an algaetank? I've got nothing but microscopic weeds to cook for him! Worn-outmolecules reclaimed from the head; packaged amino acid additives. Andhe expects meals that would take the blue ribbon at the annual banquetof the Friends of Escoffier!     Yours is an ancient plaint, Bailey, I said. You've worked yourfingers to the bone, slaving over a hot stove, and you're notappreciated. But you're not married to Winkelmann, remember. A yearfrom now you'll be home in Ohio, fifty grand richer, set to start thatrestaurant of yours and forget about our fat Flying Dutchman.     I hate him, Bailey said with the simplicity of true emotion. Hereached for the bottle. I let him have it. Sometimes alcohol can bean apt confederate of      vis medicatrix naturae     , the healing power ofnature. Half an hour later I strapped Bailey into his bunk to sleep itoff. That therapeutic drunk seemed to be just what he'd needed.     For morning mess the next day we had a broth remarkable inhorribleness, a pottage or boiled      Chlorella vulgaris     that lookedand tasted like the vomit of some bottom-feeding sea-beast. Bailey,red-eyed and a-tremble, made no apology, and stared at Winkelmann asthough daring him to comment. The Captain lifted a spoonful of thedisgusting stuff to his lips, smacked and said, Belly-Robber, you'reimproving a little at last.     Bailey nodded and smiled. Thank you, Sir, he said.     I smiled, too. Bailey had conquered himself. His psychic defenses werenow strong enough to withstand the Captain's fiercest assaults ofirony. Our food would likely be bad the rest of this trip, but that wasa price I was willing to pay for seeing destroyed the Willy Winkelmanntheory of forcing a Cook to make bricks without straw. The Captainhad pushed too hard. He'd need that ketchup for the meals to come, Ithought.     Noon mess was nearly as awful as breakfast had been. The coffee tastedof salt, and went largely undrunk. The men in the mess compartment werevehement in their protests, blaming the Captain, in his absence, forthe decline in culinary standards. Bailey seemed not to care. He servedthe algaeburgers with half a mind, and hurried back into his galleyoblivious of the taunts of his crewmates.  There being only three seats in the      Sale's     mess compartment, we ateour meals in three shifts. That evening, going down the ladder tosupper, my nose was met with a spine-tingling barbecue tang, a smellto make a man think of gray charcoal glowing in a picnic brazier,of cicadas chirping and green grass underfoot, of the pop and hissof canned beer being church-keyed. He's done it, Doc! one of thefirst-shift diners said. It actually tastes of food!     Then he's beat the Captain at his game, I said.     The Dutchman won't want to mess ketchup on these steaks, the crewmansaid.     I sat, unfolded my napkin, and looked with hope to the electricwarming-pan at the center of the table. Bailey served the three ofus with the small steaks. Each contained about a pound of driedChlorella, I judged, teasing mine with my fork. But they were drenchedin a gravy rich as the stuff grandma used to make in her black ironskillet, peppery and seasoned with courageous bits of garlic. I cuta bit from my steak and chewed it. Too tender, of course; there arelimits to art. But the pond-scum taste was gone. Bailey appeared in thegalley door. I gestured for him to join me. You've done it, Bailey,I said. Every Slimehead in orbit will thank you for this. This isactually      good     .     Thanks, Doc, Bailey said.     I smiled and took another bite. You may not realize it, Bailey; butthis is a victory for the Captain, too. He drove you to this triumph;you couldn't have done it without him.     You mean he was just whipping me on, trying to make me do better?Bailey asked.     He was driving you to do the impossible, I said; and you did it. OurCaptain may be a hard man, Bailey; but he did know how to coax maximumperformance out of his Ship's Cook.     Bailey stood up. Do you like Captain Winkelmann, Doctor? he asked.     I thought about his question a moment. Winkelmann was good at his job.He persuaded his men by foul means, true; but it was all for the goodof the ship and his crew. Do I like Captain Winkelmann? I asked,spearing another piece of my artificial steak. Bailey, I'm afraid I'llhave to admit that I do.     Bailey smiled and lifted a second steak from the warming-pan onto myplate. Then have another piece, he said.    ","One of the first-mentioned dishes that Bailey cooks is hamburger. He tries to create this out of the algae, seasoning the food to hide the flavors. He also serves a fudge for dessert that is compounded from the dextrose-paste of the carbohydrate recycler. After speaking with Paul initially, Bailey serves a dish of hamburger steak again. There is an individual head of lettuce served, along with a steak drenched in gravy. Later, he serves them a hot turkey supreme. The cheese-sauce is very believable, whereas the turkey is white and tender even though it is made from Chlorella. When Captain Winkelmann pushes Bailey too far, he begins to create disgusting foods. One of the first dishes he serves is boiled Chlorella vulgaris that resembles vomit. The coffee at noon also tastes of salt. However, at the very end of the story, Bailey succeeds in making his Chlorella steak actually taste like food."
"Who is Robert Bailey, and what are his characteristics? </s>     GOURMET     By ALLEN KIM LANG     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine April 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         This was the endless problem of all       spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men       tomorrow on what they had eaten today!        Unable to get out to the ballgame and a long way off from the girls,men on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It'strue that Woman remains a topic of thoughtful study, but discussioncan never replace practice in an art. Food, on the other hand, is achallenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughtsthat a history of sea-faring can be read from a commissary list.     In the days when salt-sea sailors were charting islands and spearingseals, for example, the fo'c's'le hands called themselves Lobscousers,celebrating the liquid hash then prominent in the marine menu. TheLimey sailor got the name of the anti-scorbutic citrus squeezed intohis diet, a fruit known to us mariners of a more sophisticated ageonly as garnish for our groundside gin-and-tonic. And today we Marsmenare called Slimeheads, honoring in our title the      Chlorella     and      Scenedesmus     algae that, by filling up the spaces within, open theroad to the larger Space without.     Should any groundsman dispute the importance of belly-furniture inhistory—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilisto the Fiji Islanders, or settling the Australian littoral withcross-coves from Middlesex and Hampshire—he is referred to thehundred-and-first chapter of      Moby Dick     , a book spooled in theamusement tanks of all but the smallest spacers. I trust, however, thatno Marsman will undertake to review this inventory of refreshment morethan a week from groundfall. A catalogue of sides of beef and heads ofLeyden cheese and ankers of good Geneva would prove heavy reading for aman condemned to snack on the Chlorella-spawn of cis-Martian space.     The      Pequod's     crew ate wormy biscuit and salt beef. Nimitz's men wontheir war on canned pork and beans. The      Triton     made her underwaterperiplus of Earth with a galley stocked with frozen pizza andconcentrated apple-juice. But then, when sailors left the seas for theskies, a decline set in.     The first amenity of groundside existence to be abandoned was decentfood. The earliest men into the vacuum swallowed protein squeezingsfrom aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to thegroundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes.  Long before I was a boy in Med School, itching to look at black skythrough a view-port, galley science had fulfilled the disgustingexordium of      Isaiah     36:12, to feed the Slimeheads for breakfast todaywhat was day-before-yesterday's table-scraps and jakes-water.     The Ship's Cook, the man who accomplishes the daily miracle of turningoffal into eatables, is in many ways the most vital man aboard aspacer. He can make morale or foment a mutiny. His power is paramount.Slimeheads remember the H. M. S.      Ajax     fiasco, for example, in which agalleyman leveled his Chlorella tanks with heavy water from the ship'sshielding. Four officers and twenty-one Other Ranks were rescued fromthe      Ajax     in deep space, half dead from deuterium poisoning. We thinkof the      Benjo Maru     incident, too, caused by a Ship's Cook who allowedhis algaeal staff-of-life to become contaminated with a fast-growing      Saccharomycodes     yeast. The Japanese vessel staggered to her pad atPiano West after a twenty-week drunk: the alien yeast had got intothe stomach of every man aboard, where it fermented each subsequentbite he ate to a superior grade of      sake     . And for a third footnote tothe ancient observation, God sends food, and the Devil sends cooks,Marsmen will recall what happened aboard my ship the      Charles PartlowSale     .     The      Sale     blasted off from Brady Station in the middle of August, duein at Piano West in early May. In no special hurry, we were takingthe low-energy route to Mars, a pathway about as long in time as thehuman period of gestation. Our cargo consisted mostly of Tien-Shen firseedlings and some tons of an arctic grass-seed—these to be plantedin the      maria     to squeeze out the native blue bugberry vines. We hadaboard the Registry minimum of six men and three officers. Ship'sSurgeon was myself, Paul Vilanova. Our Captain was Willy Winkelmann,the hardest man in space and very likely the fattest. Ship's Cook wasRobert Bailey.     Cooking aboard a spacer is a job combining the more frustratingtensions of biochemistry, applied mycology, high-speed farming,dietetics and sewage engineering. It's the Cook's responsibility tosee that each man aboard gets each day no less than five pounds ofwater, two pounds of oxygen, and one-and-a-half pounds of dry food.This isn't just a paragraph from the Spacer Union Contract. It's astatement of the least fuel a man can run on.     Twelve tons of water, oxygen, and food would have filled the cargocompartments to bursting, and left a small ship like the      C. P. Sale     no reason to reach for Mars. By allowing a colony of Chlorella algae towork over our used air, water and other effluvia, though, three tonsof metabolites would see us through from Brady Station to Piano Westand back. Recycling was the answer. The molecule of carbohydrate, fat,protein or mineral that didn't feed the crew fed the algae. And thealgae fed us.     All waste was used to fertilize our liquid fields. Even the stubblefrom our 2,680 shaves and the clippings from our 666 haircuts en routeand back would be fed into the Chlorella tanks. Human hair is rich inessential amino acids.     The algae—dried by the Cook, bleached with methyl alcohol to kill thesmell and make the residue more digestible, disguised and seasoned in ahundred ways—served as a sort of meat-and-potatoes that never quitewore out. Our air and water were equally immortal. Each molecule ofoxygen would be conversant with the alveoli of every man aboard by theend of our trip. Every drop of water would have been intimate with theglomeruli of each kidney on the ship before we grounded in. Groundlingpoliticians are right enough when they say that we spacers are abreed apart. We're the one race of men who can't afford the luxury ofsqueamishness.  Though I'm signed aboard as Ship's Surgeon, I seldom lift a knifein space. My employment is more in the nature of TS-card-puncherextraordinary. My duties are to serve as wailing-wall, morale officer,guardian of the medicinal whiskey and frustrator of mutual murder.Generally the man aboard who'd serve as the most popular murder-victimis the Cook. This trip, the-man-you-love-to-hate was our Captain.     If the Cook hadn't problems enough with the chemical and psychic dutiesof his office, Winkelmann supplied the want. Captain Willy Winkelmannwas the sort of man who, if he had to go into space at all, had best doso alone. If the Prussians had a Marine Corps, Winkelmann would havedone splendidly as Drill Instructor for their boot camp. His heartwas a chip of helium ice, his voice dripped sarcastic acid. The planetEarth was hardly large enough to accommodate a wart as annoying asWilly Winkelmann. Cheek-by-jowl every day in a nacelle the size of aPullman car, our Captain quickly established himself as a major socialhemorrhoid.     The Captain's particular patsy was, of course, young Bailey the Cook.It was Winkelmann who saw humorous possibilities in the entry, Bailey,Robert, on Ship's Articles. He at once renamed our unfortunateshipmate Belly-Robber. It was Winkelmann who discussed      hautcuisine     and the properties of the nobler wines while we munched ouralgaeburgers and sipped coffee that tasted of utility water. And it wasCaptain Willy Winkelmann who never referred to the ship's head by anyother name than The Kitchen Cabinet.     Bailey tried to feed us by groundside standards. He hid the tasteof synthetic methionine—an essential amino acid not synthesized byChlorella—by seasoning our algaeal repasts with pinches of oreganoand thyme. He tinted the pale-green dollops of pressed Chlorella pink,textured the mass to the consistency of hamburger and toasted theslabs to a delicate brown in a forlorn attempt to make mock-meat.For dessert, he served a fudge compounded from the dextrose-paste ofthe carbohydrate recycler. The crew thanked him. The Captain did not.Belly-Robber, he said, his tone icy as winter wind off the North Sea,you had best cycle this mess through the tanks again. There is a punin my home country:      Mensch ist was er isst.     It means, you are whatyou eat. I think you are impertinent to suggest I should become this      Schweinerei     you are feeding me. Captain Winkelmann blotted his chinwith his napkin, heaved his bulk up from the table, and climbed up theladder from the dining-cubby.  Doc, do you like Winkelmann? the Cook asked me.     Not much, I said. I suspect that the finest gift our Captain cangive his mother is to be absent from her on Mother's Day. But we've gotto live with him. He's a good man at driving a ship.     I wish he'd leave off driving this Cook, Bailey said. The fat swine!     His plumpness is an unwitting tribute to your cooking, Bailey, Isaid. He eats well. We all do. I've dined aboard a lot of spacers inmy time, and I'll testify that you set a table second to none.     Bailey took a handful of dried Chlorella from a bin and fingered it. Itwas green, smelled of swamp, and looked appetizing as a bedsore. Thisis what I have to work with, he said. He tossed the stuff back intoits bin. In Ohio, which is my home country, in the presence of ladies,we'd call such garbage Horse-Leavings.     You'll never make Winkelmann happy, I said. Even the simultaneousdeath of all other human beings could hardly make him smile. Keep upthe good work, though, and you'll keep our Captain fat.     Bailey nodded from his one-man cloud of gloom. I got a bottle of ryefrom Medical Stores and offered him a therapeutic draught. The Cookwaved my gift aside. Not now, Doc, he said. I'm thinking abouttomorrow's menu.     The product of Bailey's cerebrations was on the mess table at noon thenext day. We were each served an individual head of lettuce, dressedwith something very like vinegar and oil, spiced with tiny leaves ofburnet. How Bailey had constructed those synthetic lettuces I can onlyguess: the hours spent preparing a green Chlorella paste, rolling anddrying and shaping each artificial leaf, the fitting together of nineheads like crisp, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles. The      pièce derésistance     was again a hamburger steak; but this time the algaealmass that made it up was buried in a rich, meaty gravy that was onlyfaintly green. The essence-of-steak used in these Chlorella cutlets hadbeen sprinkled with a lavish hand. Garlic was richly in evidence. It'sso tender, the radioman joked, that I can hardly believe it's reallysteak.     Bailey stared across the dining-cubby toward Winkelmann, silentlyimploring the Captain's ratification of his masterpiece. The bigman's pink cheeks bulged and jumped with his chewing. He swallowed.Belly-Robber, Winkelmann said, I had almost rather you served methis pond-scum raw than have it all mucked-up with synthetic onions andcycler-salt.  You seem able enough to choke down Bailey's chow, Captain, I said. Igazed at Winkelmann's form, bulbous from a lifetime of surfeit feeding.     Yes, I eat it, the Captain said, taking and talking through anotherbite. But I eat only as a man in the desert will eat worms andgrasshoppers, to stay alive.     Sir, what in heaven's name do you expect from me? Bailey pleaded.     Only good food, Winkelmann mumbled through his mouthful of disguisedalgae. He tapped his head with a finger. This—the brain that guidesthe ship—cannot be coaxed to work on hog-slop. You understand me,Belly-Robber?     Bailey, his hands fisted at his sides, nodded. Yes, sir. But I reallydon't know what I can do to please you.     You are a spacer and a Ship's Cook, not a suburban      Hausfrau     with thevapors, Winkelmann said. I do not expect from you hysterics, tantrumsor weeping. Only—can you understand this, so simple?—food that willkeep my belly content and my brain alive.     Yes, sir, Bailey said, his face a picture of that offense the Britishterm Dumb Insolence.     Winkelmann got up and climbed the ladder to the pilot-cubicle. Ifollowed him. Captain, I said, you're driving Bailey too hard.You're asking him to make bricks without straw.     Winkelmann regarded me with his pale-blue stare. You think, Doctor,that my cruelty to the Belly-Robber is the biliousness of a middle-agedman?     Frankly, I can't understand your attitude at all, I said.     You accuse me of driving a man to make bricks without straw,Winkelmann said. Very well, Doctor. It is my belief that if thePharaoh's taskmaster had had my firmness of purpose, the Children ofIsrael would have made bricks with stubble. Necessity, Doctor, is themother of invention. I am Bailey's necessity. My unkindnesses make himuncomfortable, I doubt that not. But I am forcing him to experiment,to improvise, to widen the horizons of his ingenuity. He will learnsomehow to bring good food from Chlorella tanks.     You're driving him too hard, Sir, I said. He'll crack.     Bailey will have some fifty thousand dollars' salary waiting when weground at Brady Station, Captain Winkelmann said. So much money buysmany discomforts. That will be all, Doctor Vilanova.     Crew morale on the ship.... I began.     That will be all, Doctor Vilanova, Captain Winkelmann repeated.  Bailey grew more silent as we threaded our way along the ellipticalpath to Mars. Each meal he prepared was a fresh attempt to propitiatethe appetite of our splenetic Captain. Each such offering was condemnedby that heartless man. Bailey began to try avoiding the Captain atmealtimes, but was frustrated by Winkelmann's orders. Convey mycompliments to the Chef, please, the Captain would instruct one ofthe crew, and ask him to step down here a moment. And the Cook wouldcheerlessly appear in the dining-cubby, to have his culinary geniusacidly called in question again.     I myself do not doubt that Bailey was the finest Cook ever to gointo Hohmann orbit. His every meal established a higher benchmark inbrilliant galleymanship. We were served, for instance, an      ersatz     hotturkey supreme. The cheese-sauce was almost believable, the Chlorellaturkey-flesh was white and tender. Bailey served with this delicacya grainy and delicious cornbread, and had extracted from his algaea lipid butter-substitute that soaked into the hot bread with agenuinely dairy smell. Splendid, Bailey, I said.     We are not amused, said Captain Winkelmann, accepting a secondhelping of the pseudo-turkey. You are improving, Belly-Robber, butonly arithmetically. Your first efforts were so hideous as to requirea geometric progression of improving excellence to raise them to mereedibility. By the time we are halfway 'round the Sun, I trust you willhave learned to cook with the competence of a freshman Home Economicsstudent. That will be all, Bailey.     The crew and my fellow-officers were amused by Winkelmann's riding ofBailey; they were in addition gratified that the battle between theirCaptain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embarkon an outward voyage somewhat plump, having eaten enough on their lastfew days aground to smuggle several hundred calories of fat and manymemories of good food aboard with them. This trip, none of the men hadlost weight during the first four months in space. Winkelmann, indeed,seemed to have gained. His uniform was taut over his plump backside,and he puffed a bit up the ladders. I was considering suggesting to ourCaptain that he curtail his diet for reasons of health, a bit of advicethat would have stood unique in the annals of space medicine, whenWinkelmann produced his supreme insult to our Cook.  Each man aboard a spacer is allowed ten kilograms of personal effectsbesides his uniforms, these being considered Ship's Furnishing. Ashis rank and responsibility merit, the Captain is allowed double thisration. He may thus bring aboard with him some forty-five pounds ofbooks, playing-cards, knitting-wool, whiskey or what have you to helphim while away the hours between the planets. Bailey, I knew for afact, had used up his weight-allowance in bringing aboard a case ofspices: marjoram and mint, costmary, file powder, basil and allspice,and a dozen others.     Captain Winkelmann was not a reader, and had brought no books. Cardsinterested him not at all, as card-playing implies a sociability aliento his nature. He never drank aboard ship. I had supposed that he'dexercised his option of returning his personal-effects weight allowanceto the owners for the consideration of one hundred dollars a kilogram.To collect the maximum allowance, spacers have been known to comeaboard their ship mother-naked.     But this was not the case with Winkelmann. His personal-effectsbaggage, an unlabeled cardboard box, appeared under the table at noonmess some hundred days out from Piano West. Winkelmann rested his feeton the mysterious box as he sat to eat.     What disgusting form does the ship's garbage appear in today,Belly-Robber? he asked the Cook.     Bailey frowned, but kept his temper, an asceticism in which by now he'dhad much practice. I've been working on the problem of steak, Sir,he said. I think I've whipped the taste; what was left was to get thetexture steak-like. Do you understand, Sir?     I understand, Winkelmann growled. You intend that your latest messshould feel like steak to the mouth, and not like baby-food. Right?     Yes, Sir, Bailey said. Well, I squeezed thesteak-substrate—Chlorella, of course, with all sorts of specialseasonings—through a sieve, and blanched the strands in hot algaealoil. Then I chopped those strands to bits and rolled them out.      Voila!     I had something very close in texture to the muscle-fibers of genuinemeat.     Remarkable, Bailey, I said.     It rather throws me off my appetite to hear how you muddle about withour food, the Captain said, his jowls settling into an expression ofdistaste. It's quite all right to eat lobster, for example, but Inever cared to see the ugly beast boiled before my eyes. Detail spoilsthe meal.     Bailey lifted the cover off the electric warming-pan at the center ofthe table and tenderly lifted a small steak onto each of our plates.Try it, he urged the Captain.  Captain Winkelmann sliced off a corner of his algaeal steak. Thecolor was an excellent medium-rare, the odor was the rich smellof fresh-broiled beef. Winkelmann bit down, chewed, swallowed. Nottoo bad, Belly-Robber, he said, nodding. Bailey grinned and bobbedhis head, his hands folded before him in an ecstasy of pleasure. Akind word from the Captain bettered the ruffles-and-flourishes of amore reasonable man. But it still needs something ... something,Winkelmann went on, slicing off another portion of the tasty Chlorella.Aha! I have it!     Yes, Sir? Bailey asked.     This, Belly-Robber! Winkelmann reached beneath the mess-table andripped open his cardboard carton. He brought out a bottle and unscrewedthe cap. Ketchup, he said, splattering the red juice over Bailey'smasterpiece. The scarlet burial-shroud for the failures of Cooks.Lifting a hunk of the steak, streaming ketchup, to his mouth,Winkelmann chewed. Just the thing, he smiled.     Damn you! Bailey shouted.     Winkelmann's smile flicked off, and his blue eyes pierced the Cook.     ... Sir, Bailey added.     That's better, Winkelmann said, and took another bite. He saidmeditatively, Used with caution, and only by myself, I believe I havesufficient ketchup here to see me through to Mars. Please keep abottle on the table for all my future meals, Belly-Robber.     But, Sir.... Bailey began.     You must realize, Belly-Robber, that a dyspeptic Captain is a threatto the welfare of his ship. Were I to continue eating your surrealisticslops for another hundred days, without the small consolation ofthis sauce I had the foresight to bring with me, I'd likely be inno condition to jet us safely down to the Piano West pad. Do youunderstand, Belly-Robber? he demanded.     I understand that you're an ungrateful, impossible, square-headed,slave-driving....     Watch your noun, Winkelmann cautioned the Cook. Your adjectives areinsubordinate; your noun might prove mutinous.     Captain, you've gone too far, I said. Bailey, his fists knotted, wasscarlet, his chest heaving with emotion.     Doctor, I must point out to you that it ill behooves the Ship'sSurgeon to side with the Cook against the Captain, Winkelmann said.     Sir, Bailey has tried hard to please you, I said. The other officersand the men have been more than satisfied with his work.     That only suggests atrophy of their taste buds, Winkelmann said.Doctor, you are excused. As are you, Belly-Robber, he added.  Bailey and I climbed from the mess compartment together. I steered himto my quarters, where the medical supplies were stored. He sat on mybunk and exploded into weeping, banging his fists against the metalbulkhead. You'll have that drink now, I said.     No, dammit! he shouted.     Orders, I said. I poured us each some fifty cc's of rye. This istherapy, Bailey, I told him. He poured the fiery stuff down his throatlike water and silently held out his glass for a second. I provided it.     After a few minutes Bailey's sobbing ceased. Sorry, Doc, he said.     You've taken more pressure than most men would, I said. Nothing tobe ashamed of.     He's crazy. What sane man would expect me to dip Wiener schnitzeland sauerkraut and      Backhahndl nach suddeutscher Art     out of an algaetank? I've got nothing but microscopic weeds to cook for him! Worn-outmolecules reclaimed from the head; packaged amino acid additives. Andhe expects meals that would take the blue ribbon at the annual banquetof the Friends of Escoffier!     Yours is an ancient plaint, Bailey, I said. You've worked yourfingers to the bone, slaving over a hot stove, and you're notappreciated. But you're not married to Winkelmann, remember. A yearfrom now you'll be home in Ohio, fifty grand richer, set to start thatrestaurant of yours and forget about our fat Flying Dutchman.     I hate him, Bailey said with the simplicity of true emotion. Hereached for the bottle. I let him have it. Sometimes alcohol can bean apt confederate of      vis medicatrix naturae     , the healing power ofnature. Half an hour later I strapped Bailey into his bunk to sleep itoff. That therapeutic drunk seemed to be just what he'd needed.     For morning mess the next day we had a broth remarkable inhorribleness, a pottage or boiled      Chlorella vulgaris     that lookedand tasted like the vomit of some bottom-feeding sea-beast. Bailey,red-eyed and a-tremble, made no apology, and stared at Winkelmann asthough daring him to comment. The Captain lifted a spoonful of thedisgusting stuff to his lips, smacked and said, Belly-Robber, you'reimproving a little at last.     Bailey nodded and smiled. Thank you, Sir, he said.     I smiled, too. Bailey had conquered himself. His psychic defenses werenow strong enough to withstand the Captain's fiercest assaults ofirony. Our food would likely be bad the rest of this trip, but that wasa price I was willing to pay for seeing destroyed the Willy Winkelmanntheory of forcing a Cook to make bricks without straw. The Captainhad pushed too hard. He'd need that ketchup for the meals to come, Ithought.     Noon mess was nearly as awful as breakfast had been. The coffee tastedof salt, and went largely undrunk. The men in the mess compartment werevehement in their protests, blaming the Captain, in his absence, forthe decline in culinary standards. Bailey seemed not to care. He servedthe algaeburgers with half a mind, and hurried back into his galleyoblivious of the taunts of his crewmates.  There being only three seats in the      Sale's     mess compartment, we ateour meals in three shifts. That evening, going down the ladder tosupper, my nose was met with a spine-tingling barbecue tang, a smellto make a man think of gray charcoal glowing in a picnic brazier,of cicadas chirping and green grass underfoot, of the pop and hissof canned beer being church-keyed. He's done it, Doc! one of thefirst-shift diners said. It actually tastes of food!     Then he's beat the Captain at his game, I said.     The Dutchman won't want to mess ketchup on these steaks, the crewmansaid.     I sat, unfolded my napkin, and looked with hope to the electricwarming-pan at the center of the table. Bailey served the three ofus with the small steaks. Each contained about a pound of driedChlorella, I judged, teasing mine with my fork. But they were drenchedin a gravy rich as the stuff grandma used to make in her black ironskillet, peppery and seasoned with courageous bits of garlic. I cuta bit from my steak and chewed it. Too tender, of course; there arelimits to art. But the pond-scum taste was gone. Bailey appeared in thegalley door. I gestured for him to join me. You've done it, Bailey,I said. Every Slimehead in orbit will thank you for this. This isactually      good     .     Thanks, Doc, Bailey said.     I smiled and took another bite. You may not realize it, Bailey; butthis is a victory for the Captain, too. He drove you to this triumph;you couldn't have done it without him.     You mean he was just whipping me on, trying to make me do better?Bailey asked.     He was driving you to do the impossible, I said; and you did it. OurCaptain may be a hard man, Bailey; but he did know how to coax maximumperformance out of his Ship's Cook.     Bailey stood up. Do you like Captain Winkelmann, Doctor? he asked.     I thought about his question a moment. Winkelmann was good at his job.He persuaded his men by foul means, true; but it was all for the goodof the ship and his crew. Do I like Captain Winkelmann? I asked,spearing another piece of my artificial steak. Bailey, I'm afraid I'llhave to admit that I do.     Bailey smiled and lifted a second steak from the warming-pan onto myplate. Then have another piece, he said.    ","Robert Bailey is the cook of the ship; he is considered to have one of the most important roles on the ship because he is the one who must feed all of the crew members. Bailey works very hard to try and please Captain Winkelmann, even though the captain constantly berates him on his efforts. He takes pride in his cooking, which is why he constantly tries to improve in order to gain the Captain’s approval. Paul considers him to be the best cook in the entire orbit, especially when he is shown to be capable of creating algae food that tastes realistic at the end of the story. Apart from the Captain, Bailey is very respectful towards his fellow crew members, especially Paul. Bailey dedicates himself to his food entirely, trying to cook up the best meal he can out of the Chlorella algae. He also plans to open a restaurant once he returns to Ohio. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     GOURMET     By ALLEN KIM LANG     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine April 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         This was the endless problem of all       spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men       tomorrow on what they had eaten today!        Unable to get out to the ballgame and a long way off from the girls,men on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It'strue that Woman remains a topic of thoughtful study, but discussioncan never replace practice in an art. Food, on the other hand, is achallenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughtsthat a history of sea-faring can be read from a commissary list.     In the days when salt-sea sailors were charting islands and spearingseals, for example, the fo'c's'le hands called themselves Lobscousers,celebrating the liquid hash then prominent in the marine menu. TheLimey sailor got the name of the anti-scorbutic citrus squeezed intohis diet, a fruit known to us mariners of a more sophisticated ageonly as garnish for our groundside gin-and-tonic. And today we Marsmenare called Slimeheads, honoring in our title the      Chlorella     and      Scenedesmus     algae that, by filling up the spaces within, open theroad to the larger Space without.     Should any groundsman dispute the importance of belly-furniture inhistory—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilisto the Fiji Islanders, or settling the Australian littoral withcross-coves from Middlesex and Hampshire—he is referred to thehundred-and-first chapter of      Moby Dick     , a book spooled in theamusement tanks of all but the smallest spacers. I trust, however, thatno Marsman will undertake to review this inventory of refreshment morethan a week from groundfall. A catalogue of sides of beef and heads ofLeyden cheese and ankers of good Geneva would prove heavy reading for aman condemned to snack on the Chlorella-spawn of cis-Martian space.     The      Pequod's     crew ate wormy biscuit and salt beef. Nimitz's men wontheir war on canned pork and beans. The      Triton     made her underwaterperiplus of Earth with a galley stocked with frozen pizza andconcentrated apple-juice. But then, when sailors left the seas for theskies, a decline set in.     The first amenity of groundside existence to be abandoned was decentfood. The earliest men into the vacuum swallowed protein squeezingsfrom aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to thegroundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes.  Long before I was a boy in Med School, itching to look at black skythrough a view-port, galley science had fulfilled the disgustingexordium of      Isaiah     36:12, to feed the Slimeheads for breakfast todaywhat was day-before-yesterday's table-scraps and jakes-water.     The Ship's Cook, the man who accomplishes the daily miracle of turningoffal into eatables, is in many ways the most vital man aboard aspacer. He can make morale or foment a mutiny. His power is paramount.Slimeheads remember the H. M. S.      Ajax     fiasco, for example, in which agalleyman leveled his Chlorella tanks with heavy water from the ship'sshielding. Four officers and twenty-one Other Ranks were rescued fromthe      Ajax     in deep space, half dead from deuterium poisoning. We thinkof the      Benjo Maru     incident, too, caused by a Ship's Cook who allowedhis algaeal staff-of-life to become contaminated with a fast-growing      Saccharomycodes     yeast. The Japanese vessel staggered to her pad atPiano West after a twenty-week drunk: the alien yeast had got intothe stomach of every man aboard, where it fermented each subsequentbite he ate to a superior grade of      sake     . And for a third footnote tothe ancient observation, God sends food, and the Devil sends cooks,Marsmen will recall what happened aboard my ship the      Charles PartlowSale     .     The      Sale     blasted off from Brady Station in the middle of August, duein at Piano West in early May. In no special hurry, we were takingthe low-energy route to Mars, a pathway about as long in time as thehuman period of gestation. Our cargo consisted mostly of Tien-Shen firseedlings and some tons of an arctic grass-seed—these to be plantedin the      maria     to squeeze out the native blue bugberry vines. We hadaboard the Registry minimum of six men and three officers. Ship'sSurgeon was myself, Paul Vilanova. Our Captain was Willy Winkelmann,the hardest man in space and very likely the fattest. Ship's Cook wasRobert Bailey.     Cooking aboard a spacer is a job combining the more frustratingtensions of biochemistry, applied mycology, high-speed farming,dietetics and sewage engineering. It's the Cook's responsibility tosee that each man aboard gets each day no less than five pounds ofwater, two pounds of oxygen, and one-and-a-half pounds of dry food.This isn't just a paragraph from the Spacer Union Contract. It's astatement of the least fuel a man can run on.     Twelve tons of water, oxygen, and food would have filled the cargocompartments to bursting, and left a small ship like the      C. P. Sale     no reason to reach for Mars. By allowing a colony of Chlorella algae towork over our used air, water and other effluvia, though, three tonsof metabolites would see us through from Brady Station to Piano Westand back. Recycling was the answer. The molecule of carbohydrate, fat,protein or mineral that didn't feed the crew fed the algae. And thealgae fed us.     All waste was used to fertilize our liquid fields. Even the stubblefrom our 2,680 shaves and the clippings from our 666 haircuts en routeand back would be fed into the Chlorella tanks. Human hair is rich inessential amino acids.     The algae—dried by the Cook, bleached with methyl alcohol to kill thesmell and make the residue more digestible, disguised and seasoned in ahundred ways—served as a sort of meat-and-potatoes that never quitewore out. Our air and water were equally immortal. Each molecule ofoxygen would be conversant with the alveoli of every man aboard by theend of our trip. Every drop of water would have been intimate with theglomeruli of each kidney on the ship before we grounded in. Groundlingpoliticians are right enough when they say that we spacers are abreed apart. We're the one race of men who can't afford the luxury ofsqueamishness.  Though I'm signed aboard as Ship's Surgeon, I seldom lift a knifein space. My employment is more in the nature of TS-card-puncherextraordinary. My duties are to serve as wailing-wall, morale officer,guardian of the medicinal whiskey and frustrator of mutual murder.Generally the man aboard who'd serve as the most popular murder-victimis the Cook. This trip, the-man-you-love-to-hate was our Captain.     If the Cook hadn't problems enough with the chemical and psychic dutiesof his office, Winkelmann supplied the want. Captain Willy Winkelmannwas the sort of man who, if he had to go into space at all, had best doso alone. If the Prussians had a Marine Corps, Winkelmann would havedone splendidly as Drill Instructor for their boot camp. His heartwas a chip of helium ice, his voice dripped sarcastic acid. The planetEarth was hardly large enough to accommodate a wart as annoying asWilly Winkelmann. Cheek-by-jowl every day in a nacelle the size of aPullman car, our Captain quickly established himself as a major socialhemorrhoid.     The Captain's particular patsy was, of course, young Bailey the Cook.It was Winkelmann who saw humorous possibilities in the entry, Bailey,Robert, on Ship's Articles. He at once renamed our unfortunateshipmate Belly-Robber. It was Winkelmann who discussed      hautcuisine     and the properties of the nobler wines while we munched ouralgaeburgers and sipped coffee that tasted of utility water. And it wasCaptain Willy Winkelmann who never referred to the ship's head by anyother name than The Kitchen Cabinet.     Bailey tried to feed us by groundside standards. He hid the tasteof synthetic methionine—an essential amino acid not synthesized byChlorella—by seasoning our algaeal repasts with pinches of oreganoand thyme. He tinted the pale-green dollops of pressed Chlorella pink,textured the mass to the consistency of hamburger and toasted theslabs to a delicate brown in a forlorn attempt to make mock-meat.For dessert, he served a fudge compounded from the dextrose-paste ofthe carbohydrate recycler. The crew thanked him. The Captain did not.Belly-Robber, he said, his tone icy as winter wind off the North Sea,you had best cycle this mess through the tanks again. There is a punin my home country:      Mensch ist was er isst.     It means, you are whatyou eat. I think you are impertinent to suggest I should become this      Schweinerei     you are feeding me. Captain Winkelmann blotted his chinwith his napkin, heaved his bulk up from the table, and climbed up theladder from the dining-cubby.  Doc, do you like Winkelmann? the Cook asked me.     Not much, I said. I suspect that the finest gift our Captain cangive his mother is to be absent from her on Mother's Day. But we've gotto live with him. He's a good man at driving a ship.     I wish he'd leave off driving this Cook, Bailey said. The fat swine!     His plumpness is an unwitting tribute to your cooking, Bailey, Isaid. He eats well. We all do. I've dined aboard a lot of spacers inmy time, and I'll testify that you set a table second to none.     Bailey took a handful of dried Chlorella from a bin and fingered it. Itwas green, smelled of swamp, and looked appetizing as a bedsore. Thisis what I have to work with, he said. He tossed the stuff back intoits bin. In Ohio, which is my home country, in the presence of ladies,we'd call such garbage Horse-Leavings.     You'll never make Winkelmann happy, I said. Even the simultaneousdeath of all other human beings could hardly make him smile. Keep upthe good work, though, and you'll keep our Captain fat.     Bailey nodded from his one-man cloud of gloom. I got a bottle of ryefrom Medical Stores and offered him a therapeutic draught. The Cookwaved my gift aside. Not now, Doc, he said. I'm thinking abouttomorrow's menu.     The product of Bailey's cerebrations was on the mess table at noon thenext day. We were each served an individual head of lettuce, dressedwith something very like vinegar and oil, spiced with tiny leaves ofburnet. How Bailey had constructed those synthetic lettuces I can onlyguess: the hours spent preparing a green Chlorella paste, rolling anddrying and shaping each artificial leaf, the fitting together of nineheads like crisp, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles. The      pièce derésistance     was again a hamburger steak; but this time the algaealmass that made it up was buried in a rich, meaty gravy that was onlyfaintly green. The essence-of-steak used in these Chlorella cutlets hadbeen sprinkled with a lavish hand. Garlic was richly in evidence. It'sso tender, the radioman joked, that I can hardly believe it's reallysteak.     Bailey stared across the dining-cubby toward Winkelmann, silentlyimploring the Captain's ratification of his masterpiece. The bigman's pink cheeks bulged and jumped with his chewing. He swallowed.Belly-Robber, Winkelmann said, I had almost rather you served methis pond-scum raw than have it all mucked-up with synthetic onions andcycler-salt.  You seem able enough to choke down Bailey's chow, Captain, I said. Igazed at Winkelmann's form, bulbous from a lifetime of surfeit feeding.     Yes, I eat it, the Captain said, taking and talking through anotherbite. But I eat only as a man in the desert will eat worms andgrasshoppers, to stay alive.     Sir, what in heaven's name do you expect from me? Bailey pleaded.     Only good food, Winkelmann mumbled through his mouthful of disguisedalgae. He tapped his head with a finger. This—the brain that guidesthe ship—cannot be coaxed to work on hog-slop. You understand me,Belly-Robber?     Bailey, his hands fisted at his sides, nodded. Yes, sir. But I reallydon't know what I can do to please you.     You are a spacer and a Ship's Cook, not a suburban      Hausfrau     with thevapors, Winkelmann said. I do not expect from you hysterics, tantrumsor weeping. Only—can you understand this, so simple?—food that willkeep my belly content and my brain alive.     Yes, sir, Bailey said, his face a picture of that offense the Britishterm Dumb Insolence.     Winkelmann got up and climbed the ladder to the pilot-cubicle. Ifollowed him. Captain, I said, you're driving Bailey too hard.You're asking him to make bricks without straw.     Winkelmann regarded me with his pale-blue stare. You think, Doctor,that my cruelty to the Belly-Robber is the biliousness of a middle-agedman?     Frankly, I can't understand your attitude at all, I said.     You accuse me of driving a man to make bricks without straw,Winkelmann said. Very well, Doctor. It is my belief that if thePharaoh's taskmaster had had my firmness of purpose, the Children ofIsrael would have made bricks with stubble. Necessity, Doctor, is themother of invention. I am Bailey's necessity. My unkindnesses make himuncomfortable, I doubt that not. But I am forcing him to experiment,to improvise, to widen the horizons of his ingenuity. He will learnsomehow to bring good food from Chlorella tanks.     You're driving him too hard, Sir, I said. He'll crack.     Bailey will have some fifty thousand dollars' salary waiting when weground at Brady Station, Captain Winkelmann said. So much money buysmany discomforts. That will be all, Doctor Vilanova.     Crew morale on the ship.... I began.     That will be all, Doctor Vilanova, Captain Winkelmann repeated.  Bailey grew more silent as we threaded our way along the ellipticalpath to Mars. Each meal he prepared was a fresh attempt to propitiatethe appetite of our splenetic Captain. Each such offering was condemnedby that heartless man. Bailey began to try avoiding the Captain atmealtimes, but was frustrated by Winkelmann's orders. Convey mycompliments to the Chef, please, the Captain would instruct one ofthe crew, and ask him to step down here a moment. And the Cook wouldcheerlessly appear in the dining-cubby, to have his culinary geniusacidly called in question again.     I myself do not doubt that Bailey was the finest Cook ever to gointo Hohmann orbit. His every meal established a higher benchmark inbrilliant galleymanship. We were served, for instance, an      ersatz     hotturkey supreme. The cheese-sauce was almost believable, the Chlorellaturkey-flesh was white and tender. Bailey served with this delicacya grainy and delicious cornbread, and had extracted from his algaea lipid butter-substitute that soaked into the hot bread with agenuinely dairy smell. Splendid, Bailey, I said.     We are not amused, said Captain Winkelmann, accepting a secondhelping of the pseudo-turkey. You are improving, Belly-Robber, butonly arithmetically. Your first efforts were so hideous as to requirea geometric progression of improving excellence to raise them to mereedibility. By the time we are halfway 'round the Sun, I trust you willhave learned to cook with the competence of a freshman Home Economicsstudent. That will be all, Bailey.     The crew and my fellow-officers were amused by Winkelmann's riding ofBailey; they were in addition gratified that the battle between theirCaptain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embarkon an outward voyage somewhat plump, having eaten enough on their lastfew days aground to smuggle several hundred calories of fat and manymemories of good food aboard with them. This trip, none of the men hadlost weight during the first four months in space. Winkelmann, indeed,seemed to have gained. His uniform was taut over his plump backside,and he puffed a bit up the ladders. I was considering suggesting to ourCaptain that he curtail his diet for reasons of health, a bit of advicethat would have stood unique in the annals of space medicine, whenWinkelmann produced his supreme insult to our Cook.  Each man aboard a spacer is allowed ten kilograms of personal effectsbesides his uniforms, these being considered Ship's Furnishing. Ashis rank and responsibility merit, the Captain is allowed double thisration. He may thus bring aboard with him some forty-five pounds ofbooks, playing-cards, knitting-wool, whiskey or what have you to helphim while away the hours between the planets. Bailey, I knew for afact, had used up his weight-allowance in bringing aboard a case ofspices: marjoram and mint, costmary, file powder, basil and allspice,and a dozen others.     Captain Winkelmann was not a reader, and had brought no books. Cardsinterested him not at all, as card-playing implies a sociability aliento his nature. He never drank aboard ship. I had supposed that he'dexercised his option of returning his personal-effects weight allowanceto the owners for the consideration of one hundred dollars a kilogram.To collect the maximum allowance, spacers have been known to comeaboard their ship mother-naked.     But this was not the case with Winkelmann. His personal-effectsbaggage, an unlabeled cardboard box, appeared under the table at noonmess some hundred days out from Piano West. Winkelmann rested his feeton the mysterious box as he sat to eat.     What disgusting form does the ship's garbage appear in today,Belly-Robber? he asked the Cook.     Bailey frowned, but kept his temper, an asceticism in which by now he'dhad much practice. I've been working on the problem of steak, Sir,he said. I think I've whipped the taste; what was left was to get thetexture steak-like. Do you understand, Sir?     I understand, Winkelmann growled. You intend that your latest messshould feel like steak to the mouth, and not like baby-food. Right?     Yes, Sir, Bailey said. Well, I squeezed thesteak-substrate—Chlorella, of course, with all sorts of specialseasonings—through a sieve, and blanched the strands in hot algaealoil. Then I chopped those strands to bits and rolled them out.      Voila!     I had something very close in texture to the muscle-fibers of genuinemeat.     Remarkable, Bailey, I said.     It rather throws me off my appetite to hear how you muddle about withour food, the Captain said, his jowls settling into an expression ofdistaste. It's quite all right to eat lobster, for example, but Inever cared to see the ugly beast boiled before my eyes. Detail spoilsthe meal.     Bailey lifted the cover off the electric warming-pan at the center ofthe table and tenderly lifted a small steak onto each of our plates.Try it, he urged the Captain.  Captain Winkelmann sliced off a corner of his algaeal steak. Thecolor was an excellent medium-rare, the odor was the rich smellof fresh-broiled beef. Winkelmann bit down, chewed, swallowed. Nottoo bad, Belly-Robber, he said, nodding. Bailey grinned and bobbedhis head, his hands folded before him in an ecstasy of pleasure. Akind word from the Captain bettered the ruffles-and-flourishes of amore reasonable man. But it still needs something ... something,Winkelmann went on, slicing off another portion of the tasty Chlorella.Aha! I have it!     Yes, Sir? Bailey asked.     This, Belly-Robber! Winkelmann reached beneath the mess-table andripped open his cardboard carton. He brought out a bottle and unscrewedthe cap. Ketchup, he said, splattering the red juice over Bailey'smasterpiece. The scarlet burial-shroud for the failures of Cooks.Lifting a hunk of the steak, streaming ketchup, to his mouth,Winkelmann chewed. Just the thing, he smiled.     Damn you! Bailey shouted.     Winkelmann's smile flicked off, and his blue eyes pierced the Cook.     ... Sir, Bailey added.     That's better, Winkelmann said, and took another bite. He saidmeditatively, Used with caution, and only by myself, I believe I havesufficient ketchup here to see me through to Mars. Please keep abottle on the table for all my future meals, Belly-Robber.     But, Sir.... Bailey began.     You must realize, Belly-Robber, that a dyspeptic Captain is a threatto the welfare of his ship. Were I to continue eating your surrealisticslops for another hundred days, without the small consolation ofthis sauce I had the foresight to bring with me, I'd likely be inno condition to jet us safely down to the Piano West pad. Do youunderstand, Belly-Robber? he demanded.     I understand that you're an ungrateful, impossible, square-headed,slave-driving....     Watch your noun, Winkelmann cautioned the Cook. Your adjectives areinsubordinate; your noun might prove mutinous.     Captain, you've gone too far, I said. Bailey, his fists knotted, wasscarlet, his chest heaving with emotion.     Doctor, I must point out to you that it ill behooves the Ship'sSurgeon to side with the Cook against the Captain, Winkelmann said.     Sir, Bailey has tried hard to please you, I said. The other officersand the men have been more than satisfied with his work.     That only suggests atrophy of their taste buds, Winkelmann said.Doctor, you are excused. As are you, Belly-Robber, he added.  Bailey and I climbed from the mess compartment together. I steered himto my quarters, where the medical supplies were stored. He sat on mybunk and exploded into weeping, banging his fists against the metalbulkhead. You'll have that drink now, I said.     No, dammit! he shouted.     Orders, I said. I poured us each some fifty cc's of rye. This istherapy, Bailey, I told him. He poured the fiery stuff down his throatlike water and silently held out his glass for a second. I provided it.     After a few minutes Bailey's sobbing ceased. Sorry, Doc, he said.     You've taken more pressure than most men would, I said. Nothing tobe ashamed of.     He's crazy. What sane man would expect me to dip Wiener schnitzeland sauerkraut and      Backhahndl nach suddeutscher Art     out of an algaetank? I've got nothing but microscopic weeds to cook for him! Worn-outmolecules reclaimed from the head; packaged amino acid additives. Andhe expects meals that would take the blue ribbon at the annual banquetof the Friends of Escoffier!     Yours is an ancient plaint, Bailey, I said. You've worked yourfingers to the bone, slaving over a hot stove, and you're notappreciated. But you're not married to Winkelmann, remember. A yearfrom now you'll be home in Ohio, fifty grand richer, set to start thatrestaurant of yours and forget about our fat Flying Dutchman.     I hate him, Bailey said with the simplicity of true emotion. Hereached for the bottle. I let him have it. Sometimes alcohol can bean apt confederate of      vis medicatrix naturae     , the healing power ofnature. Half an hour later I strapped Bailey into his bunk to sleep itoff. That therapeutic drunk seemed to be just what he'd needed.     For morning mess the next day we had a broth remarkable inhorribleness, a pottage or boiled      Chlorella vulgaris     that lookedand tasted like the vomit of some bottom-feeding sea-beast. Bailey,red-eyed and a-tremble, made no apology, and stared at Winkelmann asthough daring him to comment. The Captain lifted a spoonful of thedisgusting stuff to his lips, smacked and said, Belly-Robber, you'reimproving a little at last.     Bailey nodded and smiled. Thank you, Sir, he said.     I smiled, too. Bailey had conquered himself. His psychic defenses werenow strong enough to withstand the Captain's fiercest assaults ofirony. Our food would likely be bad the rest of this trip, but that wasa price I was willing to pay for seeing destroyed the Willy Winkelmanntheory of forcing a Cook to make bricks without straw. The Captainhad pushed too hard. He'd need that ketchup for the meals to come, Ithought.     Noon mess was nearly as awful as breakfast had been. The coffee tastedof salt, and went largely undrunk. The men in the mess compartment werevehement in their protests, blaming the Captain, in his absence, forthe decline in culinary standards. Bailey seemed not to care. He servedthe algaeburgers with half a mind, and hurried back into his galleyoblivious of the taunts of his crewmates.  There being only three seats in the      Sale's     mess compartment, we ateour meals in three shifts. That evening, going down the ladder tosupper, my nose was met with a spine-tingling barbecue tang, a smellto make a man think of gray charcoal glowing in a picnic brazier,of cicadas chirping and green grass underfoot, of the pop and hissof canned beer being church-keyed. He's done it, Doc! one of thefirst-shift diners said. It actually tastes of food!     Then he's beat the Captain at his game, I said.     The Dutchman won't want to mess ketchup on these steaks, the crewmansaid.     I sat, unfolded my napkin, and looked with hope to the electricwarming-pan at the center of the table. Bailey served the three ofus with the small steaks. Each contained about a pound of driedChlorella, I judged, teasing mine with my fork. But they were drenchedin a gravy rich as the stuff grandma used to make in her black ironskillet, peppery and seasoned with courageous bits of garlic. I cuta bit from my steak and chewed it. Too tender, of course; there arelimits to art. But the pond-scum taste was gone. Bailey appeared in thegalley door. I gestured for him to join me. You've done it, Bailey,I said. Every Slimehead in orbit will thank you for this. This isactually      good     .     Thanks, Doc, Bailey said.     I smiled and took another bite. You may not realize it, Bailey; butthis is a victory for the Captain, too. He drove you to this triumph;you couldn't have done it without him.     You mean he was just whipping me on, trying to make me do better?Bailey asked.     He was driving you to do the impossible, I said; and you did it. OurCaptain may be a hard man, Bailey; but he did know how to coax maximumperformance out of his Ship's Cook.     Bailey stood up. Do you like Captain Winkelmann, Doctor? he asked.     I thought about his question a moment. Winkelmann was good at his job.He persuaded his men by foul means, true; but it was all for the goodof the ship and his crew. Do I like Captain Winkelmann? I asked,spearing another piece of my artificial steak. Bailey, I'm afraid I'llhave to admit that I do.     Bailey smiled and lifted a second steak from the warming-pan onto myplate. Then have another piece, he said.    ","The story is set on the Charles Partlow Sale in outer space. The ship left in the middle of August, and it is due at Piano West in early May. The path to Mars is considered to be as long in time as the human period of gestation. This is because the ship is taking a low-energy route. There are Chlorella tanks on the ship to grow the algae in. There is also a dining compartment with a mess table for the crew members to eat food on. The ship also has a cargo compartment, filled with the seeds of Tien-Shen fir and some tons of arctic grass. However, the ship itself is described to be quite small and cannot carry huge amounts of cargo. "
"What is the importance of the Chlorella algae? </s>     GOURMET     By ALLEN KIM LANG     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine April 1962.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]         This was the endless problem of all       spaceship cooks: He had to feed the men       tomorrow on what they had eaten today!        Unable to get out to the ballgame and a long way off from the girls,men on ships think about, talk about, bitch about their food. It'strue that Woman remains a topic of thoughtful study, but discussioncan never replace practice in an art. Food, on the other hand, is achallenge shipmen face three times a day, so central to their thoughtsthat a history of sea-faring can be read from a commissary list.     In the days when salt-sea sailors were charting islands and spearingseals, for example, the fo'c's'le hands called themselves Lobscousers,celebrating the liquid hash then prominent in the marine menu. TheLimey sailor got the name of the anti-scorbutic citrus squeezed intohis diet, a fruit known to us mariners of a more sophisticated ageonly as garnish for our groundside gin-and-tonic. And today we Marsmenare called Slimeheads, honoring in our title the      Chlorella     and      Scenedesmus     algae that, by filling up the spaces within, open theroad to the larger Space without.     Should any groundsman dispute the importance of belly-furniture inhistory—whether it be exterminating whales, or introducing syphilisto the Fiji Islanders, or settling the Australian littoral withcross-coves from Middlesex and Hampshire—he is referred to thehundred-and-first chapter of      Moby Dick     , a book spooled in theamusement tanks of all but the smallest spacers. I trust, however, thatno Marsman will undertake to review this inventory of refreshment morethan a week from groundfall. A catalogue of sides of beef and heads ofLeyden cheese and ankers of good Geneva would prove heavy reading for aman condemned to snack on the Chlorella-spawn of cis-Martian space.     The      Pequod's     crew ate wormy biscuit and salt beef. Nimitz's men wontheir war on canned pork and beans. The      Triton     made her underwaterperiplus of Earth with a galley stocked with frozen pizza andconcentrated apple-juice. But then, when sailors left the seas for theskies, a decline set in.     The first amenity of groundside existence to be abandoned was decentfood. The earliest men into the vacuum swallowed protein squeezingsfrom aluminum tubes, and were glad enough to drop back to thegroundsman's diet of steak and fried potatoes.  Long before I was a boy in Med School, itching to look at black skythrough a view-port, galley science had fulfilled the disgustingexordium of      Isaiah     36:12, to feed the Slimeheads for breakfast todaywhat was day-before-yesterday's table-scraps and jakes-water.     The Ship's Cook, the man who accomplishes the daily miracle of turningoffal into eatables, is in many ways the most vital man aboard aspacer. He can make morale or foment a mutiny. His power is paramount.Slimeheads remember the H. M. S.      Ajax     fiasco, for example, in which agalleyman leveled his Chlorella tanks with heavy water from the ship'sshielding. Four officers and twenty-one Other Ranks were rescued fromthe      Ajax     in deep space, half dead from deuterium poisoning. We thinkof the      Benjo Maru     incident, too, caused by a Ship's Cook who allowedhis algaeal staff-of-life to become contaminated with a fast-growing      Saccharomycodes     yeast. The Japanese vessel staggered to her pad atPiano West after a twenty-week drunk: the alien yeast had got intothe stomach of every man aboard, where it fermented each subsequentbite he ate to a superior grade of      sake     . And for a third footnote tothe ancient observation, God sends food, and the Devil sends cooks,Marsmen will recall what happened aboard my ship the      Charles PartlowSale     .     The      Sale     blasted off from Brady Station in the middle of August, duein at Piano West in early May. In no special hurry, we were takingthe low-energy route to Mars, a pathway about as long in time as thehuman period of gestation. Our cargo consisted mostly of Tien-Shen firseedlings and some tons of an arctic grass-seed—these to be plantedin the      maria     to squeeze out the native blue bugberry vines. We hadaboard the Registry minimum of six men and three officers. Ship'sSurgeon was myself, Paul Vilanova. Our Captain was Willy Winkelmann,the hardest man in space and very likely the fattest. Ship's Cook wasRobert Bailey.     Cooking aboard a spacer is a job combining the more frustratingtensions of biochemistry, applied mycology, high-speed farming,dietetics and sewage engineering. It's the Cook's responsibility tosee that each man aboard gets each day no less than five pounds ofwater, two pounds of oxygen, and one-and-a-half pounds of dry food.This isn't just a paragraph from the Spacer Union Contract. It's astatement of the least fuel a man can run on.     Twelve tons of water, oxygen, and food would have filled the cargocompartments to bursting, and left a small ship like the      C. P. Sale     no reason to reach for Mars. By allowing a colony of Chlorella algae towork over our used air, water and other effluvia, though, three tonsof metabolites would see us through from Brady Station to Piano Westand back. Recycling was the answer. The molecule of carbohydrate, fat,protein or mineral that didn't feed the crew fed the algae. And thealgae fed us.     All waste was used to fertilize our liquid fields. Even the stubblefrom our 2,680 shaves and the clippings from our 666 haircuts en routeand back would be fed into the Chlorella tanks. Human hair is rich inessential amino acids.     The algae—dried by the Cook, bleached with methyl alcohol to kill thesmell and make the residue more digestible, disguised and seasoned in ahundred ways—served as a sort of meat-and-potatoes that never quitewore out. Our air and water were equally immortal. Each molecule ofoxygen would be conversant with the alveoli of every man aboard by theend of our trip. Every drop of water would have been intimate with theglomeruli of each kidney on the ship before we grounded in. Groundlingpoliticians are right enough when they say that we spacers are abreed apart. We're the one race of men who can't afford the luxury ofsqueamishness.  Though I'm signed aboard as Ship's Surgeon, I seldom lift a knifein space. My employment is more in the nature of TS-card-puncherextraordinary. My duties are to serve as wailing-wall, morale officer,guardian of the medicinal whiskey and frustrator of mutual murder.Generally the man aboard who'd serve as the most popular murder-victimis the Cook. This trip, the-man-you-love-to-hate was our Captain.     If the Cook hadn't problems enough with the chemical and psychic dutiesof his office, Winkelmann supplied the want. Captain Willy Winkelmannwas the sort of man who, if he had to go into space at all, had best doso alone. If the Prussians had a Marine Corps, Winkelmann would havedone splendidly as Drill Instructor for their boot camp. His heartwas a chip of helium ice, his voice dripped sarcastic acid. The planetEarth was hardly large enough to accommodate a wart as annoying asWilly Winkelmann. Cheek-by-jowl every day in a nacelle the size of aPullman car, our Captain quickly established himself as a major socialhemorrhoid.     The Captain's particular patsy was, of course, young Bailey the Cook.It was Winkelmann who saw humorous possibilities in the entry, Bailey,Robert, on Ship's Articles. He at once renamed our unfortunateshipmate Belly-Robber. It was Winkelmann who discussed      hautcuisine     and the properties of the nobler wines while we munched ouralgaeburgers and sipped coffee that tasted of utility water. And it wasCaptain Willy Winkelmann who never referred to the ship's head by anyother name than The Kitchen Cabinet.     Bailey tried to feed us by groundside standards. He hid the tasteof synthetic methionine—an essential amino acid not synthesized byChlorella—by seasoning our algaeal repasts with pinches of oreganoand thyme. He tinted the pale-green dollops of pressed Chlorella pink,textured the mass to the consistency of hamburger and toasted theslabs to a delicate brown in a forlorn attempt to make mock-meat.For dessert, he served a fudge compounded from the dextrose-paste ofthe carbohydrate recycler. The crew thanked him. The Captain did not.Belly-Robber, he said, his tone icy as winter wind off the North Sea,you had best cycle this mess through the tanks again. There is a punin my home country:      Mensch ist was er isst.     It means, you are whatyou eat. I think you are impertinent to suggest I should become this      Schweinerei     you are feeding me. Captain Winkelmann blotted his chinwith his napkin, heaved his bulk up from the table, and climbed up theladder from the dining-cubby.  Doc, do you like Winkelmann? the Cook asked me.     Not much, I said. I suspect that the finest gift our Captain cangive his mother is to be absent from her on Mother's Day. But we've gotto live with him. He's a good man at driving a ship.     I wish he'd leave off driving this Cook, Bailey said. The fat swine!     His plumpness is an unwitting tribute to your cooking, Bailey, Isaid. He eats well. We all do. I've dined aboard a lot of spacers inmy time, and I'll testify that you set a table second to none.     Bailey took a handful of dried Chlorella from a bin and fingered it. Itwas green, smelled of swamp, and looked appetizing as a bedsore. Thisis what I have to work with, he said. He tossed the stuff back intoits bin. In Ohio, which is my home country, in the presence of ladies,we'd call such garbage Horse-Leavings.     You'll never make Winkelmann happy, I said. Even the simultaneousdeath of all other human beings could hardly make him smile. Keep upthe good work, though, and you'll keep our Captain fat.     Bailey nodded from his one-man cloud of gloom. I got a bottle of ryefrom Medical Stores and offered him a therapeutic draught. The Cookwaved my gift aside. Not now, Doc, he said. I'm thinking abouttomorrow's menu.     The product of Bailey's cerebrations was on the mess table at noon thenext day. We were each served an individual head of lettuce, dressedwith something very like vinegar and oil, spiced with tiny leaves ofburnet. How Bailey had constructed those synthetic lettuces I can onlyguess: the hours spent preparing a green Chlorella paste, rolling anddrying and shaping each artificial leaf, the fitting together of nineheads like crisp, three-dimensional jigsaw puzzles. The      pièce derésistance     was again a hamburger steak; but this time the algaealmass that made it up was buried in a rich, meaty gravy that was onlyfaintly green. The essence-of-steak used in these Chlorella cutlets hadbeen sprinkled with a lavish hand. Garlic was richly in evidence. It'sso tender, the radioman joked, that I can hardly believe it's reallysteak.     Bailey stared across the dining-cubby toward Winkelmann, silentlyimploring the Captain's ratification of his masterpiece. The bigman's pink cheeks bulged and jumped with his chewing. He swallowed.Belly-Robber, Winkelmann said, I had almost rather you served methis pond-scum raw than have it all mucked-up with synthetic onions andcycler-salt.  You seem able enough to choke down Bailey's chow, Captain, I said. Igazed at Winkelmann's form, bulbous from a lifetime of surfeit feeding.     Yes, I eat it, the Captain said, taking and talking through anotherbite. But I eat only as a man in the desert will eat worms andgrasshoppers, to stay alive.     Sir, what in heaven's name do you expect from me? Bailey pleaded.     Only good food, Winkelmann mumbled through his mouthful of disguisedalgae. He tapped his head with a finger. This—the brain that guidesthe ship—cannot be coaxed to work on hog-slop. You understand me,Belly-Robber?     Bailey, his hands fisted at his sides, nodded. Yes, sir. But I reallydon't know what I can do to please you.     You are a spacer and a Ship's Cook, not a suburban      Hausfrau     with thevapors, Winkelmann said. I do not expect from you hysterics, tantrumsor weeping. Only—can you understand this, so simple?—food that willkeep my belly content and my brain alive.     Yes, sir, Bailey said, his face a picture of that offense the Britishterm Dumb Insolence.     Winkelmann got up and climbed the ladder to the pilot-cubicle. Ifollowed him. Captain, I said, you're driving Bailey too hard.You're asking him to make bricks without straw.     Winkelmann regarded me with his pale-blue stare. You think, Doctor,that my cruelty to the Belly-Robber is the biliousness of a middle-agedman?     Frankly, I can't understand your attitude at all, I said.     You accuse me of driving a man to make bricks without straw,Winkelmann said. Very well, Doctor. It is my belief that if thePharaoh's taskmaster had had my firmness of purpose, the Children ofIsrael would have made bricks with stubble. Necessity, Doctor, is themother of invention. I am Bailey's necessity. My unkindnesses make himuncomfortable, I doubt that not. But I am forcing him to experiment,to improvise, to widen the horizons of his ingenuity. He will learnsomehow to bring good food from Chlorella tanks.     You're driving him too hard, Sir, I said. He'll crack.     Bailey will have some fifty thousand dollars' salary waiting when weground at Brady Station, Captain Winkelmann said. So much money buysmany discomforts. That will be all, Doctor Vilanova.     Crew morale on the ship.... I began.     That will be all, Doctor Vilanova, Captain Winkelmann repeated.  Bailey grew more silent as we threaded our way along the ellipticalpath to Mars. Each meal he prepared was a fresh attempt to propitiatethe appetite of our splenetic Captain. Each such offering was condemnedby that heartless man. Bailey began to try avoiding the Captain atmealtimes, but was frustrated by Winkelmann's orders. Convey mycompliments to the Chef, please, the Captain would instruct one ofthe crew, and ask him to step down here a moment. And the Cook wouldcheerlessly appear in the dining-cubby, to have his culinary geniusacidly called in question again.     I myself do not doubt that Bailey was the finest Cook ever to gointo Hohmann orbit. His every meal established a higher benchmark inbrilliant galleymanship. We were served, for instance, an      ersatz     hotturkey supreme. The cheese-sauce was almost believable, the Chlorellaturkey-flesh was white and tender. Bailey served with this delicacya grainy and delicious cornbread, and had extracted from his algaea lipid butter-substitute that soaked into the hot bread with agenuinely dairy smell. Splendid, Bailey, I said.     We are not amused, said Captain Winkelmann, accepting a secondhelping of the pseudo-turkey. You are improving, Belly-Robber, butonly arithmetically. Your first efforts were so hideous as to requirea geometric progression of improving excellence to raise them to mereedibility. By the time we are halfway 'round the Sun, I trust you willhave learned to cook with the competence of a freshman Home Economicsstudent. That will be all, Bailey.     The crew and my fellow-officers were amused by Winkelmann's riding ofBailey; they were in addition gratified that the battle between theirCaptain and their Cook served to feed them so well. Most spacers embarkon an outward voyage somewhat plump, having eaten enough on their lastfew days aground to smuggle several hundred calories of fat and manymemories of good food aboard with them. This trip, none of the men hadlost weight during the first four months in space. Winkelmann, indeed,seemed to have gained. His uniform was taut over his plump backside,and he puffed a bit up the ladders. I was considering suggesting to ourCaptain that he curtail his diet for reasons of health, a bit of advicethat would have stood unique in the annals of space medicine, whenWinkelmann produced his supreme insult to our Cook.  Each man aboard a spacer is allowed ten kilograms of personal effectsbesides his uniforms, these being considered Ship's Furnishing. Ashis rank and responsibility merit, the Captain is allowed double thisration. He may thus bring aboard with him some forty-five pounds ofbooks, playing-cards, knitting-wool, whiskey or what have you to helphim while away the hours between the planets. Bailey, I knew for afact, had used up his weight-allowance in bringing aboard a case ofspices: marjoram and mint, costmary, file powder, basil and allspice,and a dozen others.     Captain Winkelmann was not a reader, and had brought no books. Cardsinterested him not at all, as card-playing implies a sociability aliento his nature. He never drank aboard ship. I had supposed that he'dexercised his option of returning his personal-effects weight allowanceto the owners for the consideration of one hundred dollars a kilogram.To collect the maximum allowance, spacers have been known to comeaboard their ship mother-naked.     But this was not the case with Winkelmann. His personal-effectsbaggage, an unlabeled cardboard box, appeared under the table at noonmess some hundred days out from Piano West. Winkelmann rested his feeton the mysterious box as he sat to eat.     What disgusting form does the ship's garbage appear in today,Belly-Robber? he asked the Cook.     Bailey frowned, but kept his temper, an asceticism in which by now he'dhad much practice. I've been working on the problem of steak, Sir,he said. I think I've whipped the taste; what was left was to get thetexture steak-like. Do you understand, Sir?     I understand, Winkelmann growled. You intend that your latest messshould feel like steak to the mouth, and not like baby-food. Right?     Yes, Sir, Bailey said. Well, I squeezed thesteak-substrate—Chlorella, of course, with all sorts of specialseasonings—through a sieve, and blanched the strands in hot algaealoil. Then I chopped those strands to bits and rolled them out.      Voila!     I had something very close in texture to the muscle-fibers of genuinemeat.     Remarkable, Bailey, I said.     It rather throws me off my appetite to hear how you muddle about withour food, the Captain said, his jowls settling into an expression ofdistaste. It's quite all right to eat lobster, for example, but Inever cared to see the ugly beast boiled before my eyes. Detail spoilsthe meal.     Bailey lifted the cover off the electric warming-pan at the center ofthe table and tenderly lifted a small steak onto each of our plates.Try it, he urged the Captain.  Captain Winkelmann sliced off a corner of his algaeal steak. Thecolor was an excellent medium-rare, the odor was the rich smellof fresh-broiled beef. Winkelmann bit down, chewed, swallowed. Nottoo bad, Belly-Robber, he said, nodding. Bailey grinned and bobbedhis head, his hands folded before him in an ecstasy of pleasure. Akind word from the Captain bettered the ruffles-and-flourishes of amore reasonable man. But it still needs something ... something,Winkelmann went on, slicing off another portion of the tasty Chlorella.Aha! I have it!     Yes, Sir? Bailey asked.     This, Belly-Robber! Winkelmann reached beneath the mess-table andripped open his cardboard carton. He brought out a bottle and unscrewedthe cap. Ketchup, he said, splattering the red juice over Bailey'smasterpiece. The scarlet burial-shroud for the failures of Cooks.Lifting a hunk of the steak, streaming ketchup, to his mouth,Winkelmann chewed. Just the thing, he smiled.     Damn you! Bailey shouted.     Winkelmann's smile flicked off, and his blue eyes pierced the Cook.     ... Sir, Bailey added.     That's better, Winkelmann said, and took another bite. He saidmeditatively, Used with caution, and only by myself, I believe I havesufficient ketchup here to see me through to Mars. Please keep abottle on the table for all my future meals, Belly-Robber.     But, Sir.... Bailey began.     You must realize, Belly-Robber, that a dyspeptic Captain is a threatto the welfare of his ship. Were I to continue eating your surrealisticslops for another hundred days, without the small consolation ofthis sauce I had the foresight to bring with me, I'd likely be inno condition to jet us safely down to the Piano West pad. Do youunderstand, Belly-Robber? he demanded.     I understand that you're an ungrateful, impossible, square-headed,slave-driving....     Watch your noun, Winkelmann cautioned the Cook. Your adjectives areinsubordinate; your noun might prove mutinous.     Captain, you've gone too far, I said. Bailey, his fists knotted, wasscarlet, his chest heaving with emotion.     Doctor, I must point out to you that it ill behooves the Ship'sSurgeon to side with the Cook against the Captain, Winkelmann said.     Sir, Bailey has tried hard to please you, I said. The other officersand the men have been more than satisfied with his work.     That only suggests atrophy of their taste buds, Winkelmann said.Doctor, you are excused. As are you, Belly-Robber, he added.  Bailey and I climbed from the mess compartment together. I steered himto my quarters, where the medical supplies were stored. He sat on mybunk and exploded into weeping, banging his fists against the metalbulkhead. You'll have that drink now, I said.     No, dammit! he shouted.     Orders, I said. I poured us each some fifty cc's of rye. This istherapy, Bailey, I told him. He poured the fiery stuff down his throatlike water and silently held out his glass for a second. I provided it.     After a few minutes Bailey's sobbing ceased. Sorry, Doc, he said.     You've taken more pressure than most men would, I said. Nothing tobe ashamed of.     He's crazy. What sane man would expect me to dip Wiener schnitzeland sauerkraut and      Backhahndl nach suddeutscher Art     out of an algaetank? I've got nothing but microscopic weeds to cook for him! Worn-outmolecules reclaimed from the head; packaged amino acid additives. Andhe expects meals that would take the blue ribbon at the annual banquetof the Friends of Escoffier!     Yours is an ancient plaint, Bailey, I said. You've worked yourfingers to the bone, slaving over a hot stove, and you're notappreciated. But you're not married to Winkelmann, remember. A yearfrom now you'll be home in Ohio, fifty grand richer, set to start thatrestaurant of yours and forget about our fat Flying Dutchman.     I hate him, Bailey said with the simplicity of true emotion. Hereached for the bottle. I let him have it. Sometimes alcohol can bean apt confederate of      vis medicatrix naturae     , the healing power ofnature. Half an hour later I strapped Bailey into his bunk to sleep itoff. That therapeutic drunk seemed to be just what he'd needed.     For morning mess the next day we had a broth remarkable inhorribleness, a pottage or boiled      Chlorella vulgaris     that lookedand tasted like the vomit of some bottom-feeding sea-beast. Bailey,red-eyed and a-tremble, made no apology, and stared at Winkelmann asthough daring him to comment. The Captain lifted a spoonful of thedisgusting stuff to his lips, smacked and said, Belly-Robber, you'reimproving a little at last.     Bailey nodded and smiled. Thank you, Sir, he said.     I smiled, too. Bailey had conquered himself. His psychic defenses werenow strong enough to withstand the Captain's fiercest assaults ofirony. Our food would likely be bad the rest of this trip, but that wasa price I was willing to pay for seeing destroyed the Willy Winkelmanntheory of forcing a Cook to make bricks without straw. The Captainhad pushed too hard. He'd need that ketchup for the meals to come, Ithought.     Noon mess was nearly as awful as breakfast had been. The coffee tastedof salt, and went largely undrunk. The men in the mess compartment werevehement in their protests, blaming the Captain, in his absence, forthe decline in culinary standards. Bailey seemed not to care. He servedthe algaeburgers with half a mind, and hurried back into his galleyoblivious of the taunts of his crewmates.  There being only three seats in the      Sale's     mess compartment, we ateour meals in three shifts. That evening, going down the ladder tosupper, my nose was met with a spine-tingling barbecue tang, a smellto make a man think of gray charcoal glowing in a picnic brazier,of cicadas chirping and green grass underfoot, of the pop and hissof canned beer being church-keyed. He's done it, Doc! one of thefirst-shift diners said. It actually tastes of food!     Then he's beat the Captain at his game, I said.     The Dutchman won't want to mess ketchup on these steaks, the crewmansaid.     I sat, unfolded my napkin, and looked with hope to the electricwarming-pan at the center of the table. Bailey served the three ofus with the small steaks. Each contained about a pound of driedChlorella, I judged, teasing mine with my fork. But they were drenchedin a gravy rich as the stuff grandma used to make in her black ironskillet, peppery and seasoned with courageous bits of garlic. I cuta bit from my steak and chewed it. Too tender, of course; there arelimits to art. But the pond-scum taste was gone. Bailey appeared in thegalley door. I gestured for him to join me. You've done it, Bailey,I said. Every Slimehead in orbit will thank you for this. This isactually      good     .     Thanks, Doc, Bailey said.     I smiled and took another bite. You may not realize it, Bailey; butthis is a victory for the Captain, too. He drove you to this triumph;you couldn't have done it without him.     You mean he was just whipping me on, trying to make me do better?Bailey asked.     He was driving you to do the impossible, I said; and you did it. OurCaptain may be a hard man, Bailey; but he did know how to coax maximumperformance out of his Ship's Cook.     Bailey stood up. Do you like Captain Winkelmann, Doctor? he asked.     I thought about his question a moment. Winkelmann was good at his job.He persuaded his men by foul means, true; but it was all for the goodof the ship and his crew. Do I like Captain Winkelmann? I asked,spearing another piece of my artificial steak. Bailey, I'm afraid I'llhave to admit that I do.     Bailey smiled and lifted a second steak from the warming-pan onto myplate. Then have another piece, he said.    ","The Chlorella algae is what keeps all of the crew members alive for the duration of the journey. Since twelve tons of water, oxygen, and food would have filled the compartment to bursting, Chlorella algae is the solution to this. It can work over used food, air, and effluvia, three tons of metabolites that would see them through the entire round trip. Everything the crew recycles is fed to the algae, which feeds the crew members in return. The waste is used to fertilize the liquid fields. Even their stubble from 2,600 shaves and clipping from 666 haircuts is used to feed the algae because human hair is rich in essential amino acids. The algae is their food, as well as the water and air that keeps the crew members going. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes.   There was a knock.     Betty bounced up with Olympicagility and had the door swingingwide before the knocking was quitecompleted.     He was old, little and had bugeyes behind pince-nez glasses. Hissuit was cut in the style of yesteryearbut when a suit costs two orthree hundred dollars you still retaincaste whatever the styling.     Simon said unenthusiastically,Good morning, Mr. Oyster. He indicatedthe client's chair. Sit down,sir.     The client fussed himself withBetty's assistance into the seat, bug-eyedSimon, said finally, You knowmy name, that's pretty good. Neversaw you before in my life. Stop fussingwith me, young lady. Your adin the phone book says you'll investigateanything.     Anything, Simon said. Onlyone exception.     Excellent. Do you believe in timetravel?     Simon said nothing. Across theroom, where she had resumed herseat, Betty cleared her throat. WhenSimon continued to say nothing sheventured, Time travel is impossible.     Why?     Why?     Yes, why?     Betty looked to her boss for assistance.None was forthcoming. Thereought to be some very quick, positive,definite answer. She said, Well,for one thing, paradox. Suppose youhad a time machine and traveled backa hundred years or so and killed yourown great-grandfather. Then howcould you ever be born?     Confound it if I know, the littlefellow growled. How?     Simon said, Let's get to the point,what you wanted to see me about.     I want to hire you to hunt me upsome time travelers, the old boysaid.     Betty was too far in now to maintainher proper role of silent secretary.Time travelers, she said, notvery intelligently.     The potential client sat more erect,obviously with intent to hold thefloor for a time. He removed thepince-nez glasses and pointed themat Betty. He said, Have you readmuch science fiction, Miss?     Some, Betty admitted.     Then you'll realize that there area dozen explanations of the paradoxesof time travel. Every writer inthe field worth his salt has explainedthem away. But to get on. It's mycontention that within a century orso man will have solved the problemsof immortality and eternal youth, andit's also my suspicion that he willeventually be able to travel in time.So convinced am I of these possibilitiesthat I am willing to gamble aportion of my fortune to investigatethe presence in our era of such timetravelers.     Simon seemed incapable of carryingthe ball this morning, so Bettysaid, But ... Mr. Oyster, if thefuture has developed time travel whydon't we ever meet such travelers?     Simon put in a word. The usualexplanation, Betty, is that they can'tafford to allow the space-time continuumtrack to be altered. If, say, atime traveler returned to a period oftwenty-five years ago and shot Hitler,then all subsequent history would bechanged. In that case, the time travelerhimself might never be born. Theyhave to tread mighty carefully.     Mr. Oyster was pleased. I didn'texpect you to be so well informedon the subject, young man.     Simon shrugged and fumbledagain with the aspirin bottle.   Mr. Oyster went on. I've beenconsidering the matter for some timeand—     Simon held up a hand. There'sno use prolonging this. As I understandit, you're an elderly gentlemanwith a considerable fortune and yourealize that thus far nobody has succeededin taking it with him.     Mr. Oyster returned his glasses totheir perch, bug-eyed Simon, but thennodded.     Simon said, You want to hire meto find a time traveler and in somemanner or other—any manner willdo—exhort from him the secret ofeternal life and youth, which you figurethe future will have discovered.You're willing to pony up a part ofthis fortune of yours, if I can delivera bona fide time traveler.     Right!     Betty had been looking from oneto the other. Now she said, plaintively,But where are you going to findone of these characters—especially ifthey're interested in keeping hid?     The old boy was the center again.I told you I'd been considering itfor some time. The      Oktoberfest     ,that's where they'd be! He seemedelated.     Betty and Simon waited.     The      Oktoberfest     , he repeated.The greatest festival the world hasever seen, the carnival,      feria     ,      fiesta     to beat them all. Every year it's heldin Munich. Makes the New OrleansMardi gras look like a quiltingparty. He began to swing into thespirit of his description. It originallystarted in celebration of the weddingof some local prince a centuryand a half ago and the Bavarians hadsuch a bang-up time they've beenholding it every year since. TheMunich breweries do up a specialbeer,      Marzenbräu     they call it, andeach brewery opens a tremendous tenton the fair grounds which will holdfive thousand customers apiece. Millionsof liters of beer are put away,hundreds of thousands of barbecuedchickens, a small herd of oxen areroasted whole over spits, millions ofpair of      weisswurst     , a very specialsausage, millions upon millions ofpretzels—     All right, Simon said. We'll acceptit. The      Oktoberfest     is one whaleof a wingding.   Well, the old boy pursued, intohis subject now, that's where they'dbe, places like the      Oktoberfest     . Forone thing, a time traveler wouldn'tbe conspicuous. At a festival like thissomebody with a strange accent, orwho didn't know exactly how to wearhis clothes correctly, or was off theordinary in any of a dozen otherways, wouldn't be noticed. You couldbe a four-armed space traveler fromMars, and you still wouldn't be conspicuousat the      Oktoberfest     . Peoplewould figure they had D.T.'s.     But why would a time travelerwant to go to a— Betty began.     Why not! What better opportunityto study a people than when theyare in their cups? If      you     could goback a few thousand years, the thingsyou would wish to see would be aRoman Triumph, perhaps the Ritesof Dionysus, or one of Alexander'sorgies. You wouldn't want to wanderup and down the streets of, say,Athens while nothing was going on,particularly when you might be revealedas a suspicious character notbeing able to speak the language, notknowing how to wear the clothes andnot familiar with the city's layout.He took a deep breath. No ma'am,you'd have to stick to some greatevent, both for the sake of actualinterest and for protection against beingunmasked.     The old boy wound it up. Well,that's the story. What are your rates?The      Oktoberfest     starts on Friday andcontinues for sixteen days. You cantake the plane to Munich, spend aweek there and—     Simon was shaking his head. Notinterested.     As soon as Betty had got her jawback into place, she glared unbelievinglyat him.     Mr. Oyster was taken aback himself.See here, young man, I realizethis isn't an ordinary assignment,however, as I said, I am willing torisk a considerable portion of myfortune—     Sorry, Simon said. Can't bedone.     A hundred dollars a day plus expenses,Mr. Oyster said quietly. Ilike the fact that you already seemto have some interest and knowledgeof the matter. I liked the way youknew my name when I walked in thedoor; my picture doesn't appear oftenin the papers.     No go, Simon said, a sad qualityin his voice.     A fifty thousand dollar bonus ifyou bring me a time traveler.     Out of the question, Simonsaid.     But      why     ? Betty wailed.     Just for laughs, Simon told thetwo of them sourly, suppose I tellyou a funny story. It goes likethis:      I got a thousand dollars from Mr.Oyster (Simon began) in the wayof an advance, and leaving him withBetty who was making out a receipt,I hustled back to the apartment andpacked a bag. Hell, I'd wanted a vacationanyway, this was a natural. Onthe way to Idlewild I stopped off atthe Germany Information Offices forsome tourist literature.     It takes roughly three and a halfhours to get to Gander from Idlewild.I spent the time planning thefun I was going to have.     It takes roughly seven and a halfhours from Gander to Shannon andI spent that time dreaming up materialI could put into my reports toMr. Oyster. I was going to have togive him some kind of report for hismoney. Time travel yet! What alaugh!     Between Shannon and Munich afaint suspicion began to simmer inmy mind. These statistics I read onthe      Oktoberfest     in the Munich touristpamphlets. Five million peopleattended annually.     Where did five million peoplecome from to attend an overgrownfestival in comparatively remoteSouthern Germany? The tourist seasonis over before September 21st,first day of the gigantic beer bust.Nor could the Germans account forany such number. Munich itself hasa population of less than a million,counting children.     And those millions of gallons ofbeer, the hundreds of thousands ofchickens, the herds of oxen. Whoponied up all the money for such expenditures?How could the averageGerman, with his twenty-five dollarsa week salary?     In Munich there was no hotelspace available. I went to the Bahnhofwhere they have a hotel serviceand applied. They put my namedown, pocketed the husky bribe,showed me where I could check mybag, told me they'd do what theycould, and to report back in a fewhours.     I had another suspicious twinge.If five million people attended thisbeer bout, how were they accommodated?     The      Theresienwiese     , the fairground, was only a few blocksaway. I was stiff from the plane rideso I walked.   There are seven major brewers inthe Munich area, each of them representedby one of the circuslike tentsthat Mr. Oyster mentioned. Each tentcontained benches and tables forabout five thousand persons and fromsix to ten thousands pack themselvesin, competing for room. In the centeris a tremendous bandstand, themusicians all      lederhosen     clad, themusic as Bavarian as any to be foundin a Bavarian beer hall. Hundreds ofpeasant garbed      fräuleins     darted aboutthe tables with quart sized earthenwaremugs, platters of chicken, sausage,kraut and pretzels.     I found a place finally at a tablewhich had space for twenty-odd beerbibbers. Odd is right. As weird anassortment of Germans and foreigntourists as could have been dreamedup, ranging from a seventy- oreighty-year-old couple in Bavariancostume, to the bald-headed drunkacross the table from me.     A desperate waitress bearing sixmugs of beer in each hand scurriedpast. They call them      masses     , by theway, not mugs. The bald-headedcharacter and I both held up a fingerand she slid two of the      masses     overto us and then hustled on.     Down the hatch, the other said,holding up his      mass     in toast.     To the ladies, I told him. Beforesipping, I said, You know, thetourist pamphlets say this stuff iseighteen per cent. That's nonsense.No beer is that strong. I took a longpull.     He looked at me, waiting.     I came up. Mistaken, I admitted.     A      mass     or two apiece later he lookedcarefully at the name engraved onhis earthenware mug. Löwenbräu,he said. He took a small notebookfrom his pocket and a pencil, noteddown the word and returned thethings.     That's a queer looking pencil youhave there, I told him. German?     Venusian, he said. Oops, sorry.Shouldn't have said that.     I had never heard of the brand soI skipped it.     Next is the Hofbräu, he said.     Next what? Baldy's conversationdidn't seem to hang together verywell.     My pilgrimage, he told me. Allmy life I've been wanting to go backto an      Oktoberfest     and sample everyone of the seven brands of the bestbeer the world has ever known. I'monly as far as Löwenbräu. I'm afraidI'll never make it.     I finished my      mass     . I'll helpyou, I told him. Very noble endeavor.Name is Simon.     Arth, he said. How could youhelp?     I'm still fresh—comparatively.I'll navigate you around. There areseven beer tents. How many have yougot through, so far?     Two, counting this one, Arthsaid.     I looked at him. It's going to bea chore, I said. You've already gota nice edge on.     Outside, as we made our way tothe next tent, the fair looked likeevery big State-Fair ever seen, exceptit was bigger. Games, souvenirstands, sausage stands, rides, sideshows, and people, people, people.     The Hofbräu tent was as overflowingas the last but we managed tofind two seats.     The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment.     In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!      Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!      At the      G'sufa     everybody uppedwith the mugs and drank each other'shealth.     This is what I call a real beerbust, I said approvingly.     Arth was waving to a waitress. Asin the Löwenbräu tent, a full quartwas the smallest amount obtainable.     A beer later I said, I don't knowif you'll make it or not, Arth.     Make what?     All seven tents.     Oh.     A waitress was on her way by,mugs foaming over their rims. I gesturedto her for refills.     Where are you from, Arth? Iasked him, in the way of makingconversation.     2183.     2183 where?     He looked at me, closing one eyeto focus better. Oh, he said. Well,2183 South Street, ah, New Albuquerque.     New Albuquerque? Where'sthat?     Arth thought about it. Took anotherlong pull at the beer. Rightacross the way from old Albuquerque,he said finally. Maybe weought to be getting on to thePschorrbräu tent.     Maybe we ought to eat somethingfirst, I said. I'm beginning to feelthis. We could get some of that barbecuedox.     Arth closed his eyes in pain.Vegetarian, he said. Couldn't possiblyeat meat. Barbarous. Ugh.     Well, we need some nourishment,I said.     There's supposed to be considerablenourishment in beer.     That made sense. I yelled,       Fräulein!Zwei neu bier!        Somewhere along in here the fogrolled in. When it rolled out again,I found myself closing one eye thebetter to read the lettering on myearthenware mug. It read Augustinerbräu.Somehow we'd evidentlynavigated from one tent to another.     Arth was saying, Where's yourhotel?     That seemed like a good question.I thought about it for a while. FinallyI said, Haven't got one. Town'sjam packed. Left my bag at the Bahnhof.I don't think we'll ever makeit, Arth. How many we got togo?     Lost track, Arth said. You cancome home with me.     We drank to that and the fog rolledin again.     When the fog rolled out, it wasdaylight. Bright, glaring, awful daylight.I was sprawled, complete withclothes, on one of twin beds. On theother bed, also completely clothed,was Arth.     That sun was too much. I stumbledup from the bed, staggered tothe window and fumbled around fora blind or curtain. There was none.     Behind me a voice said in horror,Who ... how ... oh,      Wodo     ,where'd you come from?     I got a quick impression, lookingout the window, that the Germanswere certainly the most modern, futuristicpeople in the world. But Icouldn't stand the light. Where'sthe shade, I moaned.     Arth did something and the windowwent opaque.     That's quite a gadget, I groaned.If I didn't feel so lousy, I'dappreciate it.     Arth was sitting on the edge ofthe bed holding his bald head in hishands. I remember now, he sorrowed.You didn't have a hotel.What a stupidity. I'll be phased.Phased all the way down.     You haven't got a handful ofaspirin, have you? I asked him.     Just a minute, Arth said, staggeringerect and heading for whatundoubtedly was a bathroom. Staywhere you are. Don't move. Don'ttouch anything.     All right, I told him plaintively.I'm clean. I won't mess up theplace. All I've got is a hangover, notlice.     Arth was gone. He came back intwo or three minutes, box of pills inhand. Here, take one of these.     I took the pill, followed it with aglass of water.   And went out like a light.     Arth was shaking my arm. Wantanother      mass     ?     The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment.     In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!      Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!      At the      G'sufa     everybody uppedwith their king-size mugs and drankeach other's health.     My head was killing me. This iswhere I came in, or something, Igroaned.     Arth said, That was last night.He looked at me over the rim of hisbeer mug.     Something, somewhere, waswrong. But I didn't care. I finishedmy      mass     and then remembered. I'vegot to get my bag. Oh, my head.Where did we spend last night?     Arth said, and his voice soundedcautious, At my hotel, don't you remember?     Not very well, I admitted. Ifeel lousy. I must have dimmed out.I've got to go to the Bahnhof andget my luggage.     Arth didn't put up an argumenton that. We said good-by and I couldfeel him watching after me as I pushedthrough the tables on the wayout.     At the Bahnhof they could do meno good. There were no hotel roomsavailable in Munich. The head wasgetting worse by the minute. Thefact that they'd somehow managedto lose my bag didn't help. I workedon that project for at least a coupleof hours. Not only wasn't the bagat the luggage checking station, butthe attendant there evidently couldn'tmake heads nor tails of the checkreceipt. He didn't speak English andmy high school German was inadequate,especially accompanied by ablockbusting hangover.     I didn't get anywhere tearing myhair and complaining from one endof the Bahnhof to the other. I drewa blank on the bag.     And the head was getting worseby the minute. I was bleeding todeath through the eyes and insteadof butterflies I had bats in my stomach.Believe me,      nobody     should drinka gallon or more of Marzenbräu.   I decided the hell with it. I tooka cab to the airport, presented my returnticket, told them I wanted toleave on the first obtainable plane toNew York. I'd spent two days at the      Oktoberfest     , and I'd had it.     I got more guff there. Somethingwas wrong with the ticket, wrongdate or some such. But they fixedthat up. I never was clear on whatwas fouled up, some clerk's error,evidently.     The trip back was as uninterestingas the one over. As the hangover beganto wear off—a little—I was almostsorry I hadn't been able to stay.If I'd only been able to get a room I      would     have stayed, I told myself.     From Idlewild, I came directly tothe office rather than going to myapartment. I figured I might as wellcheck in with Betty.     I opened the door and there Ifound Mr. Oyster sitting in the chairhe had been occupying four—or wasit five—days before when I'd left.I'd lost track of the time.     I said to him, Glad you're here,sir. I can report. Ah, what was ityou came for? Impatient to hear ifI'd had any results? My mind wasspinning like a whirling dervish ina revolving door. I'd spent a wad ofhis money and had nothing I couldthink of to show for it; nothing butthe last stages of a grand-daddyhangover.     Came for? Mr. Oyster snorted.I'm merely waiting for your girl tomake out my receipt. I thought youhad already left.     You'll miss your plane, Bettysaid.     There was suddenly a double dipof ice cream in my stomach. I walkedover to my desk and looked down atthe calendar.     Mr. Oyster was saying somethingto the effect that if I didn't leave today,it would have to be tomorrow,that he hadn't ponied up that thousanddollars advance for anythingless than immediate service. Stuffinghis receipt in his wallet, he fussedhis way out the door.     I said to Betty hopefully, I supposeyou haven't changed this calendarsince I left.     Betty said, What's the matterwith you? You look funny. How didyour clothes get so mussed? You torethe top sheet off that calendar yourself,not half an hour ago, just beforethis marble-missing client camein. She added, irrelevantly, Timetravelers yet.     I tried just once more. Uh, whendid you first see this Mr. Oyster?     Never saw him before in mylife, she said. Not until he camein this morning.     This morning, I said weakly.     While Betty stared at me as thoughit was      me     that needed candling by ahead shrinker preparatory to beingsent off to a pressure cooker, I fishedin my pocket for my wallet, countedthe contents and winced at thepathetic remains of the thousand.I said pleadingly, Betty, listen,how long ago did I go out that door—onthe way to the airport?     You've been acting sick all morning.You went out that door aboutten minutes ago, were gone aboutthree minutes, and then came back.      See here, Mr. Oyster said (interruptingSimon's story), did yousay this was supposed to be amusing,young man? I don't find it so. Infact, I believe I am being ridiculed.     Simon shrugged, put one hand tohis forehead and said, That's onlythe first chapter. There are twomore.     I'm not interested in more, Mr.Oyster said. I suppose your pointwas to show me how ridiculous thewhole idea actually is. Very well,you've done it. Confound it. However,I suppose your time, even whenspent in this manner, has some value.Here is fifty dollars. And good day,sir!     He slammed the door after himas he left.     Simon winced at the noise, tookthe aspirin bottle from its drawer,took two, washed them down withwater from the desk carafe.     Betty looked at him admiringly.Came to her feet, crossed over andtook up the fifty dollars. Week'swages, she said. I suppose that'sone way of taking care of a crackpot.But I'm surprised you didn'ttake his money and enjoy that vacationyou've been yearning about.     I did, Simon groaned. Threetimes.     Betty stared at him. You mean—     Simon nodded, miserably.     She said, But      Simon     . Fifty thousanddollars bonus. If that story wastrue, you should have gone backagain to Munich. If there was onetime traveler, there might havebeen—     I keep telling you, Simon saidbitterly, I went back there threetimes. There were hundreds of them.Probably thousands. He took a deepbreath. Listen, we're just going tohave to forget about it. They're notgoing to stand for the space-timecontinuum track being altered. Ifsomething comes up that looks likeit might result in the track beingchanged, they set you right back atthe beginning and let things start—foryou—all over again. They justcan't allow anything to come backfrom the future and change thepast.     You mean, Betty was suddenlyfurious at him, you've given up!Why this is the biggest thing— Whythe fifty thousand dollars is nothing.The future! Just think!     Simon said wearily, There's justone thing you can bring back withyou from the future, a hangover compoundedof a gallon or so of Marzenbräu.What's more you can pileone on top of the other, and anotheron top of that!     He shuddered. If you think I'mgoing to take another crack at thismerry-go-round and pile a fourthhangover on the three I'm alreadynursing, all at once, you can thinkagain.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Astounding Science Fiction   June1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","Simon goes to his desk as Betty remarks that he is late. He tells her that he needs a vacation, but she asks him where the funds will come from and her weekly salary. Suddenly, the door knocks, and a man named Mr. Oyster comes in. Despite having never met before, he is impressed that Simon knows him and asks the other man if he believes in time travel. Betty says it is impossible, and Mr. Oyster questions her about why. Simon then asks why he came, to which the potential client responds that he wants them to hunt up some time travelers. He asks Betty some more about science fiction and explains that he is willing to gamble his fortune to investigate the presence of time travelers in the current era. Mr. Oyster further says that these time travelers will be at the Oktoberfest in Munich, which is considered the greatest festival globally. Simon says that he is not interested in taking up the case. Betty is surprised, and Mr. Oyster tries to offer him a substantial amount of money. Simon then tells them a story where he accepts Mr. Oyster’s offer. Simon thinks about how much fun he will have and a fake report to generate for Mr. Oyster. He then goes on to be suspicious about how five million people can appear to attend a festival in a remote part of southern Germany, especially considering the population of Munich is less than one million. There is no hotel space in Munch, so Simon must go to Bahnhof to apply for hotel service. It is suspicious how the five million attendees are accommodated for this festival. The circus-like tents represent the seven major brewers of the Munich area, and many people are going around. Simon finds a space at one of the tables; he notes that the crowd is made up of both tourists and Germans. A bald-headed person and he both drink beer. The bald man accidentally reveals that his pencil is Venusian and tells Simon that his dream is to sample each of the seven best beer brands. The man then introduces himself as Arth and tells Simon that he is from a strange location. Arth offers to take him to his hotel later, and Simon goes with him. Arth gives him a box of pills for his hangover, and the scene cuts to them drinking at the festival again. Simon feels that something is off and decides to go back to New York. He returns to the office, where Mr. Oyster tells him that Betty has just finished the receipt. They are both confused and say that he has only been gone for about three minutes. Mr. Oyster is furious and leaves, while Betty asks why he didn’t just take the money. Simon tells her that he experienced the trip three times and says that he will not be dealing with a fourth hangover on top of the three already-present ones. "
"Describe Oktoberfest in the story. </s>    UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes.   There was a knock.     Betty bounced up with Olympicagility and had the door swingingwide before the knocking was quitecompleted.     He was old, little and had bugeyes behind pince-nez glasses. Hissuit was cut in the style of yesteryearbut when a suit costs two orthree hundred dollars you still retaincaste whatever the styling.     Simon said unenthusiastically,Good morning, Mr. Oyster. He indicatedthe client's chair. Sit down,sir.     The client fussed himself withBetty's assistance into the seat, bug-eyedSimon, said finally, You knowmy name, that's pretty good. Neversaw you before in my life. Stop fussingwith me, young lady. Your adin the phone book says you'll investigateanything.     Anything, Simon said. Onlyone exception.     Excellent. Do you believe in timetravel?     Simon said nothing. Across theroom, where she had resumed herseat, Betty cleared her throat. WhenSimon continued to say nothing sheventured, Time travel is impossible.     Why?     Why?     Yes, why?     Betty looked to her boss for assistance.None was forthcoming. Thereought to be some very quick, positive,definite answer. She said, Well,for one thing, paradox. Suppose youhad a time machine and traveled backa hundred years or so and killed yourown great-grandfather. Then howcould you ever be born?     Confound it if I know, the littlefellow growled. How?     Simon said, Let's get to the point,what you wanted to see me about.     I want to hire you to hunt me upsome time travelers, the old boysaid.     Betty was too far in now to maintainher proper role of silent secretary.Time travelers, she said, notvery intelligently.     The potential client sat more erect,obviously with intent to hold thefloor for a time. He removed thepince-nez glasses and pointed themat Betty. He said, Have you readmuch science fiction, Miss?     Some, Betty admitted.     Then you'll realize that there area dozen explanations of the paradoxesof time travel. Every writer inthe field worth his salt has explainedthem away. But to get on. It's mycontention that within a century orso man will have solved the problemsof immortality and eternal youth, andit's also my suspicion that he willeventually be able to travel in time.So convinced am I of these possibilitiesthat I am willing to gamble aportion of my fortune to investigatethe presence in our era of such timetravelers.     Simon seemed incapable of carryingthe ball this morning, so Bettysaid, But ... Mr. Oyster, if thefuture has developed time travel whydon't we ever meet such travelers?     Simon put in a word. The usualexplanation, Betty, is that they can'tafford to allow the space-time continuumtrack to be altered. If, say, atime traveler returned to a period oftwenty-five years ago and shot Hitler,then all subsequent history would bechanged. In that case, the time travelerhimself might never be born. Theyhave to tread mighty carefully.     Mr. Oyster was pleased. I didn'texpect you to be so well informedon the subject, young man.     Simon shrugged and fumbledagain with the aspirin bottle.   Mr. Oyster went on. I've beenconsidering the matter for some timeand—     Simon held up a hand. There'sno use prolonging this. As I understandit, you're an elderly gentlemanwith a considerable fortune and yourealize that thus far nobody has succeededin taking it with him.     Mr. Oyster returned his glasses totheir perch, bug-eyed Simon, but thennodded.     Simon said, You want to hire meto find a time traveler and in somemanner or other—any manner willdo—exhort from him the secret ofeternal life and youth, which you figurethe future will have discovered.You're willing to pony up a part ofthis fortune of yours, if I can delivera bona fide time traveler.     Right!     Betty had been looking from oneto the other. Now she said, plaintively,But where are you going to findone of these characters—especially ifthey're interested in keeping hid?     The old boy was the center again.I told you I'd been considering itfor some time. The      Oktoberfest     ,that's where they'd be! He seemedelated.     Betty and Simon waited.     The      Oktoberfest     , he repeated.The greatest festival the world hasever seen, the carnival,      feria     ,      fiesta     to beat them all. Every year it's heldin Munich. Makes the New OrleansMardi gras look like a quiltingparty. He began to swing into thespirit of his description. It originallystarted in celebration of the weddingof some local prince a centuryand a half ago and the Bavarians hadsuch a bang-up time they've beenholding it every year since. TheMunich breweries do up a specialbeer,      Marzenbräu     they call it, andeach brewery opens a tremendous tenton the fair grounds which will holdfive thousand customers apiece. Millionsof liters of beer are put away,hundreds of thousands of barbecuedchickens, a small herd of oxen areroasted whole over spits, millions ofpair of      weisswurst     , a very specialsausage, millions upon millions ofpretzels—     All right, Simon said. We'll acceptit. The      Oktoberfest     is one whaleof a wingding.   Well, the old boy pursued, intohis subject now, that's where they'dbe, places like the      Oktoberfest     . Forone thing, a time traveler wouldn'tbe conspicuous. At a festival like thissomebody with a strange accent, orwho didn't know exactly how to wearhis clothes correctly, or was off theordinary in any of a dozen otherways, wouldn't be noticed. You couldbe a four-armed space traveler fromMars, and you still wouldn't be conspicuousat the      Oktoberfest     . Peoplewould figure they had D.T.'s.     But why would a time travelerwant to go to a— Betty began.     Why not! What better opportunityto study a people than when theyare in their cups? If      you     could goback a few thousand years, the thingsyou would wish to see would be aRoman Triumph, perhaps the Ritesof Dionysus, or one of Alexander'sorgies. You wouldn't want to wanderup and down the streets of, say,Athens while nothing was going on,particularly when you might be revealedas a suspicious character notbeing able to speak the language, notknowing how to wear the clothes andnot familiar with the city's layout.He took a deep breath. No ma'am,you'd have to stick to some greatevent, both for the sake of actualinterest and for protection against beingunmasked.     The old boy wound it up. Well,that's the story. What are your rates?The      Oktoberfest     starts on Friday andcontinues for sixteen days. You cantake the plane to Munich, spend aweek there and—     Simon was shaking his head. Notinterested.     As soon as Betty had got her jawback into place, she glared unbelievinglyat him.     Mr. Oyster was taken aback himself.See here, young man, I realizethis isn't an ordinary assignment,however, as I said, I am willing torisk a considerable portion of myfortune—     Sorry, Simon said. Can't bedone.     A hundred dollars a day plus expenses,Mr. Oyster said quietly. Ilike the fact that you already seemto have some interest and knowledgeof the matter. I liked the way youknew my name when I walked in thedoor; my picture doesn't appear oftenin the papers.     No go, Simon said, a sad qualityin his voice.     A fifty thousand dollar bonus ifyou bring me a time traveler.     Out of the question, Simonsaid.     But      why     ? Betty wailed.     Just for laughs, Simon told thetwo of them sourly, suppose I tellyou a funny story. It goes likethis:      I got a thousand dollars from Mr.Oyster (Simon began) in the wayof an advance, and leaving him withBetty who was making out a receipt,I hustled back to the apartment andpacked a bag. Hell, I'd wanted a vacationanyway, this was a natural. Onthe way to Idlewild I stopped off atthe Germany Information Offices forsome tourist literature.     It takes roughly three and a halfhours to get to Gander from Idlewild.I spent the time planning thefun I was going to have.     It takes roughly seven and a halfhours from Gander to Shannon andI spent that time dreaming up materialI could put into my reports toMr. Oyster. I was going to have togive him some kind of report for hismoney. Time travel yet! What alaugh!     Between Shannon and Munich afaint suspicion began to simmer inmy mind. These statistics I read onthe      Oktoberfest     in the Munich touristpamphlets. Five million peopleattended annually.     Where did five million peoplecome from to attend an overgrownfestival in comparatively remoteSouthern Germany? The tourist seasonis over before September 21st,first day of the gigantic beer bust.Nor could the Germans account forany such number. Munich itself hasa population of less than a million,counting children.     And those millions of gallons ofbeer, the hundreds of thousands ofchickens, the herds of oxen. Whoponied up all the money for such expenditures?How could the averageGerman, with his twenty-five dollarsa week salary?     In Munich there was no hotelspace available. I went to the Bahnhofwhere they have a hotel serviceand applied. They put my namedown, pocketed the husky bribe,showed me where I could check mybag, told me they'd do what theycould, and to report back in a fewhours.     I had another suspicious twinge.If five million people attended thisbeer bout, how were they accommodated?     The      Theresienwiese     , the fairground, was only a few blocksaway. I was stiff from the plane rideso I walked.   There are seven major brewers inthe Munich area, each of them representedby one of the circuslike tentsthat Mr. Oyster mentioned. Each tentcontained benches and tables forabout five thousand persons and fromsix to ten thousands pack themselvesin, competing for room. In the centeris a tremendous bandstand, themusicians all      lederhosen     clad, themusic as Bavarian as any to be foundin a Bavarian beer hall. Hundreds ofpeasant garbed      fräuleins     darted aboutthe tables with quart sized earthenwaremugs, platters of chicken, sausage,kraut and pretzels.     I found a place finally at a tablewhich had space for twenty-odd beerbibbers. Odd is right. As weird anassortment of Germans and foreigntourists as could have been dreamedup, ranging from a seventy- oreighty-year-old couple in Bavariancostume, to the bald-headed drunkacross the table from me.     A desperate waitress bearing sixmugs of beer in each hand scurriedpast. They call them      masses     , by theway, not mugs. The bald-headedcharacter and I both held up a fingerand she slid two of the      masses     overto us and then hustled on.     Down the hatch, the other said,holding up his      mass     in toast.     To the ladies, I told him. Beforesipping, I said, You know, thetourist pamphlets say this stuff iseighteen per cent. That's nonsense.No beer is that strong. I took a longpull.     He looked at me, waiting.     I came up. Mistaken, I admitted.     A      mass     or two apiece later he lookedcarefully at the name engraved onhis earthenware mug. Löwenbräu,he said. He took a small notebookfrom his pocket and a pencil, noteddown the word and returned thethings.     That's a queer looking pencil youhave there, I told him. German?     Venusian, he said. Oops, sorry.Shouldn't have said that.     I had never heard of the brand soI skipped it.     Next is the Hofbräu, he said.     Next what? Baldy's conversationdidn't seem to hang together verywell.     My pilgrimage, he told me. Allmy life I've been wanting to go backto an      Oktoberfest     and sample everyone of the seven brands of the bestbeer the world has ever known. I'monly as far as Löwenbräu. I'm afraidI'll never make it.     I finished my      mass     . I'll helpyou, I told him. Very noble endeavor.Name is Simon.     Arth, he said. How could youhelp?     I'm still fresh—comparatively.I'll navigate you around. There areseven beer tents. How many have yougot through, so far?     Two, counting this one, Arthsaid.     I looked at him. It's going to bea chore, I said. You've already gota nice edge on.     Outside, as we made our way tothe next tent, the fair looked likeevery big State-Fair ever seen, exceptit was bigger. Games, souvenirstands, sausage stands, rides, sideshows, and people, people, people.     The Hofbräu tent was as overflowingas the last but we managed tofind two seats.     The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment.     In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!      Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!      At the      G'sufa     everybody uppedwith the mugs and drank each other'shealth.     This is what I call a real beerbust, I said approvingly.     Arth was waving to a waitress. Asin the Löwenbräu tent, a full quartwas the smallest amount obtainable.     A beer later I said, I don't knowif you'll make it or not, Arth.     Make what?     All seven tents.     Oh.     A waitress was on her way by,mugs foaming over their rims. I gesturedto her for refills.     Where are you from, Arth? Iasked him, in the way of makingconversation.     2183.     2183 where?     He looked at me, closing one eyeto focus better. Oh, he said. Well,2183 South Street, ah, New Albuquerque.     New Albuquerque? Where'sthat?     Arth thought about it. Took anotherlong pull at the beer. Rightacross the way from old Albuquerque,he said finally. Maybe weought to be getting on to thePschorrbräu tent.     Maybe we ought to eat somethingfirst, I said. I'm beginning to feelthis. We could get some of that barbecuedox.     Arth closed his eyes in pain.Vegetarian, he said. Couldn't possiblyeat meat. Barbarous. Ugh.     Well, we need some nourishment,I said.     There's supposed to be considerablenourishment in beer.     That made sense. I yelled,       Fräulein!Zwei neu bier!        Somewhere along in here the fogrolled in. When it rolled out again,I found myself closing one eye thebetter to read the lettering on myearthenware mug. It read Augustinerbräu.Somehow we'd evidentlynavigated from one tent to another.     Arth was saying, Where's yourhotel?     That seemed like a good question.I thought about it for a while. FinallyI said, Haven't got one. Town'sjam packed. Left my bag at the Bahnhof.I don't think we'll ever makeit, Arth. How many we got togo?     Lost track, Arth said. You cancome home with me.     We drank to that and the fog rolledin again.     When the fog rolled out, it wasdaylight. Bright, glaring, awful daylight.I was sprawled, complete withclothes, on one of twin beds. On theother bed, also completely clothed,was Arth.     That sun was too much. I stumbledup from the bed, staggered tothe window and fumbled around fora blind or curtain. There was none.     Behind me a voice said in horror,Who ... how ... oh,      Wodo     ,where'd you come from?     I got a quick impression, lookingout the window, that the Germanswere certainly the most modern, futuristicpeople in the world. But Icouldn't stand the light. Where'sthe shade, I moaned.     Arth did something and the windowwent opaque.     That's quite a gadget, I groaned.If I didn't feel so lousy, I'dappreciate it.     Arth was sitting on the edge ofthe bed holding his bald head in hishands. I remember now, he sorrowed.You didn't have a hotel.What a stupidity. I'll be phased.Phased all the way down.     You haven't got a handful ofaspirin, have you? I asked him.     Just a minute, Arth said, staggeringerect and heading for whatundoubtedly was a bathroom. Staywhere you are. Don't move. Don'ttouch anything.     All right, I told him plaintively.I'm clean. I won't mess up theplace. All I've got is a hangover, notlice.     Arth was gone. He came back intwo or three minutes, box of pills inhand. Here, take one of these.     I took the pill, followed it with aglass of water.   And went out like a light.     Arth was shaking my arm. Wantanother      mass     ?     The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment.     In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!      Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!      At the      G'sufa     everybody uppedwith their king-size mugs and drankeach other's health.     My head was killing me. This iswhere I came in, or something, Igroaned.     Arth said, That was last night.He looked at me over the rim of hisbeer mug.     Something, somewhere, waswrong. But I didn't care. I finishedmy      mass     and then remembered. I'vegot to get my bag. Oh, my head.Where did we spend last night?     Arth said, and his voice soundedcautious, At my hotel, don't you remember?     Not very well, I admitted. Ifeel lousy. I must have dimmed out.I've got to go to the Bahnhof andget my luggage.     Arth didn't put up an argumenton that. We said good-by and I couldfeel him watching after me as I pushedthrough the tables on the wayout.     At the Bahnhof they could do meno good. There were no hotel roomsavailable in Munich. The head wasgetting worse by the minute. Thefact that they'd somehow managedto lose my bag didn't help. I workedon that project for at least a coupleof hours. Not only wasn't the bagat the luggage checking station, butthe attendant there evidently couldn'tmake heads nor tails of the checkreceipt. He didn't speak English andmy high school German was inadequate,especially accompanied by ablockbusting hangover.     I didn't get anywhere tearing myhair and complaining from one endof the Bahnhof to the other. I drewa blank on the bag.     And the head was getting worseby the minute. I was bleeding todeath through the eyes and insteadof butterflies I had bats in my stomach.Believe me,      nobody     should drinka gallon or more of Marzenbräu.   I decided the hell with it. I tooka cab to the airport, presented my returnticket, told them I wanted toleave on the first obtainable plane toNew York. I'd spent two days at the      Oktoberfest     , and I'd had it.     I got more guff there. Somethingwas wrong with the ticket, wrongdate or some such. But they fixedthat up. I never was clear on whatwas fouled up, some clerk's error,evidently.     The trip back was as uninterestingas the one over. As the hangover beganto wear off—a little—I was almostsorry I hadn't been able to stay.If I'd only been able to get a room I      would     have stayed, I told myself.     From Idlewild, I came directly tothe office rather than going to myapartment. I figured I might as wellcheck in with Betty.     I opened the door and there Ifound Mr. Oyster sitting in the chairhe had been occupying four—or wasit five—days before when I'd left.I'd lost track of the time.     I said to him, Glad you're here,sir. I can report. Ah, what was ityou came for? Impatient to hear ifI'd had any results? My mind wasspinning like a whirling dervish ina revolving door. I'd spent a wad ofhis money and had nothing I couldthink of to show for it; nothing butthe last stages of a grand-daddyhangover.     Came for? Mr. Oyster snorted.I'm merely waiting for your girl tomake out my receipt. I thought youhad already left.     You'll miss your plane, Bettysaid.     There was suddenly a double dipof ice cream in my stomach. I walkedover to my desk and looked down atthe calendar.     Mr. Oyster was saying somethingto the effect that if I didn't leave today,it would have to be tomorrow,that he hadn't ponied up that thousanddollars advance for anythingless than immediate service. Stuffinghis receipt in his wallet, he fussedhis way out the door.     I said to Betty hopefully, I supposeyou haven't changed this calendarsince I left.     Betty said, What's the matterwith you? You look funny. How didyour clothes get so mussed? You torethe top sheet off that calendar yourself,not half an hour ago, just beforethis marble-missing client camein. She added, irrelevantly, Timetravelers yet.     I tried just once more. Uh, whendid you first see this Mr. Oyster?     Never saw him before in mylife, she said. Not until he camein this morning.     This morning, I said weakly.     While Betty stared at me as thoughit was      me     that needed candling by ahead shrinker preparatory to beingsent off to a pressure cooker, I fishedin my pocket for my wallet, countedthe contents and winced at thepathetic remains of the thousand.I said pleadingly, Betty, listen,how long ago did I go out that door—onthe way to the airport?     You've been acting sick all morning.You went out that door aboutten minutes ago, were gone aboutthree minutes, and then came back.      See here, Mr. Oyster said (interruptingSimon's story), did yousay this was supposed to be amusing,young man? I don't find it so. Infact, I believe I am being ridiculed.     Simon shrugged, put one hand tohis forehead and said, That's onlythe first chapter. There are twomore.     I'm not interested in more, Mr.Oyster said. I suppose your pointwas to show me how ridiculous thewhole idea actually is. Very well,you've done it. Confound it. However,I suppose your time, even whenspent in this manner, has some value.Here is fifty dollars. And good day,sir!     He slammed the door after himas he left.     Simon winced at the noise, tookthe aspirin bottle from its drawer,took two, washed them down withwater from the desk carafe.     Betty looked at him admiringly.Came to her feet, crossed over andtook up the fifty dollars. Week'swages, she said. I suppose that'sone way of taking care of a crackpot.But I'm surprised you didn'ttake his money and enjoy that vacationyou've been yearning about.     I did, Simon groaned. Threetimes.     Betty stared at him. You mean—     Simon nodded, miserably.     She said, But      Simon     . Fifty thousanddollars bonus. If that story wastrue, you should have gone backagain to Munich. If there was onetime traveler, there might havebeen—     I keep telling you, Simon saidbitterly, I went back there threetimes. There were hundreds of them.Probably thousands. He took a deepbreath. Listen, we're just going tohave to forget about it. They're notgoing to stand for the space-timecontinuum track being altered. Ifsomething comes up that looks likeit might result in the track beingchanged, they set you right back atthe beginning and let things start—foryou—all over again. They justcan't allow anything to come backfrom the future and change thepast.     You mean, Betty was suddenlyfurious at him, you've given up!Why this is the biggest thing— Whythe fifty thousand dollars is nothing.The future! Just think!     Simon said wearily, There's justone thing you can bring back withyou from the future, a hangover compoundedof a gallon or so of Marzenbräu.What's more you can pileone on top of the other, and anotheron top of that!     He shuddered. If you think I'mgoing to take another crack at thismerry-go-round and pile a fourthhangover on the three I'm alreadynursing, all at once, you can thinkagain.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Astounding Science Fiction   June1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","Oktoberfest, as described by Mr. Oyster, is held in Munich. It is the greatest festival the world has ever seen; each brewery opens a tremendous tent on the fairgrounds, holding five thousand customers apiece. There are millions of liters of beer, hundreds of thousands of barbecued chickens, oxen roasted over spits, millions of pairs of weisswurst sausage, and millions of pretzels. Since there are many people at Oktoberfest, it is perfect for strange people to blend in since nobody will notice. Oktoberfest is also mentioned to start on a Friday and continues for sixteen days. In Simon’s story, the seven major brewers of the Munich area are all represented by circus-like tents. Each tent contains benches and tables that can seat up to five thousand people. There is a tremendous bandstand in the tent's center, where the musicians are lederhosen-clad. The music is described to be Bavarian as well. It is described that there are many desperate waitresses as well, scrambling around and handing people masses of beer. In terms of people, it is extremely loud and crowded; tourists and German natives are all present and try to squeeze into the tents. "
"Who is Arth, and what are his characteristics? </s>    UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes.   There was a knock.     Betty bounced up with Olympicagility and had the door swingingwide before the knocking was quitecompleted.     He was old, little and had bugeyes behind pince-nez glasses. Hissuit was cut in the style of yesteryearbut when a suit costs two orthree hundred dollars you still retaincaste whatever the styling.     Simon said unenthusiastically,Good morning, Mr. Oyster. He indicatedthe client's chair. Sit down,sir.     The client fussed himself withBetty's assistance into the seat, bug-eyedSimon, said finally, You knowmy name, that's pretty good. Neversaw you before in my life. Stop fussingwith me, young lady. Your adin the phone book says you'll investigateanything.     Anything, Simon said. Onlyone exception.     Excellent. Do you believe in timetravel?     Simon said nothing. Across theroom, where she had resumed herseat, Betty cleared her throat. WhenSimon continued to say nothing sheventured, Time travel is impossible.     Why?     Why?     Yes, why?     Betty looked to her boss for assistance.None was forthcoming. Thereought to be some very quick, positive,definite answer. She said, Well,for one thing, paradox. Suppose youhad a time machine and traveled backa hundred years or so and killed yourown great-grandfather. Then howcould you ever be born?     Confound it if I know, the littlefellow growled. How?     Simon said, Let's get to the point,what you wanted to see me about.     I want to hire you to hunt me upsome time travelers, the old boysaid.     Betty was too far in now to maintainher proper role of silent secretary.Time travelers, she said, notvery intelligently.     The potential client sat more erect,obviously with intent to hold thefloor for a time. He removed thepince-nez glasses and pointed themat Betty. He said, Have you readmuch science fiction, Miss?     Some, Betty admitted.     Then you'll realize that there area dozen explanations of the paradoxesof time travel. Every writer inthe field worth his salt has explainedthem away. But to get on. It's mycontention that within a century orso man will have solved the problemsof immortality and eternal youth, andit's also my suspicion that he willeventually be able to travel in time.So convinced am I of these possibilitiesthat I am willing to gamble aportion of my fortune to investigatethe presence in our era of such timetravelers.     Simon seemed incapable of carryingthe ball this morning, so Bettysaid, But ... Mr. Oyster, if thefuture has developed time travel whydon't we ever meet such travelers?     Simon put in a word. The usualexplanation, Betty, is that they can'tafford to allow the space-time continuumtrack to be altered. If, say, atime traveler returned to a period oftwenty-five years ago and shot Hitler,then all subsequent history would bechanged. In that case, the time travelerhimself might never be born. Theyhave to tread mighty carefully.     Mr. Oyster was pleased. I didn'texpect you to be so well informedon the subject, young man.     Simon shrugged and fumbledagain with the aspirin bottle.   Mr. Oyster went on. I've beenconsidering the matter for some timeand—     Simon held up a hand. There'sno use prolonging this. As I understandit, you're an elderly gentlemanwith a considerable fortune and yourealize that thus far nobody has succeededin taking it with him.     Mr. Oyster returned his glasses totheir perch, bug-eyed Simon, but thennodded.     Simon said, You want to hire meto find a time traveler and in somemanner or other—any manner willdo—exhort from him the secret ofeternal life and youth, which you figurethe future will have discovered.You're willing to pony up a part ofthis fortune of yours, if I can delivera bona fide time traveler.     Right!     Betty had been looking from oneto the other. Now she said, plaintively,But where are you going to findone of these characters—especially ifthey're interested in keeping hid?     The old boy was the center again.I told you I'd been considering itfor some time. The      Oktoberfest     ,that's where they'd be! He seemedelated.     Betty and Simon waited.     The      Oktoberfest     , he repeated.The greatest festival the world hasever seen, the carnival,      feria     ,      fiesta     to beat them all. Every year it's heldin Munich. Makes the New OrleansMardi gras look like a quiltingparty. He began to swing into thespirit of his description. It originallystarted in celebration of the weddingof some local prince a centuryand a half ago and the Bavarians hadsuch a bang-up time they've beenholding it every year since. TheMunich breweries do up a specialbeer,      Marzenbräu     they call it, andeach brewery opens a tremendous tenton the fair grounds which will holdfive thousand customers apiece. Millionsof liters of beer are put away,hundreds of thousands of barbecuedchickens, a small herd of oxen areroasted whole over spits, millions ofpair of      weisswurst     , a very specialsausage, millions upon millions ofpretzels—     All right, Simon said. We'll acceptit. The      Oktoberfest     is one whaleof a wingding.   Well, the old boy pursued, intohis subject now, that's where they'dbe, places like the      Oktoberfest     . Forone thing, a time traveler wouldn'tbe conspicuous. At a festival like thissomebody with a strange accent, orwho didn't know exactly how to wearhis clothes correctly, or was off theordinary in any of a dozen otherways, wouldn't be noticed. You couldbe a four-armed space traveler fromMars, and you still wouldn't be conspicuousat the      Oktoberfest     . Peoplewould figure they had D.T.'s.     But why would a time travelerwant to go to a— Betty began.     Why not! What better opportunityto study a people than when theyare in their cups? If      you     could goback a few thousand years, the thingsyou would wish to see would be aRoman Triumph, perhaps the Ritesof Dionysus, or one of Alexander'sorgies. You wouldn't want to wanderup and down the streets of, say,Athens while nothing was going on,particularly when you might be revealedas a suspicious character notbeing able to speak the language, notknowing how to wear the clothes andnot familiar with the city's layout.He took a deep breath. No ma'am,you'd have to stick to some greatevent, both for the sake of actualinterest and for protection against beingunmasked.     The old boy wound it up. Well,that's the story. What are your rates?The      Oktoberfest     starts on Friday andcontinues for sixteen days. You cantake the plane to Munich, spend aweek there and—     Simon was shaking his head. Notinterested.     As soon as Betty had got her jawback into place, she glared unbelievinglyat him.     Mr. Oyster was taken aback himself.See here, young man, I realizethis isn't an ordinary assignment,however, as I said, I am willing torisk a considerable portion of myfortune—     Sorry, Simon said. Can't bedone.     A hundred dollars a day plus expenses,Mr. Oyster said quietly. Ilike the fact that you already seemto have some interest and knowledgeof the matter. I liked the way youknew my name when I walked in thedoor; my picture doesn't appear oftenin the papers.     No go, Simon said, a sad qualityin his voice.     A fifty thousand dollar bonus ifyou bring me a time traveler.     Out of the question, Simonsaid.     But      why     ? Betty wailed.     Just for laughs, Simon told thetwo of them sourly, suppose I tellyou a funny story. It goes likethis:      I got a thousand dollars from Mr.Oyster (Simon began) in the wayof an advance, and leaving him withBetty who was making out a receipt,I hustled back to the apartment andpacked a bag. Hell, I'd wanted a vacationanyway, this was a natural. Onthe way to Idlewild I stopped off atthe Germany Information Offices forsome tourist literature.     It takes roughly three and a halfhours to get to Gander from Idlewild.I spent the time planning thefun I was going to have.     It takes roughly seven and a halfhours from Gander to Shannon andI spent that time dreaming up materialI could put into my reports toMr. Oyster. I was going to have togive him some kind of report for hismoney. Time travel yet! What alaugh!     Between Shannon and Munich afaint suspicion began to simmer inmy mind. These statistics I read onthe      Oktoberfest     in the Munich touristpamphlets. Five million peopleattended annually.     Where did five million peoplecome from to attend an overgrownfestival in comparatively remoteSouthern Germany? The tourist seasonis over before September 21st,first day of the gigantic beer bust.Nor could the Germans account forany such number. Munich itself hasa population of less than a million,counting children.     And those millions of gallons ofbeer, the hundreds of thousands ofchickens, the herds of oxen. Whoponied up all the money for such expenditures?How could the averageGerman, with his twenty-five dollarsa week salary?     In Munich there was no hotelspace available. I went to the Bahnhofwhere they have a hotel serviceand applied. They put my namedown, pocketed the husky bribe,showed me where I could check mybag, told me they'd do what theycould, and to report back in a fewhours.     I had another suspicious twinge.If five million people attended thisbeer bout, how were they accommodated?     The      Theresienwiese     , the fairground, was only a few blocksaway. I was stiff from the plane rideso I walked.   There are seven major brewers inthe Munich area, each of them representedby one of the circuslike tentsthat Mr. Oyster mentioned. Each tentcontained benches and tables forabout five thousand persons and fromsix to ten thousands pack themselvesin, competing for room. In the centeris a tremendous bandstand, themusicians all      lederhosen     clad, themusic as Bavarian as any to be foundin a Bavarian beer hall. Hundreds ofpeasant garbed      fräuleins     darted aboutthe tables with quart sized earthenwaremugs, platters of chicken, sausage,kraut and pretzels.     I found a place finally at a tablewhich had space for twenty-odd beerbibbers. Odd is right. As weird anassortment of Germans and foreigntourists as could have been dreamedup, ranging from a seventy- oreighty-year-old couple in Bavariancostume, to the bald-headed drunkacross the table from me.     A desperate waitress bearing sixmugs of beer in each hand scurriedpast. They call them      masses     , by theway, not mugs. The bald-headedcharacter and I both held up a fingerand she slid two of the      masses     overto us and then hustled on.     Down the hatch, the other said,holding up his      mass     in toast.     To the ladies, I told him. Beforesipping, I said, You know, thetourist pamphlets say this stuff iseighteen per cent. That's nonsense.No beer is that strong. I took a longpull.     He looked at me, waiting.     I came up. Mistaken, I admitted.     A      mass     or two apiece later he lookedcarefully at the name engraved onhis earthenware mug. Löwenbräu,he said. He took a small notebookfrom his pocket and a pencil, noteddown the word and returned thethings.     That's a queer looking pencil youhave there, I told him. German?     Venusian, he said. Oops, sorry.Shouldn't have said that.     I had never heard of the brand soI skipped it.     Next is the Hofbräu, he said.     Next what? Baldy's conversationdidn't seem to hang together verywell.     My pilgrimage, he told me. Allmy life I've been wanting to go backto an      Oktoberfest     and sample everyone of the seven brands of the bestbeer the world has ever known. I'monly as far as Löwenbräu. I'm afraidI'll never make it.     I finished my      mass     . I'll helpyou, I told him. Very noble endeavor.Name is Simon.     Arth, he said. How could youhelp?     I'm still fresh—comparatively.I'll navigate you around. There areseven beer tents. How many have yougot through, so far?     Two, counting this one, Arthsaid.     I looked at him. It's going to bea chore, I said. You've already gota nice edge on.     Outside, as we made our way tothe next tent, the fair looked likeevery big State-Fair ever seen, exceptit was bigger. Games, souvenirstands, sausage stands, rides, sideshows, and people, people, people.     The Hofbräu tent was as overflowingas the last but we managed tofind two seats.     The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment.     In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!      Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!      At the      G'sufa     everybody uppedwith the mugs and drank each other'shealth.     This is what I call a real beerbust, I said approvingly.     Arth was waving to a waitress. Asin the Löwenbräu tent, a full quartwas the smallest amount obtainable.     A beer later I said, I don't knowif you'll make it or not, Arth.     Make what?     All seven tents.     Oh.     A waitress was on her way by,mugs foaming over their rims. I gesturedto her for refills.     Where are you from, Arth? Iasked him, in the way of makingconversation.     2183.     2183 where?     He looked at me, closing one eyeto focus better. Oh, he said. Well,2183 South Street, ah, New Albuquerque.     New Albuquerque? Where'sthat?     Arth thought about it. Took anotherlong pull at the beer. Rightacross the way from old Albuquerque,he said finally. Maybe weought to be getting on to thePschorrbräu tent.     Maybe we ought to eat somethingfirst, I said. I'm beginning to feelthis. We could get some of that barbecuedox.     Arth closed his eyes in pain.Vegetarian, he said. Couldn't possiblyeat meat. Barbarous. Ugh.     Well, we need some nourishment,I said.     There's supposed to be considerablenourishment in beer.     That made sense. I yelled,       Fräulein!Zwei neu bier!        Somewhere along in here the fogrolled in. When it rolled out again,I found myself closing one eye thebetter to read the lettering on myearthenware mug. It read Augustinerbräu.Somehow we'd evidentlynavigated from one tent to another.     Arth was saying, Where's yourhotel?     That seemed like a good question.I thought about it for a while. FinallyI said, Haven't got one. Town'sjam packed. Left my bag at the Bahnhof.I don't think we'll ever makeit, Arth. How many we got togo?     Lost track, Arth said. You cancome home with me.     We drank to that and the fog rolledin again.     When the fog rolled out, it wasdaylight. Bright, glaring, awful daylight.I was sprawled, complete withclothes, on one of twin beds. On theother bed, also completely clothed,was Arth.     That sun was too much. I stumbledup from the bed, staggered tothe window and fumbled around fora blind or curtain. There was none.     Behind me a voice said in horror,Who ... how ... oh,      Wodo     ,where'd you come from?     I got a quick impression, lookingout the window, that the Germanswere certainly the most modern, futuristicpeople in the world. But Icouldn't stand the light. Where'sthe shade, I moaned.     Arth did something and the windowwent opaque.     That's quite a gadget, I groaned.If I didn't feel so lousy, I'dappreciate it.     Arth was sitting on the edge ofthe bed holding his bald head in hishands. I remember now, he sorrowed.You didn't have a hotel.What a stupidity. I'll be phased.Phased all the way down.     You haven't got a handful ofaspirin, have you? I asked him.     Just a minute, Arth said, staggeringerect and heading for whatundoubtedly was a bathroom. Staywhere you are. Don't move. Don'ttouch anything.     All right, I told him plaintively.I'm clean. I won't mess up theplace. All I've got is a hangover, notlice.     Arth was gone. He came back intwo or three minutes, box of pills inhand. Here, take one of these.     I took the pill, followed it with aglass of water.   And went out like a light.     Arth was shaking my arm. Wantanother      mass     ?     The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment.     In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!      Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!      At the      G'sufa     everybody uppedwith their king-size mugs and drankeach other's health.     My head was killing me. This iswhere I came in, or something, Igroaned.     Arth said, That was last night.He looked at me over the rim of hisbeer mug.     Something, somewhere, waswrong. But I didn't care. I finishedmy      mass     and then remembered. I'vegot to get my bag. Oh, my head.Where did we spend last night?     Arth said, and his voice soundedcautious, At my hotel, don't you remember?     Not very well, I admitted. Ifeel lousy. I must have dimmed out.I've got to go to the Bahnhof andget my luggage.     Arth didn't put up an argumenton that. We said good-by and I couldfeel him watching after me as I pushedthrough the tables on the wayout.     At the Bahnhof they could do meno good. There were no hotel roomsavailable in Munich. The head wasgetting worse by the minute. Thefact that they'd somehow managedto lose my bag didn't help. I workedon that project for at least a coupleof hours. Not only wasn't the bagat the luggage checking station, butthe attendant there evidently couldn'tmake heads nor tails of the checkreceipt. He didn't speak English andmy high school German was inadequate,especially accompanied by ablockbusting hangover.     I didn't get anywhere tearing myhair and complaining from one endof the Bahnhof to the other. I drewa blank on the bag.     And the head was getting worseby the minute. I was bleeding todeath through the eyes and insteadof butterflies I had bats in my stomach.Believe me,      nobody     should drinka gallon or more of Marzenbräu.   I decided the hell with it. I tooka cab to the airport, presented my returnticket, told them I wanted toleave on the first obtainable plane toNew York. I'd spent two days at the      Oktoberfest     , and I'd had it.     I got more guff there. Somethingwas wrong with the ticket, wrongdate or some such. But they fixedthat up. I never was clear on whatwas fouled up, some clerk's error,evidently.     The trip back was as uninterestingas the one over. As the hangover beganto wear off—a little—I was almostsorry I hadn't been able to stay.If I'd only been able to get a room I      would     have stayed, I told myself.     From Idlewild, I came directly tothe office rather than going to myapartment. I figured I might as wellcheck in with Betty.     I opened the door and there Ifound Mr. Oyster sitting in the chairhe had been occupying four—or wasit five—days before when I'd left.I'd lost track of the time.     I said to him, Glad you're here,sir. I can report. Ah, what was ityou came for? Impatient to hear ifI'd had any results? My mind wasspinning like a whirling dervish ina revolving door. I'd spent a wad ofhis money and had nothing I couldthink of to show for it; nothing butthe last stages of a grand-daddyhangover.     Came for? Mr. Oyster snorted.I'm merely waiting for your girl tomake out my receipt. I thought youhad already left.     You'll miss your plane, Bettysaid.     There was suddenly a double dipof ice cream in my stomach. I walkedover to my desk and looked down atthe calendar.     Mr. Oyster was saying somethingto the effect that if I didn't leave today,it would have to be tomorrow,that he hadn't ponied up that thousanddollars advance for anythingless than immediate service. Stuffinghis receipt in his wallet, he fussedhis way out the door.     I said to Betty hopefully, I supposeyou haven't changed this calendarsince I left.     Betty said, What's the matterwith you? You look funny. How didyour clothes get so mussed? You torethe top sheet off that calendar yourself,not half an hour ago, just beforethis marble-missing client camein. She added, irrelevantly, Timetravelers yet.     I tried just once more. Uh, whendid you first see this Mr. Oyster?     Never saw him before in mylife, she said. Not until he camein this morning.     This morning, I said weakly.     While Betty stared at me as thoughit was      me     that needed candling by ahead shrinker preparatory to beingsent off to a pressure cooker, I fishedin my pocket for my wallet, countedthe contents and winced at thepathetic remains of the thousand.I said pleadingly, Betty, listen,how long ago did I go out that door—onthe way to the airport?     You've been acting sick all morning.You went out that door aboutten minutes ago, were gone aboutthree minutes, and then came back.      See here, Mr. Oyster said (interruptingSimon's story), did yousay this was supposed to be amusing,young man? I don't find it so. Infact, I believe I am being ridiculed.     Simon shrugged, put one hand tohis forehead and said, That's onlythe first chapter. There are twomore.     I'm not interested in more, Mr.Oyster said. I suppose your pointwas to show me how ridiculous thewhole idea actually is. Very well,you've done it. Confound it. However,I suppose your time, even whenspent in this manner, has some value.Here is fifty dollars. And good day,sir!     He slammed the door after himas he left.     Simon winced at the noise, tookthe aspirin bottle from its drawer,took two, washed them down withwater from the desk carafe.     Betty looked at him admiringly.Came to her feet, crossed over andtook up the fifty dollars. Week'swages, she said. I suppose that'sone way of taking care of a crackpot.But I'm surprised you didn'ttake his money and enjoy that vacationyou've been yearning about.     I did, Simon groaned. Threetimes.     Betty stared at him. You mean—     Simon nodded, miserably.     She said, But      Simon     . Fifty thousanddollars bonus. If that story wastrue, you should have gone backagain to Munich. If there was onetime traveler, there might havebeen—     I keep telling you, Simon saidbitterly, I went back there threetimes. There were hundreds of them.Probably thousands. He took a deepbreath. Listen, we're just going tohave to forget about it. They're notgoing to stand for the space-timecontinuum track being altered. Ifsomething comes up that looks likeit might result in the track beingchanged, they set you right back atthe beginning and let things start—foryou—all over again. They justcan't allow anything to come backfrom the future and change thepast.     You mean, Betty was suddenlyfurious at him, you've given up!Why this is the biggest thing— Whythe fifty thousand dollars is nothing.The future! Just think!     Simon said wearily, There's justone thing you can bring back withyou from the future, a hangover compoundedof a gallon or so of Marzenbräu.What's more you can pileone on top of the other, and anotheron top of that!     He shuddered. If you think I'mgoing to take another crack at thismerry-go-round and pile a fourthhangover on the three I'm alreadynursing, all at once, you can thinkagain.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Astounding Science Fiction   June1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","Arth is a bald man at Oktoberfest. He is first introduced as a bald-headed drunk who sits across from Simon. They share a beer together and toast. After, Arth makes a note to write down the name engraved on his mug in a small notebook with a pencil. When Simon asks if he is German, Arth accidentally responds that his pencil is Venusian. Arth is very determined to fulfill his pilgrimage of trying every single beer at Oktoberfest, but he is disappointed that he will never make it. Simon asks him where he is from when they go to another tent, and Arth responds that he is from 2183 South St in New Albuquerque; it is situated right across Old Albuquerque. Arth also has a kind side to him, as he offers to take Simon to his hotel to rest for the night. He even offers Simon a box of pills to help with his hangover. When they go back to drinking again, he looks at Simon cautiously when the latter does not remember where he spent the night. Arth looks at Simon strangely as he goes back, even though he is initially portrayed as a friendly and kind bald man. "
"Who is Simon, and what are his characteristics? </s>    UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes.   There was a knock.     Betty bounced up with Olympicagility and had the door swingingwide before the knocking was quitecompleted.     He was old, little and had bugeyes behind pince-nez glasses. Hissuit was cut in the style of yesteryearbut when a suit costs two orthree hundred dollars you still retaincaste whatever the styling.     Simon said unenthusiastically,Good morning, Mr. Oyster. He indicatedthe client's chair. Sit down,sir.     The client fussed himself withBetty's assistance into the seat, bug-eyedSimon, said finally, You knowmy name, that's pretty good. Neversaw you before in my life. Stop fussingwith me, young lady. Your adin the phone book says you'll investigateanything.     Anything, Simon said. Onlyone exception.     Excellent. Do you believe in timetravel?     Simon said nothing. Across theroom, where she had resumed herseat, Betty cleared her throat. WhenSimon continued to say nothing sheventured, Time travel is impossible.     Why?     Why?     Yes, why?     Betty looked to her boss for assistance.None was forthcoming. Thereought to be some very quick, positive,definite answer. She said, Well,for one thing, paradox. Suppose youhad a time machine and traveled backa hundred years or so and killed yourown great-grandfather. Then howcould you ever be born?     Confound it if I know, the littlefellow growled. How?     Simon said, Let's get to the point,what you wanted to see me about.     I want to hire you to hunt me upsome time travelers, the old boysaid.     Betty was too far in now to maintainher proper role of silent secretary.Time travelers, she said, notvery intelligently.     The potential client sat more erect,obviously with intent to hold thefloor for a time. He removed thepince-nez glasses and pointed themat Betty. He said, Have you readmuch science fiction, Miss?     Some, Betty admitted.     Then you'll realize that there area dozen explanations of the paradoxesof time travel. Every writer inthe field worth his salt has explainedthem away. But to get on. It's mycontention that within a century orso man will have solved the problemsof immortality and eternal youth, andit's also my suspicion that he willeventually be able to travel in time.So convinced am I of these possibilitiesthat I am willing to gamble aportion of my fortune to investigatethe presence in our era of such timetravelers.     Simon seemed incapable of carryingthe ball this morning, so Bettysaid, But ... Mr. Oyster, if thefuture has developed time travel whydon't we ever meet such travelers?     Simon put in a word. The usualexplanation, Betty, is that they can'tafford to allow the space-time continuumtrack to be altered. If, say, atime traveler returned to a period oftwenty-five years ago and shot Hitler,then all subsequent history would bechanged. In that case, the time travelerhimself might never be born. Theyhave to tread mighty carefully.     Mr. Oyster was pleased. I didn'texpect you to be so well informedon the subject, young man.     Simon shrugged and fumbledagain with the aspirin bottle.   Mr. Oyster went on. I've beenconsidering the matter for some timeand—     Simon held up a hand. There'sno use prolonging this. As I understandit, you're an elderly gentlemanwith a considerable fortune and yourealize that thus far nobody has succeededin taking it with him.     Mr. Oyster returned his glasses totheir perch, bug-eyed Simon, but thennodded.     Simon said, You want to hire meto find a time traveler and in somemanner or other—any manner willdo—exhort from him the secret ofeternal life and youth, which you figurethe future will have discovered.You're willing to pony up a part ofthis fortune of yours, if I can delivera bona fide time traveler.     Right!     Betty had been looking from oneto the other. Now she said, plaintively,But where are you going to findone of these characters—especially ifthey're interested in keeping hid?     The old boy was the center again.I told you I'd been considering itfor some time. The      Oktoberfest     ,that's where they'd be! He seemedelated.     Betty and Simon waited.     The      Oktoberfest     , he repeated.The greatest festival the world hasever seen, the carnival,      feria     ,      fiesta     to beat them all. Every year it's heldin Munich. Makes the New OrleansMardi gras look like a quiltingparty. He began to swing into thespirit of his description. It originallystarted in celebration of the weddingof some local prince a centuryand a half ago and the Bavarians hadsuch a bang-up time they've beenholding it every year since. TheMunich breweries do up a specialbeer,      Marzenbräu     they call it, andeach brewery opens a tremendous tenton the fair grounds which will holdfive thousand customers apiece. Millionsof liters of beer are put away,hundreds of thousands of barbecuedchickens, a small herd of oxen areroasted whole over spits, millions ofpair of      weisswurst     , a very specialsausage, millions upon millions ofpretzels—     All right, Simon said. We'll acceptit. The      Oktoberfest     is one whaleof a wingding.   Well, the old boy pursued, intohis subject now, that's where they'dbe, places like the      Oktoberfest     . Forone thing, a time traveler wouldn'tbe conspicuous. At a festival like thissomebody with a strange accent, orwho didn't know exactly how to wearhis clothes correctly, or was off theordinary in any of a dozen otherways, wouldn't be noticed. You couldbe a four-armed space traveler fromMars, and you still wouldn't be conspicuousat the      Oktoberfest     . Peoplewould figure they had D.T.'s.     But why would a time travelerwant to go to a— Betty began.     Why not! What better opportunityto study a people than when theyare in their cups? If      you     could goback a few thousand years, the thingsyou would wish to see would be aRoman Triumph, perhaps the Ritesof Dionysus, or one of Alexander'sorgies. You wouldn't want to wanderup and down the streets of, say,Athens while nothing was going on,particularly when you might be revealedas a suspicious character notbeing able to speak the language, notknowing how to wear the clothes andnot familiar with the city's layout.He took a deep breath. No ma'am,you'd have to stick to some greatevent, both for the sake of actualinterest and for protection against beingunmasked.     The old boy wound it up. Well,that's the story. What are your rates?The      Oktoberfest     starts on Friday andcontinues for sixteen days. You cantake the plane to Munich, spend aweek there and—     Simon was shaking his head. Notinterested.     As soon as Betty had got her jawback into place, she glared unbelievinglyat him.     Mr. Oyster was taken aback himself.See here, young man, I realizethis isn't an ordinary assignment,however, as I said, I am willing torisk a considerable portion of myfortune—     Sorry, Simon said. Can't bedone.     A hundred dollars a day plus expenses,Mr. Oyster said quietly. Ilike the fact that you already seemto have some interest and knowledgeof the matter. I liked the way youknew my name when I walked in thedoor; my picture doesn't appear oftenin the papers.     No go, Simon said, a sad qualityin his voice.     A fifty thousand dollar bonus ifyou bring me a time traveler.     Out of the question, Simonsaid.     But      why     ? Betty wailed.     Just for laughs, Simon told thetwo of them sourly, suppose I tellyou a funny story. It goes likethis:      I got a thousand dollars from Mr.Oyster (Simon began) in the wayof an advance, and leaving him withBetty who was making out a receipt,I hustled back to the apartment andpacked a bag. Hell, I'd wanted a vacationanyway, this was a natural. Onthe way to Idlewild I stopped off atthe Germany Information Offices forsome tourist literature.     It takes roughly three and a halfhours to get to Gander from Idlewild.I spent the time planning thefun I was going to have.     It takes roughly seven and a halfhours from Gander to Shannon andI spent that time dreaming up materialI could put into my reports toMr. Oyster. I was going to have togive him some kind of report for hismoney. Time travel yet! What alaugh!     Between Shannon and Munich afaint suspicion began to simmer inmy mind. These statistics I read onthe      Oktoberfest     in the Munich touristpamphlets. Five million peopleattended annually.     Where did five million peoplecome from to attend an overgrownfestival in comparatively remoteSouthern Germany? The tourist seasonis over before September 21st,first day of the gigantic beer bust.Nor could the Germans account forany such number. Munich itself hasa population of less than a million,counting children.     And those millions of gallons ofbeer, the hundreds of thousands ofchickens, the herds of oxen. Whoponied up all the money for such expenditures?How could the averageGerman, with his twenty-five dollarsa week salary?     In Munich there was no hotelspace available. I went to the Bahnhofwhere they have a hotel serviceand applied. They put my namedown, pocketed the husky bribe,showed me where I could check mybag, told me they'd do what theycould, and to report back in a fewhours.     I had another suspicious twinge.If five million people attended thisbeer bout, how were they accommodated?     The      Theresienwiese     , the fairground, was only a few blocksaway. I was stiff from the plane rideso I walked.   There are seven major brewers inthe Munich area, each of them representedby one of the circuslike tentsthat Mr. Oyster mentioned. Each tentcontained benches and tables forabout five thousand persons and fromsix to ten thousands pack themselvesin, competing for room. In the centeris a tremendous bandstand, themusicians all      lederhosen     clad, themusic as Bavarian as any to be foundin a Bavarian beer hall. Hundreds ofpeasant garbed      fräuleins     darted aboutthe tables with quart sized earthenwaremugs, platters of chicken, sausage,kraut and pretzels.     I found a place finally at a tablewhich had space for twenty-odd beerbibbers. Odd is right. As weird anassortment of Germans and foreigntourists as could have been dreamedup, ranging from a seventy- oreighty-year-old couple in Bavariancostume, to the bald-headed drunkacross the table from me.     A desperate waitress bearing sixmugs of beer in each hand scurriedpast. They call them      masses     , by theway, not mugs. The bald-headedcharacter and I both held up a fingerand she slid two of the      masses     overto us and then hustled on.     Down the hatch, the other said,holding up his      mass     in toast.     To the ladies, I told him. Beforesipping, I said, You know, thetourist pamphlets say this stuff iseighteen per cent. That's nonsense.No beer is that strong. I took a longpull.     He looked at me, waiting.     I came up. Mistaken, I admitted.     A      mass     or two apiece later he lookedcarefully at the name engraved onhis earthenware mug. Löwenbräu,he said. He took a small notebookfrom his pocket and a pencil, noteddown the word and returned thethings.     That's a queer looking pencil youhave there, I told him. German?     Venusian, he said. Oops, sorry.Shouldn't have said that.     I had never heard of the brand soI skipped it.     Next is the Hofbräu, he said.     Next what? Baldy's conversationdidn't seem to hang together verywell.     My pilgrimage, he told me. Allmy life I've been wanting to go backto an      Oktoberfest     and sample everyone of the seven brands of the bestbeer the world has ever known. I'monly as far as Löwenbräu. I'm afraidI'll never make it.     I finished my      mass     . I'll helpyou, I told him. Very noble endeavor.Name is Simon.     Arth, he said. How could youhelp?     I'm still fresh—comparatively.I'll navigate you around. There areseven beer tents. How many have yougot through, so far?     Two, counting this one, Arthsaid.     I looked at him. It's going to bea chore, I said. You've already gota nice edge on.     Outside, as we made our way tothe next tent, the fair looked likeevery big State-Fair ever seen, exceptit was bigger. Games, souvenirstands, sausage stands, rides, sideshows, and people, people, people.     The Hofbräu tent was as overflowingas the last but we managed tofind two seats.     The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment.     In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!      Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!      At the      G'sufa     everybody uppedwith the mugs and drank each other'shealth.     This is what I call a real beerbust, I said approvingly.     Arth was waving to a waitress. Asin the Löwenbräu tent, a full quartwas the smallest amount obtainable.     A beer later I said, I don't knowif you'll make it or not, Arth.     Make what?     All seven tents.     Oh.     A waitress was on her way by,mugs foaming over their rims. I gesturedto her for refills.     Where are you from, Arth? Iasked him, in the way of makingconversation.     2183.     2183 where?     He looked at me, closing one eyeto focus better. Oh, he said. Well,2183 South Street, ah, New Albuquerque.     New Albuquerque? Where'sthat?     Arth thought about it. Took anotherlong pull at the beer. Rightacross the way from old Albuquerque,he said finally. Maybe weought to be getting on to thePschorrbräu tent.     Maybe we ought to eat somethingfirst, I said. I'm beginning to feelthis. We could get some of that barbecuedox.     Arth closed his eyes in pain.Vegetarian, he said. Couldn't possiblyeat meat. Barbarous. Ugh.     Well, we need some nourishment,I said.     There's supposed to be considerablenourishment in beer.     That made sense. I yelled,       Fräulein!Zwei neu bier!        Somewhere along in here the fogrolled in. When it rolled out again,I found myself closing one eye thebetter to read the lettering on myearthenware mug. It read Augustinerbräu.Somehow we'd evidentlynavigated from one tent to another.     Arth was saying, Where's yourhotel?     That seemed like a good question.I thought about it for a while. FinallyI said, Haven't got one. Town'sjam packed. Left my bag at the Bahnhof.I don't think we'll ever makeit, Arth. How many we got togo?     Lost track, Arth said. You cancome home with me.     We drank to that and the fog rolledin again.     When the fog rolled out, it wasdaylight. Bright, glaring, awful daylight.I was sprawled, complete withclothes, on one of twin beds. On theother bed, also completely clothed,was Arth.     That sun was too much. I stumbledup from the bed, staggered tothe window and fumbled around fora blind or curtain. There was none.     Behind me a voice said in horror,Who ... how ... oh,      Wodo     ,where'd you come from?     I got a quick impression, lookingout the window, that the Germanswere certainly the most modern, futuristicpeople in the world. But Icouldn't stand the light. Where'sthe shade, I moaned.     Arth did something and the windowwent opaque.     That's quite a gadget, I groaned.If I didn't feel so lousy, I'dappreciate it.     Arth was sitting on the edge ofthe bed holding his bald head in hishands. I remember now, he sorrowed.You didn't have a hotel.What a stupidity. I'll be phased.Phased all the way down.     You haven't got a handful ofaspirin, have you? I asked him.     Just a minute, Arth said, staggeringerect and heading for whatundoubtedly was a bathroom. Staywhere you are. Don't move. Don'ttouch anything.     All right, I told him plaintively.I'm clean. I won't mess up theplace. All I've got is a hangover, notlice.     Arth was gone. He came back intwo or three minutes, box of pills inhand. Here, take one of these.     I took the pill, followed it with aglass of water.   And went out like a light.     Arth was shaking my arm. Wantanother      mass     ?     The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment.     In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!      Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!      At the      G'sufa     everybody uppedwith their king-size mugs and drankeach other's health.     My head was killing me. This iswhere I came in, or something, Igroaned.     Arth said, That was last night.He looked at me over the rim of hisbeer mug.     Something, somewhere, waswrong. But I didn't care. I finishedmy      mass     and then remembered. I'vegot to get my bag. Oh, my head.Where did we spend last night?     Arth said, and his voice soundedcautious, At my hotel, don't you remember?     Not very well, I admitted. Ifeel lousy. I must have dimmed out.I've got to go to the Bahnhof andget my luggage.     Arth didn't put up an argumenton that. We said good-by and I couldfeel him watching after me as I pushedthrough the tables on the wayout.     At the Bahnhof they could do meno good. There were no hotel roomsavailable in Munich. The head wasgetting worse by the minute. Thefact that they'd somehow managedto lose my bag didn't help. I workedon that project for at least a coupleof hours. Not only wasn't the bagat the luggage checking station, butthe attendant there evidently couldn'tmake heads nor tails of the checkreceipt. He didn't speak English andmy high school German was inadequate,especially accompanied by ablockbusting hangover.     I didn't get anywhere tearing myhair and complaining from one endof the Bahnhof to the other. I drewa blank on the bag.     And the head was getting worseby the minute. I was bleeding todeath through the eyes and insteadof butterflies I had bats in my stomach.Believe me,      nobody     should drinka gallon or more of Marzenbräu.   I decided the hell with it. I tooka cab to the airport, presented my returnticket, told them I wanted toleave on the first obtainable plane toNew York. I'd spent two days at the      Oktoberfest     , and I'd had it.     I got more guff there. Somethingwas wrong with the ticket, wrongdate or some such. But they fixedthat up. I never was clear on whatwas fouled up, some clerk's error,evidently.     The trip back was as uninterestingas the one over. As the hangover beganto wear off—a little—I was almostsorry I hadn't been able to stay.If I'd only been able to get a room I      would     have stayed, I told myself.     From Idlewild, I came directly tothe office rather than going to myapartment. I figured I might as wellcheck in with Betty.     I opened the door and there Ifound Mr. Oyster sitting in the chairhe had been occupying four—or wasit five—days before when I'd left.I'd lost track of the time.     I said to him, Glad you're here,sir. I can report. Ah, what was ityou came for? Impatient to hear ifI'd had any results? My mind wasspinning like a whirling dervish ina revolving door. I'd spent a wad ofhis money and had nothing I couldthink of to show for it; nothing butthe last stages of a grand-daddyhangover.     Came for? Mr. Oyster snorted.I'm merely waiting for your girl tomake out my receipt. I thought youhad already left.     You'll miss your plane, Bettysaid.     There was suddenly a double dipof ice cream in my stomach. I walkedover to my desk and looked down atthe calendar.     Mr. Oyster was saying somethingto the effect that if I didn't leave today,it would have to be tomorrow,that he hadn't ponied up that thousanddollars advance for anythingless than immediate service. Stuffinghis receipt in his wallet, he fussedhis way out the door.     I said to Betty hopefully, I supposeyou haven't changed this calendarsince I left.     Betty said, What's the matterwith you? You look funny. How didyour clothes get so mussed? You torethe top sheet off that calendar yourself,not half an hour ago, just beforethis marble-missing client camein. She added, irrelevantly, Timetravelers yet.     I tried just once more. Uh, whendid you first see this Mr. Oyster?     Never saw him before in mylife, she said. Not until he camein this morning.     This morning, I said weakly.     While Betty stared at me as thoughit was      me     that needed candling by ahead shrinker preparatory to beingsent off to a pressure cooker, I fishedin my pocket for my wallet, countedthe contents and winced at thepathetic remains of the thousand.I said pleadingly, Betty, listen,how long ago did I go out that door—onthe way to the airport?     You've been acting sick all morning.You went out that door aboutten minutes ago, were gone aboutthree minutes, and then came back.      See here, Mr. Oyster said (interruptingSimon's story), did yousay this was supposed to be amusing,young man? I don't find it so. Infact, I believe I am being ridiculed.     Simon shrugged, put one hand tohis forehead and said, That's onlythe first chapter. There are twomore.     I'm not interested in more, Mr.Oyster said. I suppose your pointwas to show me how ridiculous thewhole idea actually is. Very well,you've done it. Confound it. However,I suppose your time, even whenspent in this manner, has some value.Here is fifty dollars. And good day,sir!     He slammed the door after himas he left.     Simon winced at the noise, tookthe aspirin bottle from its drawer,took two, washed them down withwater from the desk carafe.     Betty looked at him admiringly.Came to her feet, crossed over andtook up the fifty dollars. Week'swages, she said. I suppose that'sone way of taking care of a crackpot.But I'm surprised you didn'ttake his money and enjoy that vacationyou've been yearning about.     I did, Simon groaned. Threetimes.     Betty stared at him. You mean—     Simon nodded, miserably.     She said, But      Simon     . Fifty thousanddollars bonus. If that story wastrue, you should have gone backagain to Munich. If there was onetime traveler, there might havebeen—     I keep telling you, Simon saidbitterly, I went back there threetimes. There were hundreds of them.Probably thousands. He took a deepbreath. Listen, we're just going tohave to forget about it. They're notgoing to stand for the space-timecontinuum track being altered. Ifsomething comes up that looks likeit might result in the track beingchanged, they set you right back atthe beginning and let things start—foryou—all over again. They justcan't allow anything to come backfrom the future and change thepast.     You mean, Betty was suddenlyfurious at him, you've given up!Why this is the biggest thing— Whythe fifty thousand dollars is nothing.The future! Just think!     Simon said wearily, There's justone thing you can bring back withyou from the future, a hangover compoundedof a gallon or so of Marzenbräu.What's more you can pileone on top of the other, and anotheron top of that!     He shuddered. If you think I'mgoing to take another crack at thismerry-go-round and pile a fourthhangover on the three I'm alreadynursing, all at once, you can thinkagain.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Astounding Science Fiction   June1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","Simon works with Betty investigating many cases at their office in New York. He initially has a terrible headache and has to take aspirin for his hangover. He is perceptive as well, knowing who Mr. Oyster is without having seen him before and informative about time travel. However, he does show a stubborn side when he refuses Mr. Oyster’s offer no matter how much money the other man offers him. Even though he could just create a false report for Mr. Oyster, he refuses to take the job. Simon later reveals to Betty that he has already experienced going to Oktoberfest three times and has brought nothing but multiple hangovers back. In the story he tells, Simon is very friendly towards Arth and tries to help him on his pilgrimage. He ends up getting extremely hungover and goes back to New York, which then resets the entire cycle of events again. "
"How does the story Simon tells relate back to Mr. Oyster’s initial request to find time travelers? </s>    UNBORN     TOMORROW     BY MACK REYNOLDS   Unfortunately , there was onlyone thing he could bring backfrom the wonderful future ...and though he didn't want to... nevertheless he did....    Illustrated by Freas     Betty  looked up fromher magazine. She saidmildly, You're late.     Don't yell at me, Ifeel awful, Simon toldher. He sat down at his desk, passedhis tongue over his teeth in distaste,groaned, fumbled in a drawer for theaspirin bottle.     He looked over at Betty and said,almost as though reciting, What Ineed is a vacation.     What, Betty said, are you goingto use for money?     Providence, Simon told herwhilst fiddling with the aspirin bottle,will provide.     Hm-m-m. But before providingvacations it'd be nice if Providenceturned up a missing jewel deal, say.Something where you could deducethat actually the ruby ring had gonedown the drain and was caught in theelbow. Something that would netabout fifty dollars.     Simon said, mournful of tone,Fifty dollars? Why not make it fivehundred?     I'm not selfish, Betty said. AllI want is enough to pay me thisweek's salary.     Money, Simon said. When youtook this job you said it was the romancethat appealed to you.     Hm-m-m. I didn't know mostsleuthing amounted to snoopingaround department stores to check onthe clerks knocking down.     Simon said, enigmatically, Nowit comes.   There was a knock.     Betty bounced up with Olympicagility and had the door swingingwide before the knocking was quitecompleted.     He was old, little and had bugeyes behind pince-nez glasses. Hissuit was cut in the style of yesteryearbut when a suit costs two orthree hundred dollars you still retaincaste whatever the styling.     Simon said unenthusiastically,Good morning, Mr. Oyster. He indicatedthe client's chair. Sit down,sir.     The client fussed himself withBetty's assistance into the seat, bug-eyedSimon, said finally, You knowmy name, that's pretty good. Neversaw you before in my life. Stop fussingwith me, young lady. Your adin the phone book says you'll investigateanything.     Anything, Simon said. Onlyone exception.     Excellent. Do you believe in timetravel?     Simon said nothing. Across theroom, where she had resumed herseat, Betty cleared her throat. WhenSimon continued to say nothing sheventured, Time travel is impossible.     Why?     Why?     Yes, why?     Betty looked to her boss for assistance.None was forthcoming. Thereought to be some very quick, positive,definite answer. She said, Well,for one thing, paradox. Suppose youhad a time machine and traveled backa hundred years or so and killed yourown great-grandfather. Then howcould you ever be born?     Confound it if I know, the littlefellow growled. How?     Simon said, Let's get to the point,what you wanted to see me about.     I want to hire you to hunt me upsome time travelers, the old boysaid.     Betty was too far in now to maintainher proper role of silent secretary.Time travelers, she said, notvery intelligently.     The potential client sat more erect,obviously with intent to hold thefloor for a time. He removed thepince-nez glasses and pointed themat Betty. He said, Have you readmuch science fiction, Miss?     Some, Betty admitted.     Then you'll realize that there area dozen explanations of the paradoxesof time travel. Every writer inthe field worth his salt has explainedthem away. But to get on. It's mycontention that within a century orso man will have solved the problemsof immortality and eternal youth, andit's also my suspicion that he willeventually be able to travel in time.So convinced am I of these possibilitiesthat I am willing to gamble aportion of my fortune to investigatethe presence in our era of such timetravelers.     Simon seemed incapable of carryingthe ball this morning, so Bettysaid, But ... Mr. Oyster, if thefuture has developed time travel whydon't we ever meet such travelers?     Simon put in a word. The usualexplanation, Betty, is that they can'tafford to allow the space-time continuumtrack to be altered. If, say, atime traveler returned to a period oftwenty-five years ago and shot Hitler,then all subsequent history would bechanged. In that case, the time travelerhimself might never be born. Theyhave to tread mighty carefully.     Mr. Oyster was pleased. I didn'texpect you to be so well informedon the subject, young man.     Simon shrugged and fumbledagain with the aspirin bottle.   Mr. Oyster went on. I've beenconsidering the matter for some timeand—     Simon held up a hand. There'sno use prolonging this. As I understandit, you're an elderly gentlemanwith a considerable fortune and yourealize that thus far nobody has succeededin taking it with him.     Mr. Oyster returned his glasses totheir perch, bug-eyed Simon, but thennodded.     Simon said, You want to hire meto find a time traveler and in somemanner or other—any manner willdo—exhort from him the secret ofeternal life and youth, which you figurethe future will have discovered.You're willing to pony up a part ofthis fortune of yours, if I can delivera bona fide time traveler.     Right!     Betty had been looking from oneto the other. Now she said, plaintively,But where are you going to findone of these characters—especially ifthey're interested in keeping hid?     The old boy was the center again.I told you I'd been considering itfor some time. The      Oktoberfest     ,that's where they'd be! He seemedelated.     Betty and Simon waited.     The      Oktoberfest     , he repeated.The greatest festival the world hasever seen, the carnival,      feria     ,      fiesta     to beat them all. Every year it's heldin Munich. Makes the New OrleansMardi gras look like a quiltingparty. He began to swing into thespirit of his description. It originallystarted in celebration of the weddingof some local prince a centuryand a half ago and the Bavarians hadsuch a bang-up time they've beenholding it every year since. TheMunich breweries do up a specialbeer,      Marzenbräu     they call it, andeach brewery opens a tremendous tenton the fair grounds which will holdfive thousand customers apiece. Millionsof liters of beer are put away,hundreds of thousands of barbecuedchickens, a small herd of oxen areroasted whole over spits, millions ofpair of      weisswurst     , a very specialsausage, millions upon millions ofpretzels—     All right, Simon said. We'll acceptit. The      Oktoberfest     is one whaleof a wingding.   Well, the old boy pursued, intohis subject now, that's where they'dbe, places like the      Oktoberfest     . Forone thing, a time traveler wouldn'tbe conspicuous. At a festival like thissomebody with a strange accent, orwho didn't know exactly how to wearhis clothes correctly, or was off theordinary in any of a dozen otherways, wouldn't be noticed. You couldbe a four-armed space traveler fromMars, and you still wouldn't be conspicuousat the      Oktoberfest     . Peoplewould figure they had D.T.'s.     But why would a time travelerwant to go to a— Betty began.     Why not! What better opportunityto study a people than when theyare in their cups? If      you     could goback a few thousand years, the thingsyou would wish to see would be aRoman Triumph, perhaps the Ritesof Dionysus, or one of Alexander'sorgies. You wouldn't want to wanderup and down the streets of, say,Athens while nothing was going on,particularly when you might be revealedas a suspicious character notbeing able to speak the language, notknowing how to wear the clothes andnot familiar with the city's layout.He took a deep breath. No ma'am,you'd have to stick to some greatevent, both for the sake of actualinterest and for protection against beingunmasked.     The old boy wound it up. Well,that's the story. What are your rates?The      Oktoberfest     starts on Friday andcontinues for sixteen days. You cantake the plane to Munich, spend aweek there and—     Simon was shaking his head. Notinterested.     As soon as Betty had got her jawback into place, she glared unbelievinglyat him.     Mr. Oyster was taken aback himself.See here, young man, I realizethis isn't an ordinary assignment,however, as I said, I am willing torisk a considerable portion of myfortune—     Sorry, Simon said. Can't bedone.     A hundred dollars a day plus expenses,Mr. Oyster said quietly. Ilike the fact that you already seemto have some interest and knowledgeof the matter. I liked the way youknew my name when I walked in thedoor; my picture doesn't appear oftenin the papers.     No go, Simon said, a sad qualityin his voice.     A fifty thousand dollar bonus ifyou bring me a time traveler.     Out of the question, Simonsaid.     But      why     ? Betty wailed.     Just for laughs, Simon told thetwo of them sourly, suppose I tellyou a funny story. It goes likethis:      I got a thousand dollars from Mr.Oyster (Simon began) in the wayof an advance, and leaving him withBetty who was making out a receipt,I hustled back to the apartment andpacked a bag. Hell, I'd wanted a vacationanyway, this was a natural. Onthe way to Idlewild I stopped off atthe Germany Information Offices forsome tourist literature.     It takes roughly three and a halfhours to get to Gander from Idlewild.I spent the time planning thefun I was going to have.     It takes roughly seven and a halfhours from Gander to Shannon andI spent that time dreaming up materialI could put into my reports toMr. Oyster. I was going to have togive him some kind of report for hismoney. Time travel yet! What alaugh!     Between Shannon and Munich afaint suspicion began to simmer inmy mind. These statistics I read onthe      Oktoberfest     in the Munich touristpamphlets. Five million peopleattended annually.     Where did five million peoplecome from to attend an overgrownfestival in comparatively remoteSouthern Germany? The tourist seasonis over before September 21st,first day of the gigantic beer bust.Nor could the Germans account forany such number. Munich itself hasa population of less than a million,counting children.     And those millions of gallons ofbeer, the hundreds of thousands ofchickens, the herds of oxen. Whoponied up all the money for such expenditures?How could the averageGerman, with his twenty-five dollarsa week salary?     In Munich there was no hotelspace available. I went to the Bahnhofwhere they have a hotel serviceand applied. They put my namedown, pocketed the husky bribe,showed me where I could check mybag, told me they'd do what theycould, and to report back in a fewhours.     I had another suspicious twinge.If five million people attended thisbeer bout, how were they accommodated?     The      Theresienwiese     , the fairground, was only a few blocksaway. I was stiff from the plane rideso I walked.   There are seven major brewers inthe Munich area, each of them representedby one of the circuslike tentsthat Mr. Oyster mentioned. Each tentcontained benches and tables forabout five thousand persons and fromsix to ten thousands pack themselvesin, competing for room. In the centeris a tremendous bandstand, themusicians all      lederhosen     clad, themusic as Bavarian as any to be foundin a Bavarian beer hall. Hundreds ofpeasant garbed      fräuleins     darted aboutthe tables with quart sized earthenwaremugs, platters of chicken, sausage,kraut and pretzels.     I found a place finally at a tablewhich had space for twenty-odd beerbibbers. Odd is right. As weird anassortment of Germans and foreigntourists as could have been dreamedup, ranging from a seventy- oreighty-year-old couple in Bavariancostume, to the bald-headed drunkacross the table from me.     A desperate waitress bearing sixmugs of beer in each hand scurriedpast. They call them      masses     , by theway, not mugs. The bald-headedcharacter and I both held up a fingerand she slid two of the      masses     overto us and then hustled on.     Down the hatch, the other said,holding up his      mass     in toast.     To the ladies, I told him. Beforesipping, I said, You know, thetourist pamphlets say this stuff iseighteen per cent. That's nonsense.No beer is that strong. I took a longpull.     He looked at me, waiting.     I came up. Mistaken, I admitted.     A      mass     or two apiece later he lookedcarefully at the name engraved onhis earthenware mug. Löwenbräu,he said. He took a small notebookfrom his pocket and a pencil, noteddown the word and returned thethings.     That's a queer looking pencil youhave there, I told him. German?     Venusian, he said. Oops, sorry.Shouldn't have said that.     I had never heard of the brand soI skipped it.     Next is the Hofbräu, he said.     Next what? Baldy's conversationdidn't seem to hang together verywell.     My pilgrimage, he told me. Allmy life I've been wanting to go backto an      Oktoberfest     and sample everyone of the seven brands of the bestbeer the world has ever known. I'monly as far as Löwenbräu. I'm afraidI'll never make it.     I finished my      mass     . I'll helpyou, I told him. Very noble endeavor.Name is Simon.     Arth, he said. How could youhelp?     I'm still fresh—comparatively.I'll navigate you around. There areseven beer tents. How many have yougot through, so far?     Two, counting this one, Arthsaid.     I looked at him. It's going to bea chore, I said. You've already gota nice edge on.     Outside, as we made our way tothe next tent, the fair looked likeevery big State-Fair ever seen, exceptit was bigger. Games, souvenirstands, sausage stands, rides, sideshows, and people, people, people.     The Hofbräu tent was as overflowingas the last but we managed tofind two seats.     The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment.     In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!      Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!      At the      G'sufa     everybody uppedwith the mugs and drank each other'shealth.     This is what I call a real beerbust, I said approvingly.     Arth was waving to a waitress. Asin the Löwenbräu tent, a full quartwas the smallest amount obtainable.     A beer later I said, I don't knowif you'll make it or not, Arth.     Make what?     All seven tents.     Oh.     A waitress was on her way by,mugs foaming over their rims. I gesturedto her for refills.     Where are you from, Arth? Iasked him, in the way of makingconversation.     2183.     2183 where?     He looked at me, closing one eyeto focus better. Oh, he said. Well,2183 South Street, ah, New Albuquerque.     New Albuquerque? Where'sthat?     Arth thought about it. Took anotherlong pull at the beer. Rightacross the way from old Albuquerque,he said finally. Maybe weought to be getting on to thePschorrbräu tent.     Maybe we ought to eat somethingfirst, I said. I'm beginning to feelthis. We could get some of that barbecuedox.     Arth closed his eyes in pain.Vegetarian, he said. Couldn't possiblyeat meat. Barbarous. Ugh.     Well, we need some nourishment,I said.     There's supposed to be considerablenourishment in beer.     That made sense. I yelled,       Fräulein!Zwei neu bier!        Somewhere along in here the fogrolled in. When it rolled out again,I found myself closing one eye thebetter to read the lettering on myearthenware mug. It read Augustinerbräu.Somehow we'd evidentlynavigated from one tent to another.     Arth was saying, Where's yourhotel?     That seemed like a good question.I thought about it for a while. FinallyI said, Haven't got one. Town'sjam packed. Left my bag at the Bahnhof.I don't think we'll ever makeit, Arth. How many we got togo?     Lost track, Arth said. You cancome home with me.     We drank to that and the fog rolledin again.     When the fog rolled out, it wasdaylight. Bright, glaring, awful daylight.I was sprawled, complete withclothes, on one of twin beds. On theother bed, also completely clothed,was Arth.     That sun was too much. I stumbledup from the bed, staggered tothe window and fumbled around fora blind or curtain. There was none.     Behind me a voice said in horror,Who ... how ... oh,      Wodo     ,where'd you come from?     I got a quick impression, lookingout the window, that the Germanswere certainly the most modern, futuristicpeople in the world. But Icouldn't stand the light. Where'sthe shade, I moaned.     Arth did something and the windowwent opaque.     That's quite a gadget, I groaned.If I didn't feel so lousy, I'dappreciate it.     Arth was sitting on the edge ofthe bed holding his bald head in hishands. I remember now, he sorrowed.You didn't have a hotel.What a stupidity. I'll be phased.Phased all the way down.     You haven't got a handful ofaspirin, have you? I asked him.     Just a minute, Arth said, staggeringerect and heading for whatundoubtedly was a bathroom. Staywhere you are. Don't move. Don'ttouch anything.     All right, I told him plaintively.I'm clean. I won't mess up theplace. All I've got is a hangover, notlice.     Arth was gone. He came back intwo or three minutes, box of pills inhand. Here, take one of these.     I took the pill, followed it with aglass of water.   And went out like a light.     Arth was shaking my arm. Wantanother      mass     ?     The band was blaring, and fivethousand half-swacked voices wereroaring accompaniment.     In Muenchen steht ein Hofbräuhaus!      Eins, Zwei, G'sufa!      At the      G'sufa     everybody uppedwith their king-size mugs and drankeach other's health.     My head was killing me. This iswhere I came in, or something, Igroaned.     Arth said, That was last night.He looked at me over the rim of hisbeer mug.     Something, somewhere, waswrong. But I didn't care. I finishedmy      mass     and then remembered. I'vegot to get my bag. Oh, my head.Where did we spend last night?     Arth said, and his voice soundedcautious, At my hotel, don't you remember?     Not very well, I admitted. Ifeel lousy. I must have dimmed out.I've got to go to the Bahnhof andget my luggage.     Arth didn't put up an argumenton that. We said good-by and I couldfeel him watching after me as I pushedthrough the tables on the wayout.     At the Bahnhof they could do meno good. There were no hotel roomsavailable in Munich. The head wasgetting worse by the minute. Thefact that they'd somehow managedto lose my bag didn't help. I workedon that project for at least a coupleof hours. Not only wasn't the bagat the luggage checking station, butthe attendant there evidently couldn'tmake heads nor tails of the checkreceipt. He didn't speak English andmy high school German was inadequate,especially accompanied by ablockbusting hangover.     I didn't get anywhere tearing myhair and complaining from one endof the Bahnhof to the other. I drewa blank on the bag.     And the head was getting worseby the minute. I was bleeding todeath through the eyes and insteadof butterflies I had bats in my stomach.Believe me,      nobody     should drinka gallon or more of Marzenbräu.   I decided the hell with it. I tooka cab to the airport, presented my returnticket, told them I wanted toleave on the first obtainable plane toNew York. I'd spent two days at the      Oktoberfest     , and I'd had it.     I got more guff there. Somethingwas wrong with the ticket, wrongdate or some such. But they fixedthat up. I never was clear on whatwas fouled up, some clerk's error,evidently.     The trip back was as uninterestingas the one over. As the hangover beganto wear off—a little—I was almostsorry I hadn't been able to stay.If I'd only been able to get a room I      would     have stayed, I told myself.     From Idlewild, I came directly tothe office rather than going to myapartment. I figured I might as wellcheck in with Betty.     I opened the door and there Ifound Mr. Oyster sitting in the chairhe had been occupying four—or wasit five—days before when I'd left.I'd lost track of the time.     I said to him, Glad you're here,sir. I can report. Ah, what was ityou came for? Impatient to hear ifI'd had any results? My mind wasspinning like a whirling dervish ina revolving door. I'd spent a wad ofhis money and had nothing I couldthink of to show for it; nothing butthe last stages of a grand-daddyhangover.     Came for? Mr. Oyster snorted.I'm merely waiting for your girl tomake out my receipt. I thought youhad already left.     You'll miss your plane, Bettysaid.     There was suddenly a double dipof ice cream in my stomach. I walkedover to my desk and looked down atthe calendar.     Mr. Oyster was saying somethingto the effect that if I didn't leave today,it would have to be tomorrow,that he hadn't ponied up that thousanddollars advance for anythingless than immediate service. Stuffinghis receipt in his wallet, he fussedhis way out the door.     I said to Betty hopefully, I supposeyou haven't changed this calendarsince I left.     Betty said, What's the matterwith you? You look funny. How didyour clothes get so mussed? You torethe top sheet off that calendar yourself,not half an hour ago, just beforethis marble-missing client camein. She added, irrelevantly, Timetravelers yet.     I tried just once more. Uh, whendid you first see this Mr. Oyster?     Never saw him before in mylife, she said. Not until he camein this morning.     This morning, I said weakly.     While Betty stared at me as thoughit was      me     that needed candling by ahead shrinker preparatory to beingsent off to a pressure cooker, I fishedin my pocket for my wallet, countedthe contents and winced at thepathetic remains of the thousand.I said pleadingly, Betty, listen,how long ago did I go out that door—onthe way to the airport?     You've been acting sick all morning.You went out that door aboutten minutes ago, were gone aboutthree minutes, and then came back.      See here, Mr. Oyster said (interruptingSimon's story), did yousay this was supposed to be amusing,young man? I don't find it so. Infact, I believe I am being ridiculed.     Simon shrugged, put one hand tohis forehead and said, That's onlythe first chapter. There are twomore.     I'm not interested in more, Mr.Oyster said. I suppose your pointwas to show me how ridiculous thewhole idea actually is. Very well,you've done it. Confound it. However,I suppose your time, even whenspent in this manner, has some value.Here is fifty dollars. And good day,sir!     He slammed the door after himas he left.     Simon winced at the noise, tookthe aspirin bottle from its drawer,took two, washed them down withwater from the desk carafe.     Betty looked at him admiringly.Came to her feet, crossed over andtook up the fifty dollars. Week'swages, she said. I suppose that'sone way of taking care of a crackpot.But I'm surprised you didn'ttake his money and enjoy that vacationyou've been yearning about.     I did, Simon groaned. Threetimes.     Betty stared at him. You mean—     Simon nodded, miserably.     She said, But      Simon     . Fifty thousanddollars bonus. If that story wastrue, you should have gone backagain to Munich. If there was onetime traveler, there might havebeen—     I keep telling you, Simon saidbitterly, I went back there threetimes. There were hundreds of them.Probably thousands. He took a deepbreath. Listen, we're just going tohave to forget about it. They're notgoing to stand for the space-timecontinuum track being altered. Ifsomething comes up that looks likeit might result in the track beingchanged, they set you right back atthe beginning and let things start—foryou—all over again. They justcan't allow anything to come backfrom the future and change thepast.     You mean, Betty was suddenlyfurious at him, you've given up!Why this is the biggest thing— Whythe fifty thousand dollars is nothing.The future! Just think!     Simon said wearily, There's justone thing you can bring back withyou from the future, a hangover compoundedof a gallon or so of Marzenbräu.What's more you can pileone on top of the other, and anotheron top of that!     He shuddered. If you think I'mgoing to take another crack at thismerry-go-round and pile a fourthhangover on the three I'm alreadynursing, all at once, you can thinkagain.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Astounding Science Fiction   June1959. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","The story that Simon tells relates back to Mr. Oyster’s initial request about time travelers because he is the one who time traveled. Although he calls it a funny story, the sequence of events he describes is all actual events he experiences. The entire purpose of Mr. Oyster’s request and his desire to spend a portion of his fortune is to find a time traveler and come to a conclusion that they exist. However, he fails to realize that the very person he is asking has time traveled. Since the events were repeated three times, Simon’s refusal now changes the flow of events in the near future to avoid a fourth hangover. Even though Mr. Oyster leaves angrily, Simon’s story serves as a true report of time traveling and fulfills Mr. Oyster’s request. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     A FALL OF GLASS     By STANLEY R. LEE     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1960.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        The weatherman was always right:       Temperature, 59; humidity, 47%;       occasional light showers—but of what?        The pockets of Mr. Humphrey Fownes were being picked outrageously.     It was a splendid day. The temperature was a crisp 59 degrees, thehumidity a mildly dessicated 47%. The sun was a flaming orange ball ina cloudless blue sky.     His pockets were picked eleven times.     It should have been difficult. Under the circumstances it was amasterpiece of pocket picking. What made it possible was HumphreyFownes' abstraction; he was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. Hewas strolling along a quiet residential avenue: small private houses,one after another, a place of little traffic and minimum distractions.But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject tobegin with for a person living in a domed city. He was thinking sodeeply about it that it never occurred to him that entirely too manypeople were bumping into him. He was thinking about Optimum DomeConditions (a crisp 59 degrees, a mildly dessicated 47%) when a boguspostman, who pretended to be reading a postal card, jostled him. In theconfusion of spilled letters and apologies from both sides, the postmanrifled Fownes's handkerchief and inside jacket pockets.  He was still thinking about temperature and humidity when a pretty girlhappened along with something in her eye. They collided. She got hisright and left jacket pockets. It was much too much for coincidence.The sidewalk was wide enough to allow four people to pass at one time.He should surely have become suspicious when two men engaged in aheated argument came along. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied hisrear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of thehandkerchief pocket. It all went off very smoothly, like a game of putand take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea hewas playing.     There was an occasional tinkle of falling glass.     It fell on the streets and houses, making small geysers of shiny mist,hitting with a gentle musical sound, like the ephemeral droppings ofa celesta. It was precipitation peculiar to a dome: feather-lightfragments showering harmlessly on the city from time to time. Domeweevils, their metal arms reaching out with molten glass, roamed thehuge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing.     Humphrey Fownes strode through the puffs of falling glass stillintrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humiditythat was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was thisrather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tightsurveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of gettinghis fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayedand chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returningthem. Two blocks away from his home a careless housewife spilled afive-pound bag of flour as he was passing. It was really plaster ofParis. He left his shoe prints, stride measurement, height, weight andhandedness behind.     By the time Fownes reached his front door an entire dossier completewith photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in anorange patrol car parked down the street.  Lanfierre had undoubtedly been affected by his job.     Sitting behind the wheel of the orange car, he watched Humphrey Fownesapproach with a distinct feeling of admiration, although it was anodd, objective kind of admiration, clinical in nature. It was similarto that of a pathologist observing for the first time a new andparticularly virulent strain of pneumococcus under his microscope.     Lanfierre's job was to ferret out aberration. It couldn't be toleratedwithin the confines of a dome. Conformity had become more than a socialforce; it was a physical necessity. And, after years of working at it,Lanfierre had become an admirer of eccentricity. He came to see thatgenuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his ownsmall efforts, rarer.     Fownes was a masterpiece of queerness. He was utterly inexplicable.Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fownes.     Sometimes his house      shakes     , Lanfierre said.     House shakes, Lieutenant MacBride wrote in his notebook. Then hestopped and frowned. He reread what he'd just written.     You heard right. The house      shakes     , Lanfierre said, savoring it.     MacBride looked at the Fownes house through the magnifying glass ofthe windshield. Like from ...      side to side     ? he asked in a somewhatpatronizing tone of voice.     And up and down.     MacBride returned the notebook to the breast pocket of his orangeuniform. Go on, he said, amused. It sounds interesting. He tossedthe dossier carelessly on the back seat.     Lanfierre sat stiffly behind the wheel, affronted. The cynical MacBridecouldn't really appreciate fine aberrations. In some ways MacBridewas a barbarian. Lanfierre had held out on Fownes for months. Hehad even contrived to engage him in conversation once, a pleasantlyabsurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. It wasonly with the greatest reluctance that he finally mentioned Fownesto MacBride. After years of searching for differences Lanfierre hadseen how extraordinarily repetitious people were, echoes really, dimlyresounding echoes, each believing itself whole and separate. They spokein an incessant chatter of cliches, and their actions were unbelievablytrite.     Then a fine robust freak came along and the others—the echoes—refusedto believe it. The lieutenant was probably on the point of suggesting avacation.     Why don't you take a vacation? Lieutenant MacBride suggested.     It's like this, MacBride. Do you know what a wind is? A breeze? Azephyr?     I've heard some.     They say there are mountain-tops where winds blow all the time. Strongwinds, MacBride. Winds like you and I can't imagine. And if there wasa house sitting on such a mountain and if winds      did     blow, it wouldshake exactly the way that one does. Sometimes I get the feeling thewhole place is going to slide off its foundation and go sailing downthe avenue.  Lieutenant MacBride pursed his lips.     I'll tell you something else, Lanfierre went on. The      windows     allclose at the same time. You'll be watching and all of a sudden everysingle window in the place will drop to its sill. Lanfierre leanedback in the seat, his eyes still on the house. Sometimes I thinkthere's a whole crowd of people in there waiting for a signal—as ifthey all had something important to say but had to close the windowsfirst so no one could hear. Why else close the windows in a domed city?And then as soon as the place is buttoned up they all explode intoconversation—and that's why the house shakes.     MacBride whistled.     No, I don't need a vacation.     A falling piece of glass dissolved into a puff of gossamer against thewindshield. Lanfierre started and bumped his knee on the steering wheel.     No, you don't need a rest, MacBride said. You're starting to seeflying houses, hear loud babbling voices. You've got winds in yourbrain, Lanfierre, breezes of fatigue, zephyrs of irrationality—     At that moment, all at once, every last window in the house slammedshut.     The street was deserted and quiet, not a movement, not a sound.MacBride and Lanfierre both leaned forward, as if waiting for theghostly babble of voices to commence.     The house began to shake.     It rocked from side to side, it pitched forward and back, it yawed anddipped and twisted, straining at the mooring of its foundation. Thehouse could have been preparing to take off and sail down the....     MacBride looked at Lanfierre and Lanfierre looked at MacBride and thenthey both looked back at the dancing house.     And the      water     , Lanfierre said. The      water     he uses! He could bethe thirstiest and cleanest man in the city. He could have a wholefamily of thirsty and clean kids, and he      still     wouldn't need all thatwater.     The lieutenant had picked up the dossier. He thumbed through the pagesnow in amazement. Where do you get a guy like this? he asked. Didyou see what he carries in his pockets?     And compasses won't work on this street.     The lieutenant lit a cigarette and sighed.     He usually sighed when making the decision to raid a dwelling. Itexpressed his weariness and distaste for people who went off and gotneurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. Therewas something implacable about his sighs.     He'll be coming out soon, Lanfierre said. He eats supper next doorwith a widow. Then he goes to the library. Always the same. Supper atthe widow's next door and then the library.     MacBride's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. The library? hesaid. Is he in with that bunch?     Lanfierre nodded.     Should be very interesting, MacBride said slowly.     I can't wait to see what he's got in there, Lanfierre murmured,watching the house with a consuming interest.     They sat there smoking in silence and every now and then their eyeswidened as the house danced a new step.  Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off hisshoes. He hadn't seen the patrol car and this intense preoccupationof his was also responsible for the dancing house—he simply hadn'tnoticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. Hehad a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and thehigh-pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of thehouse. At least, he called it buffeting; he'd never thought to watchfrom outside.     He went in and threw his jacket on the sofa, there being no roomleft in the closets. Crossing the living room he stopped to twist adraw-pull.     Every window slammed shut.     Tight as a kite, he thought, satisfied. He continued on toward thecloset at the foot of the stairs and then stopped again. Was thatright? No,      snug as a hug in a rug     . He went on, thinking:      The olddevils.       The downstairs closet was like a great watch case, a profusion ofwheels surrounding the Master Mechanism, which was a miniature see-sawthat went back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels had acurious stateliness about them. They were all quite old, salvaged fromgrandfather's clocks and music boxes and they went around in gracefulcircles at the rate of 30 and 31 times an hour ... although therewas one slightly eccentric cam that vacillated between 28 and 29. Hewatched as they spun and flashed in the darkness, and then set them forseven o'clock in the evening, April seventh, any year.     Outside, the domed city vanished.     It was replaced by an illusion. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear,the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a moresatisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion.Looking through the window he saw only a garden.     Instead of an orange sun at perpetual high noon, there was a red sunsetting brilliantly, marred only by an occasional arcover which leftthe smell of ozone in the air. There was also a gigantic moon. It hid ahuge area of sky, and it sang. The sun and moon both looked down upon agarden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses.     Moonlight, he thought, and roses. Satisfactory.      And cocktails fortwo.     Blast, he'd never be able to figure that one out! He watched asthe moon played,      Oh, You Beautiful Doll     and the neon roses flashedslowly from red to violet, then went back to the closet and turned onthe scent. The house began to smell like an immensely concentrated roseas the moon shifted to      People Will Say We're In Love     .  He rubbed his chin critically. It      seemed     all right. A dreamy sunset,an enchanted moon, flowers, scent.     They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rosereally smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. Butthen, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive.      Insist     on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realisticromantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your pulse? Do you feel icyfingers marching up and down your spine?     His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read thatbook on ancient mores and courtship customs.     How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incrediblylong and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amountof falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. Nomeant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and thecircumstances. It could mean yes, it could mean ask me again later onthis evening.     He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rain-maker,thinking roguishly:      Thou shalt not inundate.     The risks he was taking!A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant      Singing in the Rain     . Undiminished, the yellow moon and the red suncontinued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over anddemolished several of the neon roses.     The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steeringwheel from an old 1995 Studebaker. This was on the bootleg pipe; hegingerly turned it.     Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle ofwinds came to him.     He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This wasimportant; the window had a really fixed attitude about air currents.The neon roses bent and tinkled against each other as the wind rose andthe moon shook a trifle as it whispered      Cuddle Up a Little Closer     .     He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start.      My dearMrs. Deshazaway.     Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romanticgarden; time to be a bit forward.      My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway.     No.Contrived. How about a simple,      Dear Mrs. Deshazaway     . That might beit.      I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn'trather stay over instead of going home....       Preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear theshaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connectedto wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they madeone gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance ashigh-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening theStudebaker valve wider and wider....     The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sunshot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moonfell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning      When theBlue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day     .     The shaking house finally woke him up. He scrambled upstairs to theStudebaker wheel and shut it off.     At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn'tthe first time the winds got out of line.     Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all downand went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months,about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April.Its days were thirty and it followed September.      And all the rest havethirty-one.     What a strange people, the ancients!     He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street.  Men are too perishable, Mrs. Deshazaway said over dinner. For allpractical purposes I'm never going to marry again. All my husbands die.     Would you pass the beets, please? Humphrey Fownes said.     She handed him a platter of steaming red beets. And don't look at methat way, she said. I'm      not     going to marry you and if you wantreasons I'll give you four of them. Andrew. Curt. Norman. And Alphonse.     The widow was a passionate woman. She did everythingpassionately—talking, cooking, dressing. Her beets were passionatelyred. Her clothes rustled and her high heels clicked and her jewelrytinkled. She was possessed by an uncontrollable dynamism. Fownes hadnever known anyone like her. You forgot to put salt on the potatoes,she said passionately, then went on as calmly as it was possible forher to be, to explain why she couldn't marry him. Do you have anyidea what people are saying? They're all saying I'm a cannibal! I robmy husbands of their life force and when they're empty I carry theirbodies outside on my way to the justice of the peace.     As long as there are people, he said philosophically, there'll betalk.     But it's the air! Why don't they talk about that? The air is stale,I'm positive. It's not nourishing. The air is stale and Andrew, Curt,Norman and Alphonse couldn't stand it. Poor Alphonse. He was never sohealthy as on the day he was born. From then on things got steadilyworse for him.     I don't seem to mind the air.     She threw up her hands. You'd be the worst of the lot! She left thetable, rustling and tinkling about the room. I can just hear them. Trysome of the asparagus.      Five.     That's what they'd say. That woman didit again. And the plain fact is I don't want you on my record.     Really, Fownes protested. I feel splendid. Never better.     He could hear her moving about and then felt her hands on hisshoulders. And what about those      very     elaborate plans you've beenmaking to seduce me?     Fownes froze with three asparagus hanging from his fork.     Don't you think      they'll     find out?      I     found out and you can bet      they     will. It's my fault, I guess. I talk too much. And I don'talways tell the truth. To be completely honest with you, Mr. Fownes, itwasn't the old customs at all standing between us, it was air. I can'thave another man die on me, it's bad for my self-esteem. And now you'vegone and done something good and criminal, something peculiar.  Fownes put his fork down. Dear Mrs. Deshazaway, he started to say.     And of course when they do find out and they ask you why, Mr. Fownes,you'll tell them. No, no heroics, please! When they ask a man aquestion he always answers and you will too. You'll tell them I wantedto be courted and when they hear that they'll be around to ask      me     afew questions. You see, we're both a bit queer.     I hadn't thought of that, Fownes said quietly.     Oh, it doesn't really matter. I'll join Andrew, Curt, Norman—     That won't be necessary, Fownes said with unusual force. With alldue respect to Andrew, Curt, Norman and Alphonse, I might as well statehere and now I have other plans for you, Mrs. Deshazaway.     But my dear Mr. Fownes, she said, leaning across the table. We'relost, you and I.     Not if we could leave the dome, Fownes said quietly.     That's impossible! How?     In no hurry, now that he had the widow's complete attention, Fownesleaned across the table and whispered: Fresh air, Mrs. Deshazaway?Space? Miles and miles of space where the real-estate monopoly hasno control whatever? Where the      wind     blows across      prairies     ; or isit the other way around? No matter. How would you like      that     , Mrs.Deshazaway?     Breathing somewhat faster than usual, the widow rested her chin on hertwo hands. Pray continue, she said.     Endless vistas of moonlight and roses? April showers, Mrs. Deshazaway.And June, which as you may know follows directly upon April and issupposed to be the month of brides, of marrying. June also lies beyondthe dome.     I see.           And     , Mr. Fownes added, his voice a honeyed whisper, they saythat somewhere out in the space and the roses and the moonlight,the sleeping equinox yawns and rises because on a certain day it's      vernal     and that's when it roams the Open Country where geigers nolonger scintillate.           My.      Mrs. Deshazaway rose, paced slowly to the window and then cameback to the table, standing directly over Fownes. If you can get usoutside the dome, she said, out where a man stays      warm     long enoughfor his wife to get to know him ... if you can do that, Mr. Fownes ...you may call me Agnes.  When Humphrey Fownes stepped out of the widow's house, there was alook of such intense abstraction on his features that Lanfierre felt awistful desire to get out of the car and walk along with the man. Itwould be such a      deliciously     insane experience. (April has thirtydays, Fownes mumbled, passing them, because thirty is the largestnumber such that all smaller numbers not having a common divisorwith it are      primes     . MacBride frowned and added it to the dossier.Lanfierre sighed.)     Pinning his hopes on the Movement, Fownes went straight to thelibrary several blocks away, a shattered depressing place given overto government publications and censored old books with holes inthem. It was used so infrequently that the Movement was able to meetthere undisturbed. The librarian was a yellowed, dog-eared woman ofeighty. She spent her days reading ancient library cards and, like thebooks around her, had been rendered by time's own censor into nearunintelligibility.     Here's one, she said to him as he entered.       Gulliver's Travels.     Loaned to John Wesley Davidson on March 14, 1979 for      five     days. Whatdo you make of it?     In the litter of books and cards and dried out ink pads that surroundedthe librarian, Fownes noticed a torn dust jacket with a curiousillustration. What's that? he said.     A twister, she replied quickly. Now listen to      this     . Seven yearslater on March 21, 1986, Ella Marshall Davidson took out the same book.What do you make of      that     ?     I'd say, Humphrey Fownes said, that he ... that he recommended itto her, that one day they met in the street and he told her aboutthis book and then they ... they went to the library together and sheborrowed it and eventually, why eventually they got married.     Hah! They were brother and sister! the librarian shouted in herparched voice, her old buckram eyes laughing with cunning.     Fownes smiled weakly and looked again at the dust jacket. The twisterwas unquestionably a meteorological phenomenon. It spun ominously, likea malevolent top, and coursed the countryside destructively, carryinga Dorothy to an Oz. He couldn't help wondering if twisters did anythingto feminine pulses, if they could possibly be a part of a moonlitnight, with cocktails and roses. He absently stuffed the dust jacketin his pocket and went on into the other rooms, the librarian mumblingafter him: Edna Murdoch Featherstone, April 21, 1991, as thoughreading inscriptions on a tombstone.  The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaidladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read stories to otherpeople's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tableslooking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting.     Where did the old society fail? the leader was demanding of them. Hestood in the center of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. Heglanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as HumphreyFownes squeezed into an empty chair. We live in a dome, the leadersaid, for lack of something. An invention! What is the one thingthat the great technological societies before ours could not invent,notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise?     Fownes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. Hewaited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggledwith this problem in revolutionary dialectics.           A sound foreign policy     , the leader said, aware that no one else hadobtained the insight. If a sound foreign policy can't be created theonly alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus themovement into domes began—      by common consent of the governments     . Thisis known as self-containment.     Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lullin the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might bearranged for him to get out.     Out? the leader said, frowning. Out? Out where?     Outside the dome.     Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up andleave.     And that day I'll await impatiently, Fownes replied with marveloustact, because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My futurewife and I have to leave      now     .     Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country.You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. Anddialectically very poor.     Then you      have     discussed preparations, the practical necessities oflife in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else?Have I left anything out?     The leader sighed. The gentleman wants to know if he's left anythingout, he said to the group.     Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions.     Tell the man what he's forgotten, the leader said, walking to the farwindow and turning his back quite pointedly on them.     Everyone spoke at the same moment.       A sound foreign policy     , they allsaid, it being almost too obvious for words.  On his way out the librarian shouted at him:       A Tale of a Tub     ,thirty-five years overdue! She was calculating the fine as he closedthe door.     Humphrey Fownes' preoccupation finally came to an end when he was oneblock away from his house. It was then that he realized somethingunusual must have occurred. An orange patrol car of the security policewas parked at his front door. And something else was happening too.     His house was dancing.     It was disconcerting, and at the same time enchanting, to watch one'sresidence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sightthat for the moment he didn't give a thought to what might be causingit. But when he stepped gingerly onto the porch, which was doing itsown independent gavotte, he reached for the doorknob with an immensecuriosity.     The door flung itself open and knocked him back off the porch.     From a prone position on his miniscule front lawn, Fownes watched ashis favorite easy chair sailed out of the living room on a blast ofcold air and went pinwheeling down the avenue in the bright sunshine. Awild wind and a thick fog poured out of the house. It brought chairs,suits, small tables, lamps trailing their cords, ashtrays, sofacushions. The house was emptying itself fiercely, as if disgorging anold, spoiled meal. From deep inside he could hear the rumble of hisancient upright piano as it rolled ponderously from room to room.     He stood up; a wet wind swept over him, whipping at his face, toyingwith his hair. It was a whistling in his ears, and a tingle on hischeeks. He got hit by a shoe.     As he forced his way back to the doorway needles of rain played overhis face and he heard a voice cry out from somewhere in the living room.     Help! Lieutenant MacBride called.     Standing in the doorway with his wet hair plastered down on hisdripping scalp, the wind roaring about him, the piano rumbling in thedistance like thunder, Humphrey Fownes suddenly saw it all very clearly.           Winds     , he said in a whisper.     What's happening? MacBride yelled, crouching behind the sofa.           March     winds, he said.     What?!     April showers!     The winds roared for a moment and then MacBride's lost voice emergedfrom the blackness of the living room. These are      not     Optimum DomeConditions! the voice wailed. The temperature is      not     59 degrees.The humidity is      not     47%!  Fownes held his face up to let the rain fall on it. Moonlight! heshouted. Roses! My      soul     for a cocktail for two! He grasped thedoorway to keep from being blown out of the house.     Are you going to make it stop or aren't you! MacBride yelled.     You'll have to tell me what you did first!     I      told     him not to touch that wheel! Lanfierre. He's in the upstairsbedroom!     When he heard this Fownes plunged into the house and fought his wayup the stairs. He found Lanfierre standing outside the bedroom with awheel in his hand.       What have I done? Lanfierre asked in the monotone of shock.     Fownes took the wheel. It was off a 1995 Studebaker.     I'm not sure what's going to come of this, he said to Lanfierre withan astonishing amount of objectivity, but the entire dome air supplyis now coming through my bedroom.     The wind screamed.     Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked.     Not any more there isn't.     They started down the stairs carefully, but the wind caught them andthey quickly reached the bottom in a wet heap.     Recruiting Lieutenant MacBride from behind his sofa, the men carefullyedged out of the house and forced the front door shut.     The wind died. The fog dispersed. They stood dripping in the OptimumDome Conditions of the bright avenue.     I never figured on      this     , Lanfierre said, shaking his head.     With the front door closed the wind quickly built up inside the house.They could see the furnishing whirl past the windows. The house did awild, elated jig.     What kind of a place      is     this? MacBride said, his courage beginningto return. He took out his notebook but it was a soggy mess. He tossedit away.     Sure, he was      different     , Lanfierre murmured. I knew that much.     When the roof blew off they weren't really surprised. With a certainamount of equanimity they watched it lift off almost gracefully,standing on end for a moment before toppling to the ground. It wasstrangely slow motion, as was the black twirling cloud that now roseout of the master bedroom, spewing shorts and socks and cases everywhich way.           Now     what? MacBride said, thoroughly exasperated, as this strangeblack cloud began to accelerate, whirling about like some malevolenttop....  Humphrey Fownes took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. Heheld it up and carefully compared the spinning cloud in his bedroomwith the illustration. The cloud rose and spun, assuming the identicalshape of the illustration.     It's a twister, he said softly. A Kansas twister!     What, MacBride asked, his bravado slipping away again, what ... is atwister?     The twister roared and moved out of the bedroom, out over the rear ofthe house toward the side of the dome. It says here, Fownes shoutedover the roaring, that Dorothy traveled from Kansas to Oz in a twisterand that ... and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land      beyond theconfines of everyday living     .     MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros.     Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked.     Huge chunks of glass began to fall around them.     Fownes! MacBride shouted. This is a direct order! Make it go back!     But Fownes had already begun to run on toward the next house, dodgingmountainous puffs of glass as he went. Mrs. Deshazaway! he shouted.Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Deshazaway!     The dome weevils were going berserk trying to keep up with theprecipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then,emptied of molten glass, rushed to the Trough which they quicklyemptied and then rushed about empty-handed. Yoo-hoo! he yelled,running. The artificial sun vanished behind the mushrooming twister.Optimum temperature collapsed. Mrs. Deshazaway!      Agnes     , will youmarry me? Yoo-hoo!     Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited,dazed.     There was quite a large fall of glass.   ","Mr. Humphrey Fownes has been pickpocketed eleven times despite the weather being good. This is because he is an uncommonly preoccupied individual and has constantly been thinking about the weather for the entire day. The first person who pickpockets him is a bogus postman who jostles him while pretending to read a postal card. The next person who pickpockets him is a pretty girl who collides with him. The next people are two men who pretend to be in a heated argument. Humphrey continuously thinks about the weather outside; this allows the police to maintain tight surveillance of him. Lanfierre is one of the people in the orange car and thinks about Humphrey Fownes being unique. He tells Lieutenant MacBride that Fownes’ house sometimes shakes, which makes the other man frown. Lanfierre considers MacBride to be a barbarian because he is cynical and cannot appreciate the peculiar nature of Fownes. He goes on to tell him that the windows all close at the same time in the house. MacBride refuses to believe him and tells him to take a rest, but all of the windows close, and the house suddenly begins to shake. They continue to observe the man; Fownes goes into his house and begins to think about his dinner with Mrs. Deshazaway. The house begins to shake more, and he decides that repairs are a must. During his dinner, Mrs. Deshazaway explains how she will never marry again. The widow is a passionate woman, and she passionately tells him he forgot salt on his potatoes during the explanation of why they cannot marry because of the air. When she continues to refuse him, Fownes brings up the idea of leaving the dome city for freedom. She tells him that if they can leave, then she will let him call her by her first name. After the date, he goes to the library, where the old librarian tries to test him with old library cards. The story then cuts to a movement meeting, where the members discuss how the old society failed and the lack of a sound foreign policy. Fownes impatiently explains that he and his future wife must leave now, to which the leader explains that it is impossible because there is no sound foreign policy. When Fownes returns to the house, he finds MacBride in the doorway with dripping hair. MacBride yells that these are not optimum dome conditions, explaining that Lanfierre is in the upstairs bedroom. The entire dome air supply is going through his bedroom, and a strange black cloud appears. Fownes recognizes this as a Kansas twister and runs towards the next house for Mrs. Deshazaway. The dome glass has begun to fall, destroying the artificial sun and optimum temperature. "
"Who is Mrs. Deshazaway, and what are her characteristics? </s>     A FALL OF GLASS     By STANLEY R. LEE     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1960.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        The weatherman was always right:       Temperature, 59; humidity, 47%;       occasional light showers—but of what?        The pockets of Mr. Humphrey Fownes were being picked outrageously.     It was a splendid day. The temperature was a crisp 59 degrees, thehumidity a mildly dessicated 47%. The sun was a flaming orange ball ina cloudless blue sky.     His pockets were picked eleven times.     It should have been difficult. Under the circumstances it was amasterpiece of pocket picking. What made it possible was HumphreyFownes' abstraction; he was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. Hewas strolling along a quiet residential avenue: small private houses,one after another, a place of little traffic and minimum distractions.But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject tobegin with for a person living in a domed city. He was thinking sodeeply about it that it never occurred to him that entirely too manypeople were bumping into him. He was thinking about Optimum DomeConditions (a crisp 59 degrees, a mildly dessicated 47%) when a boguspostman, who pretended to be reading a postal card, jostled him. In theconfusion of spilled letters and apologies from both sides, the postmanrifled Fownes's handkerchief and inside jacket pockets.  He was still thinking about temperature and humidity when a pretty girlhappened along with something in her eye. They collided. She got hisright and left jacket pockets. It was much too much for coincidence.The sidewalk was wide enough to allow four people to pass at one time.He should surely have become suspicious when two men engaged in aheated argument came along. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied hisrear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of thehandkerchief pocket. It all went off very smoothly, like a game of putand take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea hewas playing.     There was an occasional tinkle of falling glass.     It fell on the streets and houses, making small geysers of shiny mist,hitting with a gentle musical sound, like the ephemeral droppings ofa celesta. It was precipitation peculiar to a dome: feather-lightfragments showering harmlessly on the city from time to time. Domeweevils, their metal arms reaching out with molten glass, roamed thehuge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing.     Humphrey Fownes strode through the puffs of falling glass stillintrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humiditythat was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was thisrather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tightsurveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of gettinghis fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayedand chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returningthem. Two blocks away from his home a careless housewife spilled afive-pound bag of flour as he was passing. It was really plaster ofParis. He left his shoe prints, stride measurement, height, weight andhandedness behind.     By the time Fownes reached his front door an entire dossier completewith photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in anorange patrol car parked down the street.  Lanfierre had undoubtedly been affected by his job.     Sitting behind the wheel of the orange car, he watched Humphrey Fownesapproach with a distinct feeling of admiration, although it was anodd, objective kind of admiration, clinical in nature. It was similarto that of a pathologist observing for the first time a new andparticularly virulent strain of pneumococcus under his microscope.     Lanfierre's job was to ferret out aberration. It couldn't be toleratedwithin the confines of a dome. Conformity had become more than a socialforce; it was a physical necessity. And, after years of working at it,Lanfierre had become an admirer of eccentricity. He came to see thatgenuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his ownsmall efforts, rarer.     Fownes was a masterpiece of queerness. He was utterly inexplicable.Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fownes.     Sometimes his house      shakes     , Lanfierre said.     House shakes, Lieutenant MacBride wrote in his notebook. Then hestopped and frowned. He reread what he'd just written.     You heard right. The house      shakes     , Lanfierre said, savoring it.     MacBride looked at the Fownes house through the magnifying glass ofthe windshield. Like from ...      side to side     ? he asked in a somewhatpatronizing tone of voice.     And up and down.     MacBride returned the notebook to the breast pocket of his orangeuniform. Go on, he said, amused. It sounds interesting. He tossedthe dossier carelessly on the back seat.     Lanfierre sat stiffly behind the wheel, affronted. The cynical MacBridecouldn't really appreciate fine aberrations. In some ways MacBridewas a barbarian. Lanfierre had held out on Fownes for months. Hehad even contrived to engage him in conversation once, a pleasantlyabsurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. It wasonly with the greatest reluctance that he finally mentioned Fownesto MacBride. After years of searching for differences Lanfierre hadseen how extraordinarily repetitious people were, echoes really, dimlyresounding echoes, each believing itself whole and separate. They spokein an incessant chatter of cliches, and their actions were unbelievablytrite.     Then a fine robust freak came along and the others—the echoes—refusedto believe it. The lieutenant was probably on the point of suggesting avacation.     Why don't you take a vacation? Lieutenant MacBride suggested.     It's like this, MacBride. Do you know what a wind is? A breeze? Azephyr?     I've heard some.     They say there are mountain-tops where winds blow all the time. Strongwinds, MacBride. Winds like you and I can't imagine. And if there wasa house sitting on such a mountain and if winds      did     blow, it wouldshake exactly the way that one does. Sometimes I get the feeling thewhole place is going to slide off its foundation and go sailing downthe avenue.  Lieutenant MacBride pursed his lips.     I'll tell you something else, Lanfierre went on. The      windows     allclose at the same time. You'll be watching and all of a sudden everysingle window in the place will drop to its sill. Lanfierre leanedback in the seat, his eyes still on the house. Sometimes I thinkthere's a whole crowd of people in there waiting for a signal—as ifthey all had something important to say but had to close the windowsfirst so no one could hear. Why else close the windows in a domed city?And then as soon as the place is buttoned up they all explode intoconversation—and that's why the house shakes.     MacBride whistled.     No, I don't need a vacation.     A falling piece of glass dissolved into a puff of gossamer against thewindshield. Lanfierre started and bumped his knee on the steering wheel.     No, you don't need a rest, MacBride said. You're starting to seeflying houses, hear loud babbling voices. You've got winds in yourbrain, Lanfierre, breezes of fatigue, zephyrs of irrationality—     At that moment, all at once, every last window in the house slammedshut.     The street was deserted and quiet, not a movement, not a sound.MacBride and Lanfierre both leaned forward, as if waiting for theghostly babble of voices to commence.     The house began to shake.     It rocked from side to side, it pitched forward and back, it yawed anddipped and twisted, straining at the mooring of its foundation. Thehouse could have been preparing to take off and sail down the....     MacBride looked at Lanfierre and Lanfierre looked at MacBride and thenthey both looked back at the dancing house.     And the      water     , Lanfierre said. The      water     he uses! He could bethe thirstiest and cleanest man in the city. He could have a wholefamily of thirsty and clean kids, and he      still     wouldn't need all thatwater.     The lieutenant had picked up the dossier. He thumbed through the pagesnow in amazement. Where do you get a guy like this? he asked. Didyou see what he carries in his pockets?     And compasses won't work on this street.     The lieutenant lit a cigarette and sighed.     He usually sighed when making the decision to raid a dwelling. Itexpressed his weariness and distaste for people who went off and gotneurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. Therewas something implacable about his sighs.     He'll be coming out soon, Lanfierre said. He eats supper next doorwith a widow. Then he goes to the library. Always the same. Supper atthe widow's next door and then the library.     MacBride's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. The library? hesaid. Is he in with that bunch?     Lanfierre nodded.     Should be very interesting, MacBride said slowly.     I can't wait to see what he's got in there, Lanfierre murmured,watching the house with a consuming interest.     They sat there smoking in silence and every now and then their eyeswidened as the house danced a new step.  Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off hisshoes. He hadn't seen the patrol car and this intense preoccupationof his was also responsible for the dancing house—he simply hadn'tnoticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. Hehad a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and thehigh-pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of thehouse. At least, he called it buffeting; he'd never thought to watchfrom outside.     He went in and threw his jacket on the sofa, there being no roomleft in the closets. Crossing the living room he stopped to twist adraw-pull.     Every window slammed shut.     Tight as a kite, he thought, satisfied. He continued on toward thecloset at the foot of the stairs and then stopped again. Was thatright? No,      snug as a hug in a rug     . He went on, thinking:      The olddevils.       The downstairs closet was like a great watch case, a profusion ofwheels surrounding the Master Mechanism, which was a miniature see-sawthat went back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels had acurious stateliness about them. They were all quite old, salvaged fromgrandfather's clocks and music boxes and they went around in gracefulcircles at the rate of 30 and 31 times an hour ... although therewas one slightly eccentric cam that vacillated between 28 and 29. Hewatched as they spun and flashed in the darkness, and then set them forseven o'clock in the evening, April seventh, any year.     Outside, the domed city vanished.     It was replaced by an illusion. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear,the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a moresatisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion.Looking through the window he saw only a garden.     Instead of an orange sun at perpetual high noon, there was a red sunsetting brilliantly, marred only by an occasional arcover which leftthe smell of ozone in the air. There was also a gigantic moon. It hid ahuge area of sky, and it sang. The sun and moon both looked down upon agarden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses.     Moonlight, he thought, and roses. Satisfactory.      And cocktails fortwo.     Blast, he'd never be able to figure that one out! He watched asthe moon played,      Oh, You Beautiful Doll     and the neon roses flashedslowly from red to violet, then went back to the closet and turned onthe scent. The house began to smell like an immensely concentrated roseas the moon shifted to      People Will Say We're In Love     .  He rubbed his chin critically. It      seemed     all right. A dreamy sunset,an enchanted moon, flowers, scent.     They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rosereally smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. Butthen, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive.      Insist     on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realisticromantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your pulse? Do you feel icyfingers marching up and down your spine?     His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read thatbook on ancient mores and courtship customs.     How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incrediblylong and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amountof falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. Nomeant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and thecircumstances. It could mean yes, it could mean ask me again later onthis evening.     He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rain-maker,thinking roguishly:      Thou shalt not inundate.     The risks he was taking!A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant      Singing in the Rain     . Undiminished, the yellow moon and the red suncontinued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over anddemolished several of the neon roses.     The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steeringwheel from an old 1995 Studebaker. This was on the bootleg pipe; hegingerly turned it.     Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle ofwinds came to him.     He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This wasimportant; the window had a really fixed attitude about air currents.The neon roses bent and tinkled against each other as the wind rose andthe moon shook a trifle as it whispered      Cuddle Up a Little Closer     .     He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start.      My dearMrs. Deshazaway.     Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romanticgarden; time to be a bit forward.      My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway.     No.Contrived. How about a simple,      Dear Mrs. Deshazaway     . That might beit.      I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn'trather stay over instead of going home....       Preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear theshaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connectedto wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they madeone gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance ashigh-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening theStudebaker valve wider and wider....     The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sunshot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moonfell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning      When theBlue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day     .     The shaking house finally woke him up. He scrambled upstairs to theStudebaker wheel and shut it off.     At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn'tthe first time the winds got out of line.     Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all downand went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months,about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April.Its days were thirty and it followed September.      And all the rest havethirty-one.     What a strange people, the ancients!     He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street.  Men are too perishable, Mrs. Deshazaway said over dinner. For allpractical purposes I'm never going to marry again. All my husbands die.     Would you pass the beets, please? Humphrey Fownes said.     She handed him a platter of steaming red beets. And don't look at methat way, she said. I'm      not     going to marry you and if you wantreasons I'll give you four of them. Andrew. Curt. Norman. And Alphonse.     The widow was a passionate woman. She did everythingpassionately—talking, cooking, dressing. Her beets were passionatelyred. Her clothes rustled and her high heels clicked and her jewelrytinkled. She was possessed by an uncontrollable dynamism. Fownes hadnever known anyone like her. You forgot to put salt on the potatoes,she said passionately, then went on as calmly as it was possible forher to be, to explain why she couldn't marry him. Do you have anyidea what people are saying? They're all saying I'm a cannibal! I robmy husbands of their life force and when they're empty I carry theirbodies outside on my way to the justice of the peace.     As long as there are people, he said philosophically, there'll betalk.     But it's the air! Why don't they talk about that? The air is stale,I'm positive. It's not nourishing. The air is stale and Andrew, Curt,Norman and Alphonse couldn't stand it. Poor Alphonse. He was never sohealthy as on the day he was born. From then on things got steadilyworse for him.     I don't seem to mind the air.     She threw up her hands. You'd be the worst of the lot! She left thetable, rustling and tinkling about the room. I can just hear them. Trysome of the asparagus.      Five.     That's what they'd say. That woman didit again. And the plain fact is I don't want you on my record.     Really, Fownes protested. I feel splendid. Never better.     He could hear her moving about and then felt her hands on hisshoulders. And what about those      very     elaborate plans you've beenmaking to seduce me?     Fownes froze with three asparagus hanging from his fork.     Don't you think      they'll     find out?      I     found out and you can bet      they     will. It's my fault, I guess. I talk too much. And I don'talways tell the truth. To be completely honest with you, Mr. Fownes, itwasn't the old customs at all standing between us, it was air. I can'thave another man die on me, it's bad for my self-esteem. And now you'vegone and done something good and criminal, something peculiar.  Fownes put his fork down. Dear Mrs. Deshazaway, he started to say.     And of course when they do find out and they ask you why, Mr. Fownes,you'll tell them. No, no heroics, please! When they ask a man aquestion he always answers and you will too. You'll tell them I wantedto be courted and when they hear that they'll be around to ask      me     afew questions. You see, we're both a bit queer.     I hadn't thought of that, Fownes said quietly.     Oh, it doesn't really matter. I'll join Andrew, Curt, Norman—     That won't be necessary, Fownes said with unusual force. With alldue respect to Andrew, Curt, Norman and Alphonse, I might as well statehere and now I have other plans for you, Mrs. Deshazaway.     But my dear Mr. Fownes, she said, leaning across the table. We'relost, you and I.     Not if we could leave the dome, Fownes said quietly.     That's impossible! How?     In no hurry, now that he had the widow's complete attention, Fownesleaned across the table and whispered: Fresh air, Mrs. Deshazaway?Space? Miles and miles of space where the real-estate monopoly hasno control whatever? Where the      wind     blows across      prairies     ; or isit the other way around? No matter. How would you like      that     , Mrs.Deshazaway?     Breathing somewhat faster than usual, the widow rested her chin on hertwo hands. Pray continue, she said.     Endless vistas of moonlight and roses? April showers, Mrs. Deshazaway.And June, which as you may know follows directly upon April and issupposed to be the month of brides, of marrying. June also lies beyondthe dome.     I see.           And     , Mr. Fownes added, his voice a honeyed whisper, they saythat somewhere out in the space and the roses and the moonlight,the sleeping equinox yawns and rises because on a certain day it's      vernal     and that's when it roams the Open Country where geigers nolonger scintillate.           My.      Mrs. Deshazaway rose, paced slowly to the window and then cameback to the table, standing directly over Fownes. If you can get usoutside the dome, she said, out where a man stays      warm     long enoughfor his wife to get to know him ... if you can do that, Mr. Fownes ...you may call me Agnes.  When Humphrey Fownes stepped out of the widow's house, there was alook of such intense abstraction on his features that Lanfierre felt awistful desire to get out of the car and walk along with the man. Itwould be such a      deliciously     insane experience. (April has thirtydays, Fownes mumbled, passing them, because thirty is the largestnumber such that all smaller numbers not having a common divisorwith it are      primes     . MacBride frowned and added it to the dossier.Lanfierre sighed.)     Pinning his hopes on the Movement, Fownes went straight to thelibrary several blocks away, a shattered depressing place given overto government publications and censored old books with holes inthem. It was used so infrequently that the Movement was able to meetthere undisturbed. The librarian was a yellowed, dog-eared woman ofeighty. She spent her days reading ancient library cards and, like thebooks around her, had been rendered by time's own censor into nearunintelligibility.     Here's one, she said to him as he entered.       Gulliver's Travels.     Loaned to John Wesley Davidson on March 14, 1979 for      five     days. Whatdo you make of it?     In the litter of books and cards and dried out ink pads that surroundedthe librarian, Fownes noticed a torn dust jacket with a curiousillustration. What's that? he said.     A twister, she replied quickly. Now listen to      this     . Seven yearslater on March 21, 1986, Ella Marshall Davidson took out the same book.What do you make of      that     ?     I'd say, Humphrey Fownes said, that he ... that he recommended itto her, that one day they met in the street and he told her aboutthis book and then they ... they went to the library together and sheborrowed it and eventually, why eventually they got married.     Hah! They were brother and sister! the librarian shouted in herparched voice, her old buckram eyes laughing with cunning.     Fownes smiled weakly and looked again at the dust jacket. The twisterwas unquestionably a meteorological phenomenon. It spun ominously, likea malevolent top, and coursed the countryside destructively, carryinga Dorothy to an Oz. He couldn't help wondering if twisters did anythingto feminine pulses, if they could possibly be a part of a moonlitnight, with cocktails and roses. He absently stuffed the dust jacketin his pocket and went on into the other rooms, the librarian mumblingafter him: Edna Murdoch Featherstone, April 21, 1991, as thoughreading inscriptions on a tombstone.  The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaidladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read stories to otherpeople's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tableslooking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting.     Where did the old society fail? the leader was demanding of them. Hestood in the center of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. Heglanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as HumphreyFownes squeezed into an empty chair. We live in a dome, the leadersaid, for lack of something. An invention! What is the one thingthat the great technological societies before ours could not invent,notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise?     Fownes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. Hewaited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggledwith this problem in revolutionary dialectics.           A sound foreign policy     , the leader said, aware that no one else hadobtained the insight. If a sound foreign policy can't be created theonly alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus themovement into domes began—      by common consent of the governments     . Thisis known as self-containment.     Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lullin the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might bearranged for him to get out.     Out? the leader said, frowning. Out? Out where?     Outside the dome.     Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up andleave.     And that day I'll await impatiently, Fownes replied with marveloustact, because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My futurewife and I have to leave      now     .     Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country.You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. Anddialectically very poor.     Then you      have     discussed preparations, the practical necessities oflife in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else?Have I left anything out?     The leader sighed. The gentleman wants to know if he's left anythingout, he said to the group.     Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions.     Tell the man what he's forgotten, the leader said, walking to the farwindow and turning his back quite pointedly on them.     Everyone spoke at the same moment.       A sound foreign policy     , they allsaid, it being almost too obvious for words.  On his way out the librarian shouted at him:       A Tale of a Tub     ,thirty-five years overdue! She was calculating the fine as he closedthe door.     Humphrey Fownes' preoccupation finally came to an end when he was oneblock away from his house. It was then that he realized somethingunusual must have occurred. An orange patrol car of the security policewas parked at his front door. And something else was happening too.     His house was dancing.     It was disconcerting, and at the same time enchanting, to watch one'sresidence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sightthat for the moment he didn't give a thought to what might be causingit. But when he stepped gingerly onto the porch, which was doing itsown independent gavotte, he reached for the doorknob with an immensecuriosity.     The door flung itself open and knocked him back off the porch.     From a prone position on his miniscule front lawn, Fownes watched ashis favorite easy chair sailed out of the living room on a blast ofcold air and went pinwheeling down the avenue in the bright sunshine. Awild wind and a thick fog poured out of the house. It brought chairs,suits, small tables, lamps trailing their cords, ashtrays, sofacushions. The house was emptying itself fiercely, as if disgorging anold, spoiled meal. From deep inside he could hear the rumble of hisancient upright piano as it rolled ponderously from room to room.     He stood up; a wet wind swept over him, whipping at his face, toyingwith his hair. It was a whistling in his ears, and a tingle on hischeeks. He got hit by a shoe.     As he forced his way back to the doorway needles of rain played overhis face and he heard a voice cry out from somewhere in the living room.     Help! Lieutenant MacBride called.     Standing in the doorway with his wet hair plastered down on hisdripping scalp, the wind roaring about him, the piano rumbling in thedistance like thunder, Humphrey Fownes suddenly saw it all very clearly.           Winds     , he said in a whisper.     What's happening? MacBride yelled, crouching behind the sofa.           March     winds, he said.     What?!     April showers!     The winds roared for a moment and then MacBride's lost voice emergedfrom the blackness of the living room. These are      not     Optimum DomeConditions! the voice wailed. The temperature is      not     59 degrees.The humidity is      not     47%!  Fownes held his face up to let the rain fall on it. Moonlight! heshouted. Roses! My      soul     for a cocktail for two! He grasped thedoorway to keep from being blown out of the house.     Are you going to make it stop or aren't you! MacBride yelled.     You'll have to tell me what you did first!     I      told     him not to touch that wheel! Lanfierre. He's in the upstairsbedroom!     When he heard this Fownes plunged into the house and fought his wayup the stairs. He found Lanfierre standing outside the bedroom with awheel in his hand.       What have I done? Lanfierre asked in the monotone of shock.     Fownes took the wheel. It was off a 1995 Studebaker.     I'm not sure what's going to come of this, he said to Lanfierre withan astonishing amount of objectivity, but the entire dome air supplyis now coming through my bedroom.     The wind screamed.     Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked.     Not any more there isn't.     They started down the stairs carefully, but the wind caught them andthey quickly reached the bottom in a wet heap.     Recruiting Lieutenant MacBride from behind his sofa, the men carefullyedged out of the house and forced the front door shut.     The wind died. The fog dispersed. They stood dripping in the OptimumDome Conditions of the bright avenue.     I never figured on      this     , Lanfierre said, shaking his head.     With the front door closed the wind quickly built up inside the house.They could see the furnishing whirl past the windows. The house did awild, elated jig.     What kind of a place      is     this? MacBride said, his courage beginningto return. He took out his notebook but it was a soggy mess. He tossedit away.     Sure, he was      different     , Lanfierre murmured. I knew that much.     When the roof blew off they weren't really surprised. With a certainamount of equanimity they watched it lift off almost gracefully,standing on end for a moment before toppling to the ground. It wasstrangely slow motion, as was the black twirling cloud that now roseout of the master bedroom, spewing shorts and socks and cases everywhich way.           Now     what? MacBride said, thoroughly exasperated, as this strangeblack cloud began to accelerate, whirling about like some malevolenttop....  Humphrey Fownes took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. Heheld it up and carefully compared the spinning cloud in his bedroomwith the illustration. The cloud rose and spun, assuming the identicalshape of the illustration.     It's a twister, he said softly. A Kansas twister!     What, MacBride asked, his bravado slipping away again, what ... is atwister?     The twister roared and moved out of the bedroom, out over the rear ofthe house toward the side of the dome. It says here, Fownes shoutedover the roaring, that Dorothy traveled from Kansas to Oz in a twisterand that ... and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land      beyond theconfines of everyday living     .     MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros.     Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked.     Huge chunks of glass began to fall around them.     Fownes! MacBride shouted. This is a direct order! Make it go back!     But Fownes had already begun to run on toward the next house, dodgingmountainous puffs of glass as he went. Mrs. Deshazaway! he shouted.Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Deshazaway!     The dome weevils were going berserk trying to keep up with theprecipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then,emptied of molten glass, rushed to the Trough which they quicklyemptied and then rushed about empty-handed. Yoo-hoo! he yelled,running. The artificial sun vanished behind the mushrooming twister.Optimum temperature collapsed. Mrs. Deshazaway!      Agnes     , will youmarry me? Yoo-hoo!     Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited,dazed.     There was quite a large fall of glass.   ","Mrs. Agnes Deshazaway is a widow who had previously married four men. All of her four husbands died; she claims that she will never marry again. However, she is also considered to be a passionate woman who does everything passionately. Whether it be talking, cooking, dressing, everything about her is passionate. She also has uncontrollable dynamism, and Fownes remarks that he has never known anyone like her. Despite her passion, she is also self-conscious of what other people think of her, telling Fownes that there is a rumor that she is a cannibal. She blames her husbands’ deaths on the air and gets angry when Fownes says that he does not mind. Despite how reluctant she is to marry Fownes, Mrs. Deshazaway also has a hopeful side to her. She is quite attentive when Fownes tells her the possibility of leaving the dome, telling him that she will allow him to marry her if the both of them can leave. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>     A FALL OF GLASS     By STANLEY R. LEE     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1960.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        The weatherman was always right:       Temperature, 59; humidity, 47%;       occasional light showers—but of what?        The pockets of Mr. Humphrey Fownes were being picked outrageously.     It was a splendid day. The temperature was a crisp 59 degrees, thehumidity a mildly dessicated 47%. The sun was a flaming orange ball ina cloudless blue sky.     His pockets were picked eleven times.     It should have been difficult. Under the circumstances it was amasterpiece of pocket picking. What made it possible was HumphreyFownes' abstraction; he was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. Hewas strolling along a quiet residential avenue: small private houses,one after another, a place of little traffic and minimum distractions.But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject tobegin with for a person living in a domed city. He was thinking sodeeply about it that it never occurred to him that entirely too manypeople were bumping into him. He was thinking about Optimum DomeConditions (a crisp 59 degrees, a mildly dessicated 47%) when a boguspostman, who pretended to be reading a postal card, jostled him. In theconfusion of spilled letters and apologies from both sides, the postmanrifled Fownes's handkerchief and inside jacket pockets.  He was still thinking about temperature and humidity when a pretty girlhappened along with something in her eye. They collided. She got hisright and left jacket pockets. It was much too much for coincidence.The sidewalk was wide enough to allow four people to pass at one time.He should surely have become suspicious when two men engaged in aheated argument came along. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied hisrear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of thehandkerchief pocket. It all went off very smoothly, like a game of putand take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea hewas playing.     There was an occasional tinkle of falling glass.     It fell on the streets and houses, making small geysers of shiny mist,hitting with a gentle musical sound, like the ephemeral droppings ofa celesta. It was precipitation peculiar to a dome: feather-lightfragments showering harmlessly on the city from time to time. Domeweevils, their metal arms reaching out with molten glass, roamed thehuge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing.     Humphrey Fownes strode through the puffs of falling glass stillintrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humiditythat was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was thisrather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tightsurveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of gettinghis fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayedand chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returningthem. Two blocks away from his home a careless housewife spilled afive-pound bag of flour as he was passing. It was really plaster ofParis. He left his shoe prints, stride measurement, height, weight andhandedness behind.     By the time Fownes reached his front door an entire dossier completewith photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in anorange patrol car parked down the street.  Lanfierre had undoubtedly been affected by his job.     Sitting behind the wheel of the orange car, he watched Humphrey Fownesapproach with a distinct feeling of admiration, although it was anodd, objective kind of admiration, clinical in nature. It was similarto that of a pathologist observing for the first time a new andparticularly virulent strain of pneumococcus under his microscope.     Lanfierre's job was to ferret out aberration. It couldn't be toleratedwithin the confines of a dome. Conformity had become more than a socialforce; it was a physical necessity. And, after years of working at it,Lanfierre had become an admirer of eccentricity. He came to see thatgenuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his ownsmall efforts, rarer.     Fownes was a masterpiece of queerness. He was utterly inexplicable.Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fownes.     Sometimes his house      shakes     , Lanfierre said.     House shakes, Lieutenant MacBride wrote in his notebook. Then hestopped and frowned. He reread what he'd just written.     You heard right. The house      shakes     , Lanfierre said, savoring it.     MacBride looked at the Fownes house through the magnifying glass ofthe windshield. Like from ...      side to side     ? he asked in a somewhatpatronizing tone of voice.     And up and down.     MacBride returned the notebook to the breast pocket of his orangeuniform. Go on, he said, amused. It sounds interesting. He tossedthe dossier carelessly on the back seat.     Lanfierre sat stiffly behind the wheel, affronted. The cynical MacBridecouldn't really appreciate fine aberrations. In some ways MacBridewas a barbarian. Lanfierre had held out on Fownes for months. Hehad even contrived to engage him in conversation once, a pleasantlyabsurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. It wasonly with the greatest reluctance that he finally mentioned Fownesto MacBride. After years of searching for differences Lanfierre hadseen how extraordinarily repetitious people were, echoes really, dimlyresounding echoes, each believing itself whole and separate. They spokein an incessant chatter of cliches, and their actions were unbelievablytrite.     Then a fine robust freak came along and the others—the echoes—refusedto believe it. The lieutenant was probably on the point of suggesting avacation.     Why don't you take a vacation? Lieutenant MacBride suggested.     It's like this, MacBride. Do you know what a wind is? A breeze? Azephyr?     I've heard some.     They say there are mountain-tops where winds blow all the time. Strongwinds, MacBride. Winds like you and I can't imagine. And if there wasa house sitting on such a mountain and if winds      did     blow, it wouldshake exactly the way that one does. Sometimes I get the feeling thewhole place is going to slide off its foundation and go sailing downthe avenue.  Lieutenant MacBride pursed his lips.     I'll tell you something else, Lanfierre went on. The      windows     allclose at the same time. You'll be watching and all of a sudden everysingle window in the place will drop to its sill. Lanfierre leanedback in the seat, his eyes still on the house. Sometimes I thinkthere's a whole crowd of people in there waiting for a signal—as ifthey all had something important to say but had to close the windowsfirst so no one could hear. Why else close the windows in a domed city?And then as soon as the place is buttoned up they all explode intoconversation—and that's why the house shakes.     MacBride whistled.     No, I don't need a vacation.     A falling piece of glass dissolved into a puff of gossamer against thewindshield. Lanfierre started and bumped his knee on the steering wheel.     No, you don't need a rest, MacBride said. You're starting to seeflying houses, hear loud babbling voices. You've got winds in yourbrain, Lanfierre, breezes of fatigue, zephyrs of irrationality—     At that moment, all at once, every last window in the house slammedshut.     The street was deserted and quiet, not a movement, not a sound.MacBride and Lanfierre both leaned forward, as if waiting for theghostly babble of voices to commence.     The house began to shake.     It rocked from side to side, it pitched forward and back, it yawed anddipped and twisted, straining at the mooring of its foundation. Thehouse could have been preparing to take off and sail down the....     MacBride looked at Lanfierre and Lanfierre looked at MacBride and thenthey both looked back at the dancing house.     And the      water     , Lanfierre said. The      water     he uses! He could bethe thirstiest and cleanest man in the city. He could have a wholefamily of thirsty and clean kids, and he      still     wouldn't need all thatwater.     The lieutenant had picked up the dossier. He thumbed through the pagesnow in amazement. Where do you get a guy like this? he asked. Didyou see what he carries in his pockets?     And compasses won't work on this street.     The lieutenant lit a cigarette and sighed.     He usually sighed when making the decision to raid a dwelling. Itexpressed his weariness and distaste for people who went off and gotneurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. Therewas something implacable about his sighs.     He'll be coming out soon, Lanfierre said. He eats supper next doorwith a widow. Then he goes to the library. Always the same. Supper atthe widow's next door and then the library.     MacBride's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. The library? hesaid. Is he in with that bunch?     Lanfierre nodded.     Should be very interesting, MacBride said slowly.     I can't wait to see what he's got in there, Lanfierre murmured,watching the house with a consuming interest.     They sat there smoking in silence and every now and then their eyeswidened as the house danced a new step.  Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off hisshoes. He hadn't seen the patrol car and this intense preoccupationof his was also responsible for the dancing house—he simply hadn'tnoticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. Hehad a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and thehigh-pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of thehouse. At least, he called it buffeting; he'd never thought to watchfrom outside.     He went in and threw his jacket on the sofa, there being no roomleft in the closets. Crossing the living room he stopped to twist adraw-pull.     Every window slammed shut.     Tight as a kite, he thought, satisfied. He continued on toward thecloset at the foot of the stairs and then stopped again. Was thatright? No,      snug as a hug in a rug     . He went on, thinking:      The olddevils.       The downstairs closet was like a great watch case, a profusion ofwheels surrounding the Master Mechanism, which was a miniature see-sawthat went back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels had acurious stateliness about them. They were all quite old, salvaged fromgrandfather's clocks and music boxes and they went around in gracefulcircles at the rate of 30 and 31 times an hour ... although therewas one slightly eccentric cam that vacillated between 28 and 29. Hewatched as they spun and flashed in the darkness, and then set them forseven o'clock in the evening, April seventh, any year.     Outside, the domed city vanished.     It was replaced by an illusion. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear,the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a moresatisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion.Looking through the window he saw only a garden.     Instead of an orange sun at perpetual high noon, there was a red sunsetting brilliantly, marred only by an occasional arcover which leftthe smell of ozone in the air. There was also a gigantic moon. It hid ahuge area of sky, and it sang. The sun and moon both looked down upon agarden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses.     Moonlight, he thought, and roses. Satisfactory.      And cocktails fortwo.     Blast, he'd never be able to figure that one out! He watched asthe moon played,      Oh, You Beautiful Doll     and the neon roses flashedslowly from red to violet, then went back to the closet and turned onthe scent. The house began to smell like an immensely concentrated roseas the moon shifted to      People Will Say We're In Love     .  He rubbed his chin critically. It      seemed     all right. A dreamy sunset,an enchanted moon, flowers, scent.     They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rosereally smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. Butthen, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive.      Insist     on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realisticromantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your pulse? Do you feel icyfingers marching up and down your spine?     His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read thatbook on ancient mores and courtship customs.     How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incrediblylong and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amountof falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. Nomeant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and thecircumstances. It could mean yes, it could mean ask me again later onthis evening.     He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rain-maker,thinking roguishly:      Thou shalt not inundate.     The risks he was taking!A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant      Singing in the Rain     . Undiminished, the yellow moon and the red suncontinued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over anddemolished several of the neon roses.     The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steeringwheel from an old 1995 Studebaker. This was on the bootleg pipe; hegingerly turned it.     Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle ofwinds came to him.     He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This wasimportant; the window had a really fixed attitude about air currents.The neon roses bent and tinkled against each other as the wind rose andthe moon shook a trifle as it whispered      Cuddle Up a Little Closer     .     He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start.      My dearMrs. Deshazaway.     Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romanticgarden; time to be a bit forward.      My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway.     No.Contrived. How about a simple,      Dear Mrs. Deshazaway     . That might beit.      I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn'trather stay over instead of going home....       Preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear theshaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connectedto wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they madeone gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance ashigh-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening theStudebaker valve wider and wider....     The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sunshot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moonfell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning      When theBlue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day     .     The shaking house finally woke him up. He scrambled upstairs to theStudebaker wheel and shut it off.     At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn'tthe first time the winds got out of line.     Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all downand went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months,about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April.Its days were thirty and it followed September.      And all the rest havethirty-one.     What a strange people, the ancients!     He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street.  Men are too perishable, Mrs. Deshazaway said over dinner. For allpractical purposes I'm never going to marry again. All my husbands die.     Would you pass the beets, please? Humphrey Fownes said.     She handed him a platter of steaming red beets. And don't look at methat way, she said. I'm      not     going to marry you and if you wantreasons I'll give you four of them. Andrew. Curt. Norman. And Alphonse.     The widow was a passionate woman. She did everythingpassionately—talking, cooking, dressing. Her beets were passionatelyred. Her clothes rustled and her high heels clicked and her jewelrytinkled. She was possessed by an uncontrollable dynamism. Fownes hadnever known anyone like her. You forgot to put salt on the potatoes,she said passionately, then went on as calmly as it was possible forher to be, to explain why she couldn't marry him. Do you have anyidea what people are saying? They're all saying I'm a cannibal! I robmy husbands of their life force and when they're empty I carry theirbodies outside on my way to the justice of the peace.     As long as there are people, he said philosophically, there'll betalk.     But it's the air! Why don't they talk about that? The air is stale,I'm positive. It's not nourishing. The air is stale and Andrew, Curt,Norman and Alphonse couldn't stand it. Poor Alphonse. He was never sohealthy as on the day he was born. From then on things got steadilyworse for him.     I don't seem to mind the air.     She threw up her hands. You'd be the worst of the lot! She left thetable, rustling and tinkling about the room. I can just hear them. Trysome of the asparagus.      Five.     That's what they'd say. That woman didit again. And the plain fact is I don't want you on my record.     Really, Fownes protested. I feel splendid. Never better.     He could hear her moving about and then felt her hands on hisshoulders. And what about those      very     elaborate plans you've beenmaking to seduce me?     Fownes froze with three asparagus hanging from his fork.     Don't you think      they'll     find out?      I     found out and you can bet      they     will. It's my fault, I guess. I talk too much. And I don'talways tell the truth. To be completely honest with you, Mr. Fownes, itwasn't the old customs at all standing between us, it was air. I can'thave another man die on me, it's bad for my self-esteem. And now you'vegone and done something good and criminal, something peculiar.  Fownes put his fork down. Dear Mrs. Deshazaway, he started to say.     And of course when they do find out and they ask you why, Mr. Fownes,you'll tell them. No, no heroics, please! When they ask a man aquestion he always answers and you will too. You'll tell them I wantedto be courted and when they hear that they'll be around to ask      me     afew questions. You see, we're both a bit queer.     I hadn't thought of that, Fownes said quietly.     Oh, it doesn't really matter. I'll join Andrew, Curt, Norman—     That won't be necessary, Fownes said with unusual force. With alldue respect to Andrew, Curt, Norman and Alphonse, I might as well statehere and now I have other plans for you, Mrs. Deshazaway.     But my dear Mr. Fownes, she said, leaning across the table. We'relost, you and I.     Not if we could leave the dome, Fownes said quietly.     That's impossible! How?     In no hurry, now that he had the widow's complete attention, Fownesleaned across the table and whispered: Fresh air, Mrs. Deshazaway?Space? Miles and miles of space where the real-estate monopoly hasno control whatever? Where the      wind     blows across      prairies     ; or isit the other way around? No matter. How would you like      that     , Mrs.Deshazaway?     Breathing somewhat faster than usual, the widow rested her chin on hertwo hands. Pray continue, she said.     Endless vistas of moonlight and roses? April showers, Mrs. Deshazaway.And June, which as you may know follows directly upon April and issupposed to be the month of brides, of marrying. June also lies beyondthe dome.     I see.           And     , Mr. Fownes added, his voice a honeyed whisper, they saythat somewhere out in the space and the roses and the moonlight,the sleeping equinox yawns and rises because on a certain day it's      vernal     and that's when it roams the Open Country where geigers nolonger scintillate.           My.      Mrs. Deshazaway rose, paced slowly to the window and then cameback to the table, standing directly over Fownes. If you can get usoutside the dome, she said, out where a man stays      warm     long enoughfor his wife to get to know him ... if you can do that, Mr. Fownes ...you may call me Agnes.  When Humphrey Fownes stepped out of the widow's house, there was alook of such intense abstraction on his features that Lanfierre felt awistful desire to get out of the car and walk along with the man. Itwould be such a      deliciously     insane experience. (April has thirtydays, Fownes mumbled, passing them, because thirty is the largestnumber such that all smaller numbers not having a common divisorwith it are      primes     . MacBride frowned and added it to the dossier.Lanfierre sighed.)     Pinning his hopes on the Movement, Fownes went straight to thelibrary several blocks away, a shattered depressing place given overto government publications and censored old books with holes inthem. It was used so infrequently that the Movement was able to meetthere undisturbed. The librarian was a yellowed, dog-eared woman ofeighty. She spent her days reading ancient library cards and, like thebooks around her, had been rendered by time's own censor into nearunintelligibility.     Here's one, she said to him as he entered.       Gulliver's Travels.     Loaned to John Wesley Davidson on March 14, 1979 for      five     days. Whatdo you make of it?     In the litter of books and cards and dried out ink pads that surroundedthe librarian, Fownes noticed a torn dust jacket with a curiousillustration. What's that? he said.     A twister, she replied quickly. Now listen to      this     . Seven yearslater on March 21, 1986, Ella Marshall Davidson took out the same book.What do you make of      that     ?     I'd say, Humphrey Fownes said, that he ... that he recommended itto her, that one day they met in the street and he told her aboutthis book and then they ... they went to the library together and sheborrowed it and eventually, why eventually they got married.     Hah! They were brother and sister! the librarian shouted in herparched voice, her old buckram eyes laughing with cunning.     Fownes smiled weakly and looked again at the dust jacket. The twisterwas unquestionably a meteorological phenomenon. It spun ominously, likea malevolent top, and coursed the countryside destructively, carryinga Dorothy to an Oz. He couldn't help wondering if twisters did anythingto feminine pulses, if they could possibly be a part of a moonlitnight, with cocktails and roses. He absently stuffed the dust jacketin his pocket and went on into the other rooms, the librarian mumblingafter him: Edna Murdoch Featherstone, April 21, 1991, as thoughreading inscriptions on a tombstone.  The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaidladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read stories to otherpeople's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tableslooking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting.     Where did the old society fail? the leader was demanding of them. Hestood in the center of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. Heglanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as HumphreyFownes squeezed into an empty chair. We live in a dome, the leadersaid, for lack of something. An invention! What is the one thingthat the great technological societies before ours could not invent,notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise?     Fownes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. Hewaited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggledwith this problem in revolutionary dialectics.           A sound foreign policy     , the leader said, aware that no one else hadobtained the insight. If a sound foreign policy can't be created theonly alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus themovement into domes began—      by common consent of the governments     . Thisis known as self-containment.     Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lullin the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might bearranged for him to get out.     Out? the leader said, frowning. Out? Out where?     Outside the dome.     Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up andleave.     And that day I'll await impatiently, Fownes replied with marveloustact, because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My futurewife and I have to leave      now     .     Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country.You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. Anddialectically very poor.     Then you      have     discussed preparations, the practical necessities oflife in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else?Have I left anything out?     The leader sighed. The gentleman wants to know if he's left anythingout, he said to the group.     Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions.     Tell the man what he's forgotten, the leader said, walking to the farwindow and turning his back quite pointedly on them.     Everyone spoke at the same moment.       A sound foreign policy     , they allsaid, it being almost too obvious for words.  On his way out the librarian shouted at him:       A Tale of a Tub     ,thirty-five years overdue! She was calculating the fine as he closedthe door.     Humphrey Fownes' preoccupation finally came to an end when he was oneblock away from his house. It was then that he realized somethingunusual must have occurred. An orange patrol car of the security policewas parked at his front door. And something else was happening too.     His house was dancing.     It was disconcerting, and at the same time enchanting, to watch one'sresidence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sightthat for the moment he didn't give a thought to what might be causingit. But when he stepped gingerly onto the porch, which was doing itsown independent gavotte, he reached for the doorknob with an immensecuriosity.     The door flung itself open and knocked him back off the porch.     From a prone position on his miniscule front lawn, Fownes watched ashis favorite easy chair sailed out of the living room on a blast ofcold air and went pinwheeling down the avenue in the bright sunshine. Awild wind and a thick fog poured out of the house. It brought chairs,suits, small tables, lamps trailing their cords, ashtrays, sofacushions. The house was emptying itself fiercely, as if disgorging anold, spoiled meal. From deep inside he could hear the rumble of hisancient upright piano as it rolled ponderously from room to room.     He stood up; a wet wind swept over him, whipping at his face, toyingwith his hair. It was a whistling in his ears, and a tingle on hischeeks. He got hit by a shoe.     As he forced his way back to the doorway needles of rain played overhis face and he heard a voice cry out from somewhere in the living room.     Help! Lieutenant MacBride called.     Standing in the doorway with his wet hair plastered down on hisdripping scalp, the wind roaring about him, the piano rumbling in thedistance like thunder, Humphrey Fownes suddenly saw it all very clearly.           Winds     , he said in a whisper.     What's happening? MacBride yelled, crouching behind the sofa.           March     winds, he said.     What?!     April showers!     The winds roared for a moment and then MacBride's lost voice emergedfrom the blackness of the living room. These are      not     Optimum DomeConditions! the voice wailed. The temperature is      not     59 degrees.The humidity is      not     47%!  Fownes held his face up to let the rain fall on it. Moonlight! heshouted. Roses! My      soul     for a cocktail for two! He grasped thedoorway to keep from being blown out of the house.     Are you going to make it stop or aren't you! MacBride yelled.     You'll have to tell me what you did first!     I      told     him not to touch that wheel! Lanfierre. He's in the upstairsbedroom!     When he heard this Fownes plunged into the house and fought his wayup the stairs. He found Lanfierre standing outside the bedroom with awheel in his hand.       What have I done? Lanfierre asked in the monotone of shock.     Fownes took the wheel. It was off a 1995 Studebaker.     I'm not sure what's going to come of this, he said to Lanfierre withan astonishing amount of objectivity, but the entire dome air supplyis now coming through my bedroom.     The wind screamed.     Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked.     Not any more there isn't.     They started down the stairs carefully, but the wind caught them andthey quickly reached the bottom in a wet heap.     Recruiting Lieutenant MacBride from behind his sofa, the men carefullyedged out of the house and forced the front door shut.     The wind died. The fog dispersed. They stood dripping in the OptimumDome Conditions of the bright avenue.     I never figured on      this     , Lanfierre said, shaking his head.     With the front door closed the wind quickly built up inside the house.They could see the furnishing whirl past the windows. The house did awild, elated jig.     What kind of a place      is     this? MacBride said, his courage beginningto return. He took out his notebook but it was a soggy mess. He tossedit away.     Sure, he was      different     , Lanfierre murmured. I knew that much.     When the roof blew off they weren't really surprised. With a certainamount of equanimity they watched it lift off almost gracefully,standing on end for a moment before toppling to the ground. It wasstrangely slow motion, as was the black twirling cloud that now roseout of the master bedroom, spewing shorts and socks and cases everywhich way.           Now     what? MacBride said, thoroughly exasperated, as this strangeblack cloud began to accelerate, whirling about like some malevolenttop....  Humphrey Fownes took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. Heheld it up and carefully compared the spinning cloud in his bedroomwith the illustration. The cloud rose and spun, assuming the identicalshape of the illustration.     It's a twister, he said softly. A Kansas twister!     What, MacBride asked, his bravado slipping away again, what ... is atwister?     The twister roared and moved out of the bedroom, out over the rear ofthe house toward the side of the dome. It says here, Fownes shoutedover the roaring, that Dorothy traveled from Kansas to Oz in a twisterand that ... and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land      beyond theconfines of everyday living     .     MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros.     Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked.     Huge chunks of glass began to fall around them.     Fownes! MacBride shouted. This is a direct order! Make it go back!     But Fownes had already begun to run on toward the next house, dodgingmountainous puffs of glass as he went. Mrs. Deshazaway! he shouted.Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Deshazaway!     The dome weevils were going berserk trying to keep up with theprecipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then,emptied of molten glass, rushed to the Trough which they quicklyemptied and then rushed about empty-handed. Yoo-hoo! he yelled,running. The artificial sun vanished behind the mushrooming twister.Optimum temperature collapsed. Mrs. Deshazaway!      Agnes     , will youmarry me? Yoo-hoo!     Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited,dazed.     There was quite a large fall of glass.   ","The story is set inside a dome city with an artificial sun and optimal weather conditions. Fownes first strolls down a quiet residential avenue lined with private houses. Although the weather is generally cloudless, there are light showers that make small geysers of shiny mist. His house is also noted to be located right next to Mrs. Deshazaway’s house. Inside of an orange car, Lanfierre and MacBride watch him. Fownes’ house has a porch and a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system. His downstairs closet contains the Master Mechanism. The illusion he sees is of a red sun setting brightly, marred by an occasional arcover that leaves the scent of ozone. There is a garden outside as well, and a gigantic moon hidden in a large area of the sky. Neon large roses are found in the garden, and their colors change from red to violet. Inside of his bedroom closet upstairs, there is a rainmaker. The outside world that Fownes describes to Mrs. Deshazaway, outside of the dome, is one with miles and miles of space. The real-estate monopoly has no control, and the windows blow across prairies. When Fownes goes to the library, the place is described as a shattered and depressing place. It is used very infrequently, filled with given over government publications and censored old books with holes in them. The librarian's desk has ancient library cards that are almost impossible to read. "
"Who is Humphrey Fownes, and what are his characteristics? </s>     A FALL OF GLASS     By STANLEY R. LEE     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1960.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        The weatherman was always right:       Temperature, 59; humidity, 47%;       occasional light showers—but of what?        The pockets of Mr. Humphrey Fownes were being picked outrageously.     It was a splendid day. The temperature was a crisp 59 degrees, thehumidity a mildly dessicated 47%. The sun was a flaming orange ball ina cloudless blue sky.     His pockets were picked eleven times.     It should have been difficult. Under the circumstances it was amasterpiece of pocket picking. What made it possible was HumphreyFownes' abstraction; he was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. Hewas strolling along a quiet residential avenue: small private houses,one after another, a place of little traffic and minimum distractions.But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject tobegin with for a person living in a domed city. He was thinking sodeeply about it that it never occurred to him that entirely too manypeople were bumping into him. He was thinking about Optimum DomeConditions (a crisp 59 degrees, a mildly dessicated 47%) when a boguspostman, who pretended to be reading a postal card, jostled him. In theconfusion of spilled letters and apologies from both sides, the postmanrifled Fownes's handkerchief and inside jacket pockets.  He was still thinking about temperature and humidity when a pretty girlhappened along with something in her eye. They collided. She got hisright and left jacket pockets. It was much too much for coincidence.The sidewalk was wide enough to allow four people to pass at one time.He should surely have become suspicious when two men engaged in aheated argument came along. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied hisrear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of thehandkerchief pocket. It all went off very smoothly, like a game of putand take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea hewas playing.     There was an occasional tinkle of falling glass.     It fell on the streets and houses, making small geysers of shiny mist,hitting with a gentle musical sound, like the ephemeral droppings ofa celesta. It was precipitation peculiar to a dome: feather-lightfragments showering harmlessly on the city from time to time. Domeweevils, their metal arms reaching out with molten glass, roamed thehuge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing.     Humphrey Fownes strode through the puffs of falling glass stillintrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humiditythat was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was thisrather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tightsurveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of gettinghis fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayedand chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returningthem. Two blocks away from his home a careless housewife spilled afive-pound bag of flour as he was passing. It was really plaster ofParis. He left his shoe prints, stride measurement, height, weight andhandedness behind.     By the time Fownes reached his front door an entire dossier completewith photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in anorange patrol car parked down the street.  Lanfierre had undoubtedly been affected by his job.     Sitting behind the wheel of the orange car, he watched Humphrey Fownesapproach with a distinct feeling of admiration, although it was anodd, objective kind of admiration, clinical in nature. It was similarto that of a pathologist observing for the first time a new andparticularly virulent strain of pneumococcus under his microscope.     Lanfierre's job was to ferret out aberration. It couldn't be toleratedwithin the confines of a dome. Conformity had become more than a socialforce; it was a physical necessity. And, after years of working at it,Lanfierre had become an admirer of eccentricity. He came to see thatgenuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his ownsmall efforts, rarer.     Fownes was a masterpiece of queerness. He was utterly inexplicable.Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fownes.     Sometimes his house      shakes     , Lanfierre said.     House shakes, Lieutenant MacBride wrote in his notebook. Then hestopped and frowned. He reread what he'd just written.     You heard right. The house      shakes     , Lanfierre said, savoring it.     MacBride looked at the Fownes house through the magnifying glass ofthe windshield. Like from ...      side to side     ? he asked in a somewhatpatronizing tone of voice.     And up and down.     MacBride returned the notebook to the breast pocket of his orangeuniform. Go on, he said, amused. It sounds interesting. He tossedthe dossier carelessly on the back seat.     Lanfierre sat stiffly behind the wheel, affronted. The cynical MacBridecouldn't really appreciate fine aberrations. In some ways MacBridewas a barbarian. Lanfierre had held out on Fownes for months. Hehad even contrived to engage him in conversation once, a pleasantlyabsurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. It wasonly with the greatest reluctance that he finally mentioned Fownesto MacBride. After years of searching for differences Lanfierre hadseen how extraordinarily repetitious people were, echoes really, dimlyresounding echoes, each believing itself whole and separate. They spokein an incessant chatter of cliches, and their actions were unbelievablytrite.     Then a fine robust freak came along and the others—the echoes—refusedto believe it. The lieutenant was probably on the point of suggesting avacation.     Why don't you take a vacation? Lieutenant MacBride suggested.     It's like this, MacBride. Do you know what a wind is? A breeze? Azephyr?     I've heard some.     They say there are mountain-tops where winds blow all the time. Strongwinds, MacBride. Winds like you and I can't imagine. And if there wasa house sitting on such a mountain and if winds      did     blow, it wouldshake exactly the way that one does. Sometimes I get the feeling thewhole place is going to slide off its foundation and go sailing downthe avenue.  Lieutenant MacBride pursed his lips.     I'll tell you something else, Lanfierre went on. The      windows     allclose at the same time. You'll be watching and all of a sudden everysingle window in the place will drop to its sill. Lanfierre leanedback in the seat, his eyes still on the house. Sometimes I thinkthere's a whole crowd of people in there waiting for a signal—as ifthey all had something important to say but had to close the windowsfirst so no one could hear. Why else close the windows in a domed city?And then as soon as the place is buttoned up they all explode intoconversation—and that's why the house shakes.     MacBride whistled.     No, I don't need a vacation.     A falling piece of glass dissolved into a puff of gossamer against thewindshield. Lanfierre started and bumped his knee on the steering wheel.     No, you don't need a rest, MacBride said. You're starting to seeflying houses, hear loud babbling voices. You've got winds in yourbrain, Lanfierre, breezes of fatigue, zephyrs of irrationality—     At that moment, all at once, every last window in the house slammedshut.     The street was deserted and quiet, not a movement, not a sound.MacBride and Lanfierre both leaned forward, as if waiting for theghostly babble of voices to commence.     The house began to shake.     It rocked from side to side, it pitched forward and back, it yawed anddipped and twisted, straining at the mooring of its foundation. Thehouse could have been preparing to take off and sail down the....     MacBride looked at Lanfierre and Lanfierre looked at MacBride and thenthey both looked back at the dancing house.     And the      water     , Lanfierre said. The      water     he uses! He could bethe thirstiest and cleanest man in the city. He could have a wholefamily of thirsty and clean kids, and he      still     wouldn't need all thatwater.     The lieutenant had picked up the dossier. He thumbed through the pagesnow in amazement. Where do you get a guy like this? he asked. Didyou see what he carries in his pockets?     And compasses won't work on this street.     The lieutenant lit a cigarette and sighed.     He usually sighed when making the decision to raid a dwelling. Itexpressed his weariness and distaste for people who went off and gotneurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. Therewas something implacable about his sighs.     He'll be coming out soon, Lanfierre said. He eats supper next doorwith a widow. Then he goes to the library. Always the same. Supper atthe widow's next door and then the library.     MacBride's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. The library? hesaid. Is he in with that bunch?     Lanfierre nodded.     Should be very interesting, MacBride said slowly.     I can't wait to see what he's got in there, Lanfierre murmured,watching the house with a consuming interest.     They sat there smoking in silence and every now and then their eyeswidened as the house danced a new step.  Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off hisshoes. He hadn't seen the patrol car and this intense preoccupationof his was also responsible for the dancing house—he simply hadn'tnoticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. Hehad a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and thehigh-pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of thehouse. At least, he called it buffeting; he'd never thought to watchfrom outside.     He went in and threw his jacket on the sofa, there being no roomleft in the closets. Crossing the living room he stopped to twist adraw-pull.     Every window slammed shut.     Tight as a kite, he thought, satisfied. He continued on toward thecloset at the foot of the stairs and then stopped again. Was thatright? No,      snug as a hug in a rug     . He went on, thinking:      The olddevils.       The downstairs closet was like a great watch case, a profusion ofwheels surrounding the Master Mechanism, which was a miniature see-sawthat went back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels had acurious stateliness about them. They were all quite old, salvaged fromgrandfather's clocks and music boxes and they went around in gracefulcircles at the rate of 30 and 31 times an hour ... although therewas one slightly eccentric cam that vacillated between 28 and 29. Hewatched as they spun and flashed in the darkness, and then set them forseven o'clock in the evening, April seventh, any year.     Outside, the domed city vanished.     It was replaced by an illusion. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear,the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a moresatisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion.Looking through the window he saw only a garden.     Instead of an orange sun at perpetual high noon, there was a red sunsetting brilliantly, marred only by an occasional arcover which leftthe smell of ozone in the air. There was also a gigantic moon. It hid ahuge area of sky, and it sang. The sun and moon both looked down upon agarden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses.     Moonlight, he thought, and roses. Satisfactory.      And cocktails fortwo.     Blast, he'd never be able to figure that one out! He watched asthe moon played,      Oh, You Beautiful Doll     and the neon roses flashedslowly from red to violet, then went back to the closet and turned onthe scent. The house began to smell like an immensely concentrated roseas the moon shifted to      People Will Say We're In Love     .  He rubbed his chin critically. It      seemed     all right. A dreamy sunset,an enchanted moon, flowers, scent.     They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rosereally smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. Butthen, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive.      Insist     on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realisticromantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your pulse? Do you feel icyfingers marching up and down your spine?     His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read thatbook on ancient mores and courtship customs.     How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incrediblylong and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amountof falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. Nomeant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and thecircumstances. It could mean yes, it could mean ask me again later onthis evening.     He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rain-maker,thinking roguishly:      Thou shalt not inundate.     The risks he was taking!A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant      Singing in the Rain     . Undiminished, the yellow moon and the red suncontinued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over anddemolished several of the neon roses.     The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steeringwheel from an old 1995 Studebaker. This was on the bootleg pipe; hegingerly turned it.     Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle ofwinds came to him.     He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This wasimportant; the window had a really fixed attitude about air currents.The neon roses bent and tinkled against each other as the wind rose andthe moon shook a trifle as it whispered      Cuddle Up a Little Closer     .     He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start.      My dearMrs. Deshazaway.     Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romanticgarden; time to be a bit forward.      My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway.     No.Contrived. How about a simple,      Dear Mrs. Deshazaway     . That might beit.      I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn'trather stay over instead of going home....       Preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear theshaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connectedto wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they madeone gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance ashigh-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening theStudebaker valve wider and wider....     The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sunshot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moonfell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning      When theBlue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day     .     The shaking house finally woke him up. He scrambled upstairs to theStudebaker wheel and shut it off.     At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn'tthe first time the winds got out of line.     Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all downand went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months,about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April.Its days were thirty and it followed September.      And all the rest havethirty-one.     What a strange people, the ancients!     He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street.  Men are too perishable, Mrs. Deshazaway said over dinner. For allpractical purposes I'm never going to marry again. All my husbands die.     Would you pass the beets, please? Humphrey Fownes said.     She handed him a platter of steaming red beets. And don't look at methat way, she said. I'm      not     going to marry you and if you wantreasons I'll give you four of them. Andrew. Curt. Norman. And Alphonse.     The widow was a passionate woman. She did everythingpassionately—talking, cooking, dressing. Her beets were passionatelyred. Her clothes rustled and her high heels clicked and her jewelrytinkled. She was possessed by an uncontrollable dynamism. Fownes hadnever known anyone like her. You forgot to put salt on the potatoes,she said passionately, then went on as calmly as it was possible forher to be, to explain why she couldn't marry him. Do you have anyidea what people are saying? They're all saying I'm a cannibal! I robmy husbands of their life force and when they're empty I carry theirbodies outside on my way to the justice of the peace.     As long as there are people, he said philosophically, there'll betalk.     But it's the air! Why don't they talk about that? The air is stale,I'm positive. It's not nourishing. The air is stale and Andrew, Curt,Norman and Alphonse couldn't stand it. Poor Alphonse. He was never sohealthy as on the day he was born. From then on things got steadilyworse for him.     I don't seem to mind the air.     She threw up her hands. You'd be the worst of the lot! She left thetable, rustling and tinkling about the room. I can just hear them. Trysome of the asparagus.      Five.     That's what they'd say. That woman didit again. And the plain fact is I don't want you on my record.     Really, Fownes protested. I feel splendid. Never better.     He could hear her moving about and then felt her hands on hisshoulders. And what about those      very     elaborate plans you've beenmaking to seduce me?     Fownes froze with three asparagus hanging from his fork.     Don't you think      they'll     find out?      I     found out and you can bet      they     will. It's my fault, I guess. I talk too much. And I don'talways tell the truth. To be completely honest with you, Mr. Fownes, itwasn't the old customs at all standing between us, it was air. I can'thave another man die on me, it's bad for my self-esteem. And now you'vegone and done something good and criminal, something peculiar.  Fownes put his fork down. Dear Mrs. Deshazaway, he started to say.     And of course when they do find out and they ask you why, Mr. Fownes,you'll tell them. No, no heroics, please! When they ask a man aquestion he always answers and you will too. You'll tell them I wantedto be courted and when they hear that they'll be around to ask      me     afew questions. You see, we're both a bit queer.     I hadn't thought of that, Fownes said quietly.     Oh, it doesn't really matter. I'll join Andrew, Curt, Norman—     That won't be necessary, Fownes said with unusual force. With alldue respect to Andrew, Curt, Norman and Alphonse, I might as well statehere and now I have other plans for you, Mrs. Deshazaway.     But my dear Mr. Fownes, she said, leaning across the table. We'relost, you and I.     Not if we could leave the dome, Fownes said quietly.     That's impossible! How?     In no hurry, now that he had the widow's complete attention, Fownesleaned across the table and whispered: Fresh air, Mrs. Deshazaway?Space? Miles and miles of space where the real-estate monopoly hasno control whatever? Where the      wind     blows across      prairies     ; or isit the other way around? No matter. How would you like      that     , Mrs.Deshazaway?     Breathing somewhat faster than usual, the widow rested her chin on hertwo hands. Pray continue, she said.     Endless vistas of moonlight and roses? April showers, Mrs. Deshazaway.And June, which as you may know follows directly upon April and issupposed to be the month of brides, of marrying. June also lies beyondthe dome.     I see.           And     , Mr. Fownes added, his voice a honeyed whisper, they saythat somewhere out in the space and the roses and the moonlight,the sleeping equinox yawns and rises because on a certain day it's      vernal     and that's when it roams the Open Country where geigers nolonger scintillate.           My.      Mrs. Deshazaway rose, paced slowly to the window and then cameback to the table, standing directly over Fownes. If you can get usoutside the dome, she said, out where a man stays      warm     long enoughfor his wife to get to know him ... if you can do that, Mr. Fownes ...you may call me Agnes.  When Humphrey Fownes stepped out of the widow's house, there was alook of such intense abstraction on his features that Lanfierre felt awistful desire to get out of the car and walk along with the man. Itwould be such a      deliciously     insane experience. (April has thirtydays, Fownes mumbled, passing them, because thirty is the largestnumber such that all smaller numbers not having a common divisorwith it are      primes     . MacBride frowned and added it to the dossier.Lanfierre sighed.)     Pinning his hopes on the Movement, Fownes went straight to thelibrary several blocks away, a shattered depressing place given overto government publications and censored old books with holes inthem. It was used so infrequently that the Movement was able to meetthere undisturbed. The librarian was a yellowed, dog-eared woman ofeighty. She spent her days reading ancient library cards and, like thebooks around her, had been rendered by time's own censor into nearunintelligibility.     Here's one, she said to him as he entered.       Gulliver's Travels.     Loaned to John Wesley Davidson on March 14, 1979 for      five     days. Whatdo you make of it?     In the litter of books and cards and dried out ink pads that surroundedthe librarian, Fownes noticed a torn dust jacket with a curiousillustration. What's that? he said.     A twister, she replied quickly. Now listen to      this     . Seven yearslater on March 21, 1986, Ella Marshall Davidson took out the same book.What do you make of      that     ?     I'd say, Humphrey Fownes said, that he ... that he recommended itto her, that one day they met in the street and he told her aboutthis book and then they ... they went to the library together and sheborrowed it and eventually, why eventually they got married.     Hah! They were brother and sister! the librarian shouted in herparched voice, her old buckram eyes laughing with cunning.     Fownes smiled weakly and looked again at the dust jacket. The twisterwas unquestionably a meteorological phenomenon. It spun ominously, likea malevolent top, and coursed the countryside destructively, carryinga Dorothy to an Oz. He couldn't help wondering if twisters did anythingto feminine pulses, if they could possibly be a part of a moonlitnight, with cocktails and roses. He absently stuffed the dust jacketin his pocket and went on into the other rooms, the librarian mumblingafter him: Edna Murdoch Featherstone, April 21, 1991, as thoughreading inscriptions on a tombstone.  The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaidladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read stories to otherpeople's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tableslooking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting.     Where did the old society fail? the leader was demanding of them. Hestood in the center of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. Heglanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as HumphreyFownes squeezed into an empty chair. We live in a dome, the leadersaid, for lack of something. An invention! What is the one thingthat the great technological societies before ours could not invent,notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise?     Fownes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. Hewaited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggledwith this problem in revolutionary dialectics.           A sound foreign policy     , the leader said, aware that no one else hadobtained the insight. If a sound foreign policy can't be created theonly alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus themovement into domes began—      by common consent of the governments     . Thisis known as self-containment.     Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lullin the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might bearranged for him to get out.     Out? the leader said, frowning. Out? Out where?     Outside the dome.     Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up andleave.     And that day I'll await impatiently, Fownes replied with marveloustact, because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My futurewife and I have to leave      now     .     Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country.You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. Anddialectically very poor.     Then you      have     discussed preparations, the practical necessities oflife in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else?Have I left anything out?     The leader sighed. The gentleman wants to know if he's left anythingout, he said to the group.     Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions.     Tell the man what he's forgotten, the leader said, walking to the farwindow and turning his back quite pointedly on them.     Everyone spoke at the same moment.       A sound foreign policy     , they allsaid, it being almost too obvious for words.  On his way out the librarian shouted at him:       A Tale of a Tub     ,thirty-five years overdue! She was calculating the fine as he closedthe door.     Humphrey Fownes' preoccupation finally came to an end when he was oneblock away from his house. It was then that he realized somethingunusual must have occurred. An orange patrol car of the security policewas parked at his front door. And something else was happening too.     His house was dancing.     It was disconcerting, and at the same time enchanting, to watch one'sresidence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sightthat for the moment he didn't give a thought to what might be causingit. But when he stepped gingerly onto the porch, which was doing itsown independent gavotte, he reached for the doorknob with an immensecuriosity.     The door flung itself open and knocked him back off the porch.     From a prone position on his miniscule front lawn, Fownes watched ashis favorite easy chair sailed out of the living room on a blast ofcold air and went pinwheeling down the avenue in the bright sunshine. Awild wind and a thick fog poured out of the house. It brought chairs,suits, small tables, lamps trailing their cords, ashtrays, sofacushions. The house was emptying itself fiercely, as if disgorging anold, spoiled meal. From deep inside he could hear the rumble of hisancient upright piano as it rolled ponderously from room to room.     He stood up; a wet wind swept over him, whipping at his face, toyingwith his hair. It was a whistling in his ears, and a tingle on hischeeks. He got hit by a shoe.     As he forced his way back to the doorway needles of rain played overhis face and he heard a voice cry out from somewhere in the living room.     Help! Lieutenant MacBride called.     Standing in the doorway with his wet hair plastered down on hisdripping scalp, the wind roaring about him, the piano rumbling in thedistance like thunder, Humphrey Fownes suddenly saw it all very clearly.           Winds     , he said in a whisper.     What's happening? MacBride yelled, crouching behind the sofa.           March     winds, he said.     What?!     April showers!     The winds roared for a moment and then MacBride's lost voice emergedfrom the blackness of the living room. These are      not     Optimum DomeConditions! the voice wailed. The temperature is      not     59 degrees.The humidity is      not     47%!  Fownes held his face up to let the rain fall on it. Moonlight! heshouted. Roses! My      soul     for a cocktail for two! He grasped thedoorway to keep from being blown out of the house.     Are you going to make it stop or aren't you! MacBride yelled.     You'll have to tell me what you did first!     I      told     him not to touch that wheel! Lanfierre. He's in the upstairsbedroom!     When he heard this Fownes plunged into the house and fought his wayup the stairs. He found Lanfierre standing outside the bedroom with awheel in his hand.       What have I done? Lanfierre asked in the monotone of shock.     Fownes took the wheel. It was off a 1995 Studebaker.     I'm not sure what's going to come of this, he said to Lanfierre withan astonishing amount of objectivity, but the entire dome air supplyis now coming through my bedroom.     The wind screamed.     Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked.     Not any more there isn't.     They started down the stairs carefully, but the wind caught them andthey quickly reached the bottom in a wet heap.     Recruiting Lieutenant MacBride from behind his sofa, the men carefullyedged out of the house and forced the front door shut.     The wind died. The fog dispersed. They stood dripping in the OptimumDome Conditions of the bright avenue.     I never figured on      this     , Lanfierre said, shaking his head.     With the front door closed the wind quickly built up inside the house.They could see the furnishing whirl past the windows. The house did awild, elated jig.     What kind of a place      is     this? MacBride said, his courage beginningto return. He took out his notebook but it was a soggy mess. He tossedit away.     Sure, he was      different     , Lanfierre murmured. I knew that much.     When the roof blew off they weren't really surprised. With a certainamount of equanimity they watched it lift off almost gracefully,standing on end for a moment before toppling to the ground. It wasstrangely slow motion, as was the black twirling cloud that now roseout of the master bedroom, spewing shorts and socks and cases everywhich way.           Now     what? MacBride said, thoroughly exasperated, as this strangeblack cloud began to accelerate, whirling about like some malevolenttop....  Humphrey Fownes took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. Heheld it up and carefully compared the spinning cloud in his bedroomwith the illustration. The cloud rose and spun, assuming the identicalshape of the illustration.     It's a twister, he said softly. A Kansas twister!     What, MacBride asked, his bravado slipping away again, what ... is atwister?     The twister roared and moved out of the bedroom, out over the rear ofthe house toward the side of the dome. It says here, Fownes shoutedover the roaring, that Dorothy traveled from Kansas to Oz in a twisterand that ... and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land      beyond theconfines of everyday living     .     MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros.     Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked.     Huge chunks of glass began to fall around them.     Fownes! MacBride shouted. This is a direct order! Make it go back!     But Fownes had already begun to run on toward the next house, dodgingmountainous puffs of glass as he went. Mrs. Deshazaway! he shouted.Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Deshazaway!     The dome weevils were going berserk trying to keep up with theprecipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then,emptied of molten glass, rushed to the Trough which they quicklyemptied and then rushed about empty-handed. Yoo-hoo! he yelled,running. The artificial sun vanished behind the mushrooming twister.Optimum temperature collapsed. Mrs. Deshazaway!      Agnes     , will youmarry me? Yoo-hoo!     Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited,dazed.     There was quite a large fall of glass.   ","Humphrey Fownes is an interesting man who always seems to be preoccupied with the weather. Despite it being optimal conditions, he does not seem to notice anything around him even when he is being pickpocketed. He owns an assortment of machinery, capable of creating his ideal illusions and even affecting the weather outside. It is revealed that most of this is part of his plan to leave the dome. Fownes is a very persistent person as well, trying his very hardest to convince Mrs. Deshazaway to marry him even after she rejects his offer. He is stubborn, too, especially when the leader of The Movement explains that they cannot just leave the dome without a sound foreign policy. No matter what, he is determined to leave the dome and marry the widow. However, his plans seem to finally come together when MacBride and Lanfierre mess with the wheel in his house. When the dome begins to break, Fownes sees this as an opportunity and becomes excited at the thought of finally leaving this dome and living in the outside world with his future wife. "
"What are the features and significance of the Master Mechanism in the downstairs closet that Fownes owns? </s>     A FALL OF GLASS     By STANLEY R. LEE     Illustrated by DILLON     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Magazine October 1960.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]        The weatherman was always right:       Temperature, 59; humidity, 47%;       occasional light showers—but of what?        The pockets of Mr. Humphrey Fownes were being picked outrageously.     It was a splendid day. The temperature was a crisp 59 degrees, thehumidity a mildly dessicated 47%. The sun was a flaming orange ball ina cloudless blue sky.     His pockets were picked eleven times.     It should have been difficult. Under the circumstances it was amasterpiece of pocket picking. What made it possible was HumphreyFownes' abstraction; he was an uncommonly preoccupied individual. Hewas strolling along a quiet residential avenue: small private houses,one after another, a place of little traffic and minimum distractions.But he was thinking about weather, which was an unusual subject tobegin with for a person living in a domed city. He was thinking sodeeply about it that it never occurred to him that entirely too manypeople were bumping into him. He was thinking about Optimum DomeConditions (a crisp 59 degrees, a mildly dessicated 47%) when a boguspostman, who pretended to be reading a postal card, jostled him. In theconfusion of spilled letters and apologies from both sides, the postmanrifled Fownes's handkerchief and inside jacket pockets.  He was still thinking about temperature and humidity when a pretty girlhappened along with something in her eye. They collided. She got hisright and left jacket pockets. It was much too much for coincidence.The sidewalk was wide enough to allow four people to pass at one time.He should surely have become suspicious when two men engaged in aheated argument came along. In the ensuing contretemps they emptied hisrear pants pockets, got his wristwatch and restored the contents of thehandkerchief pocket. It all went off very smoothly, like a game of putand take—the sole difference being that Humphrey Fownes had no idea hewas playing.     There was an occasional tinkle of falling glass.     It fell on the streets and houses, making small geysers of shiny mist,hitting with a gentle musical sound, like the ephemeral droppings ofa celesta. It was precipitation peculiar to a dome: feather-lightfragments showering harmlessly on the city from time to time. Domeweevils, their metal arms reaching out with molten glass, roamed thehuge casserole, ceaselessly patching and repairing.     Humphrey Fownes strode through the puffs of falling glass stillintrigued by a temperature that was always 59 degrees, by a humiditythat was always 47%, by weather that was always Optimum. It was thisrather than skill that enabled the police to maintain such a tightsurveillance on him, a surveillance that went to the extent of gettinghis fingerprints off the postman's bag, and which photographed, X-rayedand chemically analyzed the contents of his pockets before returningthem. Two blocks away from his home a careless housewife spilled afive-pound bag of flour as he was passing. It was really plaster ofParis. He left his shoe prints, stride measurement, height, weight andhandedness behind.     By the time Fownes reached his front door an entire dossier completewith photographs had been prepared and was being read by two men in anorange patrol car parked down the street.  Lanfierre had undoubtedly been affected by his job.     Sitting behind the wheel of the orange car, he watched Humphrey Fownesapproach with a distinct feeling of admiration, although it was anodd, objective kind of admiration, clinical in nature. It was similarto that of a pathologist observing for the first time a new andparticularly virulent strain of pneumococcus under his microscope.     Lanfierre's job was to ferret out aberration. It couldn't be toleratedwithin the confines of a dome. Conformity had become more than a socialforce; it was a physical necessity. And, after years of working at it,Lanfierre had become an admirer of eccentricity. He came to see thatgenuine quirks were rare and, as time went on, due partly to his ownsmall efforts, rarer.     Fownes was a masterpiece of queerness. He was utterly inexplicable.Lanfierre was almost proud of Humphrey Fownes.     Sometimes his house      shakes     , Lanfierre said.     House shakes, Lieutenant MacBride wrote in his notebook. Then hestopped and frowned. He reread what he'd just written.     You heard right. The house      shakes     , Lanfierre said, savoring it.     MacBride looked at the Fownes house through the magnifying glass ofthe windshield. Like from ...      side to side     ? he asked in a somewhatpatronizing tone of voice.     And up and down.     MacBride returned the notebook to the breast pocket of his orangeuniform. Go on, he said, amused. It sounds interesting. He tossedthe dossier carelessly on the back seat.     Lanfierre sat stiffly behind the wheel, affronted. The cynical MacBridecouldn't really appreciate fine aberrations. In some ways MacBridewas a barbarian. Lanfierre had held out on Fownes for months. Hehad even contrived to engage him in conversation once, a pleasantlyabsurd, irrational little chat that titillated him for weeks. It wasonly with the greatest reluctance that he finally mentioned Fownesto MacBride. After years of searching for differences Lanfierre hadseen how extraordinarily repetitious people were, echoes really, dimlyresounding echoes, each believing itself whole and separate. They spokein an incessant chatter of cliches, and their actions were unbelievablytrite.     Then a fine robust freak came along and the others—the echoes—refusedto believe it. The lieutenant was probably on the point of suggesting avacation.     Why don't you take a vacation? Lieutenant MacBride suggested.     It's like this, MacBride. Do you know what a wind is? A breeze? Azephyr?     I've heard some.     They say there are mountain-tops where winds blow all the time. Strongwinds, MacBride. Winds like you and I can't imagine. And if there wasa house sitting on such a mountain and if winds      did     blow, it wouldshake exactly the way that one does. Sometimes I get the feeling thewhole place is going to slide off its foundation and go sailing downthe avenue.  Lieutenant MacBride pursed his lips.     I'll tell you something else, Lanfierre went on. The      windows     allclose at the same time. You'll be watching and all of a sudden everysingle window in the place will drop to its sill. Lanfierre leanedback in the seat, his eyes still on the house. Sometimes I thinkthere's a whole crowd of people in there waiting for a signal—as ifthey all had something important to say but had to close the windowsfirst so no one could hear. Why else close the windows in a domed city?And then as soon as the place is buttoned up they all explode intoconversation—and that's why the house shakes.     MacBride whistled.     No, I don't need a vacation.     A falling piece of glass dissolved into a puff of gossamer against thewindshield. Lanfierre started and bumped his knee on the steering wheel.     No, you don't need a rest, MacBride said. You're starting to seeflying houses, hear loud babbling voices. You've got winds in yourbrain, Lanfierre, breezes of fatigue, zephyrs of irrationality—     At that moment, all at once, every last window in the house slammedshut.     The street was deserted and quiet, not a movement, not a sound.MacBride and Lanfierre both leaned forward, as if waiting for theghostly babble of voices to commence.     The house began to shake.     It rocked from side to side, it pitched forward and back, it yawed anddipped and twisted, straining at the mooring of its foundation. Thehouse could have been preparing to take off and sail down the....     MacBride looked at Lanfierre and Lanfierre looked at MacBride and thenthey both looked back at the dancing house.     And the      water     , Lanfierre said. The      water     he uses! He could bethe thirstiest and cleanest man in the city. He could have a wholefamily of thirsty and clean kids, and he      still     wouldn't need all thatwater.     The lieutenant had picked up the dossier. He thumbed through the pagesnow in amazement. Where do you get a guy like this? he asked. Didyou see what he carries in his pockets?     And compasses won't work on this street.     The lieutenant lit a cigarette and sighed.     He usually sighed when making the decision to raid a dwelling. Itexpressed his weariness and distaste for people who went off and gotneurotic when they could be enjoying a happy, normal existence. Therewas something implacable about his sighs.     He'll be coming out soon, Lanfierre said. He eats supper next doorwith a widow. Then he goes to the library. Always the same. Supper atthe widow's next door and then the library.     MacBride's eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch. The library? hesaid. Is he in with that bunch?     Lanfierre nodded.     Should be very interesting, MacBride said slowly.     I can't wait to see what he's got in there, Lanfierre murmured,watching the house with a consuming interest.     They sat there smoking in silence and every now and then their eyeswidened as the house danced a new step.  Fownes stopped on the porch to brush the plaster of paris off hisshoes. He hadn't seen the patrol car and this intense preoccupationof his was also responsible for the dancing house—he simply hadn'tnoticed. There was a certain amount of vibration, of course. Hehad a bootleg pipe connected into the dome blower system, and thehigh-pressure air caused some buffeting against the thin walls of thehouse. At least, he called it buffeting; he'd never thought to watchfrom outside.     He went in and threw his jacket on the sofa, there being no roomleft in the closets. Crossing the living room he stopped to twist adraw-pull.     Every window slammed shut.     Tight as a kite, he thought, satisfied. He continued on toward thecloset at the foot of the stairs and then stopped again. Was thatright? No,      snug as a hug in a rug     . He went on, thinking:      The olddevils.       The downstairs closet was like a great watch case, a profusion ofwheels surrounding the Master Mechanism, which was a miniature see-sawthat went back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels had acurious stateliness about them. They were all quite old, salvaged fromgrandfather's clocks and music boxes and they went around in gracefulcircles at the rate of 30 and 31 times an hour ... although therewas one slightly eccentric cam that vacillated between 28 and 29. Hewatched as they spun and flashed in the darkness, and then set them forseven o'clock in the evening, April seventh, any year.     Outside, the domed city vanished.     It was replaced by an illusion. Or, as Fownes hoped it might appear,the illusion of the domed city vanished and was replaced by a moresatisfactory, and, for his specific purpose, more functional, illusion.Looking through the window he saw only a garden.     Instead of an orange sun at perpetual high noon, there was a red sunsetting brilliantly, marred only by an occasional arcover which leftthe smell of ozone in the air. There was also a gigantic moon. It hid ahuge area of sky, and it sang. The sun and moon both looked down upon agarden that was itself scintillant, composed largely of neon roses.     Moonlight, he thought, and roses. Satisfactory.      And cocktails fortwo.     Blast, he'd never be able to figure that one out! He watched asthe moon played,      Oh, You Beautiful Doll     and the neon roses flashedslowly from red to violet, then went back to the closet and turned onthe scent. The house began to smell like an immensely concentrated roseas the moon shifted to      People Will Say We're In Love     .  He rubbed his chin critically. It      seemed     all right. A dreamy sunset,an enchanted moon, flowers, scent.     They were all purely speculative of course. He had no idea how a rosereally smelled—or looked for that matter. Not to mention a moon. Butthen, neither did the widow. He'd have to be confident, assertive.      Insist     on it. I tell you, my dear, this is a genuine realisticromantic moon. Now, does it do anything to your pulse? Do you feel icyfingers marching up and down your spine?     His own spine didn't seem to be affected. But then he hadn't read thatbook on ancient mores and courtship customs.     How really odd the ancients were. Seduction seemed to be an incrediblylong and drawn-out process, accompanied by a considerable amountof falsification. Communication seemed virtually impossible. Nomeant any number of things, depending on the tone of voice and thecircumstances. It could mean yes, it could mean ask me again later onthis evening.     He went up the stairs to the bedroom closet and tried the rain-maker,thinking roguishly:      Thou shalt not inundate.     The risks he was taking!A shower fell gently on the garden and a male chorus began to chant      Singing in the Rain     . Undiminished, the yellow moon and the red suncontinued to be brilliant, although the sun occasionally arced over anddemolished several of the neon roses.     The last wheel in the bedroom closet was a rather elegant steeringwheel from an old 1995 Studebaker. This was on the bootleg pipe; hegingerly turned it.     Far below in the cellar there was a rumble and then the soft whistle ofwinds came to him.     He went downstairs to watch out the living room window. This wasimportant; the window had a really fixed attitude about air currents.The neon roses bent and tinkled against each other as the wind rose andthe moon shook a trifle as it whispered      Cuddle Up a Little Closer     .     He watched with folded arms, considering how he would start.      My dearMrs. Deshazaway.     Too formal. They'd be looking out at the romanticgarden; time to be a bit forward.      My very dear Mrs. Deshazaway.     No.Contrived. How about a simple,      Dear Mrs. Deshazaway     . That might beit.      I was wondering, seeing as how it's so late, if you wouldn'trather stay over instead of going home....       Preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the winds building up, didn't hear theshaking and rattling of the pipes. There were attic pipes connectedto wall pipes and wall pipes connected to cellar pipes, and they madeone gigantic skeleton that began to rattle its bones and dance ashigh-pressure air from the dome blower rushed in, slowly opening theStudebaker valve wider and wider....     The neon roses thrashed about, extinguishing each other. The red sunshot off a mass of sparks and then quickly sank out of sight. The moonfell on the garden and rolled ponderously along, crooning      When theBlue of the Night Meets the Gold of the Day     .     The shaking house finally woke him up. He scrambled upstairs to theStudebaker wheel and shut it off.     At the window again, he sighed. Repairs were in order. And it wasn'tthe first time the winds got out of line.     Why didn't she marry him and save all this bother? He shut it all downand went out the front door, wondering about the rhyme of the months,about stately August and eccentric February and romantic April. April.Its days were thirty and it followed September.      And all the rest havethirty-one.     What a strange people, the ancients!     He still didn't see the orange car parked down the street.  Men are too perishable, Mrs. Deshazaway said over dinner. For allpractical purposes I'm never going to marry again. All my husbands die.     Would you pass the beets, please? Humphrey Fownes said.     She handed him a platter of steaming red beets. And don't look at methat way, she said. I'm      not     going to marry you and if you wantreasons I'll give you four of them. Andrew. Curt. Norman. And Alphonse.     The widow was a passionate woman. She did everythingpassionately—talking, cooking, dressing. Her beets were passionatelyred. Her clothes rustled and her high heels clicked and her jewelrytinkled. She was possessed by an uncontrollable dynamism. Fownes hadnever known anyone like her. You forgot to put salt on the potatoes,she said passionately, then went on as calmly as it was possible forher to be, to explain why she couldn't marry him. Do you have anyidea what people are saying? They're all saying I'm a cannibal! I robmy husbands of their life force and when they're empty I carry theirbodies outside on my way to the justice of the peace.     As long as there are people, he said philosophically, there'll betalk.     But it's the air! Why don't they talk about that? The air is stale,I'm positive. It's not nourishing. The air is stale and Andrew, Curt,Norman and Alphonse couldn't stand it. Poor Alphonse. He was never sohealthy as on the day he was born. From then on things got steadilyworse for him.     I don't seem to mind the air.     She threw up her hands. You'd be the worst of the lot! She left thetable, rustling and tinkling about the room. I can just hear them. Trysome of the asparagus.      Five.     That's what they'd say. That woman didit again. And the plain fact is I don't want you on my record.     Really, Fownes protested. I feel splendid. Never better.     He could hear her moving about and then felt her hands on hisshoulders. And what about those      very     elaborate plans you've beenmaking to seduce me?     Fownes froze with three asparagus hanging from his fork.     Don't you think      they'll     find out?      I     found out and you can bet      they     will. It's my fault, I guess. I talk too much. And I don'talways tell the truth. To be completely honest with you, Mr. Fownes, itwasn't the old customs at all standing between us, it was air. I can'thave another man die on me, it's bad for my self-esteem. And now you'vegone and done something good and criminal, something peculiar.  Fownes put his fork down. Dear Mrs. Deshazaway, he started to say.     And of course when they do find out and they ask you why, Mr. Fownes,you'll tell them. No, no heroics, please! When they ask a man aquestion he always answers and you will too. You'll tell them I wantedto be courted and when they hear that they'll be around to ask      me     afew questions. You see, we're both a bit queer.     I hadn't thought of that, Fownes said quietly.     Oh, it doesn't really matter. I'll join Andrew, Curt, Norman—     That won't be necessary, Fownes said with unusual force. With alldue respect to Andrew, Curt, Norman and Alphonse, I might as well statehere and now I have other plans for you, Mrs. Deshazaway.     But my dear Mr. Fownes, she said, leaning across the table. We'relost, you and I.     Not if we could leave the dome, Fownes said quietly.     That's impossible! How?     In no hurry, now that he had the widow's complete attention, Fownesleaned across the table and whispered: Fresh air, Mrs. Deshazaway?Space? Miles and miles of space where the real-estate monopoly hasno control whatever? Where the      wind     blows across      prairies     ; or isit the other way around? No matter. How would you like      that     , Mrs.Deshazaway?     Breathing somewhat faster than usual, the widow rested her chin on hertwo hands. Pray continue, she said.     Endless vistas of moonlight and roses? April showers, Mrs. Deshazaway.And June, which as you may know follows directly upon April and issupposed to be the month of brides, of marrying. June also lies beyondthe dome.     I see.           And     , Mr. Fownes added, his voice a honeyed whisper, they saythat somewhere out in the space and the roses and the moonlight,the sleeping equinox yawns and rises because on a certain day it's      vernal     and that's when it roams the Open Country where geigers nolonger scintillate.           My.      Mrs. Deshazaway rose, paced slowly to the window and then cameback to the table, standing directly over Fownes. If you can get usoutside the dome, she said, out where a man stays      warm     long enoughfor his wife to get to know him ... if you can do that, Mr. Fownes ...you may call me Agnes.  When Humphrey Fownes stepped out of the widow's house, there was alook of such intense abstraction on his features that Lanfierre felt awistful desire to get out of the car and walk along with the man. Itwould be such a      deliciously     insane experience. (April has thirtydays, Fownes mumbled, passing them, because thirty is the largestnumber such that all smaller numbers not having a common divisorwith it are      primes     . MacBride frowned and added it to the dossier.Lanfierre sighed.)     Pinning his hopes on the Movement, Fownes went straight to thelibrary several blocks away, a shattered depressing place given overto government publications and censored old books with holes inthem. It was used so infrequently that the Movement was able to meetthere undisturbed. The librarian was a yellowed, dog-eared woman ofeighty. She spent her days reading ancient library cards and, like thebooks around her, had been rendered by time's own censor into nearunintelligibility.     Here's one, she said to him as he entered.       Gulliver's Travels.     Loaned to John Wesley Davidson on March 14, 1979 for      five     days. Whatdo you make of it?     In the litter of books and cards and dried out ink pads that surroundedthe librarian, Fownes noticed a torn dust jacket with a curiousillustration. What's that? he said.     A twister, she replied quickly. Now listen to      this     . Seven yearslater on March 21, 1986, Ella Marshall Davidson took out the same book.What do you make of      that     ?     I'd say, Humphrey Fownes said, that he ... that he recommended itto her, that one day they met in the street and he told her aboutthis book and then they ... they went to the library together and sheborrowed it and eventually, why eventually they got married.     Hah! They were brother and sister! the librarian shouted in herparched voice, her old buckram eyes laughing with cunning.     Fownes smiled weakly and looked again at the dust jacket. The twisterwas unquestionably a meteorological phenomenon. It spun ominously, likea malevolent top, and coursed the countryside destructively, carryinga Dorothy to an Oz. He couldn't help wondering if twisters did anythingto feminine pulses, if they could possibly be a part of a moonlitnight, with cocktails and roses. He absently stuffed the dust jacketin his pocket and went on into the other rooms, the librarian mumblingafter him: Edna Murdoch Featherstone, April 21, 1991, as thoughreading inscriptions on a tombstone.  The Movement met in what had been the children's room, where unpaidladies of the afternoon had once upon a time read stories to otherpeople's offspring. The members sat around at the miniature tableslooking oddly like giants fled from their fairy tales, protesting.     Where did the old society fail? the leader was demanding of them. Hestood in the center of the room, leaning on a heavy knobbed cane. Heglanced around at the group almost complacently, and waited as HumphreyFownes squeezed into an empty chair. We live in a dome, the leadersaid, for lack of something. An invention! What is the one thingthat the great technological societies before ours could not invent,notwithstanding their various giant brains, electronic and otherwise?     Fownes was the kind of man who never answered a rhetorical question. Hewaited, uncomfortable in the tight chair, while the others struggledwith this problem in revolutionary dialectics.           A sound foreign policy     , the leader said, aware that no one else hadobtained the insight. If a sound foreign policy can't be created theonly alternative is not to have any foreign policy at all. Thus themovement into domes began—      by common consent of the governments     . Thisis known as self-containment.     Dialectically out in left field, Humphrey Fownes waited for a lullin the ensuing discussion and then politely inquired how it might bearranged for him to get out.     Out? the leader said, frowning. Out? Out where?     Outside the dome.     Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up andleave.     And that day I'll await impatiently, Fownes replied with marveloustact, because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My futurewife and I have to leave      now     .     Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country.You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. Anddialectically very poor.     Then you      have     discussed preparations, the practical necessities oflife in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else?Have I left anything out?     The leader sighed. The gentleman wants to know if he's left anythingout, he said to the group.     Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions.     Tell the man what he's forgotten, the leader said, walking to the farwindow and turning his back quite pointedly on them.     Everyone spoke at the same moment.       A sound foreign policy     , they allsaid, it being almost too obvious for words.  On his way out the librarian shouted at him:       A Tale of a Tub     ,thirty-five years overdue! She was calculating the fine as he closedthe door.     Humphrey Fownes' preoccupation finally came to an end when he was oneblock away from his house. It was then that he realized somethingunusual must have occurred. An orange patrol car of the security policewas parked at his front door. And something else was happening too.     His house was dancing.     It was disconcerting, and at the same time enchanting, to watch one'sresidence frisking about on its foundation. It was such a strange sightthat for the moment he didn't give a thought to what might be causingit. But when he stepped gingerly onto the porch, which was doing itsown independent gavotte, he reached for the doorknob with an immensecuriosity.     The door flung itself open and knocked him back off the porch.     From a prone position on his miniscule front lawn, Fownes watched ashis favorite easy chair sailed out of the living room on a blast ofcold air and went pinwheeling down the avenue in the bright sunshine. Awild wind and a thick fog poured out of the house. It brought chairs,suits, small tables, lamps trailing their cords, ashtrays, sofacushions. The house was emptying itself fiercely, as if disgorging anold, spoiled meal. From deep inside he could hear the rumble of hisancient upright piano as it rolled ponderously from room to room.     He stood up; a wet wind swept over him, whipping at his face, toyingwith his hair. It was a whistling in his ears, and a tingle on hischeeks. He got hit by a shoe.     As he forced his way back to the doorway needles of rain played overhis face and he heard a voice cry out from somewhere in the living room.     Help! Lieutenant MacBride called.     Standing in the doorway with his wet hair plastered down on hisdripping scalp, the wind roaring about him, the piano rumbling in thedistance like thunder, Humphrey Fownes suddenly saw it all very clearly.           Winds     , he said in a whisper.     What's happening? MacBride yelled, crouching behind the sofa.           March     winds, he said.     What?!     April showers!     The winds roared for a moment and then MacBride's lost voice emergedfrom the blackness of the living room. These are      not     Optimum DomeConditions! the voice wailed. The temperature is      not     59 degrees.The humidity is      not     47%!  Fownes held his face up to let the rain fall on it. Moonlight! heshouted. Roses! My      soul     for a cocktail for two! He grasped thedoorway to keep from being blown out of the house.     Are you going to make it stop or aren't you! MacBride yelled.     You'll have to tell me what you did first!     I      told     him not to touch that wheel! Lanfierre. He's in the upstairsbedroom!     When he heard this Fownes plunged into the house and fought his wayup the stairs. He found Lanfierre standing outside the bedroom with awheel in his hand.       What have I done? Lanfierre asked in the monotone of shock.     Fownes took the wheel. It was off a 1995 Studebaker.     I'm not sure what's going to come of this, he said to Lanfierre withan astonishing amount of objectivity, but the entire dome air supplyis now coming through my bedroom.     The wind screamed.     Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked.     Not any more there isn't.     They started down the stairs carefully, but the wind caught them andthey quickly reached the bottom in a wet heap.     Recruiting Lieutenant MacBride from behind his sofa, the men carefullyedged out of the house and forced the front door shut.     The wind died. The fog dispersed. They stood dripping in the OptimumDome Conditions of the bright avenue.     I never figured on      this     , Lanfierre said, shaking his head.     With the front door closed the wind quickly built up inside the house.They could see the furnishing whirl past the windows. The house did awild, elated jig.     What kind of a place      is     this? MacBride said, his courage beginningto return. He took out his notebook but it was a soggy mess. He tossedit away.     Sure, he was      different     , Lanfierre murmured. I knew that much.     When the roof blew off they weren't really surprised. With a certainamount of equanimity they watched it lift off almost gracefully,standing on end for a moment before toppling to the ground. It wasstrangely slow motion, as was the black twirling cloud that now roseout of the master bedroom, spewing shorts and socks and cases everywhich way.           Now     what? MacBride said, thoroughly exasperated, as this strangeblack cloud began to accelerate, whirling about like some malevolenttop....  Humphrey Fownes took out the dust jacket he'd found in the library. Heheld it up and carefully compared the spinning cloud in his bedroomwith the illustration. The cloud rose and spun, assuming the identicalshape of the illustration.     It's a twister, he said softly. A Kansas twister!     What, MacBride asked, his bravado slipping away again, what ... is atwister?     The twister roared and moved out of the bedroom, out over the rear ofthe house toward the side of the dome. It says here, Fownes shoutedover the roaring, that Dorothy traveled from Kansas to Oz in a twisterand that ... and that Oz is a wonderful and mysterious land      beyond theconfines of everyday living     .     MacBride's eyes and mouth were great zeros.     Is there something I can turn? Lanfierre asked.     Huge chunks of glass began to fall around them.     Fownes! MacBride shouted. This is a direct order! Make it go back!     But Fownes had already begun to run on toward the next house, dodgingmountainous puffs of glass as he went. Mrs. Deshazaway! he shouted.Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Deshazaway!     The dome weevils were going berserk trying to keep up with theprecipitation. They whirred back and forth at frightful speed, then,emptied of molten glass, rushed to the Trough which they quicklyemptied and then rushed about empty-handed. Yoo-hoo! he yelled,running. The artificial sun vanished behind the mushrooming twister.Optimum temperature collapsed. Mrs. Deshazaway!      Agnes     , will youmarry me? Yoo-hoo!     Lanfierre and Lieutenant MacBride leaned against their car and waited,dazed.     There was quite a large fall of glass.   ","The Master Mechanism in the downstairs closet is similar to a watch being inside of a great watch case. There is a profusion of wheels surrounding it, and the Mechanism itself is a miniature see-saw that goes back and forth 365-1/4 times an hour. The wheels are salvaged from grandfather’s clocks and music boxes, going around in graceful circles at a rate of 30 to 31 times an hour. However, there is one eccentric cam that goes between 28 and 29. Fownes also sets the time to seven o’clock on April 7th of any year. This Master Mechanism is significant because it is capable of showing the ideal illusion to Fownes. He uses this Mechanism to envision his ideal life outside of the dome, and it gives him the home that he hopes to see instead of the one that he is currently living inside of the dome. These illusions also motivate him to try and find a way to leave the dome with the widow. The Master Mechanism serves as a motivator for Fownes, and it allows him to envision his dreams into a form of reality. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>    SURVIVAL     TACTICS     By AL SEVCIK     ILLUSTRATOR NOVICK       The robots were built to serveMan; to do his work, see to hiscomforts, make smooth his way.Then the robots figured out anadditional service—putting Manout of his misery.       There  was a sudden crashthat hung sharply in the air,as if a tree had been hit bylightning some distance away.Then another. Alan stopped,puzzled. Two more blasts, quicklytogether, and the sound of ascream faintly.     Frowning, worrying about thesounds, Alan momentarily forgotto watch his step until his footsuddenly plunged into an anthill, throwing him to the junglefloor. Damn! He cursed again,for the tenth time, and stooduncertainly in the dimness.From tall, moss-shrouded trees,wrist-thick vines hung quietly,scraping the spongy ground likethe tentacles of some monstroustree-bound octopus. Fitful littleplants grew straggly in theshadows of the mossy trunks,forming a dense underbrush thatmade walking difficult. At middaysome few of the blue sun'srays filtered through to thejungle floor, but now, late afternoonon the planet, the shadowswere long and gloomy.     Alan peered around him at thevine-draped shadows, listeningto the soft rustlings and fainttwig-snappings of life in thejungle. Two short, poppingsounds echoed across the stillness,drowned out almost immediatelyand silenced by anexplosive crash. Alan started,Blaster fighting! But it can'tbe!     Suddenly anxious, he slasheda hurried X in one of the treesto mark his position then turnedto follow a line of similar marksback through the jungle. Hetried to run, but vines blockedhis way and woody shrubscaught at his legs, tripping himand holding him back. Then,through the trees he saw theclearing of the camp site, thetemporary home for the scoutship and the eleven men who,with Alan, were the only humanson the jungle planet, Waiamea.      Stepping through the lowshrubbery at the edge of thesite, he looked across the openarea to the two temporary structures,the camp headquarterswhere the power supplies andthe computer were; and thesleeping quarters. Beyond, nosehigh, stood the silver scout shipthat had brought the advanceexploratory party of scientistsand technicians to Waiameathree days before. Except for afew of the killer robots rollingslowly around the camp site ontheir quiet treads, there was noone about.     So, they've finally got thosethings working. Alan smiledslightly. Guess that means Iowe Pete a bourbon-and-sodafor sure. Anybody who canbuild a robot that hunts by homingin on animals' mind impulses ...He stepped forwardjust as a roar of blue flame dissolvedthe branches of a tree,barely above his head.     Without pausing to think,Alan leaped back, and fellsprawling over a bush just asone of the robots rolled silentlyup from the right, lowering itsblaster barrel to aim directly athis head. Alan froze. My God,Pete built those things wrong!     Suddenly a screeching whirlwindof claws and teeth hurleditself from the smolderingbranches and crashed against therobot, clawing insanely at theantenna and blaster barrel.With an awkward jerk the robotswung around and fired its blaster,completely dissolving thelower half of the cat creaturewhich had clung across the barrel.But the back pressure of thecat's body overloaded the dischargecircuits. The robot startedto shake, then clicked sharplyas an overload relay snappedand shorted the blaster cells.The killer turned and rolled backtowards the camp, leaving Alanalone.     Shakily, Alan crawled a fewfeet back into the undergrowthwhere he could lie and watch thecamp, but not himself be seen.Though visibility didn't makeany difference to the robots, hefelt safer, somehow, hidden. Heknew now what the shootingsounds had been and why therehadn't been anyone around thecamp site. A charred blob lyingin the grass of the clearing confirmedhis hypothesis. His stomachfelt sick.     I suppose, he muttered tohimself, that Pete assembledthese robots in a batch and thenactivated them all at once, probablynever living to realize thatthey're tuned to pick up humanbrain waves, too. Damn!Damn! His eyes blurred andhe slammed his fist into the softearth.     When he raised his eyes againthe jungle was perceptibly darker.Stealthy rustlings in theshadows grew louder with thesetting sun. Branches snappedunaccountably in the trees overheadand every now and thenleaves or a twig fell softly to theground, close to where he lay.Reaching into his jacket, Alanfingered his pocket blaster. Hepulled it out and held it in hisright hand. This pop gunwouldn't even singe a robot, butit just might stop one of thosepumas.     They said the blast with your name on it would findyou anywhere. This looked like Alan's blast.     Slowly Alan looked around,sizing up his situation. Behindhim the dark jungle rustled forbiddingly.He shuddered. Not avery healthy spot to spend thenight. On the other hand, I certainlycan't get to the camp witha pack of mind-activated mechanicalkillers running around.If I can just hold out until morning,when the big ship arrives ...The big ship! GoodLord, Peggy! He turned white;oily sweat punctuated his forehead.Peggy, arriving tomorrowwith the other colonists, thewives and kids! The metal killers,tuned to blast any livingflesh, would murder them theinstant they stepped from theship!      A pretty girl, Peggy, the girlhe'd married just three weeksago. He still couldn't believe it.It was crazy, he supposed, tomarry a girl and then take offfor an unknown planet, with herto follow, to try to create a homein a jungle clearing. Crazy maybe,but Peggy and her green eyesthat changed color with thelight, with her soft brown hair,and her happy smile, had endedthirty years of loneliness andhad, at last, given him a reasonfor living. Not to be killed!Alan unclenched his fists andwiped his palms, bloody wherehis fingernails had dug into theflesh.     There was a slight creak abovehim like the protesting of abranch too heavily laden. Blasterready, Alan rolled over onto hisback. In the movement, his elbowstruck the top of a smallearthy mound and he was instantlyengulfed in a swarm oflocust-like insects that beat disgustinglyagainst his eyes andmouth. Fagh! Waving hisarms before his face he jumpedup and backwards, away fromthe bugs. As he did so, a darkshapeless thing plopped fromthe trees onto the spot where hehad been lying stretched out.Then, like an ambient fungus,it slithered off into the jungleundergrowth.     For a split second the junglestood frozen in a brilliant blueflash, followed by the sharp reportof a blaster. Then another.Alan whirled, startled. Theplanet's double moon had risenand he could see a robot rollingslowly across the clearing in hisgeneral direction, blasting indiscriminatelyat whatever mindimpulses came within its pickuprange, birds, insects, anything.Six or seven others also left thecamp headquarters area andheaded for the jungle, each to aslightly different spot.     Apparently the robot hadn'tsensed him yet, but Alan didn'tknow what the effective rangeof its pickup devices was. Hebegan to slide back into thejungle. Minutes later, lookingback he saw that the machine,though several hundred yardsaway, had altered its course andwas now headed directly forhim.     His stomach tightened. Panic.The dank, musty smell of thejungle seemed for an instant tothicken and choke in his throat.Then he thought of the big shiplanding in the morning, settlingdown slowly after a lonely two-weekvoyage. He thought of abrown-haired girl crowding withthe others to the gangway, eagerto embrace the new planet, andthe next instant a charred nothing,unrecognizable, the victimof a design error or a misplacedwire in a machine. I have totry, he said aloud. I have totry. He moved into the blackness.     Powerful as a small tank, thekiller robot was equipped tocrush, slash, and burn its waythrough undergrowth. Nevertheless,it was slowed by thelarger trees and the thick, clingingvines, and Alan found thathe could manage to keep aheadof it, barely out of blaster range.Only, the robot didn't get tired.Alan did.     The twin moons cast pale, deceptiveshadows that waveredand danced across the junglefloor, hiding debris that trippedhim and often sent him sprawlinginto the dark. Sharp-edgedgrowths tore at his face andclothes, and insects attracted bythe blood matted against hispants and shirt. Behind, the robotcrashed imperturbably afterhim, lighting the night with fitfulblaster flashes as somewinged or legged life came withinits range.     There was movement also, inthe darkness beside him, scrapingsand rustlings and an occasionallow, throaty sound like anangry cat. Alan's fingers tensedon his pocket blaster. Swiftshadowy forms moved quickly inthe shrubs and the growling becamesuddenly louder. He firedtwice, blindly, into the undergrowth.Sharp screams punctuatedthe electric blue discharge asa pack of small feline creaturesleaped snarling and clawingback into the night.      Mentally, Alan tried to figurethe charge remaining in his blaster.There wouldn't be much.Enough for a few more shots,maybe. Why the devil didn't Iload in fresh cells this morning!     The robot crashed on, loudernow, gaining on the tired human.Legs aching and bruised,stinging from insect bites, Alantried to force himself to runholding his hands in front ofhim like a child in the dark. Hisfoot tripped on a barely visibleinsect hill and a winged swarmexploded around him. Startled,Alan jerked sideways, crashinghis head against a tree. Heclutched at the bark for a second,dazed, then his kneesbuckled. His blaster fell into theshadows.     The robot crashed loudly behindhim now. Without stoppingto think, Alan fumbled along theground after his gun, straininghis eyes in the darkness. Hefound it just a couple of feet toone side, against the base of asmall bush. Just as his fingersclosed upon the barrel his otherhand slipped into somethingsticky that splashed over hisforearm. He screamed in painand leaped back, trying franticallyto wipe the clinging,burning blackness off his arm.Patches of black scraped off ontobranches and vines, but the restspread slowly over his arm asagonizing as hot acid, or as fleshbeing ripped away layer bylayer.     Almost blinded by pain, whimpering,Alan stumbled forward.Sharp muscle spasms shot fromhis shoulder across his back andchest. Tears streamed across hischeeks.     A blue arc slashed at the treesa mere hundred yards behind.He screamed at the blast. Damnyou, Pete! Damn your robots!Damn, damn ... Oh, Peggy!He stepped into emptiness.     Coolness. Wet. Slowly, washedby the water, the pain began tofall away. He wanted to lie thereforever in the dark, cool, wetness.For ever, and ever, and ...The air thundered.     In the dim light he could seethe banks of the stream, higherthan a man, muddy and loose.Growing right to the edge of thebanks, the jungle reached outwith hairy, disjointed arms asif to snag even the dirty littlestream that passed so timidlythrough its domain.     Alan, lying in the mud of thestream bed, felt the earth shakeas the heavy little robot rolledslowly and inexorably towardshim. The Lord High Executioner,he thought, in battledress. He tried to stand but hislegs were almost too weak andhis arm felt numb. I'll drownhim, he said aloud. I'll drownthe Lord High Executioner. Helaughed. Then his mind cleared.He remembered where he was.      Alan trembled. For the firsttime in his life he understoodwhat it was to live, because forthe first time he realized that hewould sometime die. In othertimes and circumstances hemight put it off for a while, formonths or years, but eventually,as now, he would have to watch,still and helpless, while deathcame creeping. Then, at thirty,Alan became a man.     Dammit, no law says I haveto flame-out      now     ! He forcedhimself to rise, forced his legsto stand, struggling painfully inthe shin-deep ooze. He workedhis way to the bank and began todig frenziedly, chest high, abouttwo feet below the edge.     His arm where the black thinghad been was swollen and tender,but he forced his hands to dig,dig, dig, cursing and crying tohide the pain, and biting hislips, ignoring the salty taste ofblood. The soft earth crumbledunder his hands until he had asmall cave about three feet deepin the bank. Beyond that thesoil was held too tightly by theroots from above and he had tostop.      The air crackled blue and atree crashed heavily past Alaninto the stream. Above him onthe bank, silhouetting againstthe moons, the killer robot stoppedand its blaster swivelledslowly down. Frantically, Alanhugged the bank as a shaft ofpure electricity arced over him,sliced into the water, and explodedin a cloud of steam. Therobot shook for a second, itsblaster muzzle lifted erraticallyand for an instant it seemed almostout of control, then itquieted and the muzzle againpointed down.     Pressing with all his might,Alan slid slowly along the bankinches at a time, away from themachine above. Its muzzle turnedto follow him but the edge ofthe bank blocked its aim. Grindingforward a couple of feet,slightly overhanging the bank,the robot fired again. For a splitsecond Alan seemed engulfed inflame; the heat of hell singed hishead and back, and mud boiledin the bank by his arm.     Again the robot trembled. Itjerked forward a foot and itsblaster swung slightly away. Butonly for a moment. Then the gunswung back again.     Suddenly, as if sensing somethingwrong, its tracks slammedinto reverse. It stood poised fora second, its treads spinningcrazily as the earth collapsed underneathit, where Alan haddug, then it fell with a heavysplash into the mud, ten feetfrom where Alan stood.     Without hesitation Alanthrew himself across the blasterhousing, frantically locking hisarms around the barrel as therobot's treads churned furiouslyin the sticky mud, causing it tobuck and plunge like a Brahmabull. The treads stopped and theblaster jerked upwards wrenchingAlan's arms, then slammeddown. Then the whole housingwhirled around and around, tiltingalternately up and down likea steel-skinned water monstertrying to dislodge a tenaciouscrab, while Alan, arms and legswrapped tightly around the blasterbarrel and housing, pressedfiercely against the robot's metalskin.     Slowly, trying to anticipateand shift his weight with thespinning plunges, Alan workedhis hand down to his right hip.He fumbled for the sheath clippedto his belt, found it, and extracteda stubby hunting knife.Sweat and blood in his eyes,hardly able to move on the wildlyswinging turret, he felt downthe sides to the thin crack betweenthe revolving housing andthe stationary portion of the robot.With a quick prayer hejammed in the knife blade—andwas whipped headlong into themud as the turret literally snappedto a stop.     The earth, jungle and moonsspun in a pinwheeled blur,slowed, and settled to their properplaces. Standing in the sticky,sweet-smelling ooze, Alan eyedthe robot apprehensively. Halfburied in mud, it stood quiet inthe shadowy light except for anoccasional, almost spasmodicjerk of its blaster barrel. Forthe first time that night Alanallowed himself a slight smile.A blade in the old gear box,eh? How does that feel, boy?     He turned. Well, I'd betterget out of here before the knifeslips or the monster cooks upsome more tricks with whateverit's got for a brain. Digginglittle footholds in the soft bank,he climbed up and stood onceagain in the rustling jungledarkness.     I wonder, he thought, howPete could cram enough braininto one of those things to makeit hunt and track so perfectly.He tried to visualize the computingcircuits needed for theoperation of its tracking mechanismalone. There just isn'troom for the electronics. You'dneed a computer as big as theone at camp headquarters.      In the distance the sky blazedas a blaster roared in the jungle.Then Alan heard the approachingrobot, crunching and snappingits way through the undergrowthlike an onrushing forestfire. He froze. Good Lord!They communicate with eachother! The one I jammed mustbe calling others to help.     He began to move along thebank, away from the crashingsounds. Suddenly he stopped, hiseyes widened. Of course! Radio!I'll bet anything they'reautomatically controlled by thecamp computer. That's wheretheir brain is! He paused.Then, if that were put out ofcommission ... He jerked awayfrom the bank and half ran, halfpulled himself through the undergrowthtowards the camp.     Trees exploded to his left asanother robot fired in his direction,too far away to be effectivebut churning towards himthrough the blackness.     Alan changed direction slightlyto follow a line between thetwo robots coming up fromeither side, behind him. His eyeswere well accustomed to the darknow, and he managed to dodgemost of the shadowy vines andbranches before they could snagor trip him. Even so, he stumbledin the wiry underbrush andhis legs were a mass of stingingslashes from ankle to thigh.     The crashing rumble of thekiller robots shook the night behindhim, nearer sometimes,then falling slightly back, butfollowing constantly, moreunshakable than bloodhoundsbecause a man can sometimes covera scent, but no man can stop histhoughts. Intermittently, likephotographers' strobes, blueflashes would light the jungleabout him. Then, for secondsafterwards his eyes would seedancing streaks of yellow andsharp multi-colored pinwheelsthat alternately shrunk and expandedas if in a surrealist'snightmare. Alan would have topause and squeeze his eyelidstight shut before he could seeagain, and the robots wouldmove a little closer.     To his right the trees silhouettedbriefly against brilliance asa third robot slowly moved upin the distance. Without thinking,Alan turned slightly to theleft, then froze in momentarypanic. I should be at the campnow. Damn, what direction amI going? He tried to thinkback, to visualize the twists andturns he'd taken in the jungle.All I need is to get lost.     He pictured the camp computerwith no one to stop it, automaticallysending its robots inwider and wider forays, slowlywiping every trace of life fromthe planet. Technologically advancedmachines doing the jobfor which they were built, completely,thoroughly, without feeling,and without human mastersto separate sense from futility.Finally parts would wear out,circuits would short, and one byone the killers would crunch toa halt. A few birds would stillfly then, but a unique animallife, rare in the universe, wouldexist no more. And the bones ofchildren, eager girls, and theirmen would also lie, beside arusty hulk, beneath the aliensun.     Peggy!     As if in answer, a tree besidehim breathed fire, then exploded.In the brief flash of theblaster shot, Alan saw the steelglint of a robot only a hundredyards away, much nearer thanhe had thought. Thank heavenfor trees! He stepped back, felthis foot catch in something,clutched futilely at some leavesand fell heavily.     Pain danced up his leg as hegrabbed his ankle. Quickly hefelt the throbbing flesh. Damnthe rotten luck, anyway! Heblinked the pain tears from hiseyes and looked up—into a robot'sblaster, jutting out of thefoliage, thirty yards away.      Instinctively, in one motionAlan grabbed his pocket blasterand fired. To his amazement therobot jerked back, its gun wobbledand started to tilt away.Then, getting itself under control,it swung back again to faceAlan. He fired again, and againthe robot reacted. It seemed familiarsomehow. Then he rememberedthe robot on the riverbank, jiggling and swaying forseconds after each shot. Ofcourse! He cursed himself formissing the obvious. The blasterstatic blanks out radiotransmission from the computerfor a few seconds. They even doit to themselves!     Firing intermittently, hepulled himself upright and hobbledahead through the bush.The robot shook spasmodicallywith each shot, its gun tilted upwardat an awkward angle.     Then, unexpectedly, Alan sawstars, real stars brilliant in thenight sky, and half dragging hisswelling leg he stumbled out ofthe jungle into the camp clearing.Ahead, across fifty yards ofgrass stood the headquartersbuilding, housing the robot-controllingcomputer. Still firing atshort intervals he started acrossthe clearing, gritting his teethat every step.     Straining every muscle inspite of the agonizing pain, Alanforced himself to a limping runacross the uneven ground, carefullyavoiding the insect hillsthat jutted up through the grass.From the corner of his eye hesaw another of the robots standingshakily in the dark edge ofthe jungle waiting, it seemed,for his small blaster to run dry.     Be damned! You can't winnow! Alan yelled between blastershots, almost irrational fromthe pain that ripped jaggedlythrough his leg. Then it happened.A few feet from thebuilding's door his blaster quit.A click. A faint hiss when hefrantically jerked the triggeragain and again, and the spentcells released themselves fromthe device, falling in the grassat his feet. He dropped the uselessgun.     No! He threw himself onthe ground as a new robot suddenlyappeared around the edgeof the building a few feet away,aimed, and fired. Air burnedover Alan's back and ozone tingledin his nostrils.     Blinding itself for a few secondswith its own blaster static,the robot paused momentarily,jiggling in place. In thisinstant, Alan jammed his handsinto an insect hill and hurled thepile of dirt and insects directlyat the robot's antenna. In a flash,hundreds of the winged thingserupted angrily from the hole ina swarming cloud, each part ofwhich was a speck of lifetransmitting mental energy to therobot's pickup devices.     Confused by the sudden dispersionof mind impulses, therobot fired erratically as Alancrouched and raced painfully forthe door. It fired again, closer,as he fumbled with the lockrelease. Jagged bits of plastic andstone ripped past him, torn looseby the blast.     Frantically, Alan slammedopen the door as the robot, sensinghim strongly now, aimedpoint blank. He saw nothing, hismind thought of nothing but thered-clad safety switch mountedbeside the computer. Time stopped.There was nothing else inthe world. He half-jumped, half-felltowards it, slowly, in tenthsof seconds that seemed measuredout in years.     The universe went black.     Later. Brilliance pressed uponhis eyes. Then pain returned, amulti-hurting thing that crawledthrough his body and draggedragged tentacles across hisbrain. He moaned.     A voice spoke hollowly in thedistance. He's waking. Call hiswife.     Alan opened his eyes in awhite room; a white light hungover his head. Beside him, lookingdown with a rueful smile,stood a young man wearingspace medical insignia. Yes,he acknowledged the question inAlan's eyes, you hit the switch.That was three days ago. Whenyou're up again we'd all like tothank you.     Suddenly a sobbing-laughinggreen-eyed girl was pressedtightly against him. Neither ofthem spoke. They couldn't. Therewas too much to say.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Amazing Science Fiction Stories   October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","Alan is walking when he hears a sudden crash that hangs sharply in the air. He loses his footing and trips, realizing that there is a possibility of blaster fighting. He hurries to mark an X on a tree for his position and heads back to the clearing of the temporary camp site. This place is home to the only eleven humans, with Alan, on the planet of Waiamea. Once Alan returns to the site, he observes the killer robots and praises Pete for getting them to work. However, when the robots turn on him, he realizes that the robots must have been programmed to pick up human brain waves. He thinks back to Penny, a girl he married three weeks ago who will be arriving with the rest of the colonists tomorrow. This becomes his reason to live against the killer robots, and he observes the killer robots. He fires into the undergrowth and berates himself for not loading fresh cells in the morning as the robot gets louder. He is injured by one and cries out as he feels himself dying. As the robot comes towards him again, he understands what it means to live and forces himself to keep walking. Alan then hugs the bank as pure electricity arches over him, sliding slowly and away from the machine above. The robot trembles and suddenly falls; this gives Alan an opportunity to tackle it. The two struggle, but Alan takes a hunting knife out and jams it into the robot. He wonders how Pete managed to create these robots so perfectly. Suddenly, he hears an approaching robot and realizes that they communicate with each other even if one of them is jammed. Alan decides to run towards the camp because he realizes that’s where the brain of the robots is located. Shortly after running, he finds himself lost because the camp has not appeared in sight yet. He tries to think back to where the camp could be and narrowly misses getting blasted by one of the killer robots. When he fires the pocket blaster, it cancels out the radio transmission from the computer to the robot; Alan sees this as an opportunity to go towards the headquarters building. His blaster suddenly quits, but he manages to hurl a pile of dirt and insects at the robots. He goes into the room quickly as the robot continues to blast. The robot aims point blank at him as he hurls himself towards the red-clad safety switch. Everything then fades to black. When Alan wakes up again, there is a young man wearing a medical insignia telling him that he had hit the switch three days ago. Suddenly, his wife appears, and they hold each other tight. "
"Who is Alan, and what are his traits? </s>    SURVIVAL     TACTICS     By AL SEVCIK     ILLUSTRATOR NOVICK       The robots were built to serveMan; to do his work, see to hiscomforts, make smooth his way.Then the robots figured out anadditional service—putting Manout of his misery.       There  was a sudden crashthat hung sharply in the air,as if a tree had been hit bylightning some distance away.Then another. Alan stopped,puzzled. Two more blasts, quicklytogether, and the sound of ascream faintly.     Frowning, worrying about thesounds, Alan momentarily forgotto watch his step until his footsuddenly plunged into an anthill, throwing him to the junglefloor. Damn! He cursed again,for the tenth time, and stooduncertainly in the dimness.From tall, moss-shrouded trees,wrist-thick vines hung quietly,scraping the spongy ground likethe tentacles of some monstroustree-bound octopus. Fitful littleplants grew straggly in theshadows of the mossy trunks,forming a dense underbrush thatmade walking difficult. At middaysome few of the blue sun'srays filtered through to thejungle floor, but now, late afternoonon the planet, the shadowswere long and gloomy.     Alan peered around him at thevine-draped shadows, listeningto the soft rustlings and fainttwig-snappings of life in thejungle. Two short, poppingsounds echoed across the stillness,drowned out almost immediatelyand silenced by anexplosive crash. Alan started,Blaster fighting! But it can'tbe!     Suddenly anxious, he slasheda hurried X in one of the treesto mark his position then turnedto follow a line of similar marksback through the jungle. Hetried to run, but vines blockedhis way and woody shrubscaught at his legs, tripping himand holding him back. Then,through the trees he saw theclearing of the camp site, thetemporary home for the scoutship and the eleven men who,with Alan, were the only humanson the jungle planet, Waiamea.      Stepping through the lowshrubbery at the edge of thesite, he looked across the openarea to the two temporary structures,the camp headquarterswhere the power supplies andthe computer were; and thesleeping quarters. Beyond, nosehigh, stood the silver scout shipthat had brought the advanceexploratory party of scientistsand technicians to Waiameathree days before. Except for afew of the killer robots rollingslowly around the camp site ontheir quiet treads, there was noone about.     So, they've finally got thosethings working. Alan smiledslightly. Guess that means Iowe Pete a bourbon-and-sodafor sure. Anybody who canbuild a robot that hunts by homingin on animals' mind impulses ...He stepped forwardjust as a roar of blue flame dissolvedthe branches of a tree,barely above his head.     Without pausing to think,Alan leaped back, and fellsprawling over a bush just asone of the robots rolled silentlyup from the right, lowering itsblaster barrel to aim directly athis head. Alan froze. My God,Pete built those things wrong!     Suddenly a screeching whirlwindof claws and teeth hurleditself from the smolderingbranches and crashed against therobot, clawing insanely at theantenna and blaster barrel.With an awkward jerk the robotswung around and fired its blaster,completely dissolving thelower half of the cat creaturewhich had clung across the barrel.But the back pressure of thecat's body overloaded the dischargecircuits. The robot startedto shake, then clicked sharplyas an overload relay snappedand shorted the blaster cells.The killer turned and rolled backtowards the camp, leaving Alanalone.     Shakily, Alan crawled a fewfeet back into the undergrowthwhere he could lie and watch thecamp, but not himself be seen.Though visibility didn't makeany difference to the robots, hefelt safer, somehow, hidden. Heknew now what the shootingsounds had been and why therehadn't been anyone around thecamp site. A charred blob lyingin the grass of the clearing confirmedhis hypothesis. His stomachfelt sick.     I suppose, he muttered tohimself, that Pete assembledthese robots in a batch and thenactivated them all at once, probablynever living to realize thatthey're tuned to pick up humanbrain waves, too. Damn!Damn! His eyes blurred andhe slammed his fist into the softearth.     When he raised his eyes againthe jungle was perceptibly darker.Stealthy rustlings in theshadows grew louder with thesetting sun. Branches snappedunaccountably in the trees overheadand every now and thenleaves or a twig fell softly to theground, close to where he lay.Reaching into his jacket, Alanfingered his pocket blaster. Hepulled it out and held it in hisright hand. This pop gunwouldn't even singe a robot, butit just might stop one of thosepumas.     They said the blast with your name on it would findyou anywhere. This looked like Alan's blast.     Slowly Alan looked around,sizing up his situation. Behindhim the dark jungle rustled forbiddingly.He shuddered. Not avery healthy spot to spend thenight. On the other hand, I certainlycan't get to the camp witha pack of mind-activated mechanicalkillers running around.If I can just hold out until morning,when the big ship arrives ...The big ship! GoodLord, Peggy! He turned white;oily sweat punctuated his forehead.Peggy, arriving tomorrowwith the other colonists, thewives and kids! The metal killers,tuned to blast any livingflesh, would murder them theinstant they stepped from theship!      A pretty girl, Peggy, the girlhe'd married just three weeksago. He still couldn't believe it.It was crazy, he supposed, tomarry a girl and then take offfor an unknown planet, with herto follow, to try to create a homein a jungle clearing. Crazy maybe,but Peggy and her green eyesthat changed color with thelight, with her soft brown hair,and her happy smile, had endedthirty years of loneliness andhad, at last, given him a reasonfor living. Not to be killed!Alan unclenched his fists andwiped his palms, bloody wherehis fingernails had dug into theflesh.     There was a slight creak abovehim like the protesting of abranch too heavily laden. Blasterready, Alan rolled over onto hisback. In the movement, his elbowstruck the top of a smallearthy mound and he was instantlyengulfed in a swarm oflocust-like insects that beat disgustinglyagainst his eyes andmouth. Fagh! Waving hisarms before his face he jumpedup and backwards, away fromthe bugs. As he did so, a darkshapeless thing plopped fromthe trees onto the spot where hehad been lying stretched out.Then, like an ambient fungus,it slithered off into the jungleundergrowth.     For a split second the junglestood frozen in a brilliant blueflash, followed by the sharp reportof a blaster. Then another.Alan whirled, startled. Theplanet's double moon had risenand he could see a robot rollingslowly across the clearing in hisgeneral direction, blasting indiscriminatelyat whatever mindimpulses came within its pickuprange, birds, insects, anything.Six or seven others also left thecamp headquarters area andheaded for the jungle, each to aslightly different spot.     Apparently the robot hadn'tsensed him yet, but Alan didn'tknow what the effective rangeof its pickup devices was. Hebegan to slide back into thejungle. Minutes later, lookingback he saw that the machine,though several hundred yardsaway, had altered its course andwas now headed directly forhim.     His stomach tightened. Panic.The dank, musty smell of thejungle seemed for an instant tothicken and choke in his throat.Then he thought of the big shiplanding in the morning, settlingdown slowly after a lonely two-weekvoyage. He thought of abrown-haired girl crowding withthe others to the gangway, eagerto embrace the new planet, andthe next instant a charred nothing,unrecognizable, the victimof a design error or a misplacedwire in a machine. I have totry, he said aloud. I have totry. He moved into the blackness.     Powerful as a small tank, thekiller robot was equipped tocrush, slash, and burn its waythrough undergrowth. Nevertheless,it was slowed by thelarger trees and the thick, clingingvines, and Alan found thathe could manage to keep aheadof it, barely out of blaster range.Only, the robot didn't get tired.Alan did.     The twin moons cast pale, deceptiveshadows that waveredand danced across the junglefloor, hiding debris that trippedhim and often sent him sprawlinginto the dark. Sharp-edgedgrowths tore at his face andclothes, and insects attracted bythe blood matted against hispants and shirt. Behind, the robotcrashed imperturbably afterhim, lighting the night with fitfulblaster flashes as somewinged or legged life came withinits range.     There was movement also, inthe darkness beside him, scrapingsand rustlings and an occasionallow, throaty sound like anangry cat. Alan's fingers tensedon his pocket blaster. Swiftshadowy forms moved quickly inthe shrubs and the growling becamesuddenly louder. He firedtwice, blindly, into the undergrowth.Sharp screams punctuatedthe electric blue discharge asa pack of small feline creaturesleaped snarling and clawingback into the night.      Mentally, Alan tried to figurethe charge remaining in his blaster.There wouldn't be much.Enough for a few more shots,maybe. Why the devil didn't Iload in fresh cells this morning!     The robot crashed on, loudernow, gaining on the tired human.Legs aching and bruised,stinging from insect bites, Alantried to force himself to runholding his hands in front ofhim like a child in the dark. Hisfoot tripped on a barely visibleinsect hill and a winged swarmexploded around him. Startled,Alan jerked sideways, crashinghis head against a tree. Heclutched at the bark for a second,dazed, then his kneesbuckled. His blaster fell into theshadows.     The robot crashed loudly behindhim now. Without stoppingto think, Alan fumbled along theground after his gun, straininghis eyes in the darkness. Hefound it just a couple of feet toone side, against the base of asmall bush. Just as his fingersclosed upon the barrel his otherhand slipped into somethingsticky that splashed over hisforearm. He screamed in painand leaped back, trying franticallyto wipe the clinging,burning blackness off his arm.Patches of black scraped off ontobranches and vines, but the restspread slowly over his arm asagonizing as hot acid, or as fleshbeing ripped away layer bylayer.     Almost blinded by pain, whimpering,Alan stumbled forward.Sharp muscle spasms shot fromhis shoulder across his back andchest. Tears streamed across hischeeks.     A blue arc slashed at the treesa mere hundred yards behind.He screamed at the blast. Damnyou, Pete! Damn your robots!Damn, damn ... Oh, Peggy!He stepped into emptiness.     Coolness. Wet. Slowly, washedby the water, the pain began tofall away. He wanted to lie thereforever in the dark, cool, wetness.For ever, and ever, and ...The air thundered.     In the dim light he could seethe banks of the stream, higherthan a man, muddy and loose.Growing right to the edge of thebanks, the jungle reached outwith hairy, disjointed arms asif to snag even the dirty littlestream that passed so timidlythrough its domain.     Alan, lying in the mud of thestream bed, felt the earth shakeas the heavy little robot rolledslowly and inexorably towardshim. The Lord High Executioner,he thought, in battledress. He tried to stand but hislegs were almost too weak andhis arm felt numb. I'll drownhim, he said aloud. I'll drownthe Lord High Executioner. Helaughed. Then his mind cleared.He remembered where he was.      Alan trembled. For the firsttime in his life he understoodwhat it was to live, because forthe first time he realized that hewould sometime die. In othertimes and circumstances hemight put it off for a while, formonths or years, but eventually,as now, he would have to watch,still and helpless, while deathcame creeping. Then, at thirty,Alan became a man.     Dammit, no law says I haveto flame-out      now     ! He forcedhimself to rise, forced his legsto stand, struggling painfully inthe shin-deep ooze. He workedhis way to the bank and began todig frenziedly, chest high, abouttwo feet below the edge.     His arm where the black thinghad been was swollen and tender,but he forced his hands to dig,dig, dig, cursing and crying tohide the pain, and biting hislips, ignoring the salty taste ofblood. The soft earth crumbledunder his hands until he had asmall cave about three feet deepin the bank. Beyond that thesoil was held too tightly by theroots from above and he had tostop.      The air crackled blue and atree crashed heavily past Alaninto the stream. Above him onthe bank, silhouetting againstthe moons, the killer robot stoppedand its blaster swivelledslowly down. Frantically, Alanhugged the bank as a shaft ofpure electricity arced over him,sliced into the water, and explodedin a cloud of steam. Therobot shook for a second, itsblaster muzzle lifted erraticallyand for an instant it seemed almostout of control, then itquieted and the muzzle againpointed down.     Pressing with all his might,Alan slid slowly along the bankinches at a time, away from themachine above. Its muzzle turnedto follow him but the edge ofthe bank blocked its aim. Grindingforward a couple of feet,slightly overhanging the bank,the robot fired again. For a splitsecond Alan seemed engulfed inflame; the heat of hell singed hishead and back, and mud boiledin the bank by his arm.     Again the robot trembled. Itjerked forward a foot and itsblaster swung slightly away. Butonly for a moment. Then the gunswung back again.     Suddenly, as if sensing somethingwrong, its tracks slammedinto reverse. It stood poised fora second, its treads spinningcrazily as the earth collapsed underneathit, where Alan haddug, then it fell with a heavysplash into the mud, ten feetfrom where Alan stood.     Without hesitation Alanthrew himself across the blasterhousing, frantically locking hisarms around the barrel as therobot's treads churned furiouslyin the sticky mud, causing it tobuck and plunge like a Brahmabull. The treads stopped and theblaster jerked upwards wrenchingAlan's arms, then slammeddown. Then the whole housingwhirled around and around, tiltingalternately up and down likea steel-skinned water monstertrying to dislodge a tenaciouscrab, while Alan, arms and legswrapped tightly around the blasterbarrel and housing, pressedfiercely against the robot's metalskin.     Slowly, trying to anticipateand shift his weight with thespinning plunges, Alan workedhis hand down to his right hip.He fumbled for the sheath clippedto his belt, found it, and extracteda stubby hunting knife.Sweat and blood in his eyes,hardly able to move on the wildlyswinging turret, he felt downthe sides to the thin crack betweenthe revolving housing andthe stationary portion of the robot.With a quick prayer hejammed in the knife blade—andwas whipped headlong into themud as the turret literally snappedto a stop.     The earth, jungle and moonsspun in a pinwheeled blur,slowed, and settled to their properplaces. Standing in the sticky,sweet-smelling ooze, Alan eyedthe robot apprehensively. Halfburied in mud, it stood quiet inthe shadowy light except for anoccasional, almost spasmodicjerk of its blaster barrel. Forthe first time that night Alanallowed himself a slight smile.A blade in the old gear box,eh? How does that feel, boy?     He turned. Well, I'd betterget out of here before the knifeslips or the monster cooks upsome more tricks with whateverit's got for a brain. Digginglittle footholds in the soft bank,he climbed up and stood onceagain in the rustling jungledarkness.     I wonder, he thought, howPete could cram enough braininto one of those things to makeit hunt and track so perfectly.He tried to visualize the computingcircuits needed for theoperation of its tracking mechanismalone. There just isn'troom for the electronics. You'dneed a computer as big as theone at camp headquarters.      In the distance the sky blazedas a blaster roared in the jungle.Then Alan heard the approachingrobot, crunching and snappingits way through the undergrowthlike an onrushing forestfire. He froze. Good Lord!They communicate with eachother! The one I jammed mustbe calling others to help.     He began to move along thebank, away from the crashingsounds. Suddenly he stopped, hiseyes widened. Of course! Radio!I'll bet anything they'reautomatically controlled by thecamp computer. That's wheretheir brain is! He paused.Then, if that were put out ofcommission ... He jerked awayfrom the bank and half ran, halfpulled himself through the undergrowthtowards the camp.     Trees exploded to his left asanother robot fired in his direction,too far away to be effectivebut churning towards himthrough the blackness.     Alan changed direction slightlyto follow a line between thetwo robots coming up fromeither side, behind him. His eyeswere well accustomed to the darknow, and he managed to dodgemost of the shadowy vines andbranches before they could snagor trip him. Even so, he stumbledin the wiry underbrush andhis legs were a mass of stingingslashes from ankle to thigh.     The crashing rumble of thekiller robots shook the night behindhim, nearer sometimes,then falling slightly back, butfollowing constantly, moreunshakable than bloodhoundsbecause a man can sometimes covera scent, but no man can stop histhoughts. Intermittently, likephotographers' strobes, blueflashes would light the jungleabout him. Then, for secondsafterwards his eyes would seedancing streaks of yellow andsharp multi-colored pinwheelsthat alternately shrunk and expandedas if in a surrealist'snightmare. Alan would have topause and squeeze his eyelidstight shut before he could seeagain, and the robots wouldmove a little closer.     To his right the trees silhouettedbriefly against brilliance asa third robot slowly moved upin the distance. Without thinking,Alan turned slightly to theleft, then froze in momentarypanic. I should be at the campnow. Damn, what direction amI going? He tried to thinkback, to visualize the twists andturns he'd taken in the jungle.All I need is to get lost.     He pictured the camp computerwith no one to stop it, automaticallysending its robots inwider and wider forays, slowlywiping every trace of life fromthe planet. Technologically advancedmachines doing the jobfor which they were built, completely,thoroughly, without feeling,and without human mastersto separate sense from futility.Finally parts would wear out,circuits would short, and one byone the killers would crunch toa halt. A few birds would stillfly then, but a unique animallife, rare in the universe, wouldexist no more. And the bones ofchildren, eager girls, and theirmen would also lie, beside arusty hulk, beneath the aliensun.     Peggy!     As if in answer, a tree besidehim breathed fire, then exploded.In the brief flash of theblaster shot, Alan saw the steelglint of a robot only a hundredyards away, much nearer thanhe had thought. Thank heavenfor trees! He stepped back, felthis foot catch in something,clutched futilely at some leavesand fell heavily.     Pain danced up his leg as hegrabbed his ankle. Quickly hefelt the throbbing flesh. Damnthe rotten luck, anyway! Heblinked the pain tears from hiseyes and looked up—into a robot'sblaster, jutting out of thefoliage, thirty yards away.      Instinctively, in one motionAlan grabbed his pocket blasterand fired. To his amazement therobot jerked back, its gun wobbledand started to tilt away.Then, getting itself under control,it swung back again to faceAlan. He fired again, and againthe robot reacted. It seemed familiarsomehow. Then he rememberedthe robot on the riverbank, jiggling and swaying forseconds after each shot. Ofcourse! He cursed himself formissing the obvious. The blasterstatic blanks out radiotransmission from the computerfor a few seconds. They even doit to themselves!     Firing intermittently, hepulled himself upright and hobbledahead through the bush.The robot shook spasmodicallywith each shot, its gun tilted upwardat an awkward angle.     Then, unexpectedly, Alan sawstars, real stars brilliant in thenight sky, and half dragging hisswelling leg he stumbled out ofthe jungle into the camp clearing.Ahead, across fifty yards ofgrass stood the headquartersbuilding, housing the robot-controllingcomputer. Still firing atshort intervals he started acrossthe clearing, gritting his teethat every step.     Straining every muscle inspite of the agonizing pain, Alanforced himself to a limping runacross the uneven ground, carefullyavoiding the insect hillsthat jutted up through the grass.From the corner of his eye hesaw another of the robots standingshakily in the dark edge ofthe jungle waiting, it seemed,for his small blaster to run dry.     Be damned! You can't winnow! Alan yelled between blastershots, almost irrational fromthe pain that ripped jaggedlythrough his leg. Then it happened.A few feet from thebuilding's door his blaster quit.A click. A faint hiss when hefrantically jerked the triggeragain and again, and the spentcells released themselves fromthe device, falling in the grassat his feet. He dropped the uselessgun.     No! He threw himself onthe ground as a new robot suddenlyappeared around the edgeof the building a few feet away,aimed, and fired. Air burnedover Alan's back and ozone tingledin his nostrils.     Blinding itself for a few secondswith its own blaster static,the robot paused momentarily,jiggling in place. In thisinstant, Alan jammed his handsinto an insect hill and hurled thepile of dirt and insects directlyat the robot's antenna. In a flash,hundreds of the winged thingserupted angrily from the hole ina swarming cloud, each part ofwhich was a speck of lifetransmitting mental energy to therobot's pickup devices.     Confused by the sudden dispersionof mind impulses, therobot fired erratically as Alancrouched and raced painfully forthe door. It fired again, closer,as he fumbled with the lockrelease. Jagged bits of plastic andstone ripped past him, torn looseby the blast.     Frantically, Alan slammedopen the door as the robot, sensinghim strongly now, aimedpoint blank. He saw nothing, hismind thought of nothing but thered-clad safety switch mountedbeside the computer. Time stopped.There was nothing else inthe world. He half-jumped, half-felltowards it, slowly, in tenthsof seconds that seemed measuredout in years.     The universe went black.     Later. Brilliance pressed uponhis eyes. Then pain returned, amulti-hurting thing that crawledthrough his body and draggedragged tentacles across hisbrain. He moaned.     A voice spoke hollowly in thedistance. He's waking. Call hiswife.     Alan opened his eyes in awhite room; a white light hungover his head. Beside him, lookingdown with a rueful smile,stood a young man wearingspace medical insignia. Yes,he acknowledged the question inAlan's eyes, you hit the switch.That was three days ago. Whenyou're up again we'd all like tothank you.     Suddenly a sobbing-laughinggreen-eyed girl was pressedtightly against him. Neither ofthem spoke. They couldn't. Therewas too much to say.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Amazing Science Fiction Stories   October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","Alan is one of the men who have arrived on Waiamea. He ventures around the jungle planet but goes on the run after a programming error with Pete’s robots. Alan is thirty years old, and he married a woman named Peggy three weeks earlier. Initially, he is very afraid of death and tries to protect himself from the robots. However, he does realize his love for Peggy and sees it as a motivation to continue living. He understands what it means to live for the first time in his life, and he becomes a lot more courageous. Instead of giving up, Alan chooses to find a way to defeat the robots. He also shows himself to be intelligent, figuring out that the robots are being controlled by radio transmissions via a computer in the headquarters building. Furthermore, he is capable of using his pocket blaster and knife to defeat one of the robots, even though it could instantly kill him with a single blast. Alan is very resilient as well; he is injured and continues to run around and fight against the robots. Even when the odds are against him, his desire to be with his wife gives him the strength to continue heading towards the headquarters building and flip off the switch. "
"What are the features of the killer robots? </s>    SURVIVAL     TACTICS     By AL SEVCIK     ILLUSTRATOR NOVICK       The robots were built to serveMan; to do his work, see to hiscomforts, make smooth his way.Then the robots figured out anadditional service—putting Manout of his misery.       There  was a sudden crashthat hung sharply in the air,as if a tree had been hit bylightning some distance away.Then another. Alan stopped,puzzled. Two more blasts, quicklytogether, and the sound of ascream faintly.     Frowning, worrying about thesounds, Alan momentarily forgotto watch his step until his footsuddenly plunged into an anthill, throwing him to the junglefloor. Damn! He cursed again,for the tenth time, and stooduncertainly in the dimness.From tall, moss-shrouded trees,wrist-thick vines hung quietly,scraping the spongy ground likethe tentacles of some monstroustree-bound octopus. Fitful littleplants grew straggly in theshadows of the mossy trunks,forming a dense underbrush thatmade walking difficult. At middaysome few of the blue sun'srays filtered through to thejungle floor, but now, late afternoonon the planet, the shadowswere long and gloomy.     Alan peered around him at thevine-draped shadows, listeningto the soft rustlings and fainttwig-snappings of life in thejungle. Two short, poppingsounds echoed across the stillness,drowned out almost immediatelyand silenced by anexplosive crash. Alan started,Blaster fighting! But it can'tbe!     Suddenly anxious, he slasheda hurried X in one of the treesto mark his position then turnedto follow a line of similar marksback through the jungle. Hetried to run, but vines blockedhis way and woody shrubscaught at his legs, tripping himand holding him back. Then,through the trees he saw theclearing of the camp site, thetemporary home for the scoutship and the eleven men who,with Alan, were the only humanson the jungle planet, Waiamea.      Stepping through the lowshrubbery at the edge of thesite, he looked across the openarea to the two temporary structures,the camp headquarterswhere the power supplies andthe computer were; and thesleeping quarters. Beyond, nosehigh, stood the silver scout shipthat had brought the advanceexploratory party of scientistsand technicians to Waiameathree days before. Except for afew of the killer robots rollingslowly around the camp site ontheir quiet treads, there was noone about.     So, they've finally got thosethings working. Alan smiledslightly. Guess that means Iowe Pete a bourbon-and-sodafor sure. Anybody who canbuild a robot that hunts by homingin on animals' mind impulses ...He stepped forwardjust as a roar of blue flame dissolvedthe branches of a tree,barely above his head.     Without pausing to think,Alan leaped back, and fellsprawling over a bush just asone of the robots rolled silentlyup from the right, lowering itsblaster barrel to aim directly athis head. Alan froze. My God,Pete built those things wrong!     Suddenly a screeching whirlwindof claws and teeth hurleditself from the smolderingbranches and crashed against therobot, clawing insanely at theantenna and blaster barrel.With an awkward jerk the robotswung around and fired its blaster,completely dissolving thelower half of the cat creaturewhich had clung across the barrel.But the back pressure of thecat's body overloaded the dischargecircuits. The robot startedto shake, then clicked sharplyas an overload relay snappedand shorted the blaster cells.The killer turned and rolled backtowards the camp, leaving Alanalone.     Shakily, Alan crawled a fewfeet back into the undergrowthwhere he could lie and watch thecamp, but not himself be seen.Though visibility didn't makeany difference to the robots, hefelt safer, somehow, hidden. Heknew now what the shootingsounds had been and why therehadn't been anyone around thecamp site. A charred blob lyingin the grass of the clearing confirmedhis hypothesis. His stomachfelt sick.     I suppose, he muttered tohimself, that Pete assembledthese robots in a batch and thenactivated them all at once, probablynever living to realize thatthey're tuned to pick up humanbrain waves, too. Damn!Damn! His eyes blurred andhe slammed his fist into the softearth.     When he raised his eyes againthe jungle was perceptibly darker.Stealthy rustlings in theshadows grew louder with thesetting sun. Branches snappedunaccountably in the trees overheadand every now and thenleaves or a twig fell softly to theground, close to where he lay.Reaching into his jacket, Alanfingered his pocket blaster. Hepulled it out and held it in hisright hand. This pop gunwouldn't even singe a robot, butit just might stop one of thosepumas.     They said the blast with your name on it would findyou anywhere. This looked like Alan's blast.     Slowly Alan looked around,sizing up his situation. Behindhim the dark jungle rustled forbiddingly.He shuddered. Not avery healthy spot to spend thenight. On the other hand, I certainlycan't get to the camp witha pack of mind-activated mechanicalkillers running around.If I can just hold out until morning,when the big ship arrives ...The big ship! GoodLord, Peggy! He turned white;oily sweat punctuated his forehead.Peggy, arriving tomorrowwith the other colonists, thewives and kids! The metal killers,tuned to blast any livingflesh, would murder them theinstant they stepped from theship!      A pretty girl, Peggy, the girlhe'd married just three weeksago. He still couldn't believe it.It was crazy, he supposed, tomarry a girl and then take offfor an unknown planet, with herto follow, to try to create a homein a jungle clearing. Crazy maybe,but Peggy and her green eyesthat changed color with thelight, with her soft brown hair,and her happy smile, had endedthirty years of loneliness andhad, at last, given him a reasonfor living. Not to be killed!Alan unclenched his fists andwiped his palms, bloody wherehis fingernails had dug into theflesh.     There was a slight creak abovehim like the protesting of abranch too heavily laden. Blasterready, Alan rolled over onto hisback. In the movement, his elbowstruck the top of a smallearthy mound and he was instantlyengulfed in a swarm oflocust-like insects that beat disgustinglyagainst his eyes andmouth. Fagh! Waving hisarms before his face he jumpedup and backwards, away fromthe bugs. As he did so, a darkshapeless thing plopped fromthe trees onto the spot where hehad been lying stretched out.Then, like an ambient fungus,it slithered off into the jungleundergrowth.     For a split second the junglestood frozen in a brilliant blueflash, followed by the sharp reportof a blaster. Then another.Alan whirled, startled. Theplanet's double moon had risenand he could see a robot rollingslowly across the clearing in hisgeneral direction, blasting indiscriminatelyat whatever mindimpulses came within its pickuprange, birds, insects, anything.Six or seven others also left thecamp headquarters area andheaded for the jungle, each to aslightly different spot.     Apparently the robot hadn'tsensed him yet, but Alan didn'tknow what the effective rangeof its pickup devices was. Hebegan to slide back into thejungle. Minutes later, lookingback he saw that the machine,though several hundred yardsaway, had altered its course andwas now headed directly forhim.     His stomach tightened. Panic.The dank, musty smell of thejungle seemed for an instant tothicken and choke in his throat.Then he thought of the big shiplanding in the morning, settlingdown slowly after a lonely two-weekvoyage. He thought of abrown-haired girl crowding withthe others to the gangway, eagerto embrace the new planet, andthe next instant a charred nothing,unrecognizable, the victimof a design error or a misplacedwire in a machine. I have totry, he said aloud. I have totry. He moved into the blackness.     Powerful as a small tank, thekiller robot was equipped tocrush, slash, and burn its waythrough undergrowth. Nevertheless,it was slowed by thelarger trees and the thick, clingingvines, and Alan found thathe could manage to keep aheadof it, barely out of blaster range.Only, the robot didn't get tired.Alan did.     The twin moons cast pale, deceptiveshadows that waveredand danced across the junglefloor, hiding debris that trippedhim and often sent him sprawlinginto the dark. Sharp-edgedgrowths tore at his face andclothes, and insects attracted bythe blood matted against hispants and shirt. Behind, the robotcrashed imperturbably afterhim, lighting the night with fitfulblaster flashes as somewinged or legged life came withinits range.     There was movement also, inthe darkness beside him, scrapingsand rustlings and an occasionallow, throaty sound like anangry cat. Alan's fingers tensedon his pocket blaster. Swiftshadowy forms moved quickly inthe shrubs and the growling becamesuddenly louder. He firedtwice, blindly, into the undergrowth.Sharp screams punctuatedthe electric blue discharge asa pack of small feline creaturesleaped snarling and clawingback into the night.      Mentally, Alan tried to figurethe charge remaining in his blaster.There wouldn't be much.Enough for a few more shots,maybe. Why the devil didn't Iload in fresh cells this morning!     The robot crashed on, loudernow, gaining on the tired human.Legs aching and bruised,stinging from insect bites, Alantried to force himself to runholding his hands in front ofhim like a child in the dark. Hisfoot tripped on a barely visibleinsect hill and a winged swarmexploded around him. Startled,Alan jerked sideways, crashinghis head against a tree. Heclutched at the bark for a second,dazed, then his kneesbuckled. His blaster fell into theshadows.     The robot crashed loudly behindhim now. Without stoppingto think, Alan fumbled along theground after his gun, straininghis eyes in the darkness. Hefound it just a couple of feet toone side, against the base of asmall bush. Just as his fingersclosed upon the barrel his otherhand slipped into somethingsticky that splashed over hisforearm. He screamed in painand leaped back, trying franticallyto wipe the clinging,burning blackness off his arm.Patches of black scraped off ontobranches and vines, but the restspread slowly over his arm asagonizing as hot acid, or as fleshbeing ripped away layer bylayer.     Almost blinded by pain, whimpering,Alan stumbled forward.Sharp muscle spasms shot fromhis shoulder across his back andchest. Tears streamed across hischeeks.     A blue arc slashed at the treesa mere hundred yards behind.He screamed at the blast. Damnyou, Pete! Damn your robots!Damn, damn ... Oh, Peggy!He stepped into emptiness.     Coolness. Wet. Slowly, washedby the water, the pain began tofall away. He wanted to lie thereforever in the dark, cool, wetness.For ever, and ever, and ...The air thundered.     In the dim light he could seethe banks of the stream, higherthan a man, muddy and loose.Growing right to the edge of thebanks, the jungle reached outwith hairy, disjointed arms asif to snag even the dirty littlestream that passed so timidlythrough its domain.     Alan, lying in the mud of thestream bed, felt the earth shakeas the heavy little robot rolledslowly and inexorably towardshim. The Lord High Executioner,he thought, in battledress. He tried to stand but hislegs were almost too weak andhis arm felt numb. I'll drownhim, he said aloud. I'll drownthe Lord High Executioner. Helaughed. Then his mind cleared.He remembered where he was.      Alan trembled. For the firsttime in his life he understoodwhat it was to live, because forthe first time he realized that hewould sometime die. In othertimes and circumstances hemight put it off for a while, formonths or years, but eventually,as now, he would have to watch,still and helpless, while deathcame creeping. Then, at thirty,Alan became a man.     Dammit, no law says I haveto flame-out      now     ! He forcedhimself to rise, forced his legsto stand, struggling painfully inthe shin-deep ooze. He workedhis way to the bank and began todig frenziedly, chest high, abouttwo feet below the edge.     His arm where the black thinghad been was swollen and tender,but he forced his hands to dig,dig, dig, cursing and crying tohide the pain, and biting hislips, ignoring the salty taste ofblood. The soft earth crumbledunder his hands until he had asmall cave about three feet deepin the bank. Beyond that thesoil was held too tightly by theroots from above and he had tostop.      The air crackled blue and atree crashed heavily past Alaninto the stream. Above him onthe bank, silhouetting againstthe moons, the killer robot stoppedand its blaster swivelledslowly down. Frantically, Alanhugged the bank as a shaft ofpure electricity arced over him,sliced into the water, and explodedin a cloud of steam. Therobot shook for a second, itsblaster muzzle lifted erraticallyand for an instant it seemed almostout of control, then itquieted and the muzzle againpointed down.     Pressing with all his might,Alan slid slowly along the bankinches at a time, away from themachine above. Its muzzle turnedto follow him but the edge ofthe bank blocked its aim. Grindingforward a couple of feet,slightly overhanging the bank,the robot fired again. For a splitsecond Alan seemed engulfed inflame; the heat of hell singed hishead and back, and mud boiledin the bank by his arm.     Again the robot trembled. Itjerked forward a foot and itsblaster swung slightly away. Butonly for a moment. Then the gunswung back again.     Suddenly, as if sensing somethingwrong, its tracks slammedinto reverse. It stood poised fora second, its treads spinningcrazily as the earth collapsed underneathit, where Alan haddug, then it fell with a heavysplash into the mud, ten feetfrom where Alan stood.     Without hesitation Alanthrew himself across the blasterhousing, frantically locking hisarms around the barrel as therobot's treads churned furiouslyin the sticky mud, causing it tobuck and plunge like a Brahmabull. The treads stopped and theblaster jerked upwards wrenchingAlan's arms, then slammeddown. Then the whole housingwhirled around and around, tiltingalternately up and down likea steel-skinned water monstertrying to dislodge a tenaciouscrab, while Alan, arms and legswrapped tightly around the blasterbarrel and housing, pressedfiercely against the robot's metalskin.     Slowly, trying to anticipateand shift his weight with thespinning plunges, Alan workedhis hand down to his right hip.He fumbled for the sheath clippedto his belt, found it, and extracteda stubby hunting knife.Sweat and blood in his eyes,hardly able to move on the wildlyswinging turret, he felt downthe sides to the thin crack betweenthe revolving housing andthe stationary portion of the robot.With a quick prayer hejammed in the knife blade—andwas whipped headlong into themud as the turret literally snappedto a stop.     The earth, jungle and moonsspun in a pinwheeled blur,slowed, and settled to their properplaces. Standing in the sticky,sweet-smelling ooze, Alan eyedthe robot apprehensively. Halfburied in mud, it stood quiet inthe shadowy light except for anoccasional, almost spasmodicjerk of its blaster barrel. Forthe first time that night Alanallowed himself a slight smile.A blade in the old gear box,eh? How does that feel, boy?     He turned. Well, I'd betterget out of here before the knifeslips or the monster cooks upsome more tricks with whateverit's got for a brain. Digginglittle footholds in the soft bank,he climbed up and stood onceagain in the rustling jungledarkness.     I wonder, he thought, howPete could cram enough braininto one of those things to makeit hunt and track so perfectly.He tried to visualize the computingcircuits needed for theoperation of its tracking mechanismalone. There just isn'troom for the electronics. You'dneed a computer as big as theone at camp headquarters.      In the distance the sky blazedas a blaster roared in the jungle.Then Alan heard the approachingrobot, crunching and snappingits way through the undergrowthlike an onrushing forestfire. He froze. Good Lord!They communicate with eachother! The one I jammed mustbe calling others to help.     He began to move along thebank, away from the crashingsounds. Suddenly he stopped, hiseyes widened. Of course! Radio!I'll bet anything they'reautomatically controlled by thecamp computer. That's wheretheir brain is! He paused.Then, if that were put out ofcommission ... He jerked awayfrom the bank and half ran, halfpulled himself through the undergrowthtowards the camp.     Trees exploded to his left asanother robot fired in his direction,too far away to be effectivebut churning towards himthrough the blackness.     Alan changed direction slightlyto follow a line between thetwo robots coming up fromeither side, behind him. His eyeswere well accustomed to the darknow, and he managed to dodgemost of the shadowy vines andbranches before they could snagor trip him. Even so, he stumbledin the wiry underbrush andhis legs were a mass of stingingslashes from ankle to thigh.     The crashing rumble of thekiller robots shook the night behindhim, nearer sometimes,then falling slightly back, butfollowing constantly, moreunshakable than bloodhoundsbecause a man can sometimes covera scent, but no man can stop histhoughts. Intermittently, likephotographers' strobes, blueflashes would light the jungleabout him. Then, for secondsafterwards his eyes would seedancing streaks of yellow andsharp multi-colored pinwheelsthat alternately shrunk and expandedas if in a surrealist'snightmare. Alan would have topause and squeeze his eyelidstight shut before he could seeagain, and the robots wouldmove a little closer.     To his right the trees silhouettedbriefly against brilliance asa third robot slowly moved upin the distance. Without thinking,Alan turned slightly to theleft, then froze in momentarypanic. I should be at the campnow. Damn, what direction amI going? He tried to thinkback, to visualize the twists andturns he'd taken in the jungle.All I need is to get lost.     He pictured the camp computerwith no one to stop it, automaticallysending its robots inwider and wider forays, slowlywiping every trace of life fromthe planet. Technologically advancedmachines doing the jobfor which they were built, completely,thoroughly, without feeling,and without human mastersto separate sense from futility.Finally parts would wear out,circuits would short, and one byone the killers would crunch toa halt. A few birds would stillfly then, but a unique animallife, rare in the universe, wouldexist no more. And the bones ofchildren, eager girls, and theirmen would also lie, beside arusty hulk, beneath the aliensun.     Peggy!     As if in answer, a tree besidehim breathed fire, then exploded.In the brief flash of theblaster shot, Alan saw the steelglint of a robot only a hundredyards away, much nearer thanhe had thought. Thank heavenfor trees! He stepped back, felthis foot catch in something,clutched futilely at some leavesand fell heavily.     Pain danced up his leg as hegrabbed his ankle. Quickly hefelt the throbbing flesh. Damnthe rotten luck, anyway! Heblinked the pain tears from hiseyes and looked up—into a robot'sblaster, jutting out of thefoliage, thirty yards away.      Instinctively, in one motionAlan grabbed his pocket blasterand fired. To his amazement therobot jerked back, its gun wobbledand started to tilt away.Then, getting itself under control,it swung back again to faceAlan. He fired again, and againthe robot reacted. It seemed familiarsomehow. Then he rememberedthe robot on the riverbank, jiggling and swaying forseconds after each shot. Ofcourse! He cursed himself formissing the obvious. The blasterstatic blanks out radiotransmission from the computerfor a few seconds. They even doit to themselves!     Firing intermittently, hepulled himself upright and hobbledahead through the bush.The robot shook spasmodicallywith each shot, its gun tilted upwardat an awkward angle.     Then, unexpectedly, Alan sawstars, real stars brilliant in thenight sky, and half dragging hisswelling leg he stumbled out ofthe jungle into the camp clearing.Ahead, across fifty yards ofgrass stood the headquartersbuilding, housing the robot-controllingcomputer. Still firing atshort intervals he started acrossthe clearing, gritting his teethat every step.     Straining every muscle inspite of the agonizing pain, Alanforced himself to a limping runacross the uneven ground, carefullyavoiding the insect hillsthat jutted up through the grass.From the corner of his eye hesaw another of the robots standingshakily in the dark edge ofthe jungle waiting, it seemed,for his small blaster to run dry.     Be damned! You can't winnow! Alan yelled between blastershots, almost irrational fromthe pain that ripped jaggedlythrough his leg. Then it happened.A few feet from thebuilding's door his blaster quit.A click. A faint hiss when hefrantically jerked the triggeragain and again, and the spentcells released themselves fromthe device, falling in the grassat his feet. He dropped the uselessgun.     No! He threw himself onthe ground as a new robot suddenlyappeared around the edgeof the building a few feet away,aimed, and fired. Air burnedover Alan's back and ozone tingledin his nostrils.     Blinding itself for a few secondswith its own blaster static,the robot paused momentarily,jiggling in place. In thisinstant, Alan jammed his handsinto an insect hill and hurled thepile of dirt and insects directlyat the robot's antenna. In a flash,hundreds of the winged thingserupted angrily from the hole ina swarming cloud, each part ofwhich was a speck of lifetransmitting mental energy to therobot's pickup devices.     Confused by the sudden dispersionof mind impulses, therobot fired erratically as Alancrouched and raced painfully forthe door. It fired again, closer,as he fumbled with the lockrelease. Jagged bits of plastic andstone ripped past him, torn looseby the blast.     Frantically, Alan slammedopen the door as the robot, sensinghim strongly now, aimedpoint blank. He saw nothing, hismind thought of nothing but thered-clad safety switch mountedbeside the computer. Time stopped.There was nothing else inthe world. He half-jumped, half-felltowards it, slowly, in tenthsof seconds that seemed measuredout in years.     The universe went black.     Later. Brilliance pressed uponhis eyes. Then pain returned, amulti-hurting thing that crawledthrough his body and draggedragged tentacles across hisbrain. He moaned.     A voice spoke hollowly in thedistance. He's waking. Call hiswife.     Alan opened his eyes in awhite room; a white light hungover his head. Beside him, lookingdown with a rueful smile,stood a young man wearingspace medical insignia. Yes,he acknowledged the question inAlan's eyes, you hit the switch.That was three days ago. Whenyou're up again we'd all like tothank you.     Suddenly a sobbing-laughinggreen-eyed girl was pressedtightly against him. Neither ofthem spoke. They couldn't. Therewas too much to say.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Amazing Science Fiction Stories   October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","The killer robots work by homing in on the mind of animals’ impulses. However, due to mass production, robots are also capable of picking up human brain waves. The robots are also capable of firing beams from its blaster, as one had dissolved a cat creature’s entire lower half when it clung onto the robot. The blaster aim is almost always perfect unless the robot’s radio wave or discharge circuit is interrupted. One of its features is also a pickup device. The robots can move around quietly, too, as their original purpose was to guard the campsite. When Alan continues to escape from them, it is revealed that the robots can communicate with each other and the camp computer. The communication works by using radio waves, but it is possible to interrupt these waves using a pocket blaster. "
"Describe the setting of the story. </s>    SURVIVAL     TACTICS     By AL SEVCIK     ILLUSTRATOR NOVICK       The robots were built to serveMan; to do his work, see to hiscomforts, make smooth his way.Then the robots figured out anadditional service—putting Manout of his misery.       There  was a sudden crashthat hung sharply in the air,as if a tree had been hit bylightning some distance away.Then another. Alan stopped,puzzled. Two more blasts, quicklytogether, and the sound of ascream faintly.     Frowning, worrying about thesounds, Alan momentarily forgotto watch his step until his footsuddenly plunged into an anthill, throwing him to the junglefloor. Damn! He cursed again,for the tenth time, and stooduncertainly in the dimness.From tall, moss-shrouded trees,wrist-thick vines hung quietly,scraping the spongy ground likethe tentacles of some monstroustree-bound octopus. Fitful littleplants grew straggly in theshadows of the mossy trunks,forming a dense underbrush thatmade walking difficult. At middaysome few of the blue sun'srays filtered through to thejungle floor, but now, late afternoonon the planet, the shadowswere long and gloomy.     Alan peered around him at thevine-draped shadows, listeningto the soft rustlings and fainttwig-snappings of life in thejungle. Two short, poppingsounds echoed across the stillness,drowned out almost immediatelyand silenced by anexplosive crash. Alan started,Blaster fighting! But it can'tbe!     Suddenly anxious, he slasheda hurried X in one of the treesto mark his position then turnedto follow a line of similar marksback through the jungle. Hetried to run, but vines blockedhis way and woody shrubscaught at his legs, tripping himand holding him back. Then,through the trees he saw theclearing of the camp site, thetemporary home for the scoutship and the eleven men who,with Alan, were the only humanson the jungle planet, Waiamea.      Stepping through the lowshrubbery at the edge of thesite, he looked across the openarea to the two temporary structures,the camp headquarterswhere the power supplies andthe computer were; and thesleeping quarters. Beyond, nosehigh, stood the silver scout shipthat had brought the advanceexploratory party of scientistsand technicians to Waiameathree days before. Except for afew of the killer robots rollingslowly around the camp site ontheir quiet treads, there was noone about.     So, they've finally got thosethings working. Alan smiledslightly. Guess that means Iowe Pete a bourbon-and-sodafor sure. Anybody who canbuild a robot that hunts by homingin on animals' mind impulses ...He stepped forwardjust as a roar of blue flame dissolvedthe branches of a tree,barely above his head.     Without pausing to think,Alan leaped back, and fellsprawling over a bush just asone of the robots rolled silentlyup from the right, lowering itsblaster barrel to aim directly athis head. Alan froze. My God,Pete built those things wrong!     Suddenly a screeching whirlwindof claws and teeth hurleditself from the smolderingbranches and crashed against therobot, clawing insanely at theantenna and blaster barrel.With an awkward jerk the robotswung around and fired its blaster,completely dissolving thelower half of the cat creaturewhich had clung across the barrel.But the back pressure of thecat's body overloaded the dischargecircuits. The robot startedto shake, then clicked sharplyas an overload relay snappedand shorted the blaster cells.The killer turned and rolled backtowards the camp, leaving Alanalone.     Shakily, Alan crawled a fewfeet back into the undergrowthwhere he could lie and watch thecamp, but not himself be seen.Though visibility didn't makeany difference to the robots, hefelt safer, somehow, hidden. Heknew now what the shootingsounds had been and why therehadn't been anyone around thecamp site. A charred blob lyingin the grass of the clearing confirmedhis hypothesis. His stomachfelt sick.     I suppose, he muttered tohimself, that Pete assembledthese robots in a batch and thenactivated them all at once, probablynever living to realize thatthey're tuned to pick up humanbrain waves, too. Damn!Damn! His eyes blurred andhe slammed his fist into the softearth.     When he raised his eyes againthe jungle was perceptibly darker.Stealthy rustlings in theshadows grew louder with thesetting sun. Branches snappedunaccountably in the trees overheadand every now and thenleaves or a twig fell softly to theground, close to where he lay.Reaching into his jacket, Alanfingered his pocket blaster. Hepulled it out and held it in hisright hand. This pop gunwouldn't even singe a robot, butit just might stop one of thosepumas.     They said the blast with your name on it would findyou anywhere. This looked like Alan's blast.     Slowly Alan looked around,sizing up his situation. Behindhim the dark jungle rustled forbiddingly.He shuddered. Not avery healthy spot to spend thenight. On the other hand, I certainlycan't get to the camp witha pack of mind-activated mechanicalkillers running around.If I can just hold out until morning,when the big ship arrives ...The big ship! GoodLord, Peggy! He turned white;oily sweat punctuated his forehead.Peggy, arriving tomorrowwith the other colonists, thewives and kids! The metal killers,tuned to blast any livingflesh, would murder them theinstant they stepped from theship!      A pretty girl, Peggy, the girlhe'd married just three weeksago. He still couldn't believe it.It was crazy, he supposed, tomarry a girl and then take offfor an unknown planet, with herto follow, to try to create a homein a jungle clearing. Crazy maybe,but Peggy and her green eyesthat changed color with thelight, with her soft brown hair,and her happy smile, had endedthirty years of loneliness andhad, at last, given him a reasonfor living. Not to be killed!Alan unclenched his fists andwiped his palms, bloody wherehis fingernails had dug into theflesh.     There was a slight creak abovehim like the protesting of abranch too heavily laden. Blasterready, Alan rolled over onto hisback. In the movement, his elbowstruck the top of a smallearthy mound and he was instantlyengulfed in a swarm oflocust-like insects that beat disgustinglyagainst his eyes andmouth. Fagh! Waving hisarms before his face he jumpedup and backwards, away fromthe bugs. As he did so, a darkshapeless thing plopped fromthe trees onto the spot where hehad been lying stretched out.Then, like an ambient fungus,it slithered off into the jungleundergrowth.     For a split second the junglestood frozen in a brilliant blueflash, followed by the sharp reportof a blaster. Then another.Alan whirled, startled. Theplanet's double moon had risenand he could see a robot rollingslowly across the clearing in hisgeneral direction, blasting indiscriminatelyat whatever mindimpulses came within its pickuprange, birds, insects, anything.Six or seven others also left thecamp headquarters area andheaded for the jungle, each to aslightly different spot.     Apparently the robot hadn'tsensed him yet, but Alan didn'tknow what the effective rangeof its pickup devices was. Hebegan to slide back into thejungle. Minutes later, lookingback he saw that the machine,though several hundred yardsaway, had altered its course andwas now headed directly forhim.     His stomach tightened. Panic.The dank, musty smell of thejungle seemed for an instant tothicken and choke in his throat.Then he thought of the big shiplanding in the morning, settlingdown slowly after a lonely two-weekvoyage. He thought of abrown-haired girl crowding withthe others to the gangway, eagerto embrace the new planet, andthe next instant a charred nothing,unrecognizable, the victimof a design error or a misplacedwire in a machine. I have totry, he said aloud. I have totry. He moved into the blackness.     Powerful as a small tank, thekiller robot was equipped tocrush, slash, and burn its waythrough undergrowth. Nevertheless,it was slowed by thelarger trees and the thick, clingingvines, and Alan found thathe could manage to keep aheadof it, barely out of blaster range.Only, the robot didn't get tired.Alan did.     The twin moons cast pale, deceptiveshadows that waveredand danced across the junglefloor, hiding debris that trippedhim and often sent him sprawlinginto the dark. Sharp-edgedgrowths tore at his face andclothes, and insects attracted bythe blood matted against hispants and shirt. Behind, the robotcrashed imperturbably afterhim, lighting the night with fitfulblaster flashes as somewinged or legged life came withinits range.     There was movement also, inthe darkness beside him, scrapingsand rustlings and an occasionallow, throaty sound like anangry cat. Alan's fingers tensedon his pocket blaster. Swiftshadowy forms moved quickly inthe shrubs and the growling becamesuddenly louder. He firedtwice, blindly, into the undergrowth.Sharp screams punctuatedthe electric blue discharge asa pack of small feline creaturesleaped snarling and clawingback into the night.      Mentally, Alan tried to figurethe charge remaining in his blaster.There wouldn't be much.Enough for a few more shots,maybe. Why the devil didn't Iload in fresh cells this morning!     The robot crashed on, loudernow, gaining on the tired human.Legs aching and bruised,stinging from insect bites, Alantried to force himself to runholding his hands in front ofhim like a child in the dark. Hisfoot tripped on a barely visibleinsect hill and a winged swarmexploded around him. Startled,Alan jerked sideways, crashinghis head against a tree. Heclutched at the bark for a second,dazed, then his kneesbuckled. His blaster fell into theshadows.     The robot crashed loudly behindhim now. Without stoppingto think, Alan fumbled along theground after his gun, straininghis eyes in the darkness. Hefound it just a couple of feet toone side, against the base of asmall bush. Just as his fingersclosed upon the barrel his otherhand slipped into somethingsticky that splashed over hisforearm. He screamed in painand leaped back, trying franticallyto wipe the clinging,burning blackness off his arm.Patches of black scraped off ontobranches and vines, but the restspread slowly over his arm asagonizing as hot acid, or as fleshbeing ripped away layer bylayer.     Almost blinded by pain, whimpering,Alan stumbled forward.Sharp muscle spasms shot fromhis shoulder across his back andchest. Tears streamed across hischeeks.     A blue arc slashed at the treesa mere hundred yards behind.He screamed at the blast. Damnyou, Pete! Damn your robots!Damn, damn ... Oh, Peggy!He stepped into emptiness.     Coolness. Wet. Slowly, washedby the water, the pain began tofall away. He wanted to lie thereforever in the dark, cool, wetness.For ever, and ever, and ...The air thundered.     In the dim light he could seethe banks of the stream, higherthan a man, muddy and loose.Growing right to the edge of thebanks, the jungle reached outwith hairy, disjointed arms asif to snag even the dirty littlestream that passed so timidlythrough its domain.     Alan, lying in the mud of thestream bed, felt the earth shakeas the heavy little robot rolledslowly and inexorably towardshim. The Lord High Executioner,he thought, in battledress. He tried to stand but hislegs were almost too weak andhis arm felt numb. I'll drownhim, he said aloud. I'll drownthe Lord High Executioner. Helaughed. Then his mind cleared.He remembered where he was.      Alan trembled. For the firsttime in his life he understoodwhat it was to live, because forthe first time he realized that hewould sometime die. In othertimes and circumstances hemight put it off for a while, formonths or years, but eventually,as now, he would have to watch,still and helpless, while deathcame creeping. Then, at thirty,Alan became a man.     Dammit, no law says I haveto flame-out      now     ! He forcedhimself to rise, forced his legsto stand, struggling painfully inthe shin-deep ooze. He workedhis way to the bank and began todig frenziedly, chest high, abouttwo feet below the edge.     His arm where the black thinghad been was swollen and tender,but he forced his hands to dig,dig, dig, cursing and crying tohide the pain, and biting hislips, ignoring the salty taste ofblood. The soft earth crumbledunder his hands until he had asmall cave about three feet deepin the bank. Beyond that thesoil was held too tightly by theroots from above and he had tostop.      The air crackled blue and atree crashed heavily past Alaninto the stream. Above him onthe bank, silhouetting againstthe moons, the killer robot stoppedand its blaster swivelledslowly down. Frantically, Alanhugged the bank as a shaft ofpure electricity arced over him,sliced into the water, and explodedin a cloud of steam. Therobot shook for a second, itsblaster muzzle lifted erraticallyand for an instant it seemed almostout of control, then itquieted and the muzzle againpointed down.     Pressing with all his might,Alan slid slowly along the bankinches at a time, away from themachine above. Its muzzle turnedto follow him but the edge ofthe bank blocked its aim. Grindingforward a couple of feet,slightly overhanging the bank,the robot fired again. For a splitsecond Alan seemed engulfed inflame; the heat of hell singed hishead and back, and mud boiledin the bank by his arm.     Again the robot trembled. Itjerked forward a foot and itsblaster swung slightly away. Butonly for a moment. Then the gunswung back again.     Suddenly, as if sensing somethingwrong, its tracks slammedinto reverse. It stood poised fora second, its treads spinningcrazily as the earth collapsed underneathit, where Alan haddug, then it fell with a heavysplash into the mud, ten feetfrom where Alan stood.     Without hesitation Alanthrew himself across the blasterhousing, frantically locking hisarms around the barrel as therobot's treads churned furiouslyin the sticky mud, causing it tobuck and plunge like a Brahmabull. The treads stopped and theblaster jerked upwards wrenchingAlan's arms, then slammeddown. Then the whole housingwhirled around and around, tiltingalternately up and down likea steel-skinned water monstertrying to dislodge a tenaciouscrab, while Alan, arms and legswrapped tightly around the blasterbarrel and housing, pressedfiercely against the robot's metalskin.     Slowly, trying to anticipateand shift his weight with thespinning plunges, Alan workedhis hand down to his right hip.He fumbled for the sheath clippedto his belt, found it, and extracteda stubby hunting knife.Sweat and blood in his eyes,hardly able to move on the wildlyswinging turret, he felt downthe sides to the thin crack betweenthe revolving housing andthe stationary portion of the robot.With a quick prayer hejammed in the knife blade—andwas whipped headlong into themud as the turret literally snappedto a stop.     The earth, jungle and moonsspun in a pinwheeled blur,slowed, and settled to their properplaces. Standing in the sticky,sweet-smelling ooze, Alan eyedthe robot apprehensively. Halfburied in mud, it stood quiet inthe shadowy light except for anoccasional, almost spasmodicjerk of its blaster barrel. Forthe first time that night Alanallowed himself a slight smile.A blade in the old gear box,eh? How does that feel, boy?     He turned. Well, I'd betterget out of here before the knifeslips or the monster cooks upsome more tricks with whateverit's got for a brain. Digginglittle footholds in the soft bank,he climbed up and stood onceagain in the rustling jungledarkness.     I wonder, he thought, howPete could cram enough braininto one of those things to makeit hunt and track so perfectly.He tried to visualize the computingcircuits needed for theoperation of its tracking mechanismalone. There just isn'troom for the electronics. You'dneed a computer as big as theone at camp headquarters.      In the distance the sky blazedas a blaster roared in the jungle.Then Alan heard the approachingrobot, crunching and snappingits way through the undergrowthlike an onrushing forestfire. He froze. Good Lord!They communicate with eachother! The one I jammed mustbe calling others to help.     He began to move along thebank, away from the crashingsounds. Suddenly he stopped, hiseyes widened. Of course! Radio!I'll bet anything they'reautomatically controlled by thecamp computer. That's wheretheir brain is! He paused.Then, if that were put out ofcommission ... He jerked awayfrom the bank and half ran, halfpulled himself through the undergrowthtowards the camp.     Trees exploded to his left asanother robot fired in his direction,too far away to be effectivebut churning towards himthrough the blackness.     Alan changed direction slightlyto follow a line between thetwo robots coming up fromeither side, behind him. His eyeswere well accustomed to the darknow, and he managed to dodgemost of the shadowy vines andbranches before they could snagor trip him. Even so, he stumbledin the wiry underbrush andhis legs were a mass of stingingslashes from ankle to thigh.     The crashing rumble of thekiller robots shook the night behindhim, nearer sometimes,then falling slightly back, butfollowing constantly, moreunshakable than bloodhoundsbecause a man can sometimes covera scent, but no man can stop histhoughts. Intermittently, likephotographers' strobes, blueflashes would light the jungleabout him. Then, for secondsafterwards his eyes would seedancing streaks of yellow andsharp multi-colored pinwheelsthat alternately shrunk and expandedas if in a surrealist'snightmare. Alan would have topause and squeeze his eyelidstight shut before he could seeagain, and the robots wouldmove a little closer.     To his right the trees silhouettedbriefly against brilliance asa third robot slowly moved upin the distance. Without thinking,Alan turned slightly to theleft, then froze in momentarypanic. I should be at the campnow. Damn, what direction amI going? He tried to thinkback, to visualize the twists andturns he'd taken in the jungle.All I need is to get lost.     He pictured the camp computerwith no one to stop it, automaticallysending its robots inwider and wider forays, slowlywiping every trace of life fromthe planet. Technologically advancedmachines doing the jobfor which they were built, completely,thoroughly, without feeling,and without human mastersto separate sense from futility.Finally parts would wear out,circuits would short, and one byone the killers would crunch toa halt. A few birds would stillfly then, but a unique animallife, rare in the universe, wouldexist no more. And the bones ofchildren, eager girls, and theirmen would also lie, beside arusty hulk, beneath the aliensun.     Peggy!     As if in answer, a tree besidehim breathed fire, then exploded.In the brief flash of theblaster shot, Alan saw the steelglint of a robot only a hundredyards away, much nearer thanhe had thought. Thank heavenfor trees! He stepped back, felthis foot catch in something,clutched futilely at some leavesand fell heavily.     Pain danced up his leg as hegrabbed his ankle. Quickly hefelt the throbbing flesh. Damnthe rotten luck, anyway! Heblinked the pain tears from hiseyes and looked up—into a robot'sblaster, jutting out of thefoliage, thirty yards away.      Instinctively, in one motionAlan grabbed his pocket blasterand fired. To his amazement therobot jerked back, its gun wobbledand started to tilt away.Then, getting itself under control,it swung back again to faceAlan. He fired again, and againthe robot reacted. It seemed familiarsomehow. Then he rememberedthe robot on the riverbank, jiggling and swaying forseconds after each shot. Ofcourse! He cursed himself formissing the obvious. The blasterstatic blanks out radiotransmission from the computerfor a few seconds. They even doit to themselves!     Firing intermittently, hepulled himself upright and hobbledahead through the bush.The robot shook spasmodicallywith each shot, its gun tilted upwardat an awkward angle.     Then, unexpectedly, Alan sawstars, real stars brilliant in thenight sky, and half dragging hisswelling leg he stumbled out ofthe jungle into the camp clearing.Ahead, across fifty yards ofgrass stood the headquartersbuilding, housing the robot-controllingcomputer. Still firing atshort intervals he started acrossthe clearing, gritting his teethat every step.     Straining every muscle inspite of the agonizing pain, Alanforced himself to a limping runacross the uneven ground, carefullyavoiding the insect hillsthat jutted up through the grass.From the corner of his eye hesaw another of the robots standingshakily in the dark edge ofthe jungle waiting, it seemed,for his small blaster to run dry.     Be damned! You can't winnow! Alan yelled between blastershots, almost irrational fromthe pain that ripped jaggedlythrough his leg. Then it happened.A few feet from thebuilding's door his blaster quit.A click. A faint hiss when hefrantically jerked the triggeragain and again, and the spentcells released themselves fromthe device, falling in the grassat his feet. He dropped the uselessgun.     No! He threw himself onthe ground as a new robot suddenlyappeared around the edgeof the building a few feet away,aimed, and fired. Air burnedover Alan's back and ozone tingledin his nostrils.     Blinding itself for a few secondswith its own blaster static,the robot paused momentarily,jiggling in place. In thisinstant, Alan jammed his handsinto an insect hill and hurled thepile of dirt and insects directlyat the robot's antenna. In a flash,hundreds of the winged thingserupted angrily from the hole ina swarming cloud, each part ofwhich was a speck of lifetransmitting mental energy to therobot's pickup devices.     Confused by the sudden dispersionof mind impulses, therobot fired erratically as Alancrouched and raced painfully forthe door. It fired again, closer,as he fumbled with the lockrelease. Jagged bits of plastic andstone ripped past him, torn looseby the blast.     Frantically, Alan slammedopen the door as the robot, sensinghim strongly now, aimedpoint blank. He saw nothing, hismind thought of nothing but thered-clad safety switch mountedbeside the computer. Time stopped.There was nothing else inthe world. He half-jumped, half-felltowards it, slowly, in tenthsof seconds that seemed measuredout in years.     The universe went black.     Later. Brilliance pressed uponhis eyes. Then pain returned, amulti-hurting thing that crawledthrough his body and draggedragged tentacles across hisbrain. He moaned.     A voice spoke hollowly in thedistance. He's waking. Call hiswife.     Alan opened his eyes in awhite room; a white light hungover his head. Beside him, lookingdown with a rueful smile,stood a young man wearingspace medical insignia. Yes,he acknowledged the question inAlan's eyes, you hit the switch.That was three days ago. Whenyou're up again we'd all like tothank you.     Suddenly a sobbing-laughinggreen-eyed girl was pressedtightly against him. Neither ofthem spoke. They couldn't. Therewas too much to say.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Amazing Science Fiction Stories   October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","The story is set on the jungle planet of Waiamea. There are tall moss-shrouded trees and wrist-thick vines that hang similar to a monstrous tree-bound octopus. Fitful little plants grow straggly in the shadows of the mossy trunks, and the sun is blue. The campsite that Alan goes to houses power supplies, one central computer, and sleeping quarters. There are also a variety of animals that live on the planet. Some of these animals include feline creatures and insects attracted by the scent of blood. The planet also has a double moon when it becomes night time. When Alan escapes from the robot, he ends up in a stream of water and mud. As he runs towards the headquarters building, there is a small insect pile that he takes advantage of against the robot. Inside of the headquarters building, there is a red-clad safety switch mounted beside the computer. During Alan’s recovery, he is in a white room with a white light hanging over him. "
"What is the significance of Alan’s realization that he must continue to live? </s>    SURVIVAL     TACTICS     By AL SEVCIK     ILLUSTRATOR NOVICK       The robots were built to serveMan; to do his work, see to hiscomforts, make smooth his way.Then the robots figured out anadditional service—putting Manout of his misery.       There  was a sudden crashthat hung sharply in the air,as if a tree had been hit bylightning some distance away.Then another. Alan stopped,puzzled. Two more blasts, quicklytogether, and the sound of ascream faintly.     Frowning, worrying about thesounds, Alan momentarily forgotto watch his step until his footsuddenly plunged into an anthill, throwing him to the junglefloor. Damn! He cursed again,for the tenth time, and stooduncertainly in the dimness.From tall, moss-shrouded trees,wrist-thick vines hung quietly,scraping the spongy ground likethe tentacles of some monstroustree-bound octopus. Fitful littleplants grew straggly in theshadows of the mossy trunks,forming a dense underbrush thatmade walking difficult. At middaysome few of the blue sun'srays filtered through to thejungle floor, but now, late afternoonon the planet, the shadowswere long and gloomy.     Alan peered around him at thevine-draped shadows, listeningto the soft rustlings and fainttwig-snappings of life in thejungle. Two short, poppingsounds echoed across the stillness,drowned out almost immediatelyand silenced by anexplosive crash. Alan started,Blaster fighting! But it can'tbe!     Suddenly anxious, he slasheda hurried X in one of the treesto mark his position then turnedto follow a line of similar marksback through the jungle. Hetried to run, but vines blockedhis way and woody shrubscaught at his legs, tripping himand holding him back. Then,through the trees he saw theclearing of the camp site, thetemporary home for the scoutship and the eleven men who,with Alan, were the only humanson the jungle planet, Waiamea.      Stepping through the lowshrubbery at the edge of thesite, he looked across the openarea to the two temporary structures,the camp headquarterswhere the power supplies andthe computer were; and thesleeping quarters. Beyond, nosehigh, stood the silver scout shipthat had brought the advanceexploratory party of scientistsand technicians to Waiameathree days before. Except for afew of the killer robots rollingslowly around the camp site ontheir quiet treads, there was noone about.     So, they've finally got thosethings working. Alan smiledslightly. Guess that means Iowe Pete a bourbon-and-sodafor sure. Anybody who canbuild a robot that hunts by homingin on animals' mind impulses ...He stepped forwardjust as a roar of blue flame dissolvedthe branches of a tree,barely above his head.     Without pausing to think,Alan leaped back, and fellsprawling over a bush just asone of the robots rolled silentlyup from the right, lowering itsblaster barrel to aim directly athis head. Alan froze. My God,Pete built those things wrong!     Suddenly a screeching whirlwindof claws and teeth hurleditself from the smolderingbranches and crashed against therobot, clawing insanely at theantenna and blaster barrel.With an awkward jerk the robotswung around and fired its blaster,completely dissolving thelower half of the cat creaturewhich had clung across the barrel.But the back pressure of thecat's body overloaded the dischargecircuits. The robot startedto shake, then clicked sharplyas an overload relay snappedand shorted the blaster cells.The killer turned and rolled backtowards the camp, leaving Alanalone.     Shakily, Alan crawled a fewfeet back into the undergrowthwhere he could lie and watch thecamp, but not himself be seen.Though visibility didn't makeany difference to the robots, hefelt safer, somehow, hidden. Heknew now what the shootingsounds had been and why therehadn't been anyone around thecamp site. A charred blob lyingin the grass of the clearing confirmedhis hypothesis. His stomachfelt sick.     I suppose, he muttered tohimself, that Pete assembledthese robots in a batch and thenactivated them all at once, probablynever living to realize thatthey're tuned to pick up humanbrain waves, too. Damn!Damn! His eyes blurred andhe slammed his fist into the softearth.     When he raised his eyes againthe jungle was perceptibly darker.Stealthy rustlings in theshadows grew louder with thesetting sun. Branches snappedunaccountably in the trees overheadand every now and thenleaves or a twig fell softly to theground, close to where he lay.Reaching into his jacket, Alanfingered his pocket blaster. Hepulled it out and held it in hisright hand. This pop gunwouldn't even singe a robot, butit just might stop one of thosepumas.     They said the blast with your name on it would findyou anywhere. This looked like Alan's blast.     Slowly Alan looked around,sizing up his situation. Behindhim the dark jungle rustled forbiddingly.He shuddered. Not avery healthy spot to spend thenight. On the other hand, I certainlycan't get to the camp witha pack of mind-activated mechanicalkillers running around.If I can just hold out until morning,when the big ship arrives ...The big ship! GoodLord, Peggy! He turned white;oily sweat punctuated his forehead.Peggy, arriving tomorrowwith the other colonists, thewives and kids! The metal killers,tuned to blast any livingflesh, would murder them theinstant they stepped from theship!      A pretty girl, Peggy, the girlhe'd married just three weeksago. He still couldn't believe it.It was crazy, he supposed, tomarry a girl and then take offfor an unknown planet, with herto follow, to try to create a homein a jungle clearing. Crazy maybe,but Peggy and her green eyesthat changed color with thelight, with her soft brown hair,and her happy smile, had endedthirty years of loneliness andhad, at last, given him a reasonfor living. Not to be killed!Alan unclenched his fists andwiped his palms, bloody wherehis fingernails had dug into theflesh.     There was a slight creak abovehim like the protesting of abranch too heavily laden. Blasterready, Alan rolled over onto hisback. In the movement, his elbowstruck the top of a smallearthy mound and he was instantlyengulfed in a swarm oflocust-like insects that beat disgustinglyagainst his eyes andmouth. Fagh! Waving hisarms before his face he jumpedup and backwards, away fromthe bugs. As he did so, a darkshapeless thing plopped fromthe trees onto the spot where hehad been lying stretched out.Then, like an ambient fungus,it slithered off into the jungleundergrowth.     For a split second the junglestood frozen in a brilliant blueflash, followed by the sharp reportof a blaster. Then another.Alan whirled, startled. Theplanet's double moon had risenand he could see a robot rollingslowly across the clearing in hisgeneral direction, blasting indiscriminatelyat whatever mindimpulses came within its pickuprange, birds, insects, anything.Six or seven others also left thecamp headquarters area andheaded for the jungle, each to aslightly different spot.     Apparently the robot hadn'tsensed him yet, but Alan didn'tknow what the effective rangeof its pickup devices was. Hebegan to slide back into thejungle. Minutes later, lookingback he saw that the machine,though several hundred yardsaway, had altered its course andwas now headed directly forhim.     His stomach tightened. Panic.The dank, musty smell of thejungle seemed for an instant tothicken and choke in his throat.Then he thought of the big shiplanding in the morning, settlingdown slowly after a lonely two-weekvoyage. He thought of abrown-haired girl crowding withthe others to the gangway, eagerto embrace the new planet, andthe next instant a charred nothing,unrecognizable, the victimof a design error or a misplacedwire in a machine. I have totry, he said aloud. I have totry. He moved into the blackness.     Powerful as a small tank, thekiller robot was equipped tocrush, slash, and burn its waythrough undergrowth. Nevertheless,it was slowed by thelarger trees and the thick, clingingvines, and Alan found thathe could manage to keep aheadof it, barely out of blaster range.Only, the robot didn't get tired.Alan did.     The twin moons cast pale, deceptiveshadows that waveredand danced across the junglefloor, hiding debris that trippedhim and often sent him sprawlinginto the dark. Sharp-edgedgrowths tore at his face andclothes, and insects attracted bythe blood matted against hispants and shirt. Behind, the robotcrashed imperturbably afterhim, lighting the night with fitfulblaster flashes as somewinged or legged life came withinits range.     There was movement also, inthe darkness beside him, scrapingsand rustlings and an occasionallow, throaty sound like anangry cat. Alan's fingers tensedon his pocket blaster. Swiftshadowy forms moved quickly inthe shrubs and the growling becamesuddenly louder. He firedtwice, blindly, into the undergrowth.Sharp screams punctuatedthe electric blue discharge asa pack of small feline creaturesleaped snarling and clawingback into the night.      Mentally, Alan tried to figurethe charge remaining in his blaster.There wouldn't be much.Enough for a few more shots,maybe. Why the devil didn't Iload in fresh cells this morning!     The robot crashed on, loudernow, gaining on the tired human.Legs aching and bruised,stinging from insect bites, Alantried to force himself to runholding his hands in front ofhim like a child in the dark. Hisfoot tripped on a barely visibleinsect hill and a winged swarmexploded around him. Startled,Alan jerked sideways, crashinghis head against a tree. Heclutched at the bark for a second,dazed, then his kneesbuckled. His blaster fell into theshadows.     The robot crashed loudly behindhim now. Without stoppingto think, Alan fumbled along theground after his gun, straininghis eyes in the darkness. Hefound it just a couple of feet toone side, against the base of asmall bush. Just as his fingersclosed upon the barrel his otherhand slipped into somethingsticky that splashed over hisforearm. He screamed in painand leaped back, trying franticallyto wipe the clinging,burning blackness off his arm.Patches of black scraped off ontobranches and vines, but the restspread slowly over his arm asagonizing as hot acid, or as fleshbeing ripped away layer bylayer.     Almost blinded by pain, whimpering,Alan stumbled forward.Sharp muscle spasms shot fromhis shoulder across his back andchest. Tears streamed across hischeeks.     A blue arc slashed at the treesa mere hundred yards behind.He screamed at the blast. Damnyou, Pete! Damn your robots!Damn, damn ... Oh, Peggy!He stepped into emptiness.     Coolness. Wet. Slowly, washedby the water, the pain began tofall away. He wanted to lie thereforever in the dark, cool, wetness.For ever, and ever, and ...The air thundered.     In the dim light he could seethe banks of the stream, higherthan a man, muddy and loose.Growing right to the edge of thebanks, the jungle reached outwith hairy, disjointed arms asif to snag even the dirty littlestream that passed so timidlythrough its domain.     Alan, lying in the mud of thestream bed, felt the earth shakeas the heavy little robot rolledslowly and inexorably towardshim. The Lord High Executioner,he thought, in battledress. He tried to stand but hislegs were almost too weak andhis arm felt numb. I'll drownhim, he said aloud. I'll drownthe Lord High Executioner. Helaughed. Then his mind cleared.He remembered where he was.      Alan trembled. For the firsttime in his life he understoodwhat it was to live, because forthe first time he realized that hewould sometime die. In othertimes and circumstances hemight put it off for a while, formonths or years, but eventually,as now, he would have to watch,still and helpless, while deathcame creeping. Then, at thirty,Alan became a man.     Dammit, no law says I haveto flame-out      now     ! He forcedhimself to rise, forced his legsto stand, struggling painfully inthe shin-deep ooze. He workedhis way to the bank and began todig frenziedly, chest high, abouttwo feet below the edge.     His arm where the black thinghad been was swollen and tender,but he forced his hands to dig,dig, dig, cursing and crying tohide the pain, and biting hislips, ignoring the salty taste ofblood. The soft earth crumbledunder his hands until he had asmall cave about three feet deepin the bank. Beyond that thesoil was held too tightly by theroots from above and he had tostop.      The air crackled blue and atree crashed heavily past Alaninto the stream. Above him onthe bank, silhouetting againstthe moons, the killer robot stoppedand its blaster swivelledslowly down. Frantically, Alanhugged the bank as a shaft ofpure electricity arced over him,sliced into the water, and explodedin a cloud of steam. Therobot shook for a second, itsblaster muzzle lifted erraticallyand for an instant it seemed almostout of control, then itquieted and the muzzle againpointed down.     Pressing with all his might,Alan slid slowly along the bankinches at a time, away from themachine above. Its muzzle turnedto follow him but the edge ofthe bank blocked its aim. Grindingforward a couple of feet,slightly overhanging the bank,the robot fired again. For a splitsecond Alan seemed engulfed inflame; the heat of hell singed hishead and back, and mud boiledin the bank by his arm.     Again the robot trembled. Itjerked forward a foot and itsblaster swung slightly away. Butonly for a moment. Then the gunswung back again.     Suddenly, as if sensing somethingwrong, its tracks slammedinto reverse. It stood poised fora second, its treads spinningcrazily as the earth collapsed underneathit, where Alan haddug, then it fell with a heavysplash into the mud, ten feetfrom where Alan stood.     Without hesitation Alanthrew himself across the blasterhousing, frantically locking hisarms around the barrel as therobot's treads churned furiouslyin the sticky mud, causing it tobuck and plunge like a Brahmabull. The treads stopped and theblaster jerked upwards wrenchingAlan's arms, then slammeddown. Then the whole housingwhirled around and around, tiltingalternately up and down likea steel-skinned water monstertrying to dislodge a tenaciouscrab, while Alan, arms and legswrapped tightly around the blasterbarrel and housing, pressedfiercely against the robot's metalskin.     Slowly, trying to anticipateand shift his weight with thespinning plunges, Alan workedhis hand down to his right hip.He fumbled for the sheath clippedto his belt, found it, and extracteda stubby hunting knife.Sweat and blood in his eyes,hardly able to move on the wildlyswinging turret, he felt downthe sides to the thin crack betweenthe revolving housing andthe stationary portion of the robot.With a quick prayer hejammed in the knife blade—andwas whipped headlong into themud as the turret literally snappedto a stop.     The earth, jungle and moonsspun in a pinwheeled blur,slowed, and settled to their properplaces. Standing in the sticky,sweet-smelling ooze, Alan eyedthe robot apprehensively. Halfburied in mud, it stood quiet inthe shadowy light except for anoccasional, almost spasmodicjerk of its blaster barrel. Forthe first time that night Alanallowed himself a slight smile.A blade in the old gear box,eh? How does that feel, boy?     He turned. Well, I'd betterget out of here before the knifeslips or the monster cooks upsome more tricks with whateverit's got for a brain. Digginglittle footholds in the soft bank,he climbed up and stood onceagain in the rustling jungledarkness.     I wonder, he thought, howPete could cram enough braininto one of those things to makeit hunt and track so perfectly.He tried to visualize the computingcircuits needed for theoperation of its tracking mechanismalone. There just isn'troom for the electronics. You'dneed a computer as big as theone at camp headquarters.      In the distance the sky blazedas a blaster roared in the jungle.Then Alan heard the approachingrobot, crunching and snappingits way through the undergrowthlike an onrushing forestfire. He froze. Good Lord!They communicate with eachother! The one I jammed mustbe calling others to help.     He began to move along thebank, away from the crashingsounds. Suddenly he stopped, hiseyes widened. Of course! Radio!I'll bet anything they'reautomatically controlled by thecamp computer. That's wheretheir brain is! He paused.Then, if that were put out ofcommission ... He jerked awayfrom the bank and half ran, halfpulled himself through the undergrowthtowards the camp.     Trees exploded to his left asanother robot fired in his direction,too far away to be effectivebut churning towards himthrough the blackness.     Alan changed direction slightlyto follow a line between thetwo robots coming up fromeither side, behind him. His eyeswere well accustomed to the darknow, and he managed to dodgemost of the shadowy vines andbranches before they could snagor trip him. Even so, he stumbledin the wiry underbrush andhis legs were a mass of stingingslashes from ankle to thigh.     The crashing rumble of thekiller robots shook the night behindhim, nearer sometimes,then falling slightly back, butfollowing constantly, moreunshakable than bloodhoundsbecause a man can sometimes covera scent, but no man can stop histhoughts. Intermittently, likephotographers' strobes, blueflashes would light the jungleabout him. Then, for secondsafterwards his eyes would seedancing streaks of yellow andsharp multi-colored pinwheelsthat alternately shrunk and expandedas if in a surrealist'snightmare. Alan would have topause and squeeze his eyelidstight shut before he could seeagain, and the robots wouldmove a little closer.     To his right the trees silhouettedbriefly against brilliance asa third robot slowly moved upin the distance. Without thinking,Alan turned slightly to theleft, then froze in momentarypanic. I should be at the campnow. Damn, what direction amI going? He tried to thinkback, to visualize the twists andturns he'd taken in the jungle.All I need is to get lost.     He pictured the camp computerwith no one to stop it, automaticallysending its robots inwider and wider forays, slowlywiping every trace of life fromthe planet. Technologically advancedmachines doing the jobfor which they were built, completely,thoroughly, without feeling,and without human mastersto separate sense from futility.Finally parts would wear out,circuits would short, and one byone the killers would crunch toa halt. A few birds would stillfly then, but a unique animallife, rare in the universe, wouldexist no more. And the bones ofchildren, eager girls, and theirmen would also lie, beside arusty hulk, beneath the aliensun.     Peggy!     As if in answer, a tree besidehim breathed fire, then exploded.In the brief flash of theblaster shot, Alan saw the steelglint of a robot only a hundredyards away, much nearer thanhe had thought. Thank heavenfor trees! He stepped back, felthis foot catch in something,clutched futilely at some leavesand fell heavily.     Pain danced up his leg as hegrabbed his ankle. Quickly hefelt the throbbing flesh. Damnthe rotten luck, anyway! Heblinked the pain tears from hiseyes and looked up—into a robot'sblaster, jutting out of thefoliage, thirty yards away.      Instinctively, in one motionAlan grabbed his pocket blasterand fired. To his amazement therobot jerked back, its gun wobbledand started to tilt away.Then, getting itself under control,it swung back again to faceAlan. He fired again, and againthe robot reacted. It seemed familiarsomehow. Then he rememberedthe robot on the riverbank, jiggling and swaying forseconds after each shot. Ofcourse! He cursed himself formissing the obvious. The blasterstatic blanks out radiotransmission from the computerfor a few seconds. They even doit to themselves!     Firing intermittently, hepulled himself upright and hobbledahead through the bush.The robot shook spasmodicallywith each shot, its gun tilted upwardat an awkward angle.     Then, unexpectedly, Alan sawstars, real stars brilliant in thenight sky, and half dragging hisswelling leg he stumbled out ofthe jungle into the camp clearing.Ahead, across fifty yards ofgrass stood the headquartersbuilding, housing the robot-controllingcomputer. Still firing atshort intervals he started acrossthe clearing, gritting his teethat every step.     Straining every muscle inspite of the agonizing pain, Alanforced himself to a limping runacross the uneven ground, carefullyavoiding the insect hillsthat jutted up through the grass.From the corner of his eye hesaw another of the robots standingshakily in the dark edge ofthe jungle waiting, it seemed,for his small blaster to run dry.     Be damned! You can't winnow! Alan yelled between blastershots, almost irrational fromthe pain that ripped jaggedlythrough his leg. Then it happened.A few feet from thebuilding's door his blaster quit.A click. A faint hiss when hefrantically jerked the triggeragain and again, and the spentcells released themselves fromthe device, falling in the grassat his feet. He dropped the uselessgun.     No! He threw himself onthe ground as a new robot suddenlyappeared around the edgeof the building a few feet away,aimed, and fired. Air burnedover Alan's back and ozone tingledin his nostrils.     Blinding itself for a few secondswith its own blaster static,the robot paused momentarily,jiggling in place. In thisinstant, Alan jammed his handsinto an insect hill and hurled thepile of dirt and insects directlyat the robot's antenna. In a flash,hundreds of the winged thingserupted angrily from the hole ina swarming cloud, each part ofwhich was a speck of lifetransmitting mental energy to therobot's pickup devices.     Confused by the sudden dispersionof mind impulses, therobot fired erratically as Alancrouched and raced painfully forthe door. It fired again, closer,as he fumbled with the lockrelease. Jagged bits of plastic andstone ripped past him, torn looseby the blast.     Frantically, Alan slammedopen the door as the robot, sensinghim strongly now, aimedpoint blank. He saw nothing, hismind thought of nothing but thered-clad safety switch mountedbeside the computer. Time stopped.There was nothing else inthe world. He half-jumped, half-felltowards it, slowly, in tenthsof seconds that seemed measuredout in years.     The universe went black.     Later. Brilliance pressed uponhis eyes. Then pain returned, amulti-hurting thing that crawledthrough his body and draggedragged tentacles across hisbrain. He moaned.     A voice spoke hollowly in thedistance. He's waking. Call hiswife.     Alan opened his eyes in awhite room; a white light hungover his head. Beside him, lookingdown with a rueful smile,stood a young man wearingspace medical insignia. Yes,he acknowledged the question inAlan's eyes, you hit the switch.That was three days ago. Whenyou're up again we'd all like tothank you.     Suddenly a sobbing-laughinggreen-eyed girl was pressedtightly against him. Neither ofthem spoke. They couldn't. Therewas too much to say.     THE END     Transcriber's Note:    This etext was produced from    Amazing Science Fiction Stories   October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling andtypographical errors have been corrected without note.","Alan’s realization that he must continue to live makes him become a man at thirty. Not only does it fill him with determination, but it is also what fuels him to stop the robots and end up saving everybody. He declares that no law says he has to flame-out at this age, so he continues to work his way through the jungle and against the robots. Without this realization, he would not have been motivated to use his pocket blaster against the robots and knife. Alan would also not have lived long enough to figure out the control of the robots as the computer in the headquarters building. This, itself, also lets him actually choose to go back to the area at the risk of death to find the safety button. Finally, his will to live lets him put aside his fear and goes to push the button, which ends up saving everybody. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>       Nuts to wild talents! Mine was no       satisfaction, never earned me a penny—and       now it had me fighting for my life in     ...     THE LITTLE RED BAG     By JERRY SOHL     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1960.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      About an hour out of San Francisco on the flight to Los Angeles, I madethe discovery. I had finished reading the      Chronicle     , folded and putit beside me, turned and looked out the window, expecting to see theSan Joaquin Valley but finding only a sea of clouds instead. So Ireturned my attention to the inside of the plane, to the overstuffedgray-haired woman asleep beside me, to the backs of heads in seatsbefore me, across the aisle to other heads, and down to the blonde.     I had seen her in the concourse and at the gate, a shapely thing. Nowshe had crossed her legs and I was privileged to view a trim ankle andcalf, and her profile as she stared moodily across the aisle and out awindow where there was nothing to see.     I slid my eyes past her to others. A crossword-puzzle worker, atogetherness-type-magazine reader.     Inventory completed, I went back to looking at the clouds, knowing Ishould be thinking about the printing order I was going to Los Angelesfor, and not wanting to.     So I started going through the purse of the woman next to me. Perhapsthat sounds bad. It wasn't. I'd been doing it for years and nobody evercomplained.     It started when I was a kid, this business of being able to explorethe insides of things like purses and sealed boxes and locked drawersand—well, human beings. But human beings aren't worth the trouble.It's like swimming through spaghetti. And I've got to stay away fromelectric wires. They hurt. Now don't ask me      how     they hurt.     Maybe you think it's fun. For the most part, it really isn't. I alwaysknew what was in Christmas presents before I unwrapped them, andtherefore Christmas was always spoiled for me as a kid. I can't feelthe color of anything, just its consistency. An apple senses about thesame as a potato, except for the core and the stem. I can't even tellif there's writing on a piece of paper. So you see it isn't much. Justthe feel of shapes, the hardnesses and softnesses. But I've learned tobecome pretty good at guessing.     Like this woman next to me. She had a short, cylindrical metal objectin her purse with waxlike stuff inside it—a lipstick. A round, hardobject with dust inside—a compact. Handkerchief, chewing gum, a smallbook, probably an address book, money in a change purse—a few billsand coins. Not much else.     I was a little disappointed. I've run across a gun or two in my time.But I never say anything.  I learned the wisdom of keeping my mouth shut in the fourth grade whenMiss Winters, a stern, white-haired disciplinarian, ordered me to eatmy sack lunch in the classroom with her instead of outside with someof the other kids. This was the punishment for some minor infraction.Lunchtime was nearly over and we'd both finished eating; she said she'dbe gone for a few moments and that I was to erase the blackboard duringher absence, which I dutifully did.     Class had hardly resumed when she started looking around the desk forher favorite mechanical pencil, asking if any of us had seen it, andlooking straight at me. I didn't want her to think I had taken it whileshe was out of the room, so I probed the contents of her purse, whichshe always kept in the upper right drawer of her desk.     It's in your purse, I blurted out.     I was sent home with a stinging note.     Since then I've kept quiet. At one time I assumed everybody was ableto sense. I've known better for years. Still, I wonder how many otherpeople are as close-mouthed about their special gift as I am about mine.     I used to think that some day I'd make a lot of money out of it, buthow? I can't read thoughts. I can't even be sure what some of thethings I sense in probing really are.     But I've learned to move things. Ever so little. A piece of paper. Afeather. Once I stopped one of those little glass-enclosed light orheat-powered devices with vanes you see now and then in a jeweler'swindow. And I can stop clocks.     Take this morning, for example. I had set my alarm for five-thirtybecause I had to catch the seven o'clock plane at San FranciscoInternational Airport. This being earlier than I usually get up, itseems all I did during the night was feel my way past the escapementand balance wheel to see where the notch for the alarm was. The lasttime I did it there was just the merest fraction of an inch between thepawl and the notch. So I sighed and moved to the balance wheel and itsdelicate ribbon of spiraling steel. I hung onto the wheel, exertinginfluence to decrease the restoring torque.     The wheel slowed down until there was no more ticking. It took quitea bit of effort, as it always does, but I did it, as I usually do. Ican't stand the alarm.     When I first learned to do this, I thought I had it made. I even wentto Las Vegas to try my hand, so to speak, with the ratchets and pawlsand cams and springs on the slot machines. But there's nothing delicateabout a slot machine, and the spring tensions are too strong. I droppedquite a lot of nickels before I finally gave up.     So I'm stuck with a talent I've found little real use for. Except thatit amuses me. Sometimes. Not like this time on the plane.     The woman beside me stirred, sat up suddenly and looked across me outthe window. Where are we? she asked in a surprised voice. I told herwe were probably a little north of Bakersfield. She said, Oh, glancedat her wristwatch and sank back again.     Soon the stewardesses would bring coffee and doughnuts around, so Icontented myself with looking at the clouds and trying to think aboutAmos Magaffey, who was purchasing agent for a Los Angeles amusementchain, and how I was going to convince him our printing prices weremaybe a little higher but the quality and service were better. My mindwandered below where I was sitting, idly moving from one piece ofluggage to another, looking for my beat-up suitcase. I went throughslips and slippers, lingerie and laundry, a jig saw puzzle and aukulele.     I never did find my suitcase because I found the bomb first.       The bomb was in a small bag—a woman's bag judging by the soft,flimsy things you'd never find in a man's—and I didn't know it was abomb right away. I thought it was just a clock, one of those small,quiet alarms. I was going to pass it by and go on, but what held mewas that something was taped to it. By the feel, I knew it must beelectrician's tape. Interested and curious, I explored the clock moreclosely, found two wires. One went to a battery and the other to hardround cylinders taped together. The hairs stood up at the base of myneck when I suddenly realized what it was.     The clock's balance wheel was rocking merrily. Quickly I went up pastthe train of gears to the alarm wheel. If this was anything like my ownalarm clock, this one had something like ten minutes to go.     It was forty minutes to Burbank and Lockheed Air Terminal.     My mind was churning when I turned from the window to look aroundat the unconcerned passengers, the woman at my side asleep again. Ithought: Which one of these.... No, none of them would know it wasthere. I glanced out the window again; clouds were still in the way.We'd be leaving the valley for the mountain range north of Los Angelessoon, if we hadn't left it already. No place to land the plane there.     But of course that had been the plan!     My heart was beating in jackhammer rhythm; my mouth was dry and my mindwas numb. Tell somebody about the bomb before it's too late! No, they'dthink I put it there. Besides, what good would it do? There would bepanic and they'd never get the plane down in time—if they believed me.     Sir. My head jerked around. The stewardess stood in the aisle,smiling, extending a tray to me, a brown plastic tray bearing a smallpaper cup of tomato juice, a cup of coffee, a cellophane-wrappeddoughnut, paper spoon, sugar and dehydrated cream envelopes, and anapkin.     I goggled at her, managed to croak, No, thanks. She gave me an oddlook and moved along. My seatmate had accepted hers and was tearing atthe cellophane. I couldn't bear to watch her.     I closed my eyes, forced my mind back to the luggage compartment, spenta frantic moment before I found the bag again. I had to stop thatbalance wheel, just as I stopped my alarm clock every morning. I triedto close everything off—the throb of engines, the rush of air, thewoman sipping coffee noisily beside me—and I went into the clock andsurrounded the seesawing wheel. When it went forward, I pulled it back;when it went back, I pulled it forward. I struggled with it, and it waslike trying to work with greasy hands, and I was afraid I wasn't goingto be able to stop it.     Then, little by little, it started to slow its beat. But I could notafford to relax. I pushed and pulled and didn't dare release my holduntil it came to a dead stop.     Anything the matter?     My eyelids flew open and I looked into the eyes of the woman next tome. There was sugar from the doughnut around her mouth and she wasstill chewing.     No, I said, letting out my breath. I'm all right.     You were moaning, it sounded like. And you kept moving your head backand forth.     Must have been dreaming, I said as I rang for the stewardess. Whenshe came I told her I'd take some of that coffee now. No, nothing else,just coffee. I didn't tell her how much I needed it. I sat there clammywith sweat until she returned. Coffee never tasted so good.  All right, so I had stopped the bomb's timer. My mind raced ahead tothe landing. When they unloaded the luggage, the balance wheel wouldstart again. I wouldn't be able to stay with it, keeping it still.I considered telling the authorities as soon as we landed, or maybecalling in ahead, but wouldn't that just bring suspicion, questions.Maybe I could convince them I could stop a clock—but not before thebomb exploded. And then what? My secret would be out and my life wouldbe changed. I'd be a man not to be trusted, a prying man, a manliterally with gimlet eyes.     Mountain crags jutted through the clouds. We were in the range north ofthe city. Here and there were clear spots and I could see roads below,but there were also clouds far above us. It was very beautiful, but itwas also very bumpy, and we started to slip and slide.     To my horror I found that the balance wheel was rocking again. Closingmy eyes and gritting my teeth, I forced my senses to the wheel, tuggingand pulling and shoving and pushing until it finally stopped.     A jab in the shoulder. I jumped, startled.     Your cup, my seat partner said, pointing.     I looked down at the coffee cup I had crushed in my hands. Then Ilooked up into the eyes of the stewardess. I handed it to her. She tookit without a word and went away.     Were you really asleep that time?     Not really, I said. I was tempted to tell the woman I was subject tofits, but I didn't.     It was only a few minutes to landing, but they became the longestminutes of my life as time after time I stopped the rocking wheel whenthe plane dipped and bumped to a landing.     Leaving the apron with the other passengers, I tried to walk asunconcernedly as they through the exit gate. I would have liked walkingthrough the terminal and out the entrance and away, but I could not. Ihad my suitcase to get, for one thing. The damned bomb was the other.So I strolled out into the concourse again to look at the plane andwatch the baggagemen at work, transferring the luggage to two airfieldcarts. They weren't as careful as I would have been.     It was impossible to tell from this distance just which bag containedthe bomb; I could hardly identify my own scarred suitcase. Theassortment of bags—a strange conglomeration of sizes and colors—waspacked in some places six deep, and it rolled toward the gate whereI was standing. I didn't know whether to stay or run, imagining thebalance wheel now happily rocking again. The load went past me down aramp to the front of the air terminal where the luggage was unloadedand placed in a long rack. I went with it.     There was a flurry of ticket matching, hands grabbing for suitcases,and a general exodus on the part of my fellow passengers, too fast todetermine who had got the one with the bomb. Now all that was left wasthe attendant and I had two bags—my own battered veteran of years, anda fine new red overnight case, small enough to be the one.     I lit a cigarette, reached out. Inside were a woman's things and—aclock. The escapement was clicking vigorously.     I didn't moan this time. I just closed my eyes, stretched towardand grabbed the balance wheel I was getting to know like my own. Ientered into a union with it so strong that after I had reduced it toimmobility, it was like waking when I opened my eyes.  The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment Istared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presentedit to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and Iwas ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags withhis eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed ittoward me.     Thanks, I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward theremaining bag. One left over, eh?     Yeah. He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. Buthe was eying me with a well-why-don't-you-get-along? look.     I said, What happens if nobody claims it?     Take it inside. Why?     He was getting too curious. Oh, I just wondered, that's all.     I stepped on my cigarette and walked toward the air terminal entranceand put my suitcase on the stone steps there. A redcap came hurryingover.     Cab?     I shook my head. Just waiting.     Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb.     I lit another cigarette and glanced now and then toward the baggageclaim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ranthrough my head as to why it should still be there, and none satisfiedme.     I should not have been there, that much I knew; I should be with aman named Amos Magaffey on Sixth Street at ten o'clock, discussingsomething very mundane, the matter of a printing order. But what couldI do? If I left the airport, the attendant would eventually take thebag inside and there would be an explosion, and I wouldn't be able tolive with myself.     No. I had to stay to keep the balance wheel stationary until—untilwhat?     A man in tan gabardine, wearing a police cap and badge, walked out ofthe entrance to stand on the stone steps beside me while he put on apair of dark glasses. A member of the airport police detail. I couldtell him. I could take him down to the little red bag and explain thewhole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my ownbusiness.     But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and startedacross the street to the parking area. I could have called to him,Hey, officer, let me tell you about a bomb in a little red bag. ButI didn't. I didn't because I caught a movement at the baggage claimcounter out of the side of my eye.     The attendant had picked up the bag and was walking with it up the rampto the rear of the air terminal. Picking up my own suitcase, I wentinside in time to see him enter through a side door and deposit the bagon the scales at the airline desk and say something to the clerk. Theclerk nodded and moved the bag to the rear room.     I could visualize the balance wheel once again rocking like crazy. Howmany minutes—or seconds—were left? I was sweating when I moved to thecounter, and it wasn't because of the sunshine I'd been soaking in. Ihad to get as close to the bag as I could if I was going to stop theclock again.     Can I help you? the clerk asked.     No. I'm waiting for someone.     I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against thecounter and reached out for the wheel. I found I could reach thedevice, but it was far away. When I tried to dampen it, the wheelescaped my grasp.     Do you have my suitcase?     I blinked my eyes open and looked around. The blonde in the plane stoodthere looking very fresh and bright and unconcerned. In her right handshe had a green baggage claim check.     The clerk took it, nodded, and in a moment brought out the overnightcase and set it on the scales. The girl thanked him, picked it up,glanced at me indifferently, and then started for the entrance with it.     Just a moment, I found myself saying, grabbing my bag and hurryingafter her.  At her side and a little ahead of her, I said, Listen to me.     She looked annoyed and increased her stride toward the door.     It's a matter of life or death, I said. I wanted to wrest the bagfrom her and hurl it out through the doorway into the street, but Irestrained myself.     She stopped and stared. I noticed a short, fat man in a rumpledsuitcoat and unpressed pants staring, too. Ignoring him, I said,Please put the bag down. Over there. I indicated a spot beside atelephone booth where it would be out of the way.     She didn't move. She just said, Why?     For God's sake! I took the case. She offered no resistance. I put herbag and mine next to the booth. When I turned around she was standingthere looking at me as if I had gone out of my mind. Her eyes were blueand brown-flecked, very pretty eyes, and my thought at the moment was,I'm glad the bomb didn't go off; these eyes wouldn't be looking at meor anything else right now if it had.     I've got to talk to you. It's very important.     The girl said, Why? I was beginning to think it was the only word sheknew. At the same time I was wondering why anyone would want to killsomeone so lovely.     I'll explain in a moment. Please stand right here while I make atelephone call. I moved toward the phone booth, paused and said, Anddon't ask me why.     She gave me a speculative look.     I must not have seemed a complete idiot because she said, All right,but—     I didn't listen for the rest. I went into the booth, closed the door,pretended to drop a coin and dial a number. But all the time I was inthere, I was reaching out through the glass for the clock. At thisrange it wasn't difficult to stop the balance wheel.     Just the same, when I came out I was wringing wet.     Now will you please tell me what this is all about? she said stiffly.     Gladly. Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I'll explain.     She glanced at the bags. I told her they'd be all right. We followedthe short, fat man into the coffee shop.     Over coffee I explained it all to her, how I had this extrasensoryability, how she was the first person I had ever revealed it to, andhow I had discovered what was in her overnight bag.     During the telling, her untouched coffee grew a skin, her face grewpale, her eyes grew less curious and more troubled. There were tearsthere when I finished. I asked her who put the bomb in her bag.     Joe did, she said in a toneless voice, not looking at me any more butstaring vacantly across the room. Joe put it there. Behind her eyesshe was reliving some recent scene.     Who is Joe?     My husband. I thought she was going to really bawl, but she gotcontrol again. This trip was his idea, my coming down here to visit mysister. Her smile was bleak. I see now why he wanted to put in thosebooks. I'd finished packing and was in the bathroom. He said he'd putin some books we'd both finished reading—for my sister. That's when hemust have put the—put it in there.     I said gently, Why would he want to do a thing like that?     I don't know. She shook her head. I just don't know. And she wasclose to bawling again. Then she recovered and said, I'm not sure Iwant to know. I admired her for saying it. Joe must have been crazy.     It's all right now? she asked.     I nodded. As long as we don't move it.     I told her I didn't know how much more time there was, that I'd beenthinking it over and that the only way out seemed to be to tell theairport policeman. After I explained it to her, the girl—she said hername was Julia Claremont—agreed to tell him she thought there was abomb in her bag, that she had noticed a ticking and had become worriedbecause she knew she hadn't packed a clock. It wasn't good, but itwould have to do.     We've got to get it deactivated, I said, watching the fat man pay forhis coffee and leave. The sooner the better.  I finished my coffee in one gulp and went to pay the bill with her.I asked her why she didn't claim the bag at the same time the otherpeople had. She said she had called her sister and the phone was busyfor a long while.     She was supposed to meet me, and when she wasn't here, I got worried.She said she isn't feeling well and asked me to take a cab. She smileda little. It was a bright, cheery thing. I had the feeling it was allfor me. That's where I was going when you caught up with me.     It had become a very nice day. But the bottom dropped out of it againwhen we reached the lobby.     The two bags weren't there.     I ran to the entrance and nearly collided with the redcap.     See anybody go out of here with a little red bag and an old batteredsuitcase?     Bag? Suitcase? he mumbled. Then he became excited. Why, a man juststepped out of here— He turned to look down the street. That's him.     The dumpy man I'd seen was walking off; Julia's bag in his right hand,mine in his left. He seemed in no hurry.     Hey! I shouted, starting toward him.     The man turned, took one look at me, and started to run. He cameabreast an old gray, mud-spattered coupe, ran around, opened the doorand threw both bags into the rear seat as he got in.     The car was a hundred feet away and gathering speed by the time Ireached where it had been parked. I watched it for a moment, thenwalked back to the entranceway where Julia was standing with theredcap, who said, That man steal them suitcases?     That he did, I said.     Just then the airport policeman started across the street from theparking lot. Redcap said, Better tell him about it.     The policeman was sympathetic and concerned. He said, We'd better getover to the office.     But we never left the spot because an explosion some blocks distantshattered the air. Julia's hand grasped my arm. Hard.     Jets, the redcap said, eying the sky.     I don't know, the policeman said. Didn't sound much like a jet tome.     We stood there. I could visualize the wreckage of an old gray coupein the middle of a street, but I couldn't visualize the driver. Thatwas all right. I didn't want to see him. I didn't know what Julia wasthinking.     She said, About those bags, and looked at me.     The officer said, Yes, miss?     I—I don't care about mine. I didn't have much of anything in it.     I feel the same way, I said. Would it be all right if we didn'tbother to report it?     Well, the policeman said, I can't      make     you report it.     I'd rather not then, Julia said. She turned to me. I'd like someair. Can't we walk a little?     Sure, I said.     We started down the street, her arm in mine, as the air began to fillwith the distant sounds of sirens.  ","On a seemingly normal flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles sits our protagonist, on his way to complete a printing order. In his initial musings, we find out that his curiosity and intuition about his fellow passengers come out of his extrasensory ability to see inside objects and human beings. The protagonist is also revealed to be able to manipulate time by stopping clocks, which he uses to his benefit with early wake-up calls. Despite his unique abilities, he laments that it renders largely useless and mundane as it often ruins surprises like Christmas gifts, requires a bit of guessing, and fails to work as gimmicks in manipulating games like Vegas slot machines. And so with his seemingly useless but curious gaze, the protagonist ponders about his seat-mate’s purse, Amos Magaffey the purchasing agent, and rifling through luggages and identifying his own. All of sudden, his musings are halted by the discovery of a bomb in one of the luggages, with a countdown timer ticking with 10 minutes or less. The flight is still 40 minutes away from its destination and so with great effort and increasing suspicion from his seat-mate, the protagonist uses his ability to stop the ticking bomb. The flight lands safely with the bomb remaining inactivated, but the protgaonist now worries between alerting authorities - which may cast suspicion upon himself - or follow the luggage and identify who picks it up. With no one initially picking up the luggage with the bomb - the little red bag - it is delivered by the flight attendant to the rear room. Soon, a young lady arrives to pick it up. It is then that the protagonist hurries over to her in hopes of warning her of the ticking time bomb. It turns out that the likely culprit of planting the bomb is the young lady’s - Julia Claremont - husband, whose motives are unknown but nevertheless unhinged. Armed with this information and a false story about the bag’s suspicion, the pair decides to approach an airport policeman and inform them of the bomb. However, as they return to where they left their bags, they find that both his and Julia’s luggages have been stolen by a strange man entering his grey vehicle. Turning to the airport policeman in reporting this stolen luggage, they are interrupted by an explosion in a grey vehicle. Shocked and somber, Julia and the protagonist inform the policeman that they no longer wish to report the stolen luggage, and the two begin to walk away from the airport. "
"Who is Julia Claremont and what happens to her in the story? </s>       Nuts to wild talents! Mine was no       satisfaction, never earned me a penny—and       now it had me fighting for my life in     ...     THE LITTLE RED BAG     By JERRY SOHL     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1960.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      About an hour out of San Francisco on the flight to Los Angeles, I madethe discovery. I had finished reading the      Chronicle     , folded and putit beside me, turned and looked out the window, expecting to see theSan Joaquin Valley but finding only a sea of clouds instead. So Ireturned my attention to the inside of the plane, to the overstuffedgray-haired woman asleep beside me, to the backs of heads in seatsbefore me, across the aisle to other heads, and down to the blonde.     I had seen her in the concourse and at the gate, a shapely thing. Nowshe had crossed her legs and I was privileged to view a trim ankle andcalf, and her profile as she stared moodily across the aisle and out awindow where there was nothing to see.     I slid my eyes past her to others. A crossword-puzzle worker, atogetherness-type-magazine reader.     Inventory completed, I went back to looking at the clouds, knowing Ishould be thinking about the printing order I was going to Los Angelesfor, and not wanting to.     So I started going through the purse of the woman next to me. Perhapsthat sounds bad. It wasn't. I'd been doing it for years and nobody evercomplained.     It started when I was a kid, this business of being able to explorethe insides of things like purses and sealed boxes and locked drawersand—well, human beings. But human beings aren't worth the trouble.It's like swimming through spaghetti. And I've got to stay away fromelectric wires. They hurt. Now don't ask me      how     they hurt.     Maybe you think it's fun. For the most part, it really isn't. I alwaysknew what was in Christmas presents before I unwrapped them, andtherefore Christmas was always spoiled for me as a kid. I can't feelthe color of anything, just its consistency. An apple senses about thesame as a potato, except for the core and the stem. I can't even tellif there's writing on a piece of paper. So you see it isn't much. Justthe feel of shapes, the hardnesses and softnesses. But I've learned tobecome pretty good at guessing.     Like this woman next to me. She had a short, cylindrical metal objectin her purse with waxlike stuff inside it—a lipstick. A round, hardobject with dust inside—a compact. Handkerchief, chewing gum, a smallbook, probably an address book, money in a change purse—a few billsand coins. Not much else.     I was a little disappointed. I've run across a gun or two in my time.But I never say anything.  I learned the wisdom of keeping my mouth shut in the fourth grade whenMiss Winters, a stern, white-haired disciplinarian, ordered me to eatmy sack lunch in the classroom with her instead of outside with someof the other kids. This was the punishment for some minor infraction.Lunchtime was nearly over and we'd both finished eating; she said she'dbe gone for a few moments and that I was to erase the blackboard duringher absence, which I dutifully did.     Class had hardly resumed when she started looking around the desk forher favorite mechanical pencil, asking if any of us had seen it, andlooking straight at me. I didn't want her to think I had taken it whileshe was out of the room, so I probed the contents of her purse, whichshe always kept in the upper right drawer of her desk.     It's in your purse, I blurted out.     I was sent home with a stinging note.     Since then I've kept quiet. At one time I assumed everybody was ableto sense. I've known better for years. Still, I wonder how many otherpeople are as close-mouthed about their special gift as I am about mine.     I used to think that some day I'd make a lot of money out of it, buthow? I can't read thoughts. I can't even be sure what some of thethings I sense in probing really are.     But I've learned to move things. Ever so little. A piece of paper. Afeather. Once I stopped one of those little glass-enclosed light orheat-powered devices with vanes you see now and then in a jeweler'swindow. And I can stop clocks.     Take this morning, for example. I had set my alarm for five-thirtybecause I had to catch the seven o'clock plane at San FranciscoInternational Airport. This being earlier than I usually get up, itseems all I did during the night was feel my way past the escapementand balance wheel to see where the notch for the alarm was. The lasttime I did it there was just the merest fraction of an inch between thepawl and the notch. So I sighed and moved to the balance wheel and itsdelicate ribbon of spiraling steel. I hung onto the wheel, exertinginfluence to decrease the restoring torque.     The wheel slowed down until there was no more ticking. It took quitea bit of effort, as it always does, but I did it, as I usually do. Ican't stand the alarm.     When I first learned to do this, I thought I had it made. I even wentto Las Vegas to try my hand, so to speak, with the ratchets and pawlsand cams and springs on the slot machines. But there's nothing delicateabout a slot machine, and the spring tensions are too strong. I droppedquite a lot of nickels before I finally gave up.     So I'm stuck with a talent I've found little real use for. Except thatit amuses me. Sometimes. Not like this time on the plane.     The woman beside me stirred, sat up suddenly and looked across me outthe window. Where are we? she asked in a surprised voice. I told herwe were probably a little north of Bakersfield. She said, Oh, glancedat her wristwatch and sank back again.     Soon the stewardesses would bring coffee and doughnuts around, so Icontented myself with looking at the clouds and trying to think aboutAmos Magaffey, who was purchasing agent for a Los Angeles amusementchain, and how I was going to convince him our printing prices weremaybe a little higher but the quality and service were better. My mindwandered below where I was sitting, idly moving from one piece ofluggage to another, looking for my beat-up suitcase. I went throughslips and slippers, lingerie and laundry, a jig saw puzzle and aukulele.     I never did find my suitcase because I found the bomb first.       The bomb was in a small bag—a woman's bag judging by the soft,flimsy things you'd never find in a man's—and I didn't know it was abomb right away. I thought it was just a clock, one of those small,quiet alarms. I was going to pass it by and go on, but what held mewas that something was taped to it. By the feel, I knew it must beelectrician's tape. Interested and curious, I explored the clock moreclosely, found two wires. One went to a battery and the other to hardround cylinders taped together. The hairs stood up at the base of myneck when I suddenly realized what it was.     The clock's balance wheel was rocking merrily. Quickly I went up pastthe train of gears to the alarm wheel. If this was anything like my ownalarm clock, this one had something like ten minutes to go.     It was forty minutes to Burbank and Lockheed Air Terminal.     My mind was churning when I turned from the window to look aroundat the unconcerned passengers, the woman at my side asleep again. Ithought: Which one of these.... No, none of them would know it wasthere. I glanced out the window again; clouds were still in the way.We'd be leaving the valley for the mountain range north of Los Angelessoon, if we hadn't left it already. No place to land the plane there.     But of course that had been the plan!     My heart was beating in jackhammer rhythm; my mouth was dry and my mindwas numb. Tell somebody about the bomb before it's too late! No, they'dthink I put it there. Besides, what good would it do? There would bepanic and they'd never get the plane down in time—if they believed me.     Sir. My head jerked around. The stewardess stood in the aisle,smiling, extending a tray to me, a brown plastic tray bearing a smallpaper cup of tomato juice, a cup of coffee, a cellophane-wrappeddoughnut, paper spoon, sugar and dehydrated cream envelopes, and anapkin.     I goggled at her, managed to croak, No, thanks. She gave me an oddlook and moved along. My seatmate had accepted hers and was tearing atthe cellophane. I couldn't bear to watch her.     I closed my eyes, forced my mind back to the luggage compartment, spenta frantic moment before I found the bag again. I had to stop thatbalance wheel, just as I stopped my alarm clock every morning. I triedto close everything off—the throb of engines, the rush of air, thewoman sipping coffee noisily beside me—and I went into the clock andsurrounded the seesawing wheel. When it went forward, I pulled it back;when it went back, I pulled it forward. I struggled with it, and it waslike trying to work with greasy hands, and I was afraid I wasn't goingto be able to stop it.     Then, little by little, it started to slow its beat. But I could notafford to relax. I pushed and pulled and didn't dare release my holduntil it came to a dead stop.     Anything the matter?     My eyelids flew open and I looked into the eyes of the woman next tome. There was sugar from the doughnut around her mouth and she wasstill chewing.     No, I said, letting out my breath. I'm all right.     You were moaning, it sounded like. And you kept moving your head backand forth.     Must have been dreaming, I said as I rang for the stewardess. Whenshe came I told her I'd take some of that coffee now. No, nothing else,just coffee. I didn't tell her how much I needed it. I sat there clammywith sweat until she returned. Coffee never tasted so good.  All right, so I had stopped the bomb's timer. My mind raced ahead tothe landing. When they unloaded the luggage, the balance wheel wouldstart again. I wouldn't be able to stay with it, keeping it still.I considered telling the authorities as soon as we landed, or maybecalling in ahead, but wouldn't that just bring suspicion, questions.Maybe I could convince them I could stop a clock—but not before thebomb exploded. And then what? My secret would be out and my life wouldbe changed. I'd be a man not to be trusted, a prying man, a manliterally with gimlet eyes.     Mountain crags jutted through the clouds. We were in the range north ofthe city. Here and there were clear spots and I could see roads below,but there were also clouds far above us. It was very beautiful, but itwas also very bumpy, and we started to slip and slide.     To my horror I found that the balance wheel was rocking again. Closingmy eyes and gritting my teeth, I forced my senses to the wheel, tuggingand pulling and shoving and pushing until it finally stopped.     A jab in the shoulder. I jumped, startled.     Your cup, my seat partner said, pointing.     I looked down at the coffee cup I had crushed in my hands. Then Ilooked up into the eyes of the stewardess. I handed it to her. She tookit without a word and went away.     Were you really asleep that time?     Not really, I said. I was tempted to tell the woman I was subject tofits, but I didn't.     It was only a few minutes to landing, but they became the longestminutes of my life as time after time I stopped the rocking wheel whenthe plane dipped and bumped to a landing.     Leaving the apron with the other passengers, I tried to walk asunconcernedly as they through the exit gate. I would have liked walkingthrough the terminal and out the entrance and away, but I could not. Ihad my suitcase to get, for one thing. The damned bomb was the other.So I strolled out into the concourse again to look at the plane andwatch the baggagemen at work, transferring the luggage to two airfieldcarts. They weren't as careful as I would have been.     It was impossible to tell from this distance just which bag containedthe bomb; I could hardly identify my own scarred suitcase. Theassortment of bags—a strange conglomeration of sizes and colors—waspacked in some places six deep, and it rolled toward the gate whereI was standing. I didn't know whether to stay or run, imagining thebalance wheel now happily rocking again. The load went past me down aramp to the front of the air terminal where the luggage was unloadedand placed in a long rack. I went with it.     There was a flurry of ticket matching, hands grabbing for suitcases,and a general exodus on the part of my fellow passengers, too fast todetermine who had got the one with the bomb. Now all that was left wasthe attendant and I had two bags—my own battered veteran of years, anda fine new red overnight case, small enough to be the one.     I lit a cigarette, reached out. Inside were a woman's things and—aclock. The escapement was clicking vigorously.     I didn't moan this time. I just closed my eyes, stretched towardand grabbed the balance wheel I was getting to know like my own. Ientered into a union with it so strong that after I had reduced it toimmobility, it was like waking when I opened my eyes.  The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment Istared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presentedit to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and Iwas ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags withhis eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed ittoward me.     Thanks, I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward theremaining bag. One left over, eh?     Yeah. He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. Buthe was eying me with a well-why-don't-you-get-along? look.     I said, What happens if nobody claims it?     Take it inside. Why?     He was getting too curious. Oh, I just wondered, that's all.     I stepped on my cigarette and walked toward the air terminal entranceand put my suitcase on the stone steps there. A redcap came hurryingover.     Cab?     I shook my head. Just waiting.     Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb.     I lit another cigarette and glanced now and then toward the baggageclaim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ranthrough my head as to why it should still be there, and none satisfiedme.     I should not have been there, that much I knew; I should be with aman named Amos Magaffey on Sixth Street at ten o'clock, discussingsomething very mundane, the matter of a printing order. But what couldI do? If I left the airport, the attendant would eventually take thebag inside and there would be an explosion, and I wouldn't be able tolive with myself.     No. I had to stay to keep the balance wheel stationary until—untilwhat?     A man in tan gabardine, wearing a police cap and badge, walked out ofthe entrance to stand on the stone steps beside me while he put on apair of dark glasses. A member of the airport police detail. I couldtell him. I could take him down to the little red bag and explain thewhole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my ownbusiness.     But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and startedacross the street to the parking area. I could have called to him,Hey, officer, let me tell you about a bomb in a little red bag. ButI didn't. I didn't because I caught a movement at the baggage claimcounter out of the side of my eye.     The attendant had picked up the bag and was walking with it up the rampto the rear of the air terminal. Picking up my own suitcase, I wentinside in time to see him enter through a side door and deposit the bagon the scales at the airline desk and say something to the clerk. Theclerk nodded and moved the bag to the rear room.     I could visualize the balance wheel once again rocking like crazy. Howmany minutes—or seconds—were left? I was sweating when I moved to thecounter, and it wasn't because of the sunshine I'd been soaking in. Ihad to get as close to the bag as I could if I was going to stop theclock again.     Can I help you? the clerk asked.     No. I'm waiting for someone.     I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against thecounter and reached out for the wheel. I found I could reach thedevice, but it was far away. When I tried to dampen it, the wheelescaped my grasp.     Do you have my suitcase?     I blinked my eyes open and looked around. The blonde in the plane stoodthere looking very fresh and bright and unconcerned. In her right handshe had a green baggage claim check.     The clerk took it, nodded, and in a moment brought out the overnightcase and set it on the scales. The girl thanked him, picked it up,glanced at me indifferently, and then started for the entrance with it.     Just a moment, I found myself saying, grabbing my bag and hurryingafter her.  At her side and a little ahead of her, I said, Listen to me.     She looked annoyed and increased her stride toward the door.     It's a matter of life or death, I said. I wanted to wrest the bagfrom her and hurl it out through the doorway into the street, but Irestrained myself.     She stopped and stared. I noticed a short, fat man in a rumpledsuitcoat and unpressed pants staring, too. Ignoring him, I said,Please put the bag down. Over there. I indicated a spot beside atelephone booth where it would be out of the way.     She didn't move. She just said, Why?     For God's sake! I took the case. She offered no resistance. I put herbag and mine next to the booth. When I turned around she was standingthere looking at me as if I had gone out of my mind. Her eyes were blueand brown-flecked, very pretty eyes, and my thought at the moment was,I'm glad the bomb didn't go off; these eyes wouldn't be looking at meor anything else right now if it had.     I've got to talk to you. It's very important.     The girl said, Why? I was beginning to think it was the only word sheknew. At the same time I was wondering why anyone would want to killsomeone so lovely.     I'll explain in a moment. Please stand right here while I make atelephone call. I moved toward the phone booth, paused and said, Anddon't ask me why.     She gave me a speculative look.     I must not have seemed a complete idiot because she said, All right,but—     I didn't listen for the rest. I went into the booth, closed the door,pretended to drop a coin and dial a number. But all the time I was inthere, I was reaching out through the glass for the clock. At thisrange it wasn't difficult to stop the balance wheel.     Just the same, when I came out I was wringing wet.     Now will you please tell me what this is all about? she said stiffly.     Gladly. Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I'll explain.     She glanced at the bags. I told her they'd be all right. We followedthe short, fat man into the coffee shop.     Over coffee I explained it all to her, how I had this extrasensoryability, how she was the first person I had ever revealed it to, andhow I had discovered what was in her overnight bag.     During the telling, her untouched coffee grew a skin, her face grewpale, her eyes grew less curious and more troubled. There were tearsthere when I finished. I asked her who put the bomb in her bag.     Joe did, she said in a toneless voice, not looking at me any more butstaring vacantly across the room. Joe put it there. Behind her eyesshe was reliving some recent scene.     Who is Joe?     My husband. I thought she was going to really bawl, but she gotcontrol again. This trip was his idea, my coming down here to visit mysister. Her smile was bleak. I see now why he wanted to put in thosebooks. I'd finished packing and was in the bathroom. He said he'd putin some books we'd both finished reading—for my sister. That's when hemust have put the—put it in there.     I said gently, Why would he want to do a thing like that?     I don't know. She shook her head. I just don't know. And she wasclose to bawling again. Then she recovered and said, I'm not sure Iwant to know. I admired her for saying it. Joe must have been crazy.     It's all right now? she asked.     I nodded. As long as we don't move it.     I told her I didn't know how much more time there was, that I'd beenthinking it over and that the only way out seemed to be to tell theairport policeman. After I explained it to her, the girl—she said hername was Julia Claremont—agreed to tell him she thought there was abomb in her bag, that she had noticed a ticking and had become worriedbecause she knew she hadn't packed a clock. It wasn't good, but itwould have to do.     We've got to get it deactivated, I said, watching the fat man pay forhis coffee and leave. The sooner the better.  I finished my coffee in one gulp and went to pay the bill with her.I asked her why she didn't claim the bag at the same time the otherpeople had. She said she had called her sister and the phone was busyfor a long while.     She was supposed to meet me, and when she wasn't here, I got worried.She said she isn't feeling well and asked me to take a cab. She smileda little. It was a bright, cheery thing. I had the feeling it was allfor me. That's where I was going when you caught up with me.     It had become a very nice day. But the bottom dropped out of it againwhen we reached the lobby.     The two bags weren't there.     I ran to the entrance and nearly collided with the redcap.     See anybody go out of here with a little red bag and an old batteredsuitcase?     Bag? Suitcase? he mumbled. Then he became excited. Why, a man juststepped out of here— He turned to look down the street. That's him.     The dumpy man I'd seen was walking off; Julia's bag in his right hand,mine in his left. He seemed in no hurry.     Hey! I shouted, starting toward him.     The man turned, took one look at me, and started to run. He cameabreast an old gray, mud-spattered coupe, ran around, opened the doorand threw both bags into the rear seat as he got in.     The car was a hundred feet away and gathering speed by the time Ireached where it had been parked. I watched it for a moment, thenwalked back to the entranceway where Julia was standing with theredcap, who said, That man steal them suitcases?     That he did, I said.     Just then the airport policeman started across the street from theparking lot. Redcap said, Better tell him about it.     The policeman was sympathetic and concerned. He said, We'd better getover to the office.     But we never left the spot because an explosion some blocks distantshattered the air. Julia's hand grasped my arm. Hard.     Jets, the redcap said, eying the sky.     I don't know, the policeman said. Didn't sound much like a jet tome.     We stood there. I could visualize the wreckage of an old gray coupein the middle of a street, but I couldn't visualize the driver. Thatwas all right. I didn't want to see him. I didn't know what Julia wasthinking.     She said, About those bags, and looked at me.     The officer said, Yes, miss?     I—I don't care about mine. I didn't have much of anything in it.     I feel the same way, I said. Would it be all right if we didn'tbother to report it?     Well, the policeman said, I can't      make     you report it.     I'd rather not then, Julia said. She turned to me. I'd like someair. Can't we walk a little?     Sure, I said.     We started down the street, her arm in mine, as the air began to fillwith the distant sounds of sirens.  ","Julia Claremont is a young blonde in the plane that initially peaks the protagonist's interest with her attractive profile, who later is identified as the owner of the little red bag that houses the ticking bomb. Flying from San Francisco to Los Angeles to visit her sister on her husband’s suggestion, she is the first person that the protagonist reveals his extrasensory abilities to. Despite the extraordinary tale, Claremont believes him and reveals herself that the likely culprit of the bomb to be her husband. Under the guise of putting in books for her sister to read, she surmises that her husband likely used that opportunity to plant the bomb. However, she is unable to identify the motives of her husband or more likely, she would rather not to. Despite this shock, Claremont and the protagonist devise a somewhat likely story to alert the airport policeman of her suspicious of a bomb in her luggage in order to quickly deactivate it as well as divert attention from how the protgaonist was able to sense it. On their way over to where they left their bags, they noticed them to be stolen and identified a dumpy man as the thief, heading over to his grey vehicle to take off with them. As they approach an airport policeman to report this theft instead, they are interrupted by an explosion - the bomb having gone off. Seemingly on the same page, Claremont turns to the policeman as she retracts her desire to report the theft - with the protagonist doing the same - and turns to walk away, leaving the mayhem of the explosion at the airport behind them. "
"Q3. Why is the protagonist reluctant to reveal his extraordinary ability? </s>       Nuts to wild talents! Mine was no       satisfaction, never earned me a penny—and       now it had me fighting for my life in     ...     THE LITTLE RED BAG     By JERRY SOHL     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1960.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      About an hour out of San Francisco on the flight to Los Angeles, I madethe discovery. I had finished reading the      Chronicle     , folded and putit beside me, turned and looked out the window, expecting to see theSan Joaquin Valley but finding only a sea of clouds instead. So Ireturned my attention to the inside of the plane, to the overstuffedgray-haired woman asleep beside me, to the backs of heads in seatsbefore me, across the aisle to other heads, and down to the blonde.     I had seen her in the concourse and at the gate, a shapely thing. Nowshe had crossed her legs and I was privileged to view a trim ankle andcalf, and her profile as she stared moodily across the aisle and out awindow where there was nothing to see.     I slid my eyes past her to others. A crossword-puzzle worker, atogetherness-type-magazine reader.     Inventory completed, I went back to looking at the clouds, knowing Ishould be thinking about the printing order I was going to Los Angelesfor, and not wanting to.     So I started going through the purse of the woman next to me. Perhapsthat sounds bad. It wasn't. I'd been doing it for years and nobody evercomplained.     It started when I was a kid, this business of being able to explorethe insides of things like purses and sealed boxes and locked drawersand—well, human beings. But human beings aren't worth the trouble.It's like swimming through spaghetti. And I've got to stay away fromelectric wires. They hurt. Now don't ask me      how     they hurt.     Maybe you think it's fun. For the most part, it really isn't. I alwaysknew what was in Christmas presents before I unwrapped them, andtherefore Christmas was always spoiled for me as a kid. I can't feelthe color of anything, just its consistency. An apple senses about thesame as a potato, except for the core and the stem. I can't even tellif there's writing on a piece of paper. So you see it isn't much. Justthe feel of shapes, the hardnesses and softnesses. But I've learned tobecome pretty good at guessing.     Like this woman next to me. She had a short, cylindrical metal objectin her purse with waxlike stuff inside it—a lipstick. A round, hardobject with dust inside—a compact. Handkerchief, chewing gum, a smallbook, probably an address book, money in a change purse—a few billsand coins. Not much else.     I was a little disappointed. I've run across a gun or two in my time.But I never say anything.  I learned the wisdom of keeping my mouth shut in the fourth grade whenMiss Winters, a stern, white-haired disciplinarian, ordered me to eatmy sack lunch in the classroom with her instead of outside with someof the other kids. This was the punishment for some minor infraction.Lunchtime was nearly over and we'd both finished eating; she said she'dbe gone for a few moments and that I was to erase the blackboard duringher absence, which I dutifully did.     Class had hardly resumed when she started looking around the desk forher favorite mechanical pencil, asking if any of us had seen it, andlooking straight at me. I didn't want her to think I had taken it whileshe was out of the room, so I probed the contents of her purse, whichshe always kept in the upper right drawer of her desk.     It's in your purse, I blurted out.     I was sent home with a stinging note.     Since then I've kept quiet. At one time I assumed everybody was ableto sense. I've known better for years. Still, I wonder how many otherpeople are as close-mouthed about their special gift as I am about mine.     I used to think that some day I'd make a lot of money out of it, buthow? I can't read thoughts. I can't even be sure what some of thethings I sense in probing really are.     But I've learned to move things. Ever so little. A piece of paper. Afeather. Once I stopped one of those little glass-enclosed light orheat-powered devices with vanes you see now and then in a jeweler'swindow. And I can stop clocks.     Take this morning, for example. I had set my alarm for five-thirtybecause I had to catch the seven o'clock plane at San FranciscoInternational Airport. This being earlier than I usually get up, itseems all I did during the night was feel my way past the escapementand balance wheel to see where the notch for the alarm was. The lasttime I did it there was just the merest fraction of an inch between thepawl and the notch. So I sighed and moved to the balance wheel and itsdelicate ribbon of spiraling steel. I hung onto the wheel, exertinginfluence to decrease the restoring torque.     The wheel slowed down until there was no more ticking. It took quitea bit of effort, as it always does, but I did it, as I usually do. Ican't stand the alarm.     When I first learned to do this, I thought I had it made. I even wentto Las Vegas to try my hand, so to speak, with the ratchets and pawlsand cams and springs on the slot machines. But there's nothing delicateabout a slot machine, and the spring tensions are too strong. I droppedquite a lot of nickels before I finally gave up.     So I'm stuck with a talent I've found little real use for. Except thatit amuses me. Sometimes. Not like this time on the plane.     The woman beside me stirred, sat up suddenly and looked across me outthe window. Where are we? she asked in a surprised voice. I told herwe were probably a little north of Bakersfield. She said, Oh, glancedat her wristwatch and sank back again.     Soon the stewardesses would bring coffee and doughnuts around, so Icontented myself with looking at the clouds and trying to think aboutAmos Magaffey, who was purchasing agent for a Los Angeles amusementchain, and how I was going to convince him our printing prices weremaybe a little higher but the quality and service were better. My mindwandered below where I was sitting, idly moving from one piece ofluggage to another, looking for my beat-up suitcase. I went throughslips and slippers, lingerie and laundry, a jig saw puzzle and aukulele.     I never did find my suitcase because I found the bomb first.       The bomb was in a small bag—a woman's bag judging by the soft,flimsy things you'd never find in a man's—and I didn't know it was abomb right away. I thought it was just a clock, one of those small,quiet alarms. I was going to pass it by and go on, but what held mewas that something was taped to it. By the feel, I knew it must beelectrician's tape. Interested and curious, I explored the clock moreclosely, found two wires. One went to a battery and the other to hardround cylinders taped together. The hairs stood up at the base of myneck when I suddenly realized what it was.     The clock's balance wheel was rocking merrily. Quickly I went up pastthe train of gears to the alarm wheel. If this was anything like my ownalarm clock, this one had something like ten minutes to go.     It was forty minutes to Burbank and Lockheed Air Terminal.     My mind was churning when I turned from the window to look aroundat the unconcerned passengers, the woman at my side asleep again. Ithought: Which one of these.... No, none of them would know it wasthere. I glanced out the window again; clouds were still in the way.We'd be leaving the valley for the mountain range north of Los Angelessoon, if we hadn't left it already. No place to land the plane there.     But of course that had been the plan!     My heart was beating in jackhammer rhythm; my mouth was dry and my mindwas numb. Tell somebody about the bomb before it's too late! No, they'dthink I put it there. Besides, what good would it do? There would bepanic and they'd never get the plane down in time—if they believed me.     Sir. My head jerked around. The stewardess stood in the aisle,smiling, extending a tray to me, a brown plastic tray bearing a smallpaper cup of tomato juice, a cup of coffee, a cellophane-wrappeddoughnut, paper spoon, sugar and dehydrated cream envelopes, and anapkin.     I goggled at her, managed to croak, No, thanks. She gave me an oddlook and moved along. My seatmate had accepted hers and was tearing atthe cellophane. I couldn't bear to watch her.     I closed my eyes, forced my mind back to the luggage compartment, spenta frantic moment before I found the bag again. I had to stop thatbalance wheel, just as I stopped my alarm clock every morning. I triedto close everything off—the throb of engines, the rush of air, thewoman sipping coffee noisily beside me—and I went into the clock andsurrounded the seesawing wheel. When it went forward, I pulled it back;when it went back, I pulled it forward. I struggled with it, and it waslike trying to work with greasy hands, and I was afraid I wasn't goingto be able to stop it.     Then, little by little, it started to slow its beat. But I could notafford to relax. I pushed and pulled and didn't dare release my holduntil it came to a dead stop.     Anything the matter?     My eyelids flew open and I looked into the eyes of the woman next tome. There was sugar from the doughnut around her mouth and she wasstill chewing.     No, I said, letting out my breath. I'm all right.     You were moaning, it sounded like. And you kept moving your head backand forth.     Must have been dreaming, I said as I rang for the stewardess. Whenshe came I told her I'd take some of that coffee now. No, nothing else,just coffee. I didn't tell her how much I needed it. I sat there clammywith sweat until she returned. Coffee never tasted so good.  All right, so I had stopped the bomb's timer. My mind raced ahead tothe landing. When they unloaded the luggage, the balance wheel wouldstart again. I wouldn't be able to stay with it, keeping it still.I considered telling the authorities as soon as we landed, or maybecalling in ahead, but wouldn't that just bring suspicion, questions.Maybe I could convince them I could stop a clock—but not before thebomb exploded. And then what? My secret would be out and my life wouldbe changed. I'd be a man not to be trusted, a prying man, a manliterally with gimlet eyes.     Mountain crags jutted through the clouds. We were in the range north ofthe city. Here and there were clear spots and I could see roads below,but there were also clouds far above us. It was very beautiful, but itwas also very bumpy, and we started to slip and slide.     To my horror I found that the balance wheel was rocking again. Closingmy eyes and gritting my teeth, I forced my senses to the wheel, tuggingand pulling and shoving and pushing until it finally stopped.     A jab in the shoulder. I jumped, startled.     Your cup, my seat partner said, pointing.     I looked down at the coffee cup I had crushed in my hands. Then Ilooked up into the eyes of the stewardess. I handed it to her. She tookit without a word and went away.     Were you really asleep that time?     Not really, I said. I was tempted to tell the woman I was subject tofits, but I didn't.     It was only a few minutes to landing, but they became the longestminutes of my life as time after time I stopped the rocking wheel whenthe plane dipped and bumped to a landing.     Leaving the apron with the other passengers, I tried to walk asunconcernedly as they through the exit gate. I would have liked walkingthrough the terminal and out the entrance and away, but I could not. Ihad my suitcase to get, for one thing. The damned bomb was the other.So I strolled out into the concourse again to look at the plane andwatch the baggagemen at work, transferring the luggage to two airfieldcarts. They weren't as careful as I would have been.     It was impossible to tell from this distance just which bag containedthe bomb; I could hardly identify my own scarred suitcase. Theassortment of bags—a strange conglomeration of sizes and colors—waspacked in some places six deep, and it rolled toward the gate whereI was standing. I didn't know whether to stay or run, imagining thebalance wheel now happily rocking again. The load went past me down aramp to the front of the air terminal where the luggage was unloadedand placed in a long rack. I went with it.     There was a flurry of ticket matching, hands grabbing for suitcases,and a general exodus on the part of my fellow passengers, too fast todetermine who had got the one with the bomb. Now all that was left wasthe attendant and I had two bags—my own battered veteran of years, anda fine new red overnight case, small enough to be the one.     I lit a cigarette, reached out. Inside were a woman's things and—aclock. The escapement was clicking vigorously.     I didn't moan this time. I just closed my eyes, stretched towardand grabbed the balance wheel I was getting to know like my own. Ientered into a union with it so strong that after I had reduced it toimmobility, it was like waking when I opened my eyes.  The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment Istared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presentedit to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and Iwas ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags withhis eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed ittoward me.     Thanks, I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward theremaining bag. One left over, eh?     Yeah. He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. Buthe was eying me with a well-why-don't-you-get-along? look.     I said, What happens if nobody claims it?     Take it inside. Why?     He was getting too curious. Oh, I just wondered, that's all.     I stepped on my cigarette and walked toward the air terminal entranceand put my suitcase on the stone steps there. A redcap came hurryingover.     Cab?     I shook my head. Just waiting.     Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb.     I lit another cigarette and glanced now and then toward the baggageclaim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ranthrough my head as to why it should still be there, and none satisfiedme.     I should not have been there, that much I knew; I should be with aman named Amos Magaffey on Sixth Street at ten o'clock, discussingsomething very mundane, the matter of a printing order. But what couldI do? If I left the airport, the attendant would eventually take thebag inside and there would be an explosion, and I wouldn't be able tolive with myself.     No. I had to stay to keep the balance wheel stationary until—untilwhat?     A man in tan gabardine, wearing a police cap and badge, walked out ofthe entrance to stand on the stone steps beside me while he put on apair of dark glasses. A member of the airport police detail. I couldtell him. I could take him down to the little red bag and explain thewhole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my ownbusiness.     But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and startedacross the street to the parking area. I could have called to him,Hey, officer, let me tell you about a bomb in a little red bag. ButI didn't. I didn't because I caught a movement at the baggage claimcounter out of the side of my eye.     The attendant had picked up the bag and was walking with it up the rampto the rear of the air terminal. Picking up my own suitcase, I wentinside in time to see him enter through a side door and deposit the bagon the scales at the airline desk and say something to the clerk. Theclerk nodded and moved the bag to the rear room.     I could visualize the balance wheel once again rocking like crazy. Howmany minutes—or seconds—were left? I was sweating when I moved to thecounter, and it wasn't because of the sunshine I'd been soaking in. Ihad to get as close to the bag as I could if I was going to stop theclock again.     Can I help you? the clerk asked.     No. I'm waiting for someone.     I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against thecounter and reached out for the wheel. I found I could reach thedevice, but it was far away. When I tried to dampen it, the wheelescaped my grasp.     Do you have my suitcase?     I blinked my eyes open and looked around. The blonde in the plane stoodthere looking very fresh and bright and unconcerned. In her right handshe had a green baggage claim check.     The clerk took it, nodded, and in a moment brought out the overnightcase and set it on the scales. The girl thanked him, picked it up,glanced at me indifferently, and then started for the entrance with it.     Just a moment, I found myself saying, grabbing my bag and hurryingafter her.  At her side and a little ahead of her, I said, Listen to me.     She looked annoyed and increased her stride toward the door.     It's a matter of life or death, I said. I wanted to wrest the bagfrom her and hurl it out through the doorway into the street, but Irestrained myself.     She stopped and stared. I noticed a short, fat man in a rumpledsuitcoat and unpressed pants staring, too. Ignoring him, I said,Please put the bag down. Over there. I indicated a spot beside atelephone booth where it would be out of the way.     She didn't move. She just said, Why?     For God's sake! I took the case. She offered no resistance. I put herbag and mine next to the booth. When I turned around she was standingthere looking at me as if I had gone out of my mind. Her eyes were blueand brown-flecked, very pretty eyes, and my thought at the moment was,I'm glad the bomb didn't go off; these eyes wouldn't be looking at meor anything else right now if it had.     I've got to talk to you. It's very important.     The girl said, Why? I was beginning to think it was the only word sheknew. At the same time I was wondering why anyone would want to killsomeone so lovely.     I'll explain in a moment. Please stand right here while I make atelephone call. I moved toward the phone booth, paused and said, Anddon't ask me why.     She gave me a speculative look.     I must not have seemed a complete idiot because she said, All right,but—     I didn't listen for the rest. I went into the booth, closed the door,pretended to drop a coin and dial a number. But all the time I was inthere, I was reaching out through the glass for the clock. At thisrange it wasn't difficult to stop the balance wheel.     Just the same, when I came out I was wringing wet.     Now will you please tell me what this is all about? she said stiffly.     Gladly. Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I'll explain.     She glanced at the bags. I told her they'd be all right. We followedthe short, fat man into the coffee shop.     Over coffee I explained it all to her, how I had this extrasensoryability, how she was the first person I had ever revealed it to, andhow I had discovered what was in her overnight bag.     During the telling, her untouched coffee grew a skin, her face grewpale, her eyes grew less curious and more troubled. There were tearsthere when I finished. I asked her who put the bomb in her bag.     Joe did, she said in a toneless voice, not looking at me any more butstaring vacantly across the room. Joe put it there. Behind her eyesshe was reliving some recent scene.     Who is Joe?     My husband. I thought she was going to really bawl, but she gotcontrol again. This trip was his idea, my coming down here to visit mysister. Her smile was bleak. I see now why he wanted to put in thosebooks. I'd finished packing and was in the bathroom. He said he'd putin some books we'd both finished reading—for my sister. That's when hemust have put the—put it in there.     I said gently, Why would he want to do a thing like that?     I don't know. She shook her head. I just don't know. And she wasclose to bawling again. Then she recovered and said, I'm not sure Iwant to know. I admired her for saying it. Joe must have been crazy.     It's all right now? she asked.     I nodded. As long as we don't move it.     I told her I didn't know how much more time there was, that I'd beenthinking it over and that the only way out seemed to be to tell theairport policeman. After I explained it to her, the girl—she said hername was Julia Claremont—agreed to tell him she thought there was abomb in her bag, that she had noticed a ticking and had become worriedbecause she knew she hadn't packed a clock. It wasn't good, but itwould have to do.     We've got to get it deactivated, I said, watching the fat man pay forhis coffee and leave. The sooner the better.  I finished my coffee in one gulp and went to pay the bill with her.I asked her why she didn't claim the bag at the same time the otherpeople had. She said she had called her sister and the phone was busyfor a long while.     She was supposed to meet me, and when she wasn't here, I got worried.She said she isn't feeling well and asked me to take a cab. She smileda little. It was a bright, cheery thing. I had the feeling it was allfor me. That's where I was going when you caught up with me.     It had become a very nice day. But the bottom dropped out of it againwhen we reached the lobby.     The two bags weren't there.     I ran to the entrance and nearly collided with the redcap.     See anybody go out of here with a little red bag and an old batteredsuitcase?     Bag? Suitcase? he mumbled. Then he became excited. Why, a man juststepped out of here— He turned to look down the street. That's him.     The dumpy man I'd seen was walking off; Julia's bag in his right hand,mine in his left. He seemed in no hurry.     Hey! I shouted, starting toward him.     The man turned, took one look at me, and started to run. He cameabreast an old gray, mud-spattered coupe, ran around, opened the doorand threw both bags into the rear seat as he got in.     The car was a hundred feet away and gathering speed by the time Ireached where it had been parked. I watched it for a moment, thenwalked back to the entranceway where Julia was standing with theredcap, who said, That man steal them suitcases?     That he did, I said.     Just then the airport policeman started across the street from theparking lot. Redcap said, Better tell him about it.     The policeman was sympathetic and concerned. He said, We'd better getover to the office.     But we never left the spot because an explosion some blocks distantshattered the air. Julia's hand grasped my arm. Hard.     Jets, the redcap said, eying the sky.     I don't know, the policeman said. Didn't sound much like a jet tome.     We stood there. I could visualize the wreckage of an old gray coupein the middle of a street, but I couldn't visualize the driver. Thatwas all right. I didn't want to see him. I didn't know what Julia wasthinking.     She said, About those bags, and looked at me.     The officer said, Yes, miss?     I—I don't care about mine. I didn't have much of anything in it.     I feel the same way, I said. Would it be all right if we didn'tbother to report it?     Well, the policeman said, I can't      make     you report it.     I'd rather not then, Julia said. She turned to me. I'd like someair. Can't we walk a little?     Sure, I said.     We started down the street, her arm in mine, as the air began to fillwith the distant sounds of sirens.  ","The protagonist finds out about his extraordinary ability at an early age and quickly finds out that it is better to keep this information to himself. One incident that drove this message home occured in the fourth grade with his teacher, Miss Winters. At the time, the protagonist was sentenced to eat lunch with her as a minor punishment. After the lunch period was over, Miss Winters found herself looking for her favorite mechanical pencil, asking the class if anyone had seen it while casting a suspicious eye at the protagonist. Aiming to maintain his innocence and help out his teacher, the protagonist used his ability to find the pencil - in Miss Winters’ purse all along - and let her know. Instead, he was rewarded with a note sent home. Ever since then, he found it to be safer to keep his ability a secret. Despite his curiosities about other potential extraordinary individuals, he recognizes that revealing any information gained from his ability would only cast suspicion upon himself from the authorities. For example, had the protagonist immediately alerted a flight attendant or the authorities about a bomb in one of the luggages the moment he discovered it on the plane, intrusive questions about how he knew or suspicions about him being the one to plant it were highly likely to arise. "
"Q4. Describe the setting(s) of the story. Why is it important? </s>       Nuts to wild talents! Mine was no       satisfaction, never earned me a penny—and       now it had me fighting for my life in     ...     THE LITTLE RED BAG     By JERRY SOHL     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1960.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      About an hour out of San Francisco on the flight to Los Angeles, I madethe discovery. I had finished reading the      Chronicle     , folded and putit beside me, turned and looked out the window, expecting to see theSan Joaquin Valley but finding only a sea of clouds instead. So Ireturned my attention to the inside of the plane, to the overstuffedgray-haired woman asleep beside me, to the backs of heads in seatsbefore me, across the aisle to other heads, and down to the blonde.     I had seen her in the concourse and at the gate, a shapely thing. Nowshe had crossed her legs and I was privileged to view a trim ankle andcalf, and her profile as she stared moodily across the aisle and out awindow where there was nothing to see.     I slid my eyes past her to others. A crossword-puzzle worker, atogetherness-type-magazine reader.     Inventory completed, I went back to looking at the clouds, knowing Ishould be thinking about the printing order I was going to Los Angelesfor, and not wanting to.     So I started going through the purse of the woman next to me. Perhapsthat sounds bad. It wasn't. I'd been doing it for years and nobody evercomplained.     It started when I was a kid, this business of being able to explorethe insides of things like purses and sealed boxes and locked drawersand—well, human beings. But human beings aren't worth the trouble.It's like swimming through spaghetti. And I've got to stay away fromelectric wires. They hurt. Now don't ask me      how     they hurt.     Maybe you think it's fun. For the most part, it really isn't. I alwaysknew what was in Christmas presents before I unwrapped them, andtherefore Christmas was always spoiled for me as a kid. I can't feelthe color of anything, just its consistency. An apple senses about thesame as a potato, except for the core and the stem. I can't even tellif there's writing on a piece of paper. So you see it isn't much. Justthe feel of shapes, the hardnesses and softnesses. But I've learned tobecome pretty good at guessing.     Like this woman next to me. She had a short, cylindrical metal objectin her purse with waxlike stuff inside it—a lipstick. A round, hardobject with dust inside—a compact. Handkerchief, chewing gum, a smallbook, probably an address book, money in a change purse—a few billsand coins. Not much else.     I was a little disappointed. I've run across a gun or two in my time.But I never say anything.  I learned the wisdom of keeping my mouth shut in the fourth grade whenMiss Winters, a stern, white-haired disciplinarian, ordered me to eatmy sack lunch in the classroom with her instead of outside with someof the other kids. This was the punishment for some minor infraction.Lunchtime was nearly over and we'd both finished eating; she said she'dbe gone for a few moments and that I was to erase the blackboard duringher absence, which I dutifully did.     Class had hardly resumed when she started looking around the desk forher favorite mechanical pencil, asking if any of us had seen it, andlooking straight at me. I didn't want her to think I had taken it whileshe was out of the room, so I probed the contents of her purse, whichshe always kept in the upper right drawer of her desk.     It's in your purse, I blurted out.     I was sent home with a stinging note.     Since then I've kept quiet. At one time I assumed everybody was ableto sense. I've known better for years. Still, I wonder how many otherpeople are as close-mouthed about their special gift as I am about mine.     I used to think that some day I'd make a lot of money out of it, buthow? I can't read thoughts. I can't even be sure what some of thethings I sense in probing really are.     But I've learned to move things. Ever so little. A piece of paper. Afeather. Once I stopped one of those little glass-enclosed light orheat-powered devices with vanes you see now and then in a jeweler'swindow. And I can stop clocks.     Take this morning, for example. I had set my alarm for five-thirtybecause I had to catch the seven o'clock plane at San FranciscoInternational Airport. This being earlier than I usually get up, itseems all I did during the night was feel my way past the escapementand balance wheel to see where the notch for the alarm was. The lasttime I did it there was just the merest fraction of an inch between thepawl and the notch. So I sighed and moved to the balance wheel and itsdelicate ribbon of spiraling steel. I hung onto the wheel, exertinginfluence to decrease the restoring torque.     The wheel slowed down until there was no more ticking. It took quitea bit of effort, as it always does, but I did it, as I usually do. Ican't stand the alarm.     When I first learned to do this, I thought I had it made. I even wentto Las Vegas to try my hand, so to speak, with the ratchets and pawlsand cams and springs on the slot machines. But there's nothing delicateabout a slot machine, and the spring tensions are too strong. I droppedquite a lot of nickels before I finally gave up.     So I'm stuck with a talent I've found little real use for. Except thatit amuses me. Sometimes. Not like this time on the plane.     The woman beside me stirred, sat up suddenly and looked across me outthe window. Where are we? she asked in a surprised voice. I told herwe were probably a little north of Bakersfield. She said, Oh, glancedat her wristwatch and sank back again.     Soon the stewardesses would bring coffee and doughnuts around, so Icontented myself with looking at the clouds and trying to think aboutAmos Magaffey, who was purchasing agent for a Los Angeles amusementchain, and how I was going to convince him our printing prices weremaybe a little higher but the quality and service were better. My mindwandered below where I was sitting, idly moving from one piece ofluggage to another, looking for my beat-up suitcase. I went throughslips and slippers, lingerie and laundry, a jig saw puzzle and aukulele.     I never did find my suitcase because I found the bomb first.       The bomb was in a small bag—a woman's bag judging by the soft,flimsy things you'd never find in a man's—and I didn't know it was abomb right away. I thought it was just a clock, one of those small,quiet alarms. I was going to pass it by and go on, but what held mewas that something was taped to it. By the feel, I knew it must beelectrician's tape. Interested and curious, I explored the clock moreclosely, found two wires. One went to a battery and the other to hardround cylinders taped together. The hairs stood up at the base of myneck when I suddenly realized what it was.     The clock's balance wheel was rocking merrily. Quickly I went up pastthe train of gears to the alarm wheel. If this was anything like my ownalarm clock, this one had something like ten minutes to go.     It was forty minutes to Burbank and Lockheed Air Terminal.     My mind was churning when I turned from the window to look aroundat the unconcerned passengers, the woman at my side asleep again. Ithought: Which one of these.... No, none of them would know it wasthere. I glanced out the window again; clouds were still in the way.We'd be leaving the valley for the mountain range north of Los Angelessoon, if we hadn't left it already. No place to land the plane there.     But of course that had been the plan!     My heart was beating in jackhammer rhythm; my mouth was dry and my mindwas numb. Tell somebody about the bomb before it's too late! No, they'dthink I put it there. Besides, what good would it do? There would bepanic and they'd never get the plane down in time—if they believed me.     Sir. My head jerked around. The stewardess stood in the aisle,smiling, extending a tray to me, a brown plastic tray bearing a smallpaper cup of tomato juice, a cup of coffee, a cellophane-wrappeddoughnut, paper spoon, sugar and dehydrated cream envelopes, and anapkin.     I goggled at her, managed to croak, No, thanks. She gave me an oddlook and moved along. My seatmate had accepted hers and was tearing atthe cellophane. I couldn't bear to watch her.     I closed my eyes, forced my mind back to the luggage compartment, spenta frantic moment before I found the bag again. I had to stop thatbalance wheel, just as I stopped my alarm clock every morning. I triedto close everything off—the throb of engines, the rush of air, thewoman sipping coffee noisily beside me—and I went into the clock andsurrounded the seesawing wheel. When it went forward, I pulled it back;when it went back, I pulled it forward. I struggled with it, and it waslike trying to work with greasy hands, and I was afraid I wasn't goingto be able to stop it.     Then, little by little, it started to slow its beat. But I could notafford to relax. I pushed and pulled and didn't dare release my holduntil it came to a dead stop.     Anything the matter?     My eyelids flew open and I looked into the eyes of the woman next tome. There was sugar from the doughnut around her mouth and she wasstill chewing.     No, I said, letting out my breath. I'm all right.     You were moaning, it sounded like. And you kept moving your head backand forth.     Must have been dreaming, I said as I rang for the stewardess. Whenshe came I told her I'd take some of that coffee now. No, nothing else,just coffee. I didn't tell her how much I needed it. I sat there clammywith sweat until she returned. Coffee never tasted so good.  All right, so I had stopped the bomb's timer. My mind raced ahead tothe landing. When they unloaded the luggage, the balance wheel wouldstart again. I wouldn't be able to stay with it, keeping it still.I considered telling the authorities as soon as we landed, or maybecalling in ahead, but wouldn't that just bring suspicion, questions.Maybe I could convince them I could stop a clock—but not before thebomb exploded. And then what? My secret would be out and my life wouldbe changed. I'd be a man not to be trusted, a prying man, a manliterally with gimlet eyes.     Mountain crags jutted through the clouds. We were in the range north ofthe city. Here and there were clear spots and I could see roads below,but there were also clouds far above us. It was very beautiful, but itwas also very bumpy, and we started to slip and slide.     To my horror I found that the balance wheel was rocking again. Closingmy eyes and gritting my teeth, I forced my senses to the wheel, tuggingand pulling and shoving and pushing until it finally stopped.     A jab in the shoulder. I jumped, startled.     Your cup, my seat partner said, pointing.     I looked down at the coffee cup I had crushed in my hands. Then Ilooked up into the eyes of the stewardess. I handed it to her. She tookit without a word and went away.     Were you really asleep that time?     Not really, I said. I was tempted to tell the woman I was subject tofits, but I didn't.     It was only a few minutes to landing, but they became the longestminutes of my life as time after time I stopped the rocking wheel whenthe plane dipped and bumped to a landing.     Leaving the apron with the other passengers, I tried to walk asunconcernedly as they through the exit gate. I would have liked walkingthrough the terminal and out the entrance and away, but I could not. Ihad my suitcase to get, for one thing. The damned bomb was the other.So I strolled out into the concourse again to look at the plane andwatch the baggagemen at work, transferring the luggage to two airfieldcarts. They weren't as careful as I would have been.     It was impossible to tell from this distance just which bag containedthe bomb; I could hardly identify my own scarred suitcase. Theassortment of bags—a strange conglomeration of sizes and colors—waspacked in some places six deep, and it rolled toward the gate whereI was standing. I didn't know whether to stay or run, imagining thebalance wheel now happily rocking again. The load went past me down aramp to the front of the air terminal where the luggage was unloadedand placed in a long rack. I went with it.     There was a flurry of ticket matching, hands grabbing for suitcases,and a general exodus on the part of my fellow passengers, too fast todetermine who had got the one with the bomb. Now all that was left wasthe attendant and I had two bags—my own battered veteran of years, anda fine new red overnight case, small enough to be the one.     I lit a cigarette, reached out. Inside were a woman's things and—aclock. The escapement was clicking vigorously.     I didn't moan this time. I just closed my eyes, stretched towardand grabbed the balance wheel I was getting to know like my own. Ientered into a union with it so strong that after I had reduced it toimmobility, it was like waking when I opened my eyes.  The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment Istared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presentedit to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and Iwas ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags withhis eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed ittoward me.     Thanks, I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward theremaining bag. One left over, eh?     Yeah. He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. Buthe was eying me with a well-why-don't-you-get-along? look.     I said, What happens if nobody claims it?     Take it inside. Why?     He was getting too curious. Oh, I just wondered, that's all.     I stepped on my cigarette and walked toward the air terminal entranceand put my suitcase on the stone steps there. A redcap came hurryingover.     Cab?     I shook my head. Just waiting.     Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb.     I lit another cigarette and glanced now and then toward the baggageclaim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ranthrough my head as to why it should still be there, and none satisfiedme.     I should not have been there, that much I knew; I should be with aman named Amos Magaffey on Sixth Street at ten o'clock, discussingsomething very mundane, the matter of a printing order. But what couldI do? If I left the airport, the attendant would eventually take thebag inside and there would be an explosion, and I wouldn't be able tolive with myself.     No. I had to stay to keep the balance wheel stationary until—untilwhat?     A man in tan gabardine, wearing a police cap and badge, walked out ofthe entrance to stand on the stone steps beside me while he put on apair of dark glasses. A member of the airport police detail. I couldtell him. I could take him down to the little red bag and explain thewhole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my ownbusiness.     But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and startedacross the street to the parking area. I could have called to him,Hey, officer, let me tell you about a bomb in a little red bag. ButI didn't. I didn't because I caught a movement at the baggage claimcounter out of the side of my eye.     The attendant had picked up the bag and was walking with it up the rampto the rear of the air terminal. Picking up my own suitcase, I wentinside in time to see him enter through a side door and deposit the bagon the scales at the airline desk and say something to the clerk. Theclerk nodded and moved the bag to the rear room.     I could visualize the balance wheel once again rocking like crazy. Howmany minutes—or seconds—were left? I was sweating when I moved to thecounter, and it wasn't because of the sunshine I'd been soaking in. Ihad to get as close to the bag as I could if I was going to stop theclock again.     Can I help you? the clerk asked.     No. I'm waiting for someone.     I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against thecounter and reached out for the wheel. I found I could reach thedevice, but it was far away. When I tried to dampen it, the wheelescaped my grasp.     Do you have my suitcase?     I blinked my eyes open and looked around. The blonde in the plane stoodthere looking very fresh and bright and unconcerned. In her right handshe had a green baggage claim check.     The clerk took it, nodded, and in a moment brought out the overnightcase and set it on the scales. The girl thanked him, picked it up,glanced at me indifferently, and then started for the entrance with it.     Just a moment, I found myself saying, grabbing my bag and hurryingafter her.  At her side and a little ahead of her, I said, Listen to me.     She looked annoyed and increased her stride toward the door.     It's a matter of life or death, I said. I wanted to wrest the bagfrom her and hurl it out through the doorway into the street, but Irestrained myself.     She stopped and stared. I noticed a short, fat man in a rumpledsuitcoat and unpressed pants staring, too. Ignoring him, I said,Please put the bag down. Over there. I indicated a spot beside atelephone booth where it would be out of the way.     She didn't move. She just said, Why?     For God's sake! I took the case. She offered no resistance. I put herbag and mine next to the booth. When I turned around she was standingthere looking at me as if I had gone out of my mind. Her eyes were blueand brown-flecked, very pretty eyes, and my thought at the moment was,I'm glad the bomb didn't go off; these eyes wouldn't be looking at meor anything else right now if it had.     I've got to talk to you. It's very important.     The girl said, Why? I was beginning to think it was the only word sheknew. At the same time I was wondering why anyone would want to killsomeone so lovely.     I'll explain in a moment. Please stand right here while I make atelephone call. I moved toward the phone booth, paused and said, Anddon't ask me why.     She gave me a speculative look.     I must not have seemed a complete idiot because she said, All right,but—     I didn't listen for the rest. I went into the booth, closed the door,pretended to drop a coin and dial a number. But all the time I was inthere, I was reaching out through the glass for the clock. At thisrange it wasn't difficult to stop the balance wheel.     Just the same, when I came out I was wringing wet.     Now will you please tell me what this is all about? she said stiffly.     Gladly. Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I'll explain.     She glanced at the bags. I told her they'd be all right. We followedthe short, fat man into the coffee shop.     Over coffee I explained it all to her, how I had this extrasensoryability, how she was the first person I had ever revealed it to, andhow I had discovered what was in her overnight bag.     During the telling, her untouched coffee grew a skin, her face grewpale, her eyes grew less curious and more troubled. There were tearsthere when I finished. I asked her who put the bomb in her bag.     Joe did, she said in a toneless voice, not looking at me any more butstaring vacantly across the room. Joe put it there. Behind her eyesshe was reliving some recent scene.     Who is Joe?     My husband. I thought she was going to really bawl, but she gotcontrol again. This trip was his idea, my coming down here to visit mysister. Her smile was bleak. I see now why he wanted to put in thosebooks. I'd finished packing and was in the bathroom. He said he'd putin some books we'd both finished reading—for my sister. That's when hemust have put the—put it in there.     I said gently, Why would he want to do a thing like that?     I don't know. She shook her head. I just don't know. And she wasclose to bawling again. Then she recovered and said, I'm not sure Iwant to know. I admired her for saying it. Joe must have been crazy.     It's all right now? she asked.     I nodded. As long as we don't move it.     I told her I didn't know how much more time there was, that I'd beenthinking it over and that the only way out seemed to be to tell theairport policeman. After I explained it to her, the girl—she said hername was Julia Claremont—agreed to tell him she thought there was abomb in her bag, that she had noticed a ticking and had become worriedbecause she knew she hadn't packed a clock. It wasn't good, but itwould have to do.     We've got to get it deactivated, I said, watching the fat man pay forhis coffee and leave. The sooner the better.  I finished my coffee in one gulp and went to pay the bill with her.I asked her why she didn't claim the bag at the same time the otherpeople had. She said she had called her sister and the phone was busyfor a long while.     She was supposed to meet me, and when she wasn't here, I got worried.She said she isn't feeling well and asked me to take a cab. She smileda little. It was a bright, cheery thing. I had the feeling it was allfor me. That's where I was going when you caught up with me.     It had become a very nice day. But the bottom dropped out of it againwhen we reached the lobby.     The two bags weren't there.     I ran to the entrance and nearly collided with the redcap.     See anybody go out of here with a little red bag and an old batteredsuitcase?     Bag? Suitcase? he mumbled. Then he became excited. Why, a man juststepped out of here— He turned to look down the street. That's him.     The dumpy man I'd seen was walking off; Julia's bag in his right hand,mine in his left. He seemed in no hurry.     Hey! I shouted, starting toward him.     The man turned, took one look at me, and started to run. He cameabreast an old gray, mud-spattered coupe, ran around, opened the doorand threw both bags into the rear seat as he got in.     The car was a hundred feet away and gathering speed by the time Ireached where it had been parked. I watched it for a moment, thenwalked back to the entranceway where Julia was standing with theredcap, who said, That man steal them suitcases?     That he did, I said.     Just then the airport policeman started across the street from theparking lot. Redcap said, Better tell him about it.     The policeman was sympathetic and concerned. He said, We'd better getover to the office.     But we never left the spot because an explosion some blocks distantshattered the air. Julia's hand grasped my arm. Hard.     Jets, the redcap said, eying the sky.     I don't know, the policeman said. Didn't sound much like a jet tome.     We stood there. I could visualize the wreckage of an old gray coupein the middle of a street, but I couldn't visualize the driver. Thatwas all right. I didn't want to see him. I didn't know what Julia wasthinking.     She said, About those bags, and looked at me.     The officer said, Yes, miss?     I—I don't care about mine. I didn't have much of anything in it.     I feel the same way, I said. Would it be all right if we didn'tbother to report it?     Well, the policeman said, I can't      make     you report it.     I'd rather not then, Julia said. She turned to me. I'd like someair. Can't we walk a little?     Sure, I said.     We started down the street, her arm in mine, as the air began to fillwith the distant sounds of sirens.  ","This story has two settings: first, on an airplane from San Francisco to Los Angeles and second, at the Los Angeles airport in the baggage claim and arrivals terminal. The first setting - on the airplane mid flight - is highly important to the story because it is here that the protagonist discovered the bomb in the luggage. Not only that, he discovers that bomb is on a countdown with 10 minutes remaining before detonation while the flight still has 40 minutes before arrival. It is due to this fact that the protagonist utilizes his time manipulation ability to stop the clock successfully. In the second setting, the tensions in this story continue to rise. Despite the protagonist successfully stopping the clock in the air, it appears to continue on the ground. With both the anticipation of watching to see who picks up the little red bag and dodging suspicions from the airport policeman and workers, we can imagine the hectic and panicked energy that sometimes appears in baggage claims. Additionally, an airport is filled with many people arriving and departing, which adds to the pressure the protagonist is facing in dealing with deactivating the bomb before anyone gets hurt. "
"What is the relationship between the protagonist and authority figures like the airport policeman? </s>       Nuts to wild talents! Mine was no       satisfaction, never earned me a penny—and       now it had me fighting for my life in     ...     THE LITTLE RED BAG     By JERRY SOHL     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1960.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      About an hour out of San Francisco on the flight to Los Angeles, I madethe discovery. I had finished reading the      Chronicle     , folded and putit beside me, turned and looked out the window, expecting to see theSan Joaquin Valley but finding only a sea of clouds instead. So Ireturned my attention to the inside of the plane, to the overstuffedgray-haired woman asleep beside me, to the backs of heads in seatsbefore me, across the aisle to other heads, and down to the blonde.     I had seen her in the concourse and at the gate, a shapely thing. Nowshe had crossed her legs and I was privileged to view a trim ankle andcalf, and her profile as she stared moodily across the aisle and out awindow where there was nothing to see.     I slid my eyes past her to others. A crossword-puzzle worker, atogetherness-type-magazine reader.     Inventory completed, I went back to looking at the clouds, knowing Ishould be thinking about the printing order I was going to Los Angelesfor, and not wanting to.     So I started going through the purse of the woman next to me. Perhapsthat sounds bad. It wasn't. I'd been doing it for years and nobody evercomplained.     It started when I was a kid, this business of being able to explorethe insides of things like purses and sealed boxes and locked drawersand—well, human beings. But human beings aren't worth the trouble.It's like swimming through spaghetti. And I've got to stay away fromelectric wires. They hurt. Now don't ask me      how     they hurt.     Maybe you think it's fun. For the most part, it really isn't. I alwaysknew what was in Christmas presents before I unwrapped them, andtherefore Christmas was always spoiled for me as a kid. I can't feelthe color of anything, just its consistency. An apple senses about thesame as a potato, except for the core and the stem. I can't even tellif there's writing on a piece of paper. So you see it isn't much. Justthe feel of shapes, the hardnesses and softnesses. But I've learned tobecome pretty good at guessing.     Like this woman next to me. She had a short, cylindrical metal objectin her purse with waxlike stuff inside it—a lipstick. A round, hardobject with dust inside—a compact. Handkerchief, chewing gum, a smallbook, probably an address book, money in a change purse—a few billsand coins. Not much else.     I was a little disappointed. I've run across a gun or two in my time.But I never say anything.  I learned the wisdom of keeping my mouth shut in the fourth grade whenMiss Winters, a stern, white-haired disciplinarian, ordered me to eatmy sack lunch in the classroom with her instead of outside with someof the other kids. This was the punishment for some minor infraction.Lunchtime was nearly over and we'd both finished eating; she said she'dbe gone for a few moments and that I was to erase the blackboard duringher absence, which I dutifully did.     Class had hardly resumed when she started looking around the desk forher favorite mechanical pencil, asking if any of us had seen it, andlooking straight at me. I didn't want her to think I had taken it whileshe was out of the room, so I probed the contents of her purse, whichshe always kept in the upper right drawer of her desk.     It's in your purse, I blurted out.     I was sent home with a stinging note.     Since then I've kept quiet. At one time I assumed everybody was ableto sense. I've known better for years. Still, I wonder how many otherpeople are as close-mouthed about their special gift as I am about mine.     I used to think that some day I'd make a lot of money out of it, buthow? I can't read thoughts. I can't even be sure what some of thethings I sense in probing really are.     But I've learned to move things. Ever so little. A piece of paper. Afeather. Once I stopped one of those little glass-enclosed light orheat-powered devices with vanes you see now and then in a jeweler'swindow. And I can stop clocks.     Take this morning, for example. I had set my alarm for five-thirtybecause I had to catch the seven o'clock plane at San FranciscoInternational Airport. This being earlier than I usually get up, itseems all I did during the night was feel my way past the escapementand balance wheel to see where the notch for the alarm was. The lasttime I did it there was just the merest fraction of an inch between thepawl and the notch. So I sighed and moved to the balance wheel and itsdelicate ribbon of spiraling steel. I hung onto the wheel, exertinginfluence to decrease the restoring torque.     The wheel slowed down until there was no more ticking. It took quitea bit of effort, as it always does, but I did it, as I usually do. Ican't stand the alarm.     When I first learned to do this, I thought I had it made. I even wentto Las Vegas to try my hand, so to speak, with the ratchets and pawlsand cams and springs on the slot machines. But there's nothing delicateabout a slot machine, and the spring tensions are too strong. I droppedquite a lot of nickels before I finally gave up.     So I'm stuck with a talent I've found little real use for. Except thatit amuses me. Sometimes. Not like this time on the plane.     The woman beside me stirred, sat up suddenly and looked across me outthe window. Where are we? she asked in a surprised voice. I told herwe were probably a little north of Bakersfield. She said, Oh, glancedat her wristwatch and sank back again.     Soon the stewardesses would bring coffee and doughnuts around, so Icontented myself with looking at the clouds and trying to think aboutAmos Magaffey, who was purchasing agent for a Los Angeles amusementchain, and how I was going to convince him our printing prices weremaybe a little higher but the quality and service were better. My mindwandered below where I was sitting, idly moving from one piece ofluggage to another, looking for my beat-up suitcase. I went throughslips and slippers, lingerie and laundry, a jig saw puzzle and aukulele.     I never did find my suitcase because I found the bomb first.       The bomb was in a small bag—a woman's bag judging by the soft,flimsy things you'd never find in a man's—and I didn't know it was abomb right away. I thought it was just a clock, one of those small,quiet alarms. I was going to pass it by and go on, but what held mewas that something was taped to it. By the feel, I knew it must beelectrician's tape. Interested and curious, I explored the clock moreclosely, found two wires. One went to a battery and the other to hardround cylinders taped together. The hairs stood up at the base of myneck when I suddenly realized what it was.     The clock's balance wheel was rocking merrily. Quickly I went up pastthe train of gears to the alarm wheel. If this was anything like my ownalarm clock, this one had something like ten minutes to go.     It was forty minutes to Burbank and Lockheed Air Terminal.     My mind was churning when I turned from the window to look aroundat the unconcerned passengers, the woman at my side asleep again. Ithought: Which one of these.... No, none of them would know it wasthere. I glanced out the window again; clouds were still in the way.We'd be leaving the valley for the mountain range north of Los Angelessoon, if we hadn't left it already. No place to land the plane there.     But of course that had been the plan!     My heart was beating in jackhammer rhythm; my mouth was dry and my mindwas numb. Tell somebody about the bomb before it's too late! No, they'dthink I put it there. Besides, what good would it do? There would bepanic and they'd never get the plane down in time—if they believed me.     Sir. My head jerked around. The stewardess stood in the aisle,smiling, extending a tray to me, a brown plastic tray bearing a smallpaper cup of tomato juice, a cup of coffee, a cellophane-wrappeddoughnut, paper spoon, sugar and dehydrated cream envelopes, and anapkin.     I goggled at her, managed to croak, No, thanks. She gave me an oddlook and moved along. My seatmate had accepted hers and was tearing atthe cellophane. I couldn't bear to watch her.     I closed my eyes, forced my mind back to the luggage compartment, spenta frantic moment before I found the bag again. I had to stop thatbalance wheel, just as I stopped my alarm clock every morning. I triedto close everything off—the throb of engines, the rush of air, thewoman sipping coffee noisily beside me—and I went into the clock andsurrounded the seesawing wheel. When it went forward, I pulled it back;when it went back, I pulled it forward. I struggled with it, and it waslike trying to work with greasy hands, and I was afraid I wasn't goingto be able to stop it.     Then, little by little, it started to slow its beat. But I could notafford to relax. I pushed and pulled and didn't dare release my holduntil it came to a dead stop.     Anything the matter?     My eyelids flew open and I looked into the eyes of the woman next tome. There was sugar from the doughnut around her mouth and she wasstill chewing.     No, I said, letting out my breath. I'm all right.     You were moaning, it sounded like. And you kept moving your head backand forth.     Must have been dreaming, I said as I rang for the stewardess. Whenshe came I told her I'd take some of that coffee now. No, nothing else,just coffee. I didn't tell her how much I needed it. I sat there clammywith sweat until she returned. Coffee never tasted so good.  All right, so I had stopped the bomb's timer. My mind raced ahead tothe landing. When they unloaded the luggage, the balance wheel wouldstart again. I wouldn't be able to stay with it, keeping it still.I considered telling the authorities as soon as we landed, or maybecalling in ahead, but wouldn't that just bring suspicion, questions.Maybe I could convince them I could stop a clock—but not before thebomb exploded. And then what? My secret would be out and my life wouldbe changed. I'd be a man not to be trusted, a prying man, a manliterally with gimlet eyes.     Mountain crags jutted through the clouds. We were in the range north ofthe city. Here and there were clear spots and I could see roads below,but there were also clouds far above us. It was very beautiful, but itwas also very bumpy, and we started to slip and slide.     To my horror I found that the balance wheel was rocking again. Closingmy eyes and gritting my teeth, I forced my senses to the wheel, tuggingand pulling and shoving and pushing until it finally stopped.     A jab in the shoulder. I jumped, startled.     Your cup, my seat partner said, pointing.     I looked down at the coffee cup I had crushed in my hands. Then Ilooked up into the eyes of the stewardess. I handed it to her. She tookit without a word and went away.     Were you really asleep that time?     Not really, I said. I was tempted to tell the woman I was subject tofits, but I didn't.     It was only a few minutes to landing, but they became the longestminutes of my life as time after time I stopped the rocking wheel whenthe plane dipped and bumped to a landing.     Leaving the apron with the other passengers, I tried to walk asunconcernedly as they through the exit gate. I would have liked walkingthrough the terminal and out the entrance and away, but I could not. Ihad my suitcase to get, for one thing. The damned bomb was the other.So I strolled out into the concourse again to look at the plane andwatch the baggagemen at work, transferring the luggage to two airfieldcarts. They weren't as careful as I would have been.     It was impossible to tell from this distance just which bag containedthe bomb; I could hardly identify my own scarred suitcase. Theassortment of bags—a strange conglomeration of sizes and colors—waspacked in some places six deep, and it rolled toward the gate whereI was standing. I didn't know whether to stay or run, imagining thebalance wheel now happily rocking again. The load went past me down aramp to the front of the air terminal where the luggage was unloadedand placed in a long rack. I went with it.     There was a flurry of ticket matching, hands grabbing for suitcases,and a general exodus on the part of my fellow passengers, too fast todetermine who had got the one with the bomb. Now all that was left wasthe attendant and I had two bags—my own battered veteran of years, anda fine new red overnight case, small enough to be the one.     I lit a cigarette, reached out. Inside were a woman's things and—aclock. The escapement was clicking vigorously.     I didn't moan this time. I just closed my eyes, stretched towardand grabbed the balance wheel I was getting to know like my own. Ientered into a union with it so strong that after I had reduced it toimmobility, it was like waking when I opened my eyes.  The baggage claim attendant was staring at me. For only a moment Istared back. Then I quickly reached for my baggage check and presentedit to him. His hand hovered over the handle of the little red bag and Iwas ready to yell at him. But then, matching numbers on the tags withhis eyes, his hand grasped the handle of my own suitcase and pushed ittoward me.     Thanks, I said, taking it. I glanced ever so casually toward theremaining bag. One left over, eh?     Yeah. He was so bored I was tempted to tell him what was in it. Buthe was eying me with a well-why-don't-you-get-along? look.     I said, What happens if nobody claims it?     Take it inside. Why?     He was getting too curious. Oh, I just wondered, that's all.     I stepped on my cigarette and walked toward the air terminal entranceand put my suitcase on the stone steps there. A redcap came hurryingover.     Cab?     I shook my head. Just waiting.     Just waiting for somebody to pick up a bomb.     I lit another cigarette and glanced now and then toward the baggageclaim area. The red bag was still there. All sorts of theories ranthrough my head as to why it should still be there, and none satisfiedme.     I should not have been there, that much I knew; I should be with aman named Amos Magaffey on Sixth Street at ten o'clock, discussingsomething very mundane, the matter of a printing order. But what couldI do? If I left the airport, the attendant would eventually take thebag inside and there would be an explosion, and I wouldn't be able tolive with myself.     No. I had to stay to keep the balance wheel stationary until—untilwhat?     A man in tan gabardine, wearing a police cap and badge, walked out ofthe entrance to stand on the stone steps beside me while he put on apair of dark glasses. A member of the airport police detail. I couldtell him. I could take him down to the little red bag and explain thewhole thing. Then it would be his baby and I would be off on my ownbusiness.     But he moved on down the steps, nodded at the redcap, and startedacross the street to the parking area. I could have called to him,Hey, officer, let me tell you about a bomb in a little red bag. ButI didn't. I didn't because I caught a movement at the baggage claimcounter out of the side of my eye.     The attendant had picked up the bag and was walking with it up the rampto the rear of the air terminal. Picking up my own suitcase, I wentinside in time to see him enter through a side door and deposit the bagon the scales at the airline desk and say something to the clerk. Theclerk nodded and moved the bag to the rear room.     I could visualize the balance wheel once again rocking like crazy. Howmany minutes—or seconds—were left? I was sweating when I moved to thecounter, and it wasn't because of the sunshine I'd been soaking in. Ihad to get as close to the bag as I could if I was going to stop theclock again.     Can I help you? the clerk asked.     No. I'm waiting for someone.     I turned my back to him, put down my suitcase, leaned against thecounter and reached out for the wheel. I found I could reach thedevice, but it was far away. When I tried to dampen it, the wheelescaped my grasp.     Do you have my suitcase?     I blinked my eyes open and looked around. The blonde in the plane stoodthere looking very fresh and bright and unconcerned. In her right handshe had a green baggage claim check.     The clerk took it, nodded, and in a moment brought out the overnightcase and set it on the scales. The girl thanked him, picked it up,glanced at me indifferently, and then started for the entrance with it.     Just a moment, I found myself saying, grabbing my bag and hurryingafter her.  At her side and a little ahead of her, I said, Listen to me.     She looked annoyed and increased her stride toward the door.     It's a matter of life or death, I said. I wanted to wrest the bagfrom her and hurl it out through the doorway into the street, but Irestrained myself.     She stopped and stared. I noticed a short, fat man in a rumpledsuitcoat and unpressed pants staring, too. Ignoring him, I said,Please put the bag down. Over there. I indicated a spot beside atelephone booth where it would be out of the way.     She didn't move. She just said, Why?     For God's sake! I took the case. She offered no resistance. I put herbag and mine next to the booth. When I turned around she was standingthere looking at me as if I had gone out of my mind. Her eyes were blueand brown-flecked, very pretty eyes, and my thought at the moment was,I'm glad the bomb didn't go off; these eyes wouldn't be looking at meor anything else right now if it had.     I've got to talk to you. It's very important.     The girl said, Why? I was beginning to think it was the only word sheknew. At the same time I was wondering why anyone would want to killsomeone so lovely.     I'll explain in a moment. Please stand right here while I make atelephone call. I moved toward the phone booth, paused and said, Anddon't ask me why.     She gave me a speculative look.     I must not have seemed a complete idiot because she said, All right,but—     I didn't listen for the rest. I went into the booth, closed the door,pretended to drop a coin and dial a number. But all the time I was inthere, I was reaching out through the glass for the clock. At thisrange it wasn't difficult to stop the balance wheel.     Just the same, when I came out I was wringing wet.     Now will you please tell me what this is all about? she said stiffly.     Gladly. Let me buy you a cup of coffee and I'll explain.     She glanced at the bags. I told her they'd be all right. We followedthe short, fat man into the coffee shop.     Over coffee I explained it all to her, how I had this extrasensoryability, how she was the first person I had ever revealed it to, andhow I had discovered what was in her overnight bag.     During the telling, her untouched coffee grew a skin, her face grewpale, her eyes grew less curious and more troubled. There were tearsthere when I finished. I asked her who put the bomb in her bag.     Joe did, she said in a toneless voice, not looking at me any more butstaring vacantly across the room. Joe put it there. Behind her eyesshe was reliving some recent scene.     Who is Joe?     My husband. I thought she was going to really bawl, but she gotcontrol again. This trip was his idea, my coming down here to visit mysister. Her smile was bleak. I see now why he wanted to put in thosebooks. I'd finished packing and was in the bathroom. He said he'd putin some books we'd both finished reading—for my sister. That's when hemust have put the—put it in there.     I said gently, Why would he want to do a thing like that?     I don't know. She shook her head. I just don't know. And she wasclose to bawling again. Then she recovered and said, I'm not sure Iwant to know. I admired her for saying it. Joe must have been crazy.     It's all right now? she asked.     I nodded. As long as we don't move it.     I told her I didn't know how much more time there was, that I'd beenthinking it over and that the only way out seemed to be to tell theairport policeman. After I explained it to her, the girl—she said hername was Julia Claremont—agreed to tell him she thought there was abomb in her bag, that she had noticed a ticking and had become worriedbecause she knew she hadn't packed a clock. It wasn't good, but itwould have to do.     We've got to get it deactivated, I said, watching the fat man pay forhis coffee and leave. The sooner the better.  I finished my coffee in one gulp and went to pay the bill with her.I asked her why she didn't claim the bag at the same time the otherpeople had. She said she had called her sister and the phone was busyfor a long while.     She was supposed to meet me, and when she wasn't here, I got worried.She said she isn't feeling well and asked me to take a cab. She smileda little. It was a bright, cheery thing. I had the feeling it was allfor me. That's where I was going when you caught up with me.     It had become a very nice day. But the bottom dropped out of it againwhen we reached the lobby.     The two bags weren't there.     I ran to the entrance and nearly collided with the redcap.     See anybody go out of here with a little red bag and an old batteredsuitcase?     Bag? Suitcase? he mumbled. Then he became excited. Why, a man juststepped out of here— He turned to look down the street. That's him.     The dumpy man I'd seen was walking off; Julia's bag in his right hand,mine in his left. He seemed in no hurry.     Hey! I shouted, starting toward him.     The man turned, took one look at me, and started to run. He cameabreast an old gray, mud-spattered coupe, ran around, opened the doorand threw both bags into the rear seat as he got in.     The car was a hundred feet away and gathering speed by the time Ireached where it had been parked. I watched it for a moment, thenwalked back to the entranceway where Julia was standing with theredcap, who said, That man steal them suitcases?     That he did, I said.     Just then the airport policeman started across the street from theparking lot. Redcap said, Better tell him about it.     The policeman was sympathetic and concerned. He said, We'd better getover to the office.     But we never left the spot because an explosion some blocks distantshattered the air. Julia's hand grasped my arm. Hard.     Jets, the redcap said, eying the sky.     I don't know, the policeman said. Didn't sound much like a jet tome.     We stood there. I could visualize the wreckage of an old gray coupein the middle of a street, but I couldn't visualize the driver. Thatwas all right. I didn't want to see him. I didn't know what Julia wasthinking.     She said, About those bags, and looked at me.     The officer said, Yes, miss?     I—I don't care about mine. I didn't have much of anything in it.     I feel the same way, I said. Would it be all right if we didn'tbother to report it?     Well, the policeman said, I can't      make     you report it.     I'd rather not then, Julia said. She turned to me. I'd like someair. Can't we walk a little?     Sure, I said.     We started down the street, her arm in mine, as the air began to fillwith the distant sounds of sirens.  ","The protagonist’s relationship with authority figures - like the airport policeman in this story - is a double edged sword. On one hand, it is figures like the policeman who are the right figure to report his suspicions towards. They are the ones equipped with the knowledge and resources on how to deal with the bomb in the little red bag. More importantly, informing them is the right thing to do and would save the lives of everyone else at the airport. On the other hand, however, we can see that the protagonist has revealed that authority figures in the past often choose to cast suspicion upon him rather than appreciate the usefulness of the knowledge that comes about his ability. If the protagonist were to approach the policeman in a suspicious manner or reveal too much information about his know-how of the bomb, it is likely that they will suspect him to be the culprit and probe him on something he is unable to explain, and hence arrest him. The protagonist has to carefully consider the implications of either decision and try to optimize both the safety of others around him and his own. The protagonist chooses to inform the policeman of a suspicious baggage situation through the luggage’s owner, Julia Clarmeont, which would deflect any suspicion on himself. However, the bomb detonates before they are able to follow through with it. "
"What is the plot of the story? </s>     The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  A hardly perceptible purple glow pervaded the air in the room of thehealth-rays. Perhaps two score men lay about, naked, under the raytubes. Chuls stripped himself and selected the space under a vacanttube. Rikud, for his part, wanted to get back to the viewport and watchthe one new bright star. He had the distinct notion it was growinglarger every moment. He turned to go, but the door clicked shut and ametallic voice said. Fifteen minutes under the tubes, please.     Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoyhim. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, whenhe wanted to do it?      There     was a strange thought, and Rikud's brainwhirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions andunsatisfactory answers.     He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever gothurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurlhimself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had comeinto being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-beingagain, something which was as impalpable as air.     Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no realauthority to stop him. This puzzled him, because somehow he felt thatthere should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machinein the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who hadgoverned the world. They told you to do something and you did it, butthat was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You onlylistened to the buzzer.     And Rikud could remember the rest of what the reading machine had said.There had been a revolt—again a term without any real meaning, a termthat could have no reality outside of the reading machine—and theelders were overthrown. Here Rikud had been lost utterly. The peoplehad decided that they did not know where they were going, or why, andthat it was unfair that the elders alone had this authority. They wereborn and they lived and they died as the elders directed, like littlecogs in a great machine. Much of this Rikud could not understand, buthe knew enough to realize that the reading machine had sided with thepeople against the elders, and it said the people had won.     Now in the health room, Rikud felt a warmth in the rays. Grudgingly, hehad to admit to himself that it was not unpleasant. He could see thelook of easy contentment on Chuls' face as the rays fanned down uponhim, bathing his old body in a forgotten magic which, many generationsbefore Rikud's time, had negated the necessity for a knowledge ofmedicine. But when, in another ten years, Chuls would perish of oldage, the rays would no longer suffice. Nothing would, for Chuls. Rikudoften thought of his own death, still seventy-five years in the future,not without a sense of alarm. Yet old Chuls seemed heedless, with onlya decade to go.     Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavythrough the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every timeRikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but itproved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he sawCrifer limp.     But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer.  Now Crifer said, I've been reading again, Rikud.     Yes? Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with thesmell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; itmeant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to thelibrary and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply satabout and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it.     But if he wasn't reading himself, Rikud usually went to sleep. All thepeople ever talked about was what they had done during the day, and itwas always the same.     Yes, said Crifer. I found a book about the stars. They're alsocalled astronomy, I think.     This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on oneelbow. What did you find out?     That's about all. They're just called astronomy, I think.     Well, where's the book? Rikud would read it tomorrow.     I left it in the library. You can find several of them under'astronomy,' with a cross-reference under 'stars.' They're synonymousterms.     You know, Rikud said, sitting up now, the stars in the viewport arechanging.     Changing? Crifer questioned the fuzzy concept as much as hequestioned what it might mean in this particular case.     Yes, there are less of them, and one is bigger and brighter than theothers.     Astronomy says some stars are variable, Crifer offered, but Rikudknew his lame-footed companion understood the word no better than hedid.     Over on Rikud's right, Chuls began to dress. Variability, he toldthem, is a contradictory term. Nothing is variable. It can't be.     I'm only saying what I read in the book, Crifer protested mildly.     Well, it's wrong. Variability and change are two words withoutmeaning.     People grow old, Rikud suggested.     A buzzer signified that his fifteen minutes under the rays were up, andChuls said, It's almost time for me to eat.     Rikud frowned. Chuls hadn't even seen the connection between the twoconcepts, yet it was so clear. Or was it? He had had it a moment ago,but now it faded, and change and old were just two words.     His own buzzer sounded a moment later, and it was with a strangefeeling of elation that he dressed and made his way back to theviewport. When he passed the door which led to the women's half of theworld, however, he paused. He wanted to open that door and see a woman.He had been told about them and he had seen pictures, and he dimlyremembered his childhood among women. But his feelings had changed;this was different. Again there were inexplicable feelings—strangechannelings of Rikud's energy in new and confusing directions.     He shrugged and reserved the thought for later. He wanted to see thestars again.  The view had changed, and the strangeness of it made Rikud's pulsesleap with excitement. All the stars were paler now than before, andwhere Rikud had seen the one bright central star, he now saw a globe oflight, white with a tinge of blue in it, and so bright that it hurt hiseyes to look.     Yes, hurt! Rikud looked and looked until his eyes teared and he had toturn away. Here was an unknown factor which the perfect world failedto control. But how could a star change into a blinking blue-whiteglobe—if, indeed, that was the star Rikud had seen earlier? Therewas that word change again. Didn't it have something to do with age?Rikud couldn't remember, and he suddenly wished he could read Crifer'sbook on astronomy, which meant the same as stars. Except that it wasvariable, which was like change, being tied up somehow with age.     Presently Rikud became aware that his eyes were not tearing any longer,and he turned to look at the viewport. What he saw now was so new thathe couldn't at first accept it. Instead, he blinked and rubbed hiseyes, sure that the ball of blue-white fire somehow had damaged them.But the new view persisted.     Of stars there were few, and of the blackness, almost nothing. Gone,too, was the burning globe. Something loomed there in the port, so hugethat it spread out over almost the entire surface. Something big andround, all grays and greens and browns, and something for which Rikudhad no name.     A few moments more, and Rikud no longer could see the sphere. A sectionof it had expanded outward and assumed the rectangular shape of theviewport, and its size as well. It seemed neatly sheered down themiddle, so that on one side Rikud saw an expanse of brown and green,and on the other, blue.     Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the worldhad ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regularintervals by a sharp booming.     Change—     Won't you eat, Rikud? Chuls called from somewhere down below.     Damn the man, Rikud thought. Then aloud: Yes, I'll eat. Later.     It's time.... Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently.     But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had alwaysseen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps didnot exist      in     the viewport.     Maybe it existed      through     the viewport.     That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could seenothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, moreconfusing than ever.     Chuls, he called, remembering, come here.     I am here, said a voice at his elbow.     Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud ofvapor. What do you see?     Chuls looked. The viewport, of course.     What else?     Else? Nothing.     Anger welled up inside Rikud. All right, he said, listen. What doyou hear?     Broom, brroom, brrroom! Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting ofthe engines. I'm hungry, Rikud.     The old man turned and strode off down the corridor toward the diningroom, and Rikud was glad to be alone once more.  Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt.     Rikud sat down hard. He blinked.     The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport.  For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden.     He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport.     Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport?     Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived.     It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different.     Then they've changed?     No, merely different.     Well, what about the viewport?      It     changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?     The stars come out at night.     So there is a change from day to night!     I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night?     Once they shone all the time.     Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable.  Rikud regretted that he never had had the chance to read that book onastronomy. He hadn't been reading too much lately. The voice of thereading machine had begun to bore him. He said, Well, variable or not,our whole perspective has changed.     And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If onlythe man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed soobvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in thehealth-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through thevast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this alsowas purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. Butif everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how couldthey find the nature of that purpose?     I will eat, Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.     Damn the man, all he did was eat!     Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Becausehe was hungry.     And Rikud, too, was hungry.     Differently.  He had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, andnow, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, readingmachine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached thedoor.     What's in here? he demanded.     It's a door, I think, said Crifer.     I know, but what's beyond it?     Beyond it? Oh, you mean      through     the door.     Yes.     Well, Crifer scratched his head, I don't think anyone ever openedit. It's only a door.     I will, said Rikud.     You will what?     Open it. Open the door and look inside.     A long pause. Then, Can you do it?     I think so.     You can't, probably. How can anyone go where no one has been before?There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud.     No— Rikud began, but the words faded off into a sharp intake ofbreath. Rikud had turned the knob and pushed. The door opened silently,and Crifer said, Doors are variable, too, I think.     Rikud saw a small room, perhaps half a dozen paces across, at the otherend of which was another door, just like the first. Halfway across,Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine.     He missed the beginning, but then:       —therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through thisdoor. The machinery in the next room is your protection against therigors of space. A thousand years from now, journey's end, you mayhave discarded it for something better—who knows? But if you havenot, then here is your protection. As nearly as possible, this shipis a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it ishuman-sustaining as well. Try to hurt yourself and the ship will notpermit it—within limits, of course. But you can damage the ship, andto avoid any possibility of that, no unauthorized persons are to bepermitted through this door—       Rikud gave the voice up as hopeless. There were too many confusingwords. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interestingthan that, however, was the second door. Would it lead to anothervoice? Rikud hoped that it wouldn't.     When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentlehumming, punctuated by a      throb-throb-throb     which sounded not unlikethe booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn'tblast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud'seyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs andgears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful becausethey shone with a luster unfamiliar to him.     Odd, Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, Now there's a good word, butno one quite seems to know its meaning.     Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there mightexist an endless succession of them, especially when the third oneopened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door.     Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? Theviewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topographywas different. Then the garden extended even farther than he hadthought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds wayoff in the distance.     And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put hishand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the newviewport. He began to turn the handle.     Then he trembled.     What would he do out in the garden?     He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a sillythought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikudcouldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth feltdry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't.     Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way backthrough the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finallythrough the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer.     By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He didnot dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, andsweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at thegarden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he couldwalk and then might find himself in the garden.     It was so big.  Three or four days passed before Rikud calmed himself enough totalk about his experience. When he did, only Crifer seemed at allinterested, yet the lame-footed man's mind was inadequate to cope withthe situation. He suggested that the viewport might also be variableand Rikud found himself wishing that his friend had never read thatbook on astronomy.     Chuls did not believe Rikud at all. There are not that many doors inthe world, he said. The library has a door and there is a door to thewomen's quarters; in five years, the Calculator will send you throughthat. But there are no others.     Chuls smiled an indulgent smile and Rikud came nearer to him. Now, bythe world, there are two other doors!     Rikud began to shout, and everyone looked at him queerly.     What are you doing that for? demanded Wilm, who was shorter even thanCrifer, but had no lame foot.     Doing what?     Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no troublehearing you.     Maybe yelling will make him understand.     Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.Why don't we go see? he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned.     Well, I won't go, Chuls replied. There's no reason to go. If Rikudhas been imagining things, why should I?     I imagined nothing. I'll show you—     You'll show me nothing because I won't go.     Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by whathe did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged atthe blouse.     Stop that, said the older man, mildly.  Crifer hopped up and down. Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know whathe's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse.     Stop that, repeated Chuls, his face reddening.     Only if you'll go with me. Rikud was panting.     Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some ofthem watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikudholding Chuls' blouse.     I think I can do that, declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer'sshirt.     Presently, the members of the crowd had pretty well paired off, eachpartner grabbing for his companion's blouse. They giggled and laughedand some began to hop up and down as Crifer had done.     A buzzer sounded and automatically Rikud found himself releasing Chuls.     Chuls said, forgetting the incident completely, Time to retire.     In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared histhroat and listened to the sound, all by itself in the stillness. Whatwould have happened if they hadn't retired? But they always did thingspunctually like that, whenever the buzzer sounded. They ate with thebuzzer, bathed in the health-rays with it, slept with it.     What would they do if the buzzer stopped buzzing?     This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the biggarden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because hecould huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.  Rikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of themachinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gearsspinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then hebegan to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, hewas clearly an unauthorized person. He had heard the voice againupon entering the room.     He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half aswide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires thatheld it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then heswung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbledunder his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm.       Almost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were notcasual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikudsmashed everything in sight.     When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the roomwas a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled inhis ears because now the throbbing had stopped.     He opened the door and ran through the little corridor to the smallerviewport. Outside he could see the stars, and, dimly, the terrainbeneath them. But everything was so dark that only the stars shoneclearly. All else was bathed in a shadow of unreality.     Rikud never wanted to do anything more than he wanted to open thatdoor. But his hands trembled too much when he touched it, and once,when he pressed his face close against the viewport, there in thedarkness, something bright flashed briefly through the sky and was gone.     Whimpering, he fled.  All around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer didnot sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went toeat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and thewhimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but thesmooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not runany more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food.     Chuls said, over and over, I'm hungry.     We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us, Wilm repliedconfidently.     It won't any more, Rikud said.     What won't?     The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it.     Crifer growled. I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a badthing you did, Rikud.     It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and thestars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden therebeyond the viewport.     That's ridiculous, Chuls said.     Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. He broke the buzzer and no one caneat. I hate Rikud, I think.     There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, Ihate Rikud. Then everyone was saying it.     Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside withhim and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would havehad a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women'squarters. Did women eat?     Perhaps they ate plants. Once, in the garden, Rikud had broken off afrond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe theplants in the viewport would even be better.     We will not be hungry if we go outside, he said. We can eat there.     We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken, Chuls said dully.     Crifer shrilled, Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again.     No, Rikud assured him. It won't.     Then you broke it and I hate you, said Crifer. We should break you,too, to show you how it is to be broken.     We must go outside—through the viewport. Rikud listened to the oddgurgling sound his stomach made.     A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heardCrifer's voice. I have Rikud's head. The voice was nasty, hostile.     Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he hadbroken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearerto understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud.     The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.I hit him! I hit him!     Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someonewas on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, andhe did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, Let usdo to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery. Rikud ran. In thedarkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were tooweak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawinghurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voicesand the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.     It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to runwas chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, andhow big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing himwere unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completelyand positively.     He became sickly giddy thinking about it.     But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he woulddie because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled andgrumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him.     He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but thevoice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place ofmachinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, andhe thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heardCrifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage.     Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch itwith his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet.     He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him werecloser now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear thosebehind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were notfar away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted tobreak him.     Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster oflow mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. Ifplants could live out there as they did within the world, then so couldpeople. Rikud and his people      should     . This was why the world had movedacross the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.But he was afraid.     He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that hisfingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and fora long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside heheard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded onthe metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:There is Rikud on the floor!     Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.Something small and brown scurried across the other side of theviewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideousred eyes.     Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his facewas so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport thateveryone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of themachinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metalwhich he could see in the dim light through the open door.     Where's the buzzer? he sobbed. I must find the buzzer.     Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, You broke it. Youbroke it. And now we will break you—     Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slippeddown against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footstepscame, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him.     His head whirled and the viewport seemed to swim in a haze. Could itbe variable, as Crifer had suggested? He wondered if the scurryingbrown thing waited somewhere, and nausea struck at the pit of hisstomach. But if the plants could live out there and the scurrying thingcould live and that was why the world had moved through the blackness,then so could he live out there, and Crifer and all the others....     So tightly did he grip the handle that his fingers began to hurt. Andhis heart pounded hard and he felt the pulses leaping on either side ofhis neck.     He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where theblue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the rowof mounds.  Crifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, andsomeone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kickedout and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved theweight of his body with all his strength against the door.     It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth.     The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. Hewalked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feelthe floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on thehorizon. It was all very beautiful.     Near the ship, water that did not come from a machine gurgled acrossthe land, and Rikud lay down and drank. It was cool and good, and whenhe got up, Crifer and Wilm were outside the world, and some of theothers followed. They stood around for a long time before going to thewater to drink.       Rikud sat down and tore off a piece of a plant, munching on it. It wasgood.     Crifer picked his head up, from the water, his chin wet. Even feelingsare variable. I don't hate you now, Rikud.     Rikud smiled, staring at the ship. People are variable, too, Crifer.That is, if those creatures coming from the ship are people.     They're women, said Crifer.     They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completelyhuman, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddlyexciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.     It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,frightening doors and women by appointment only.     Rikud felt at home.   ","The story starts off with the main character, Rikud, watching space from a viewport that is located on what seems to be a spaceship. Rikud is part of a group of men that live on the spaceship under a strict set of unspoken rules. Rikud then connects with other characters named Chuls and Crifer while getting a bath of health-rays, an example of the high technology in the ship. After the stars in the viewport start changing, Rikud doubts the way of living that the men have taken. He starts to doubt the fact that they have a set span of years, and that they have to live separately from the women (even though he doesn't know what women are). When the view of the viewport changes to “gardens”, Rikud begins to question more and more, and ends up finding the machine room for the ship, as well as a control center that has another viewport. Unsuccessfully convincing the others to go outside with him, Rikud becomes enraged and breaks the machine room of the ship. After realizing that Rikud has messed up the buzzers that control the actions of the people, they begin to hurt Rikud and chase him through the ship. Rikud ends up opening the door that leads outside from the control room, and they discover a new world where they can live freely with the women. "
"What is the setting of the story? </s>     The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  A hardly perceptible purple glow pervaded the air in the room of thehealth-rays. Perhaps two score men lay about, naked, under the raytubes. Chuls stripped himself and selected the space under a vacanttube. Rikud, for his part, wanted to get back to the viewport and watchthe one new bright star. He had the distinct notion it was growinglarger every moment. He turned to go, but the door clicked shut and ametallic voice said. Fifteen minutes under the tubes, please.     Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoyhim. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, whenhe wanted to do it?      There     was a strange thought, and Rikud's brainwhirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions andunsatisfactory answers.     He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever gothurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurlhimself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had comeinto being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-beingagain, something which was as impalpable as air.     Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no realauthority to stop him. This puzzled him, because somehow he felt thatthere should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machinein the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who hadgoverned the world. They told you to do something and you did it, butthat was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You onlylistened to the buzzer.     And Rikud could remember the rest of what the reading machine had said.There had been a revolt—again a term without any real meaning, a termthat could have no reality outside of the reading machine—and theelders were overthrown. Here Rikud had been lost utterly. The peoplehad decided that they did not know where they were going, or why, andthat it was unfair that the elders alone had this authority. They wereborn and they lived and they died as the elders directed, like littlecogs in a great machine. Much of this Rikud could not understand, buthe knew enough to realize that the reading machine had sided with thepeople against the elders, and it said the people had won.     Now in the health room, Rikud felt a warmth in the rays. Grudgingly, hehad to admit to himself that it was not unpleasant. He could see thelook of easy contentment on Chuls' face as the rays fanned down uponhim, bathing his old body in a forgotten magic which, many generationsbefore Rikud's time, had negated the necessity for a knowledge ofmedicine. But when, in another ten years, Chuls would perish of oldage, the rays would no longer suffice. Nothing would, for Chuls. Rikudoften thought of his own death, still seventy-five years in the future,not without a sense of alarm. Yet old Chuls seemed heedless, with onlya decade to go.     Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavythrough the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every timeRikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but itproved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he sawCrifer limp.     But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer.  Now Crifer said, I've been reading again, Rikud.     Yes? Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with thesmell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; itmeant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to thelibrary and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply satabout and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it.     But if he wasn't reading himself, Rikud usually went to sleep. All thepeople ever talked about was what they had done during the day, and itwas always the same.     Yes, said Crifer. I found a book about the stars. They're alsocalled astronomy, I think.     This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on oneelbow. What did you find out?     That's about all. They're just called astronomy, I think.     Well, where's the book? Rikud would read it tomorrow.     I left it in the library. You can find several of them under'astronomy,' with a cross-reference under 'stars.' They're synonymousterms.     You know, Rikud said, sitting up now, the stars in the viewport arechanging.     Changing? Crifer questioned the fuzzy concept as much as hequestioned what it might mean in this particular case.     Yes, there are less of them, and one is bigger and brighter than theothers.     Astronomy says some stars are variable, Crifer offered, but Rikudknew his lame-footed companion understood the word no better than hedid.     Over on Rikud's right, Chuls began to dress. Variability, he toldthem, is a contradictory term. Nothing is variable. It can't be.     I'm only saying what I read in the book, Crifer protested mildly.     Well, it's wrong. Variability and change are two words withoutmeaning.     People grow old, Rikud suggested.     A buzzer signified that his fifteen minutes under the rays were up, andChuls said, It's almost time for me to eat.     Rikud frowned. Chuls hadn't even seen the connection between the twoconcepts, yet it was so clear. Or was it? He had had it a moment ago,but now it faded, and change and old were just two words.     His own buzzer sounded a moment later, and it was with a strangefeeling of elation that he dressed and made his way back to theviewport. When he passed the door which led to the women's half of theworld, however, he paused. He wanted to open that door and see a woman.He had been told about them and he had seen pictures, and he dimlyremembered his childhood among women. But his feelings had changed;this was different. Again there were inexplicable feelings—strangechannelings of Rikud's energy in new and confusing directions.     He shrugged and reserved the thought for later. He wanted to see thestars again.  The view had changed, and the strangeness of it made Rikud's pulsesleap with excitement. All the stars were paler now than before, andwhere Rikud had seen the one bright central star, he now saw a globe oflight, white with a tinge of blue in it, and so bright that it hurt hiseyes to look.     Yes, hurt! Rikud looked and looked until his eyes teared and he had toturn away. Here was an unknown factor which the perfect world failedto control. But how could a star change into a blinking blue-whiteglobe—if, indeed, that was the star Rikud had seen earlier? Therewas that word change again. Didn't it have something to do with age?Rikud couldn't remember, and he suddenly wished he could read Crifer'sbook on astronomy, which meant the same as stars. Except that it wasvariable, which was like change, being tied up somehow with age.     Presently Rikud became aware that his eyes were not tearing any longer,and he turned to look at the viewport. What he saw now was so new thathe couldn't at first accept it. Instead, he blinked and rubbed hiseyes, sure that the ball of blue-white fire somehow had damaged them.But the new view persisted.     Of stars there were few, and of the blackness, almost nothing. Gone,too, was the burning globe. Something loomed there in the port, so hugethat it spread out over almost the entire surface. Something big andround, all grays and greens and browns, and something for which Rikudhad no name.     A few moments more, and Rikud no longer could see the sphere. A sectionof it had expanded outward and assumed the rectangular shape of theviewport, and its size as well. It seemed neatly sheered down themiddle, so that on one side Rikud saw an expanse of brown and green,and on the other, blue.     Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the worldhad ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regularintervals by a sharp booming.     Change—     Won't you eat, Rikud? Chuls called from somewhere down below.     Damn the man, Rikud thought. Then aloud: Yes, I'll eat. Later.     It's time.... Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently.     But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had alwaysseen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps didnot exist      in     the viewport.     Maybe it existed      through     the viewport.     That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could seenothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, moreconfusing than ever.     Chuls, he called, remembering, come here.     I am here, said a voice at his elbow.     Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud ofvapor. What do you see?     Chuls looked. The viewport, of course.     What else?     Else? Nothing.     Anger welled up inside Rikud. All right, he said, listen. What doyou hear?     Broom, brroom, brrroom! Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting ofthe engines. I'm hungry, Rikud.     The old man turned and strode off down the corridor toward the diningroom, and Rikud was glad to be alone once more.  Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt.     Rikud sat down hard. He blinked.     The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport.  For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden.     He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport.     Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport?     Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived.     It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different.     Then they've changed?     No, merely different.     Well, what about the viewport?      It     changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?     The stars come out at night.     So there is a change from day to night!     I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night?     Once they shone all the time.     Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable.  Rikud regretted that he never had had the chance to read that book onastronomy. He hadn't been reading too much lately. The voice of thereading machine had begun to bore him. He said, Well, variable or not,our whole perspective has changed.     And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If onlythe man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed soobvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in thehealth-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through thevast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this alsowas purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. Butif everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how couldthey find the nature of that purpose?     I will eat, Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.     Damn the man, all he did was eat!     Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Becausehe was hungry.     And Rikud, too, was hungry.     Differently.  He had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, andnow, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, readingmachine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached thedoor.     What's in here? he demanded.     It's a door, I think, said Crifer.     I know, but what's beyond it?     Beyond it? Oh, you mean      through     the door.     Yes.     Well, Crifer scratched his head, I don't think anyone ever openedit. It's only a door.     I will, said Rikud.     You will what?     Open it. Open the door and look inside.     A long pause. Then, Can you do it?     I think so.     You can't, probably. How can anyone go where no one has been before?There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud.     No— Rikud began, but the words faded off into a sharp intake ofbreath. Rikud had turned the knob and pushed. The door opened silently,and Crifer said, Doors are variable, too, I think.     Rikud saw a small room, perhaps half a dozen paces across, at the otherend of which was another door, just like the first. Halfway across,Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine.     He missed the beginning, but then:       —therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through thisdoor. The machinery in the next room is your protection against therigors of space. A thousand years from now, journey's end, you mayhave discarded it for something better—who knows? But if you havenot, then here is your protection. As nearly as possible, this shipis a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it ishuman-sustaining as well. Try to hurt yourself and the ship will notpermit it—within limits, of course. But you can damage the ship, andto avoid any possibility of that, no unauthorized persons are to bepermitted through this door—       Rikud gave the voice up as hopeless. There were too many confusingwords. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interestingthan that, however, was the second door. Would it lead to anothervoice? Rikud hoped that it wouldn't.     When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentlehumming, punctuated by a      throb-throb-throb     which sounded not unlikethe booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn'tblast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud'seyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs andgears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful becausethey shone with a luster unfamiliar to him.     Odd, Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, Now there's a good word, butno one quite seems to know its meaning.     Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there mightexist an endless succession of them, especially when the third oneopened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door.     Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? Theviewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topographywas different. Then the garden extended even farther than he hadthought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds wayoff in the distance.     And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put hishand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the newviewport. He began to turn the handle.     Then he trembled.     What would he do out in the garden?     He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a sillythought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikudcouldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth feltdry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't.     Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way backthrough the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finallythrough the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer.     By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He didnot dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, andsweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at thegarden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he couldwalk and then might find himself in the garden.     It was so big.  Three or four days passed before Rikud calmed himself enough totalk about his experience. When he did, only Crifer seemed at allinterested, yet the lame-footed man's mind was inadequate to cope withthe situation. He suggested that the viewport might also be variableand Rikud found himself wishing that his friend had never read thatbook on astronomy.     Chuls did not believe Rikud at all. There are not that many doors inthe world, he said. The library has a door and there is a door to thewomen's quarters; in five years, the Calculator will send you throughthat. But there are no others.     Chuls smiled an indulgent smile and Rikud came nearer to him. Now, bythe world, there are two other doors!     Rikud began to shout, and everyone looked at him queerly.     What are you doing that for? demanded Wilm, who was shorter even thanCrifer, but had no lame foot.     Doing what?     Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no troublehearing you.     Maybe yelling will make him understand.     Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.Why don't we go see? he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned.     Well, I won't go, Chuls replied. There's no reason to go. If Rikudhas been imagining things, why should I?     I imagined nothing. I'll show you—     You'll show me nothing because I won't go.     Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by whathe did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged atthe blouse.     Stop that, said the older man, mildly.  Crifer hopped up and down. Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know whathe's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse.     Stop that, repeated Chuls, his face reddening.     Only if you'll go with me. Rikud was panting.     Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some ofthem watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikudholding Chuls' blouse.     I think I can do that, declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer'sshirt.     Presently, the members of the crowd had pretty well paired off, eachpartner grabbing for his companion's blouse. They giggled and laughedand some began to hop up and down as Crifer had done.     A buzzer sounded and automatically Rikud found himself releasing Chuls.     Chuls said, forgetting the incident completely, Time to retire.     In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared histhroat and listened to the sound, all by itself in the stillness. Whatwould have happened if they hadn't retired? But they always did thingspunctually like that, whenever the buzzer sounded. They ate with thebuzzer, bathed in the health-rays with it, slept with it.     What would they do if the buzzer stopped buzzing?     This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the biggarden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because hecould huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.  Rikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of themachinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gearsspinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then hebegan to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, hewas clearly an unauthorized person. He had heard the voice againupon entering the room.     He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half aswide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires thatheld it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then heswung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbledunder his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm.       Almost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were notcasual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikudsmashed everything in sight.     When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the roomwas a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled inhis ears because now the throbbing had stopped.     He opened the door and ran through the little corridor to the smallerviewport. Outside he could see the stars, and, dimly, the terrainbeneath them. But everything was so dark that only the stars shoneclearly. All else was bathed in a shadow of unreality.     Rikud never wanted to do anything more than he wanted to open thatdoor. But his hands trembled too much when he touched it, and once,when he pressed his face close against the viewport, there in thedarkness, something bright flashed briefly through the sky and was gone.     Whimpering, he fled.  All around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer didnot sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went toeat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and thewhimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but thesmooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not runany more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food.     Chuls said, over and over, I'm hungry.     We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us, Wilm repliedconfidently.     It won't any more, Rikud said.     What won't?     The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it.     Crifer growled. I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a badthing you did, Rikud.     It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and thestars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden therebeyond the viewport.     That's ridiculous, Chuls said.     Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. He broke the buzzer and no one caneat. I hate Rikud, I think.     There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, Ihate Rikud. Then everyone was saying it.     Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside withhim and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would havehad a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women'squarters. Did women eat?     Perhaps they ate plants. Once, in the garden, Rikud had broken off afrond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe theplants in the viewport would even be better.     We will not be hungry if we go outside, he said. We can eat there.     We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken, Chuls said dully.     Crifer shrilled, Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again.     No, Rikud assured him. It won't.     Then you broke it and I hate you, said Crifer. We should break you,too, to show you how it is to be broken.     We must go outside—through the viewport. Rikud listened to the oddgurgling sound his stomach made.     A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heardCrifer's voice. I have Rikud's head. The voice was nasty, hostile.     Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he hadbroken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearerto understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud.     The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.I hit him! I hit him!     Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someonewas on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, andhe did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, Let usdo to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery. Rikud ran. In thedarkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were tooweak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawinghurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voicesand the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.     It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to runwas chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, andhow big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing himwere unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completelyand positively.     He became sickly giddy thinking about it.     But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he woulddie because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled andgrumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him.     He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but thevoice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place ofmachinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, andhe thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heardCrifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage.     Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch itwith his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet.     He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him werecloser now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear thosebehind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were notfar away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted tobreak him.     Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster oflow mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. Ifplants could live out there as they did within the world, then so couldpeople. Rikud and his people      should     . This was why the world had movedacross the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.But he was afraid.     He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that hisfingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and fora long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside heheard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded onthe metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:There is Rikud on the floor!     Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.Something small and brown scurried across the other side of theviewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideousred eyes.     Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his facewas so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport thateveryone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of themachinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metalwhich he could see in the dim light through the open door.     Where's the buzzer? he sobbed. I must find the buzzer.     Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, You broke it. Youbroke it. And now we will break you—     Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slippeddown against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footstepscame, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him.     His head whirled and the viewport seemed to swim in a haze. Could itbe variable, as Crifer had suggested? He wondered if the scurryingbrown thing waited somewhere, and nausea struck at the pit of hisstomach. But if the plants could live out there and the scurrying thingcould live and that was why the world had moved through the blackness,then so could he live out there, and Crifer and all the others....     So tightly did he grip the handle that his fingers began to hurt. Andhis heart pounded hard and he felt the pulses leaping on either side ofhis neck.     He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where theblue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the rowof mounds.  Crifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, andsomeone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kickedout and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved theweight of his body with all his strength against the door.     It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth.     The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. Hewalked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feelthe floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on thehorizon. It was all very beautiful.     Near the ship, water that did not come from a machine gurgled acrossthe land, and Rikud lay down and drank. It was cool and good, and whenhe got up, Crifer and Wilm were outside the world, and some of theothers followed. They stood around for a long time before going to thewater to drink.       Rikud sat down and tore off a piece of a plant, munching on it. It wasgood.     Crifer picked his head up, from the water, his chin wet. Even feelingsare variable. I don't hate you now, Rikud.     Rikud smiled, staring at the ship. People are variable, too, Crifer.That is, if those creatures coming from the ship are people.     They're women, said Crifer.     They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completelyhuman, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddlyexciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.     It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,frightening doors and women by appointment only.     Rikud felt at home.   ","The story is located in space, inside of a large spaceship. The ship has a viewport that looks outside of the ship, and is where Rikad spends most of his time. The ship also seems to have high tech, showcased in the med room. Here is where the men go to stay healthy by being showered under health rays. The ship also has a library, which is where Crifer and Rikud read about astronomy and stars, and where Rikud started to doubt more and more about their lifestyle. The ship then arrives at a planet, full of lush greenery, making Rikud more and more suspicious of the changing view. After exploring the back of the room Rikud finds a series of rooms. These rooms include both a machinery room that is full of gears and tubes as well as a control room that has a smaller viewport. The story ends in the new planet, after Rikud opened the door that led outside, knowing that they would be able to survive after he compared the new planet to the gardens that the ship had. "
"What is the significance of ""variability"" in the story? </s>     The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  A hardly perceptible purple glow pervaded the air in the room of thehealth-rays. Perhaps two score men lay about, naked, under the raytubes. Chuls stripped himself and selected the space under a vacanttube. Rikud, for his part, wanted to get back to the viewport and watchthe one new bright star. He had the distinct notion it was growinglarger every moment. He turned to go, but the door clicked shut and ametallic voice said. Fifteen minutes under the tubes, please.     Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoyhim. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, whenhe wanted to do it?      There     was a strange thought, and Rikud's brainwhirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions andunsatisfactory answers.     He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever gothurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurlhimself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had comeinto being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-beingagain, something which was as impalpable as air.     Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no realauthority to stop him. This puzzled him, because somehow he felt thatthere should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machinein the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who hadgoverned the world. They told you to do something and you did it, butthat was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You onlylistened to the buzzer.     And Rikud could remember the rest of what the reading machine had said.There had been a revolt—again a term without any real meaning, a termthat could have no reality outside of the reading machine—and theelders were overthrown. Here Rikud had been lost utterly. The peoplehad decided that they did not know where they were going, or why, andthat it was unfair that the elders alone had this authority. They wereborn and they lived and they died as the elders directed, like littlecogs in a great machine. Much of this Rikud could not understand, buthe knew enough to realize that the reading machine had sided with thepeople against the elders, and it said the people had won.     Now in the health room, Rikud felt a warmth in the rays. Grudgingly, hehad to admit to himself that it was not unpleasant. He could see thelook of easy contentment on Chuls' face as the rays fanned down uponhim, bathing his old body in a forgotten magic which, many generationsbefore Rikud's time, had negated the necessity for a knowledge ofmedicine. But when, in another ten years, Chuls would perish of oldage, the rays would no longer suffice. Nothing would, for Chuls. Rikudoften thought of his own death, still seventy-five years in the future,not without a sense of alarm. Yet old Chuls seemed heedless, with onlya decade to go.     Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavythrough the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every timeRikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but itproved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he sawCrifer limp.     But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer.  Now Crifer said, I've been reading again, Rikud.     Yes? Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with thesmell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; itmeant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to thelibrary and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply satabout and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it.     But if he wasn't reading himself, Rikud usually went to sleep. All thepeople ever talked about was what they had done during the day, and itwas always the same.     Yes, said Crifer. I found a book about the stars. They're alsocalled astronomy, I think.     This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on oneelbow. What did you find out?     That's about all. They're just called astronomy, I think.     Well, where's the book? Rikud would read it tomorrow.     I left it in the library. You can find several of them under'astronomy,' with a cross-reference under 'stars.' They're synonymousterms.     You know, Rikud said, sitting up now, the stars in the viewport arechanging.     Changing? Crifer questioned the fuzzy concept as much as hequestioned what it might mean in this particular case.     Yes, there are less of them, and one is bigger and brighter than theothers.     Astronomy says some stars are variable, Crifer offered, but Rikudknew his lame-footed companion understood the word no better than hedid.     Over on Rikud's right, Chuls began to dress. Variability, he toldthem, is a contradictory term. Nothing is variable. It can't be.     I'm only saying what I read in the book, Crifer protested mildly.     Well, it's wrong. Variability and change are two words withoutmeaning.     People grow old, Rikud suggested.     A buzzer signified that his fifteen minutes under the rays were up, andChuls said, It's almost time for me to eat.     Rikud frowned. Chuls hadn't even seen the connection between the twoconcepts, yet it was so clear. Or was it? He had had it a moment ago,but now it faded, and change and old were just two words.     His own buzzer sounded a moment later, and it was with a strangefeeling of elation that he dressed and made his way back to theviewport. When he passed the door which led to the women's half of theworld, however, he paused. He wanted to open that door and see a woman.He had been told about them and he had seen pictures, and he dimlyremembered his childhood among women. But his feelings had changed;this was different. Again there were inexplicable feelings—strangechannelings of Rikud's energy in new and confusing directions.     He shrugged and reserved the thought for later. He wanted to see thestars again.  The view had changed, and the strangeness of it made Rikud's pulsesleap with excitement. All the stars were paler now than before, andwhere Rikud had seen the one bright central star, he now saw a globe oflight, white with a tinge of blue in it, and so bright that it hurt hiseyes to look.     Yes, hurt! Rikud looked and looked until his eyes teared and he had toturn away. Here was an unknown factor which the perfect world failedto control. But how could a star change into a blinking blue-whiteglobe—if, indeed, that was the star Rikud had seen earlier? Therewas that word change again. Didn't it have something to do with age?Rikud couldn't remember, and he suddenly wished he could read Crifer'sbook on astronomy, which meant the same as stars. Except that it wasvariable, which was like change, being tied up somehow with age.     Presently Rikud became aware that his eyes were not tearing any longer,and he turned to look at the viewport. What he saw now was so new thathe couldn't at first accept it. Instead, he blinked and rubbed hiseyes, sure that the ball of blue-white fire somehow had damaged them.But the new view persisted.     Of stars there were few, and of the blackness, almost nothing. Gone,too, was the burning globe. Something loomed there in the port, so hugethat it spread out over almost the entire surface. Something big andround, all grays and greens and browns, and something for which Rikudhad no name.     A few moments more, and Rikud no longer could see the sphere. A sectionof it had expanded outward and assumed the rectangular shape of theviewport, and its size as well. It seemed neatly sheered down themiddle, so that on one side Rikud saw an expanse of brown and green,and on the other, blue.     Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the worldhad ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regularintervals by a sharp booming.     Change—     Won't you eat, Rikud? Chuls called from somewhere down below.     Damn the man, Rikud thought. Then aloud: Yes, I'll eat. Later.     It's time.... Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently.     But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had alwaysseen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps didnot exist      in     the viewport.     Maybe it existed      through     the viewport.     That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could seenothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, moreconfusing than ever.     Chuls, he called, remembering, come here.     I am here, said a voice at his elbow.     Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud ofvapor. What do you see?     Chuls looked. The viewport, of course.     What else?     Else? Nothing.     Anger welled up inside Rikud. All right, he said, listen. What doyou hear?     Broom, brroom, brrroom! Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting ofthe engines. I'm hungry, Rikud.     The old man turned and strode off down the corridor toward the diningroom, and Rikud was glad to be alone once more.  Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt.     Rikud sat down hard. He blinked.     The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport.  For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden.     He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport.     Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport?     Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived.     It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different.     Then they've changed?     No, merely different.     Well, what about the viewport?      It     changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?     The stars come out at night.     So there is a change from day to night!     I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night?     Once they shone all the time.     Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable.  Rikud regretted that he never had had the chance to read that book onastronomy. He hadn't been reading too much lately. The voice of thereading machine had begun to bore him. He said, Well, variable or not,our whole perspective has changed.     And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If onlythe man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed soobvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in thehealth-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through thevast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this alsowas purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. Butif everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how couldthey find the nature of that purpose?     I will eat, Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.     Damn the man, all he did was eat!     Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Becausehe was hungry.     And Rikud, too, was hungry.     Differently.  He had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, andnow, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, readingmachine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached thedoor.     What's in here? he demanded.     It's a door, I think, said Crifer.     I know, but what's beyond it?     Beyond it? Oh, you mean      through     the door.     Yes.     Well, Crifer scratched his head, I don't think anyone ever openedit. It's only a door.     I will, said Rikud.     You will what?     Open it. Open the door and look inside.     A long pause. Then, Can you do it?     I think so.     You can't, probably. How can anyone go where no one has been before?There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud.     No— Rikud began, but the words faded off into a sharp intake ofbreath. Rikud had turned the knob and pushed. The door opened silently,and Crifer said, Doors are variable, too, I think.     Rikud saw a small room, perhaps half a dozen paces across, at the otherend of which was another door, just like the first. Halfway across,Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine.     He missed the beginning, but then:       —therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through thisdoor. The machinery in the next room is your protection against therigors of space. A thousand years from now, journey's end, you mayhave discarded it for something better—who knows? But if you havenot, then here is your protection. As nearly as possible, this shipis a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it ishuman-sustaining as well. Try to hurt yourself and the ship will notpermit it—within limits, of course. But you can damage the ship, andto avoid any possibility of that, no unauthorized persons are to bepermitted through this door—       Rikud gave the voice up as hopeless. There were too many confusingwords. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interestingthan that, however, was the second door. Would it lead to anothervoice? Rikud hoped that it wouldn't.     When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentlehumming, punctuated by a      throb-throb-throb     which sounded not unlikethe booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn'tblast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud'seyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs andgears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful becausethey shone with a luster unfamiliar to him.     Odd, Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, Now there's a good word, butno one quite seems to know its meaning.     Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there mightexist an endless succession of them, especially when the third oneopened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door.     Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? Theviewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topographywas different. Then the garden extended even farther than he hadthought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds wayoff in the distance.     And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put hishand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the newviewport. He began to turn the handle.     Then he trembled.     What would he do out in the garden?     He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a sillythought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikudcouldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth feltdry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't.     Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way backthrough the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finallythrough the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer.     By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He didnot dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, andsweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at thegarden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he couldwalk and then might find himself in the garden.     It was so big.  Three or four days passed before Rikud calmed himself enough totalk about his experience. When he did, only Crifer seemed at allinterested, yet the lame-footed man's mind was inadequate to cope withthe situation. He suggested that the viewport might also be variableand Rikud found himself wishing that his friend had never read thatbook on astronomy.     Chuls did not believe Rikud at all. There are not that many doors inthe world, he said. The library has a door and there is a door to thewomen's quarters; in five years, the Calculator will send you throughthat. But there are no others.     Chuls smiled an indulgent smile and Rikud came nearer to him. Now, bythe world, there are two other doors!     Rikud began to shout, and everyone looked at him queerly.     What are you doing that for? demanded Wilm, who was shorter even thanCrifer, but had no lame foot.     Doing what?     Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no troublehearing you.     Maybe yelling will make him understand.     Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.Why don't we go see? he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned.     Well, I won't go, Chuls replied. There's no reason to go. If Rikudhas been imagining things, why should I?     I imagined nothing. I'll show you—     You'll show me nothing because I won't go.     Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by whathe did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged atthe blouse.     Stop that, said the older man, mildly.  Crifer hopped up and down. Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know whathe's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse.     Stop that, repeated Chuls, his face reddening.     Only if you'll go with me. Rikud was panting.     Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some ofthem watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikudholding Chuls' blouse.     I think I can do that, declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer'sshirt.     Presently, the members of the crowd had pretty well paired off, eachpartner grabbing for his companion's blouse. They giggled and laughedand some began to hop up and down as Crifer had done.     A buzzer sounded and automatically Rikud found himself releasing Chuls.     Chuls said, forgetting the incident completely, Time to retire.     In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared histhroat and listened to the sound, all by itself in the stillness. Whatwould have happened if they hadn't retired? But they always did thingspunctually like that, whenever the buzzer sounded. They ate with thebuzzer, bathed in the health-rays with it, slept with it.     What would they do if the buzzer stopped buzzing?     This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the biggarden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because hecould huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.  Rikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of themachinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gearsspinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then hebegan to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, hewas clearly an unauthorized person. He had heard the voice againupon entering the room.     He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half aswide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires thatheld it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then heswung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbledunder his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm.       Almost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were notcasual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikudsmashed everything in sight.     When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the roomwas a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled inhis ears because now the throbbing had stopped.     He opened the door and ran through the little corridor to the smallerviewport. Outside he could see the stars, and, dimly, the terrainbeneath them. But everything was so dark that only the stars shoneclearly. All else was bathed in a shadow of unreality.     Rikud never wanted to do anything more than he wanted to open thatdoor. But his hands trembled too much when he touched it, and once,when he pressed his face close against the viewport, there in thedarkness, something bright flashed briefly through the sky and was gone.     Whimpering, he fled.  All around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer didnot sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went toeat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and thewhimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but thesmooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not runany more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food.     Chuls said, over and over, I'm hungry.     We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us, Wilm repliedconfidently.     It won't any more, Rikud said.     What won't?     The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it.     Crifer growled. I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a badthing you did, Rikud.     It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and thestars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden therebeyond the viewport.     That's ridiculous, Chuls said.     Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. He broke the buzzer and no one caneat. I hate Rikud, I think.     There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, Ihate Rikud. Then everyone was saying it.     Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside withhim and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would havehad a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women'squarters. Did women eat?     Perhaps they ate plants. Once, in the garden, Rikud had broken off afrond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe theplants in the viewport would even be better.     We will not be hungry if we go outside, he said. We can eat there.     We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken, Chuls said dully.     Crifer shrilled, Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again.     No, Rikud assured him. It won't.     Then you broke it and I hate you, said Crifer. We should break you,too, to show you how it is to be broken.     We must go outside—through the viewport. Rikud listened to the oddgurgling sound his stomach made.     A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heardCrifer's voice. I have Rikud's head. The voice was nasty, hostile.     Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he hadbroken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearerto understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud.     The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.I hit him! I hit him!     Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someonewas on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, andhe did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, Let usdo to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery. Rikud ran. In thedarkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were tooweak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawinghurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voicesand the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.     It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to runwas chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, andhow big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing himwere unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completelyand positively.     He became sickly giddy thinking about it.     But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he woulddie because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled andgrumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him.     He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but thevoice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place ofmachinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, andhe thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heardCrifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage.     Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch itwith his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet.     He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him werecloser now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear thosebehind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were notfar away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted tobreak him.     Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster oflow mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. Ifplants could live out there as they did within the world, then so couldpeople. Rikud and his people      should     . This was why the world had movedacross the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.But he was afraid.     He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that hisfingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and fora long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside heheard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded onthe metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:There is Rikud on the floor!     Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.Something small and brown scurried across the other side of theviewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideousred eyes.     Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his facewas so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport thateveryone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of themachinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metalwhich he could see in the dim light through the open door.     Where's the buzzer? he sobbed. I must find the buzzer.     Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, You broke it. Youbroke it. And now we will break you—     Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slippeddown against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footstepscame, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him.     His head whirled and the viewport seemed to swim in a haze. Could itbe variable, as Crifer had suggested? He wondered if the scurryingbrown thing waited somewhere, and nausea struck at the pit of hisstomach. But if the plants could live out there and the scurrying thingcould live and that was why the world had moved through the blackness,then so could he live out there, and Crifer and all the others....     So tightly did he grip the handle that his fingers began to hurt. Andhis heart pounded hard and he felt the pulses leaping on either side ofhis neck.     He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where theblue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the rowof mounds.  Crifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, andsomeone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kickedout and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved theweight of his body with all his strength against the door.     It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth.     The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. Hewalked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feelthe floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on thehorizon. It was all very beautiful.     Near the ship, water that did not come from a machine gurgled acrossthe land, and Rikud lay down and drank. It was cool and good, and whenhe got up, Crifer and Wilm were outside the world, and some of theothers followed. They stood around for a long time before going to thewater to drink.       Rikud sat down and tore off a piece of a plant, munching on it. It wasgood.     Crifer picked his head up, from the water, his chin wet. Even feelingsare variable. I don't hate you now, Rikud.     Rikud smiled, staring at the ship. People are variable, too, Crifer.That is, if those creatures coming from the ship are people.     They're women, said Crifer.     They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completelyhuman, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddlyexciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.     It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,frightening doors and women by appointment only.     Rikud felt at home.   ","Variability is a big part of the story. The inhabitants of the ship have always lived the same routine, the same life, and when things start to change they don’t know how to react. First, when the view of the ship starts to change, Rikud doesn’t understand what it means, and begins to think about the meaning of change. These thoughts are enhanced when Crifer told him that he had been reading Astronomy, and that stars are variable. When the ship lands on the new planet, and Rikud begins to explore, he starts to think about the variability of doors, and the meaning of going through doors and how it relates to the viewport. In the end, the change from having the buzzers to not knowing how to act is what sparks the violence of the men towards Rikud. This is due to the fact that he changed their routine, and having never experienced it, they don’t know how to react to change. "
"Describe the relationship between Rikud and Chuls </s>     The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  A hardly perceptible purple glow pervaded the air in the room of thehealth-rays. Perhaps two score men lay about, naked, under the raytubes. Chuls stripped himself and selected the space under a vacanttube. Rikud, for his part, wanted to get back to the viewport and watchthe one new bright star. He had the distinct notion it was growinglarger every moment. He turned to go, but the door clicked shut and ametallic voice said. Fifteen minutes under the tubes, please.     Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoyhim. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, whenhe wanted to do it?      There     was a strange thought, and Rikud's brainwhirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions andunsatisfactory answers.     He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever gothurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurlhimself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had comeinto being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-beingagain, something which was as impalpable as air.     Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no realauthority to stop him. This puzzled him, because somehow he felt thatthere should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machinein the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who hadgoverned the world. They told you to do something and you did it, butthat was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You onlylistened to the buzzer.     And Rikud could remember the rest of what the reading machine had said.There had been a revolt—again a term without any real meaning, a termthat could have no reality outside of the reading machine—and theelders were overthrown. Here Rikud had been lost utterly. The peoplehad decided that they did not know where they were going, or why, andthat it was unfair that the elders alone had this authority. They wereborn and they lived and they died as the elders directed, like littlecogs in a great machine. Much of this Rikud could not understand, buthe knew enough to realize that the reading machine had sided with thepeople against the elders, and it said the people had won.     Now in the health room, Rikud felt a warmth in the rays. Grudgingly, hehad to admit to himself that it was not unpleasant. He could see thelook of easy contentment on Chuls' face as the rays fanned down uponhim, bathing his old body in a forgotten magic which, many generationsbefore Rikud's time, had negated the necessity for a knowledge ofmedicine. But when, in another ten years, Chuls would perish of oldage, the rays would no longer suffice. Nothing would, for Chuls. Rikudoften thought of his own death, still seventy-five years in the future,not without a sense of alarm. Yet old Chuls seemed heedless, with onlya decade to go.     Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavythrough the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every timeRikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but itproved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he sawCrifer limp.     But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer.  Now Crifer said, I've been reading again, Rikud.     Yes? Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with thesmell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; itmeant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to thelibrary and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply satabout and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it.     But if he wasn't reading himself, Rikud usually went to sleep. All thepeople ever talked about was what they had done during the day, and itwas always the same.     Yes, said Crifer. I found a book about the stars. They're alsocalled astronomy, I think.     This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on oneelbow. What did you find out?     That's about all. They're just called astronomy, I think.     Well, where's the book? Rikud would read it tomorrow.     I left it in the library. You can find several of them under'astronomy,' with a cross-reference under 'stars.' They're synonymousterms.     You know, Rikud said, sitting up now, the stars in the viewport arechanging.     Changing? Crifer questioned the fuzzy concept as much as hequestioned what it might mean in this particular case.     Yes, there are less of them, and one is bigger and brighter than theothers.     Astronomy says some stars are variable, Crifer offered, but Rikudknew his lame-footed companion understood the word no better than hedid.     Over on Rikud's right, Chuls began to dress. Variability, he toldthem, is a contradictory term. Nothing is variable. It can't be.     I'm only saying what I read in the book, Crifer protested mildly.     Well, it's wrong. Variability and change are two words withoutmeaning.     People grow old, Rikud suggested.     A buzzer signified that his fifteen minutes under the rays were up, andChuls said, It's almost time for me to eat.     Rikud frowned. Chuls hadn't even seen the connection between the twoconcepts, yet it was so clear. Or was it? He had had it a moment ago,but now it faded, and change and old were just two words.     His own buzzer sounded a moment later, and it was with a strangefeeling of elation that he dressed and made his way back to theviewport. When he passed the door which led to the women's half of theworld, however, he paused. He wanted to open that door and see a woman.He had been told about them and he had seen pictures, and he dimlyremembered his childhood among women. But his feelings had changed;this was different. Again there were inexplicable feelings—strangechannelings of Rikud's energy in new and confusing directions.     He shrugged and reserved the thought for later. He wanted to see thestars again.  The view had changed, and the strangeness of it made Rikud's pulsesleap with excitement. All the stars were paler now than before, andwhere Rikud had seen the one bright central star, he now saw a globe oflight, white with a tinge of blue in it, and so bright that it hurt hiseyes to look.     Yes, hurt! Rikud looked and looked until his eyes teared and he had toturn away. Here was an unknown factor which the perfect world failedto control. But how could a star change into a blinking blue-whiteglobe—if, indeed, that was the star Rikud had seen earlier? Therewas that word change again. Didn't it have something to do with age?Rikud couldn't remember, and he suddenly wished he could read Crifer'sbook on astronomy, which meant the same as stars. Except that it wasvariable, which was like change, being tied up somehow with age.     Presently Rikud became aware that his eyes were not tearing any longer,and he turned to look at the viewport. What he saw now was so new thathe couldn't at first accept it. Instead, he blinked and rubbed hiseyes, sure that the ball of blue-white fire somehow had damaged them.But the new view persisted.     Of stars there were few, and of the blackness, almost nothing. Gone,too, was the burning globe. Something loomed there in the port, so hugethat it spread out over almost the entire surface. Something big andround, all grays and greens and browns, and something for which Rikudhad no name.     A few moments more, and Rikud no longer could see the sphere. A sectionof it had expanded outward and assumed the rectangular shape of theviewport, and its size as well. It seemed neatly sheered down themiddle, so that on one side Rikud saw an expanse of brown and green,and on the other, blue.     Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the worldhad ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regularintervals by a sharp booming.     Change—     Won't you eat, Rikud? Chuls called from somewhere down below.     Damn the man, Rikud thought. Then aloud: Yes, I'll eat. Later.     It's time.... Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently.     But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had alwaysseen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps didnot exist      in     the viewport.     Maybe it existed      through     the viewport.     That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could seenothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, moreconfusing than ever.     Chuls, he called, remembering, come here.     I am here, said a voice at his elbow.     Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud ofvapor. What do you see?     Chuls looked. The viewport, of course.     What else?     Else? Nothing.     Anger welled up inside Rikud. All right, he said, listen. What doyou hear?     Broom, brroom, brrroom! Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting ofthe engines. I'm hungry, Rikud.     The old man turned and strode off down the corridor toward the diningroom, and Rikud was glad to be alone once more.  Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt.     Rikud sat down hard. He blinked.     The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport.  For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden.     He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport.     Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport?     Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived.     It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different.     Then they've changed?     No, merely different.     Well, what about the viewport?      It     changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?     The stars come out at night.     So there is a change from day to night!     I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night?     Once they shone all the time.     Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable.  Rikud regretted that he never had had the chance to read that book onastronomy. He hadn't been reading too much lately. The voice of thereading machine had begun to bore him. He said, Well, variable or not,our whole perspective has changed.     And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If onlythe man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed soobvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in thehealth-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through thevast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this alsowas purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. Butif everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how couldthey find the nature of that purpose?     I will eat, Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.     Damn the man, all he did was eat!     Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Becausehe was hungry.     And Rikud, too, was hungry.     Differently.  He had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, andnow, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, readingmachine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached thedoor.     What's in here? he demanded.     It's a door, I think, said Crifer.     I know, but what's beyond it?     Beyond it? Oh, you mean      through     the door.     Yes.     Well, Crifer scratched his head, I don't think anyone ever openedit. It's only a door.     I will, said Rikud.     You will what?     Open it. Open the door and look inside.     A long pause. Then, Can you do it?     I think so.     You can't, probably. How can anyone go where no one has been before?There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud.     No— Rikud began, but the words faded off into a sharp intake ofbreath. Rikud had turned the knob and pushed. The door opened silently,and Crifer said, Doors are variable, too, I think.     Rikud saw a small room, perhaps half a dozen paces across, at the otherend of which was another door, just like the first. Halfway across,Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine.     He missed the beginning, but then:       —therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through thisdoor. The machinery in the next room is your protection against therigors of space. A thousand years from now, journey's end, you mayhave discarded it for something better—who knows? But if you havenot, then here is your protection. As nearly as possible, this shipis a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it ishuman-sustaining as well. Try to hurt yourself and the ship will notpermit it—within limits, of course. But you can damage the ship, andto avoid any possibility of that, no unauthorized persons are to bepermitted through this door—       Rikud gave the voice up as hopeless. There were too many confusingwords. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interestingthan that, however, was the second door. Would it lead to anothervoice? Rikud hoped that it wouldn't.     When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentlehumming, punctuated by a      throb-throb-throb     which sounded not unlikethe booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn'tblast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud'seyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs andgears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful becausethey shone with a luster unfamiliar to him.     Odd, Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, Now there's a good word, butno one quite seems to know its meaning.     Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there mightexist an endless succession of them, especially when the third oneopened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door.     Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? Theviewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topographywas different. Then the garden extended even farther than he hadthought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds wayoff in the distance.     And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put hishand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the newviewport. He began to turn the handle.     Then he trembled.     What would he do out in the garden?     He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a sillythought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikudcouldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth feltdry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't.     Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way backthrough the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finallythrough the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer.     By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He didnot dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, andsweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at thegarden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he couldwalk and then might find himself in the garden.     It was so big.  Three or four days passed before Rikud calmed himself enough totalk about his experience. When he did, only Crifer seemed at allinterested, yet the lame-footed man's mind was inadequate to cope withthe situation. He suggested that the viewport might also be variableand Rikud found himself wishing that his friend had never read thatbook on astronomy.     Chuls did not believe Rikud at all. There are not that many doors inthe world, he said. The library has a door and there is a door to thewomen's quarters; in five years, the Calculator will send you throughthat. But there are no others.     Chuls smiled an indulgent smile and Rikud came nearer to him. Now, bythe world, there are two other doors!     Rikud began to shout, and everyone looked at him queerly.     What are you doing that for? demanded Wilm, who was shorter even thanCrifer, but had no lame foot.     Doing what?     Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no troublehearing you.     Maybe yelling will make him understand.     Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.Why don't we go see? he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned.     Well, I won't go, Chuls replied. There's no reason to go. If Rikudhas been imagining things, why should I?     I imagined nothing. I'll show you—     You'll show me nothing because I won't go.     Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by whathe did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged atthe blouse.     Stop that, said the older man, mildly.  Crifer hopped up and down. Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know whathe's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse.     Stop that, repeated Chuls, his face reddening.     Only if you'll go with me. Rikud was panting.     Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some ofthem watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikudholding Chuls' blouse.     I think I can do that, declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer'sshirt.     Presently, the members of the crowd had pretty well paired off, eachpartner grabbing for his companion's blouse. They giggled and laughedand some began to hop up and down as Crifer had done.     A buzzer sounded and automatically Rikud found himself releasing Chuls.     Chuls said, forgetting the incident completely, Time to retire.     In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared histhroat and listened to the sound, all by itself in the stillness. Whatwould have happened if they hadn't retired? But they always did thingspunctually like that, whenever the buzzer sounded. They ate with thebuzzer, bathed in the health-rays with it, slept with it.     What would they do if the buzzer stopped buzzing?     This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the biggarden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because hecould huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.  Rikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of themachinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gearsspinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then hebegan to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, hewas clearly an unauthorized person. He had heard the voice againupon entering the room.     He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half aswide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires thatheld it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then heswung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbledunder his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm.       Almost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were notcasual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikudsmashed everything in sight.     When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the roomwas a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled inhis ears because now the throbbing had stopped.     He opened the door and ran through the little corridor to the smallerviewport. Outside he could see the stars, and, dimly, the terrainbeneath them. But everything was so dark that only the stars shoneclearly. All else was bathed in a shadow of unreality.     Rikud never wanted to do anything more than he wanted to open thatdoor. But his hands trembled too much when he touched it, and once,when he pressed his face close against the viewport, there in thedarkness, something bright flashed briefly through the sky and was gone.     Whimpering, he fled.  All around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer didnot sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went toeat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and thewhimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but thesmooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not runany more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food.     Chuls said, over and over, I'm hungry.     We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us, Wilm repliedconfidently.     It won't any more, Rikud said.     What won't?     The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it.     Crifer growled. I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a badthing you did, Rikud.     It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and thestars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden therebeyond the viewport.     That's ridiculous, Chuls said.     Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. He broke the buzzer and no one caneat. I hate Rikud, I think.     There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, Ihate Rikud. Then everyone was saying it.     Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside withhim and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would havehad a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women'squarters. Did women eat?     Perhaps they ate plants. Once, in the garden, Rikud had broken off afrond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe theplants in the viewport would even be better.     We will not be hungry if we go outside, he said. We can eat there.     We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken, Chuls said dully.     Crifer shrilled, Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again.     No, Rikud assured him. It won't.     Then you broke it and I hate you, said Crifer. We should break you,too, to show you how it is to be broken.     We must go outside—through the viewport. Rikud listened to the oddgurgling sound his stomach made.     A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heardCrifer's voice. I have Rikud's head. The voice was nasty, hostile.     Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he hadbroken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearerto understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud.     The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.I hit him! I hit him!     Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someonewas on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, andhe did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, Let usdo to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery. Rikud ran. In thedarkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were tooweak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawinghurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voicesand the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.     It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to runwas chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, andhow big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing himwere unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completelyand positively.     He became sickly giddy thinking about it.     But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he woulddie because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled andgrumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him.     He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but thevoice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place ofmachinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, andhe thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heardCrifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage.     Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch itwith his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet.     He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him werecloser now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear thosebehind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were notfar away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted tobreak him.     Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster oflow mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. Ifplants could live out there as they did within the world, then so couldpeople. Rikud and his people      should     . This was why the world had movedacross the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.But he was afraid.     He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that hisfingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and fora long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside heheard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded onthe metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:There is Rikud on the floor!     Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.Something small and brown scurried across the other side of theviewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideousred eyes.     Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his facewas so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport thateveryone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of themachinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metalwhich he could see in the dim light through the open door.     Where's the buzzer? he sobbed. I must find the buzzer.     Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, You broke it. Youbroke it. And now we will break you—     Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slippeddown against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footstepscame, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him.     His head whirled and the viewport seemed to swim in a haze. Could itbe variable, as Crifer had suggested? He wondered if the scurryingbrown thing waited somewhere, and nausea struck at the pit of hisstomach. But if the plants could live out there and the scurrying thingcould live and that was why the world had moved through the blackness,then so could he live out there, and Crifer and all the others....     So tightly did he grip the handle that his fingers began to hurt. Andhis heart pounded hard and he felt the pulses leaping on either side ofhis neck.     He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where theblue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the rowof mounds.  Crifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, andsomeone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kickedout and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved theweight of his body with all his strength against the door.     It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth.     The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. Hewalked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feelthe floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on thehorizon. It was all very beautiful.     Near the ship, water that did not come from a machine gurgled acrossthe land, and Rikud lay down and drank. It was cool and good, and whenhe got up, Crifer and Wilm were outside the world, and some of theothers followed. They stood around for a long time before going to thewater to drink.       Rikud sat down and tore off a piece of a plant, munching on it. It wasgood.     Crifer picked his head up, from the water, his chin wet. Even feelingsare variable. I don't hate you now, Rikud.     Rikud smiled, staring at the ship. People are variable, too, Crifer.That is, if those creatures coming from the ship are people.     They're women, said Crifer.     They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completelyhuman, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddlyexciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.     It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,frightening doors and women by appointment only.     Rikud felt at home.   ","At the beginning of the story, the relationship between Rikud and Chuls seemed like a mentor-mentee or like a father-son relationship. Rikud was a young forward-thinker, and Chuls was an older man who had already lived a lot and tried to guide Rikud on how he should live. As the story progresses more, Rikud seems to stray from Chuls’ guidance and tries to figure out what to think on his own. When Rikud tries to explain his reasoning, Chuls doesn’t understand because he has lived so much time inside of the ship and its routine that he can’t seem to doubt it. This led to Rikud getting mildly violent at Chuls because he couldn’t understand why Chuls didn’t believe him. "
"Describe the significance of the viewport in the story? </s>     The Sense of Wonder     By MILTON LESSER     Illustrated by HARRY ROSENBAUM     [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from     Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951.     Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that     the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]      When nobody aboard ship remembers where it's     going, how can they tell when it has arrived?      Every day for a week now, Rikud had come to the viewport to watchthe great changeless sweep of space. He could not quite explain thefeelings within him; they were so alien, so unnatural. But ever sincethe engines somewhere in the rear of the world had changed their tone,from the steady whining Rikud had heard all twenty-five years of hislife, to the sullen roar that came to his ears now, the feelings hadgrown.     If anyone else had noticed the change, he failed to mention it. Thisdisturbed Rikud, although he could not tell why. And, because he hadrealized this odd difference in himself, he kept it locked up insidehim.     Today, space looked somehow different. The stars—it was a meaninglessconcept to Rikud, but that was what everyone called the brightpinpoints of light on the black backdrop in the viewport—were notapparent in the speckled profusion Rikud had always known. Instead,there was more of the blackness, and one very bright star set apartby itself in the middle of the viewport.     If he had understood the term, Rikud would have told himself this wasodd. His head ached with the half-born thought. It was—it was—whatwas it?     Someone was clomping up the companionway behind Rikud. He turned andgreeted gray-haired old Chuls.     In five more years, the older man chided, you'll be ready to sirechildren. And all you can do in the meantime is gaze out at the stars.     Rikud knew he should be exercising now, or bathing in the rays of thehealth-lamps. It had never occurred to him that he didn't feel like it;he just didn't, without comprehending.     Chuls' reminder fostered uneasiness. Often Rikud had dreamed of thetime he would be thirty and a father. Whom would the Calculator selectas his mate? The first time this idea had occurred to him, Rikudignored it. But it came again, and each time it left him with a feelinghe could not explain. Why should he think thoughts that no other manhad? Why should he think he was thinking such thoughts, when it alwaysembroiled him in a hopeless, infinite confusion that left him with aheadache?     Chuls said, It is time for my bath in the health-rays. I saw you hereand knew it was your time, too....     His voice trailed off. Rikud knew that something which he could notexplain had entered the elder man's head for a moment, but it haddeparted almost before Chuls knew of its existence.     I'll go with you, Rikud told him.  A hardly perceptible purple glow pervaded the air in the room of thehealth-rays. Perhaps two score men lay about, naked, under the raytubes. Chuls stripped himself and selected the space under a vacanttube. Rikud, for his part, wanted to get back to the viewport and watchthe one new bright star. He had the distinct notion it was growinglarger every moment. He turned to go, but the door clicked shut and ametallic voice said. Fifteen minutes under the tubes, please.     Rikud muttered to himself and undressed. The world had begun to annoyhim. Now why shouldn't a man be permitted to do what he wanted, whenhe wanted to do it?      There     was a strange thought, and Rikud's brainwhirled once more down the tortuous course of half-formed questions andunsatisfactory answers.     He had even wondered what it was like to get hurt. No one ever gothurt. Once, here in this same ray room, he had had the impulse to hurlhimself head-first against the wall, just to see what would happen.But something soft had cushioned the impact—something which had comeinto being just for the moment and then abruptly passed into non-beingagain, something which was as impalpable as air.     Rikud had been stopped in this action, although there was no realauthority to stop him. This puzzled him, because somehow he felt thatthere should have been authority. A long time ago the reading machinein the library had told him of the elders—a meaningless term—who hadgoverned the world. They told you to do something and you did it, butthat was silly, because now no one told you to do anything. You onlylistened to the buzzer.     And Rikud could remember the rest of what the reading machine had said.There had been a revolt—again a term without any real meaning, a termthat could have no reality outside of the reading machine—and theelders were overthrown. Here Rikud had been lost utterly. The peoplehad decided that they did not know where they were going, or why, andthat it was unfair that the elders alone had this authority. They wereborn and they lived and they died as the elders directed, like littlecogs in a great machine. Much of this Rikud could not understand, buthe knew enough to realize that the reading machine had sided with thepeople against the elders, and it said the people had won.     Now in the health room, Rikud felt a warmth in the rays. Grudgingly, hehad to admit to himself that it was not unpleasant. He could see thelook of easy contentment on Chuls' face as the rays fanned down uponhim, bathing his old body in a forgotten magic which, many generationsbefore Rikud's time, had negated the necessity for a knowledge ofmedicine. But when, in another ten years, Chuls would perish of oldage, the rays would no longer suffice. Nothing would, for Chuls. Rikudoften thought of his own death, still seventy-five years in the future,not without a sense of alarm. Yet old Chuls seemed heedless, with onlya decade to go.     Under the tube at Rikud's left lay Crifer. The man was short and heavythrough the shoulders and chest, and he had a lame foot. Every timeRikud looked at that foot, it was with a sense of satisfaction. True,this was the only case of its kind, the exception to the rule, but itproved the world was not perfect. Rikud was guiltily glad when he sawCrifer limp.     But, if anyone else saw it, he never said a word. Not even Crifer.  Now Crifer said, I've been reading again, Rikud.     Yes? Almost no one read any more, and the library was heavy with thesmell of dust. Reading represented initiative on the part of Crifer; itmeant that, in the two unoccupied hours before sleep, he went to thelibrary and listened to the reading machine. Everyone else simply satabout and talked. That was the custom. Everyone did it.     But if he wasn't reading himself, Rikud usually went to sleep. All thepeople ever talked about was what they had done during the day, and itwas always the same.     Yes, said Crifer. I found a book about the stars. They're alsocalled astronomy, I think.     This was a new thought to Rikud, and he propped his head up on oneelbow. What did you find out?     That's about all. They're just called astronomy, I think.     Well, where's the book? Rikud would read it tomorrow.     I left it in the library. You can find several of them under'astronomy,' with a cross-reference under 'stars.' They're synonymousterms.     You know, Rikud said, sitting up now, the stars in the viewport arechanging.     Changing? Crifer questioned the fuzzy concept as much as hequestioned what it might mean in this particular case.     Yes, there are less of them, and one is bigger and brighter than theothers.     Astronomy says some stars are variable, Crifer offered, but Rikudknew his lame-footed companion understood the word no better than hedid.     Over on Rikud's right, Chuls began to dress. Variability, he toldthem, is a contradictory term. Nothing is variable. It can't be.     I'm only saying what I read in the book, Crifer protested mildly.     Well, it's wrong. Variability and change are two words withoutmeaning.     People grow old, Rikud suggested.     A buzzer signified that his fifteen minutes under the rays were up, andChuls said, It's almost time for me to eat.     Rikud frowned. Chuls hadn't even seen the connection between the twoconcepts, yet it was so clear. Or was it? He had had it a moment ago,but now it faded, and change and old were just two words.     His own buzzer sounded a moment later, and it was with a strangefeeling of elation that he dressed and made his way back to theviewport. When he passed the door which led to the women's half of theworld, however, he paused. He wanted to open that door and see a woman.He had been told about them and he had seen pictures, and he dimlyremembered his childhood among women. But his feelings had changed;this was different. Again there were inexplicable feelings—strangechannelings of Rikud's energy in new and confusing directions.     He shrugged and reserved the thought for later. He wanted to see thestars again.  The view had changed, and the strangeness of it made Rikud's pulsesleap with excitement. All the stars were paler now than before, andwhere Rikud had seen the one bright central star, he now saw a globe oflight, white with a tinge of blue in it, and so bright that it hurt hiseyes to look.     Yes, hurt! Rikud looked and looked until his eyes teared and he had toturn away. Here was an unknown factor which the perfect world failedto control. But how could a star change into a blinking blue-whiteglobe—if, indeed, that was the star Rikud had seen earlier? Therewas that word change again. Didn't it have something to do with age?Rikud couldn't remember, and he suddenly wished he could read Crifer'sbook on astronomy, which meant the same as stars. Except that it wasvariable, which was like change, being tied up somehow with age.     Presently Rikud became aware that his eyes were not tearing any longer,and he turned to look at the viewport. What he saw now was so new thathe couldn't at first accept it. Instead, he blinked and rubbed hiseyes, sure that the ball of blue-white fire somehow had damaged them.But the new view persisted.     Of stars there were few, and of the blackness, almost nothing. Gone,too, was the burning globe. Something loomed there in the port, so hugethat it spread out over almost the entire surface. Something big andround, all grays and greens and browns, and something for which Rikudhad no name.     A few moments more, and Rikud no longer could see the sphere. A sectionof it had expanded outward and assumed the rectangular shape of theviewport, and its size as well. It seemed neatly sheered down themiddle, so that on one side Rikud saw an expanse of brown and green,and on the other, blue.     Startled, Rikud leaped back. The sullen roar in the rear of the worldhad ceased abruptly. Instead an ominous silence, broken at regularintervals by a sharp booming.     Change—     Won't you eat, Rikud? Chuls called from somewhere down below.     Damn the man, Rikud thought. Then aloud: Yes, I'll eat. Later.     It's time.... Chuls' voice trailed off again, impotently.     But Rikud forgot the old man completely. A new idea occurred to him,and for a while he struggled with it. What he saw—what he had alwaysseen, except that now there was the added factor of change—perhaps didnot exist      in     the viewport.     Maybe it existed      through     the viewport.     That was maddening. Rikud turned again to the port, where he could seenothing but an obscuring cloud of white vapor, murky, swirling, moreconfusing than ever.     Chuls, he called, remembering, come here.     I am here, said a voice at his elbow.     Rikud whirled on the little figure and pointed to the swirling cloud ofvapor. What do you see?     Chuls looked. The viewport, of course.     What else?     Else? Nothing.     Anger welled up inside Rikud. All right, he said, listen. What doyou hear?     Broom, brroom, brrroom! Chuls imitated the intermittent blasting ofthe engines. I'm hungry, Rikud.     The old man turned and strode off down the corridor toward the diningroom, and Rikud was glad to be alone once more.  Now the vapor had departed, except for a few tenuous whisps. For amoment Rikud thought he could see the gardens rearward in the world.But that was silly. What were the gardens doing in the viewport? Andbesides, Rikud had the distinct feeling that here was something farvaster than the gardens, although all of it existed in the viewportwhich was no wider than the length of his body. The gardens, moreover,did not jump and dance before his eyes the way the viewport gardensdid. Nor did they spin. Nor did the trees grow larger with every jolt.     Rikud sat down hard. He blinked.     The world had come to rest on the garden of the viewport.  For a whole week that view did not change, and Rikud had come to acceptit as fact. There—through the viewport and in it—was a garden. Agarden larger than the entire world, a garden of plants which Rikud hadnever seen before, although he had always liked to stroll through theworld's garden and he had come to know every plant well. Nevertheless,it was a garden.     He told Chuls, but Chuls had responded, It is the viewport.     Crifer, on the other hand, wasn't so sure. It looks like the garden,he admitted to Rikud. But why should the garden be in the viewport?     Somehow, Rikud knew this question for a healthy sign. But he couldnot tell them of his most amazing thought of all. The change in theviewport could mean only one thing. The world had been walking—theword seemed all wrong to Rikud, but he could think of no other, unlessit were running. The world had been walking somewhere. That somewherewas the garden and the world had arrived.     It is an old picture of the garden, Chuls suggested, and the plantsare different.     Then they've changed?     No, merely different.     Well, what about the viewport?      It     changed. Where are the stars?Where are they, Chuls, if it did not change?     The stars come out at night.     So there is a change from day to night!     I didn't say that. The stars simply shine at night. Why should theyshine during the day when the world wants them to shine only at night?     Once they shone all the time.     Naturally, said Crifer, becoming interested. They are variable.  Rikud regretted that he never had had the chance to read that book onastronomy. He hadn't been reading too much lately. The voice of thereading machine had begun to bore him. He said, Well, variable or not,our whole perspective has changed.     And when Chuls looked away in disinterest, Rikud became angry. If onlythe man would realize! If only anyone would realize! It all seemed soobvious. If he, Rikud, walked from one part of the world to another,it was with a purpose—to eat, or to sleep, or perhaps to bathe in thehealth-rays. Now if the world had walked from—somewhere, through thevast star-speckled darkness and to the great garden outside, this alsowas purposeful. The world had arrived at the garden for a reason. Butif everyone lived as if the world still stood in blackness, how couldthey find the nature of that purpose?     I will eat, Chuls said, breaking Rikud's revery.     Damn the man, all he did was eat!     Yet he did have initiative after a sort. He knew when to eat. Becausehe was hungry.     And Rikud, too, was hungry.     Differently.  He had long wondered about the door in the back of the library, andnow, as Crifer sat cross-legged on one of the dusty tables, readingmachine and book on astronomy or stars in his lap, Rikud approached thedoor.     What's in here? he demanded.     It's a door, I think, said Crifer.     I know, but what's beyond it?     Beyond it? Oh, you mean      through     the door.     Yes.     Well, Crifer scratched his head, I don't think anyone ever openedit. It's only a door.     I will, said Rikud.     You will what?     Open it. Open the door and look inside.     A long pause. Then, Can you do it?     I think so.     You can't, probably. How can anyone go where no one has been before?There's nothing. It just isn't. It's only a door, Rikud.     No— Rikud began, but the words faded off into a sharp intake ofbreath. Rikud had turned the knob and pushed. The door opened silently,and Crifer said, Doors are variable, too, I think.     Rikud saw a small room, perhaps half a dozen paces across, at the otherend of which was another door, just like the first. Halfway across,Rikud heard a voice not unlike that of the reading machine.     He missed the beginning, but then:       —therefore, permit no unauthorized persons to go through thisdoor. The machinery in the next room is your protection against therigors of space. A thousand years from now, journey's end, you mayhave discarded it for something better—who knows? But if you havenot, then here is your protection. As nearly as possible, this shipis a perfect, self-sustaining world. It is more than that: it ishuman-sustaining as well. Try to hurt yourself and the ship will notpermit it—within limits, of course. But you can damage the ship, andto avoid any possibility of that, no unauthorized persons are to bepermitted through this door—       Rikud gave the voice up as hopeless. There were too many confusingwords. What in the world was an unauthorized person? More interestingthan that, however, was the second door. Would it lead to anothervoice? Rikud hoped that it wouldn't.     When he opened the door a strange new noise filled his ears, a gentlehumming, punctuated by a      throb-throb-throb     which sounded not unlikethe booming of the engines last week, except that this new sound didn'tblast nearly so loudly against his eardrums. And what met Rikud'seyes—he blinked and looked again, but it was still there—cogs andgears and wheels and nameless things all strange and beautiful becausethey shone with a luster unfamiliar to him.     Odd, Rikud said aloud. Then he thought, Now there's a good word, butno one quite seems to know its meaning.     Odder still was the third door. Rikud suddenly thought there mightexist an endless succession of them, especially when the third oneopened on a bare tunnel which led to yet another door.     Only this one was different. In it Rikud saw the viewport. But how? Theviewport stood on the other end of the world. It did seem smaller, and,although it looked out on the garden, Rikud sensed that the topographywas different. Then the garden extended even farther than he hadthought. It was endless, extending all the way to a ridge of mounds wayoff in the distance.     And this door one could walk through, into the garden. Rikud put hishand on the door, all the while watching the garden through the newviewport. He began to turn the handle.     Then he trembled.     What would he do out in the garden?     He couldn't go alone. He'd die of the strangeness. It was a sillythought; no one ever died of anything until he was a hundred. Rikudcouldn't fathom the rapid thumping of his heart. And Rikud's mouth feltdry; he wanted to swallow, but couldn't.     Slowly, he took his hand off the door lever. He made his way backthrough the tunnel and then through the room of machinery and finallythrough the little room with the confusing voice to Crifer.     By the time he reached the lame-footed man, Rikud was running. He didnot dare once to look back. He stood shaking at Crifer's side, andsweat covered him in a clammy film. He never wanted to look at thegarden again. Not when he knew there was a door through which he couldwalk and then might find himself in the garden.     It was so big.  Three or four days passed before Rikud calmed himself enough totalk about his experience. When he did, only Crifer seemed at allinterested, yet the lame-footed man's mind was inadequate to cope withthe situation. He suggested that the viewport might also be variableand Rikud found himself wishing that his friend had never read thatbook on astronomy.     Chuls did not believe Rikud at all. There are not that many doors inthe world, he said. The library has a door and there is a door to thewomen's quarters; in five years, the Calculator will send you throughthat. But there are no others.     Chuls smiled an indulgent smile and Rikud came nearer to him. Now, bythe world, there are two other doors!     Rikud began to shout, and everyone looked at him queerly.     What are you doing that for? demanded Wilm, who was shorter even thanCrifer, but had no lame foot.     Doing what?     Speaking so loudly when Chuls, who is close, obviously has no troublehearing you.     Maybe yelling will make him understand.     Crifer hobbled about on his good foot, doing a meaningless little jig.Why don't we go see? he suggested. Then, confused, he frowned.     Well, I won't go, Chuls replied. There's no reason to go. If Rikudhas been imagining things, why should I?     I imagined nothing. I'll show you—     You'll show me nothing because I won't go.     Rikud grabbed Chuls' blouse with his big fist. Then, startled by whathe did, his hands began to tremble. But he held on, and he tugged atthe blouse.     Stop that, said the older man, mildly.  Crifer hopped up and down. Look what Rikud's doing! I don't know whathe's doing, but look. He's holding Chuls' blouse.     Stop that, repeated Chuls, his face reddening.     Only if you'll go with me. Rikud was panting.     Chuls tugged at his wrist. By this time a crowd had gathered. Some ofthem watched Crifer jump up and down, but most of them watched Rikudholding Chuls' blouse.     I think I can do that, declared Wilm, clutching a fistful of Crifer'sshirt.     Presently, the members of the crowd had pretty well paired off, eachpartner grabbing for his companion's blouse. They giggled and laughedand some began to hop up and down as Crifer had done.     A buzzer sounded and automatically Rikud found himself releasing Chuls.     Chuls said, forgetting the incident completely, Time to retire.     In a moment, the room was cleared. Rikud stood alone. He cleared histhroat and listened to the sound, all by itself in the stillness. Whatwould have happened if they hadn't retired? But they always did thingspunctually like that, whenever the buzzer sounded. They ate with thebuzzer, bathed in the health-rays with it, slept with it.     What would they do if the buzzer stopped buzzing?     This frightened Rikud, although he didn't know why. He'd like it,though. Maybe then he could take them outside with him to the biggarden of the two viewports. And then he wouldn't be afraid because hecould huddle close to them and he wouldn't be alone.  Rikud heard the throbbing again as he stood in the room of themachinery. For a long time he watched the wheels and cogs and gearsspinning and humming. He watched for he knew not how long. And then hebegan to wonder. If he destroyed the wheels and the cogs and the gears,would the buzzer stop? It probably would, because, as Rikud saw it, hewas clearly an unauthorized person. He had heard the voice againupon entering the room.     He found a metal rod, bright and shiny, three feet long and half aswide as his arm. He tugged at it and it came loose from the wires thatheld it in place. He hefted it carefully for a moment, and then heswung the bar into the mass of metal. Each time he heard a grinding,crashing sound. He looked as the gears and cogs and wheels crumbledunder his blows, shattered by the strength of his arm.       Almost casually he strode about the room, but his blows were notcasual. Soon his easy strides had given way to frenzied running. Rikudsmashed everything in sight.     When the lights winked out, he stopped. Anyway, by that time the roomwas a shambles of twisted, broken metal. He laughed, softly at first,but presently he was roaring, and the sound doubled and redoubled inhis ears because now the throbbing had stopped.     He opened the door and ran through the little corridor to the smallerviewport. Outside he could see the stars, and, dimly, the terrainbeneath them. But everything was so dark that only the stars shoneclearly. All else was bathed in a shadow of unreality.     Rikud never wanted to do anything more than he wanted to open thatdoor. But his hands trembled too much when he touched it, and once,when he pressed his face close against the viewport, there in thedarkness, something bright flashed briefly through the sky and was gone.     Whimpering, he fled.  All around Rikud were darkness and hunger and thirst. The buzzer didnot sound because Rikud had silenced it forever. And no one went toeat or drink. Rikud himself had fumbled through the blackness and thewhimpering to the dining room, his tongue dry and swollen, but thesmooth belt that flowed with water and with savory dishes did not runany more. The machinery, Rikud realized, also was responsible for food.     Chuls said, over and over, I'm hungry.     We will eat and we will drink when the buzzer tells us, Wilm repliedconfidently.     It won't any more, Rikud said.     What won't?     The buzzer will never sound again. I broke it.     Crifer growled. I know. You shouldn't have done it. That was a badthing you did, Rikud.     It was not bad. The world has moved through the blackness and thestars and now we should go outside to live in the big garden therebeyond the viewport.     That's ridiculous, Chuls said.     Even Crifer now was angry at Rikud. He broke the buzzer and no one caneat. I hate Rikud, I think.     There was a lot of noise in the darkness, and someone else said, Ihate Rikud. Then everyone was saying it.     Rikud was sad. Soon he would die, because no one would go outside withhim and he could not go outside alone. In five more years he would havehad a woman, too. He wondered if it was dark and hungry in the women'squarters. Did women eat?     Perhaps they ate plants. Once, in the garden, Rikud had broken off afrond and tasted it. It had been bitter, but not unpleasant. Maybe theplants in the viewport would even be better.     We will not be hungry if we go outside, he said. We can eat there.     We can eat if the buzzer sounds, but it is broken, Chuls said dully.     Crifer shrilled, Maybe it is only variable and will buzz again.     No, Rikud assured him. It won't.     Then you broke it and I hate you, said Crifer. We should break you,too, to show you how it is to be broken.     We must go outside—through the viewport. Rikud listened to the oddgurgling sound his stomach made.     A hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed at his head. He heardCrifer's voice. I have Rikud's head. The voice was nasty, hostile.     Crifer, more than anyone, had been his friend. But now that he hadbroken the machinery, Crifer was his enemy, because Crifer came nearerto understanding the situation than anyone except Rikud.     The hand reached out again, and it struck Rikud hard across the face.I hit him! I hit him!     Other hands reached out, and Rikud stumbled. He fell and then someonewas on top of him, and he struggled. He rolled and was up again, andhe did not like the sound of the angry voices. Someone said, Let usdo to Rikud what he said he did to the machinery. Rikud ran. In thedarkness, his feet prodded many bodies. There were those who were tooweak to rise. Rikud, too, felt a strange light-headedness and a gnawinghurt in his stomach. But it didn't matter. He heard the angry voicesand the feet pounding behind him, and he wanted only to get away.     It was dark and he was hungry and everyone who was strong enough to runwas chasing him, but every time he thought of the garden outside, andhow big it was, the darkness and the hunger and the people chasing himwere unimportant. It was so big that it would swallow him up completelyand positively.     He became sickly giddy thinking about it.     But if he didn't open the door and go into the garden outside, he woulddie because he had no food and no water and his stomach gurgled andgrumbled and hurt. And everyone was chasing him.     He stumbled through the darkness and felt his way back to the library,through the inner door and into the room with the voice—but thevoice didn't speak this time—through its door and into the place ofmachinery. Behind him, he could hear the voices at the first door, andhe thought for a moment that no one would come after him. But he heardCrifer yell something, and then feet pounding in the passage.     Rikud tripped over something and sprawled awkwardly across the floor.He felt a sharp hurt in his head, and when he reached up to touch itwith his hands there in the darkness, his fingers came away wet.     He got up slowly and opened the next door. The voices behind him werecloser now. Light streamed in through the viewport. After the darkness,it frightened Rikud and it made his eyes smart, and he could hear thosebehind him retreating to a safe distance. But their voices were notfar away, and he knew they would come after him because they wanted tobreak him.     Rikud looked out upon the garden and he trembled. Out there was life.The garden stretched off in unthinkable immensity to the cluster oflow mounds against the bright blue which roofed the many plants. Ifplants could live out there as they did within the world, then so couldpeople. Rikud and his people      should     . This was why the world had movedacross the darkness and the stars for all Rikud's lifetime and more.But he was afraid.     He reached up and grasped the handle of the door and he saw that hisfingers were red with the wetness which had come from his hurt head.Slowly he slipped to the cool floor—how his head was burning!—and fora long time he lay there, thinking he would never rise again. Inside heheard the voices again, and soon a foot and then another pounded onthe metal of the passage. He heard Crifer's voice louder than the rest:There is Rikud on the floor!     Tugging at the handle of the door, Rikud pulled himself upright.Something small and brown scurried across the other side of theviewport and Rikud imagined it turned to look at him with two hideousred eyes.     Rikud screamed and hurtled back through the corridor, and his facewas so terrible in the light streaming in through the viewport thateveryone fled before him. He stumbled again in the place of themachinery, and down on his hands and knees he fondled the bits of metalwhich he could see in the dim light through the open door.     Where's the buzzer? he sobbed. I must find the buzzer.     Crifer's voice, from the darkness inside, said, You broke it. Youbroke it. And now we will break you—     Rikud got up and ran. He reached the door again and then he slippeddown against it, exhausted. Behind him, the voices and the footstepscame, and soon he saw Crifer's head peer in through the passageway.Then there were others, and then they were walking toward him.     His head whirled and the viewport seemed to swim in a haze. Could itbe variable, as Crifer had suggested? He wondered if the scurryingbrown thing waited somewhere, and nausea struck at the pit of hisstomach. But if the plants could live out there and the scurrying thingcould live and that was why the world had moved through the blackness,then so could he live out there, and Crifer and all the others....     So tightly did he grip the handle that his fingers began to hurt. Andhis heart pounded hard and he felt the pulses leaping on either side ofhis neck.     He stared out into the garden, and off into the distance, where theblue-white globe which might have been a star stood just above the rowof mounds.  Crifer was tugging at him, trying to pull him away from the door, andsomeone was grabbing at his legs, trying to make him fall. He kickedout and the hands let go, and then he turned the handle and shoved theweight of his body with all his strength against the door.     It opened and he stepped outside into the warmth.     The air was fresh, fresher than any air Rikud had ever breathed. Hewalked around aimlessly, touching the plants and bending down to feelthe floor, and sometimes he looked at the blue-white globe on thehorizon. It was all very beautiful.     Near the ship, water that did not come from a machine gurgled acrossthe land, and Rikud lay down and drank. It was cool and good, and whenhe got up, Crifer and Wilm were outside the world, and some of theothers followed. They stood around for a long time before going to thewater to drink.       Rikud sat down and tore off a piece of a plant, munching on it. It wasgood.     Crifer picked his head up, from the water, his chin wet. Even feelingsare variable. I don't hate you now, Rikud.     Rikud smiled, staring at the ship. People are variable, too, Crifer.That is, if those creatures coming from the ship are people.     They're women, said Crifer.     They were strangely shaped in some ways, and yet in others completelyhuman, and their voices were high, like singing. Rikud found them oddlyexciting. He liked them. He liked the garden, for all its hugeness.With so many people, and especially now with women, he was not afraid.     It was much better than the small world of machinery, buzzer,frightening doors and women by appointment only.     Rikud felt at home.   ",The viewport is one of the most important parts of the story. Rikud goes to the viewport in order to get a break from his routine life inside the ship. The changing stars that he could see through the viewport is what inspired Rikud to think more about the changes going on around him and to explore hhhhhhhe ship. Ultimately it is the viewport that showed him the possibility of a new life on the planet. The viewport essentially lead Rikud to breaking the engine room and to opening the door of the ship.